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It was not ideal, especially given the fact that he suspected her of treason...but ever since the embarrassing display he’d witnessed on Alderaan, Wilhuff couldn’t quite stop himself from seeing Mon Mothma differently.
After all, it was an extraordinary person who could tempt a man away from a planetary monarch, even if that monarch was a relic of the old Republic. And so Tarkin found himself evaluating her more often than he’d like: her stately demeanor, her classically beautiful cheekbones, the way her fine blond hair, cut short, framed her face. She was lovely, he had to admit. And perhaps she was blameless; perhaps Bail Organa had simply wanted what he could not have.
Wilhuff could not think of a polite way to ask.
It was strange that he was even worried about being polite. Especially since, as he’d reminded himself before, Mon—that is, Senator Mothma—was a suspect in the various anti-Empire activities Wilhuff was working to snuff out.
But she might be blameless there, too.
Wilhuff was being awfully charitable. He must be getting old. Perhaps if he spent more time with the senator, the intrigue would wear off.
Fortunately, given his position and the favor he enjoyed with the emperor, an invitation from Wilhuff could not be refused by anyone.
Mon was precisely on time. She wore something different from her senatorial robes, something different from what she’d been wearing at the Organas’ dinner party.
It suited her.
Wilhuff took her hand. “Welcome, my dear,” he said, drawing her knuckles to his lips.
Mon smiled, and she didn’t withdraw her hand right away, and Wilhuff felt heat high on his cheeks. “Do come in,” he said, and he guided her with a hand at the small of her back into his spacious apartment. He could just sense the heat of her skin; it was tantalizing.
~
Mon Mothma didn’t know what Tarkin’s game was, inviting her to his home late at night, alone. But it appeared she was correct to dress in eveningwear, if the flush on Tarkin’s sharp cheekbones was any indication.
She hadn’t considered that her being single would be such a boon to the Rebellion. But it had already come in handy once, and it looked like it would again.
She did wonder, though, how far this charade would end up going.
Tarkin guided her to a long, low sofa near an expansive window and moved across the room to a cart laden with colorful bottles. "Drink?" he asked.
It would not do to refuse, so Mon said lightly, "Perhaps a little one."
Tarkin added two fingers of a golden liquid to two glasses.When she had taken her glass, allowing her fingers to brush against his in the process, he settled down on the sofa beside her. His knee touched hers briefly.
Mon was no stranger to subterfuge, but affecting an interest in Wilhuff Tarkin was stretching even her abilities. She supposed he was handsome in a way, bright blue eyes and chiseled face and firm mouth. But the expression he wore was so often callous or even cruel; it was difficult to put aside the knowledge of who he was and what he'd done and think of him only as a man.
"I'm pleased you accepted my invitation," Tarkin said. "You look radiant."
"Thank you," Mon said. She'd considered before coming here whether Tarkin might prefer her to be modest. But she'd decided that he would certainly see that as an act. She evaluated his clothing; he'd dressed well, choosing burgundy robes that set off his eyes rather better than his standard uniform did. "You look quite distinguished yourself."
"I'm flattered," Tarkin said, and he took her hand and kissed it.
They made light conversation, difficult given the narrow band of potential subjects. Tarkin generally opposed any legislation Mon supported; Mon of course opposed practically everything Tarkin did. He was a short-sighted opportunist who somehow had the ear of the Emperor, and his "solution" to most problems was to literally eliminate whatever he considered to be the source. Still, Mon managed to guide the conversation to the arts, which Tarkin appreciated in a colonizing sort of way, and the conversation was, if nothing else, civil.
"I must admit," Mon said finally, running a finger along the rim of her glass, "I was surprised by your message. I hadn't gotten the impression you would be interested in my company on a personal level."
"When I never appeared to be interested even on a professional level?"
Tarkin chuckled, and Mon gave him an appraising look. "That was quite straightforward," she said.
"I appreciate straightforwardness," Tarkin replied. "I do hope you'll always be forthcoming with me." He took a sip. "You're right. It was only recently that I realized..."
He paused. The silence between them lengthened until it was obvious Tarkin wanted her to ask. She somehow kept the irritation off her face. "Realized what?"
"That you are much more than a senator. That you are a very beautiful woman."
This was apparently meant as a compliment; Mon smiled and decided to rib him. "Have you recently had your sight restored?" she asked.
Tarkin outright laughed at that. "You see? You are delightful. I simply hadn't noticed before. It's so easy to get caught up in...work."
Mon accepted a second drink, but declined the third. She was running out of ways to interpret Tarkin's conversational topics charitably. When the clock above Tarkin's fireplace struck the hour she'd decided wasn't too early to leave, she said, "It's late, Governor. I should go."
"Please, my dear," Tarkin said, "call me Wilhuff." He rose and offered her his hand. She took it and allowed him to help her up. "Thank you for spending the evening with me."
"It was my pleasure," Mon lied. "Wilhuff."
Tarkin kept hold of her hand as he walked her to the door. When they reached it, Tarkin stopped and turned, tugging her around to face him. "I hope you sleep well tonight," he said, "and have lovely dreams." And then he was leaning in, bending his tall, gaunt body to bring his thin lips to hers.
Mon closed her eyes.
And then she almost opened them again. Because what was happening was not at all what she had expected.
Tarkin was trying to kiss her. But apparently he had never kissed anyone before in his life.
It was as if he were attempting to devour the lower half of her face. His mouth kept opening wide and his tongue was everywhere. It was the most graceless kiss Mon had ever experienced, and that included her first kiss years and years ago with her childhood sweetheart.
She'd put up with rather a lot tonight. She was not going to put up with this.
Mon reached up and grabbed Tarkin by the ears. She pulled his face back sharply, watching as his lips floundered and his eyes blinked open in surprise. "Not like that," she snapped.
"Senator?" Tarkin said, sounding confused. His senses would return to him in moments, if not seconds; surely that kiss hadn't done much for him either.
"Hold still. Relax your lips," Mon instructed, and before he could say anything else she tugged him back in.
This kissing lesson was, perhaps, one of the most important things Mon Mothma had ever done. She was meticulous about it, and thorough, guiding Tarkin through more subtle touches and building him properly towards deeper passion.
It took minutes rather than seconds, but finally Tarkin was kissing her properly. His arms were around her and her own arms were now around his neck, and her lips felt bruised, tender and flush. When they broke apart they were both gasping for air, and Tarkin's mouth was red.
For the first time Mon could remember, Tarkin was at a loss for words. He blinked slowly, looking as though he were in a daze, and his lips twitched upward dreamily. In the low light, his eyes seemed to twinkle. His build belied his strength; his arms were tight around her.
Mon caught herself licking her lips, then let herself finish doing so, just to make him watch. He did, eyes widening slightly, his own tongue peeking out between his lips.
"Again?" Tarkin asked, and it was not a demand. It was not a not-request that couldn't be denied.
Mon went up on her toes and kissed him again, lightly this time, letting the whisper of her lips send a tremor through Tarkin's body. "Good night," she murmured, and then she extricated herself from his arms and slipped out the door.
She knew she would never change Tarkin's mind about proper governance. She knew he would always be her enemy. That was more obvious than ever, now that they'd spent an evening talking.
But if he continued to court her, she would be in the position to hear things. She would be able to learn things she could only learn from Tarkin himself, or from evidence in his home. And one day, she'd discover something the Rebellion could use.
Perhaps next time, she reflected, touching her fingertips to her lips, they could spend less time talking.