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Mara’s couch has seen better days.
Well before there was a Jedi-sized dent in the plush, down-filled cushions, Mara had relished her hard-earned freedom. She watched trashy holos in her pajamas, snickering at the cheesy heroes and willowy heroines and their ridiculously cliched dialogue. She prepared for missions with an arsenal of encrypted datapads at her disposal, piled high on the hand-woven rug at her feet. Even the greasiest Coruscanti takeout was no match for her, and Mara gorged happily on nerf nuggets and spicy buckwheat noodles with her feet propped up on the caf table.
Her life is good – independent, orderly, and private, built entirely on her own terms and structured around her schedule and preferences. Her apartment – a converted industrial loft in a gentrified section of CoCo Town – might be described as austere by some, but it’s cozy and functional and dotted with a few small luxuries she’d permitted herself over the years. The furniture is basic and comfortable, one single piece of abstract artwork by a local painter hangs on the bedroom wall, and her bookshelf contains a hidden weapons cache. It’s Mara, to a tee.
So why, exactly, has she allowed Luke Skywalker of all people to invade her personal space?
At the moment, they sit facing each other. His mouth is on hers, warm and demanding, tasting faintly of that decadent Alderaanian rose cake they had for dessert. Mara tries to tug his unbuttoned designer tunic off his sculpted shoulders, but he refuses to stop touching her, so she settles for sliding her fingertips over the solidity of his bare chest and tracing the lines of his rock-hard abs.
Right. That’s why.
His mouth breaks away from hers, and she gasps for breath even as little whimpers of pleasure escape her lips. He nibbles across her jaw, then presses open-mouthed kisses to the tender column of her neck. Luke’s single-minded focus on lavishing every sensitive spot on her body feels blissful – but then a memory from earlier that evening blindsides her so suddenly she snorts out loud.
“Hmmm?” Luke says, his lips muffled against her collarbone. One hand slips underneath the slit of her sleek cocktail dress to stroke her thigh, while the other fumbles with the tiny metal zipper at the back. She should return to the moment, but…
“Solgana,” she says with a quiet laugh, and Luke halts his ministrations to glance at her. He’s got that dazed look in his blue eyes, his lips swollen and pouty, stained a juicy red from her lacquer. The vivid tapestry of Coruscant’s night spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, framed by linen curtains neither of them had bothered to close. Diffuse silvery light silhouettes his face and upper body at just the right angle, and Mara’s heart twists at the sight of him. It’s criminally unfair how attractive this man is.
“Huh?”
“Just thinking about Solgana. From tonight. That ridiculous couple name…remember?”
Han Solo and Leia Organa Solo had hosted a party to celebrate their fifth wedding anniversary at the Indigo Tower, a swanky and exclusive restaurant with a rotating floor, panoramic views of the cityscape, and paparazzi droids on permanent standby. The guest list was meticulously curated, with invitations limited to family, close friends, and prominent galactic figures. The two undoubtedly meant to assert their influence within the New Republic – and, perhaps more strategically, finally put an end to the galaxy’s favourite running joke: Solgana.
The unfortunate portmanteau had been born after a minor PR mishap involving Solgg Chemical Company spiralled into a very public embarrassment for Han and Leia. A HoloNet News broadcaster jokingly coined “Solggana” on air — later shortened to “Solgana” through galactic osmosis — and the nickname stuck with horrifying speed. No amount of political savvy or above‑it‑all posturing had managed to kill it. So while the fifth‑anniversary gala was a celebration of the love between a princess and a scruffy looking nerf-herder, it was also an attempt to present a united front and control the narrative.
The evening itself was fine, if a little suffocating and mind‑numbing in its staidness. Mara had arrived on time in a sultry royal blue outfit, small talked with senators and dignitaries, and judiciously avoided making a mess as she munched on five‑star canapés and sipped a marsh‑fruit tonic. Not once did she check the chrono – a new record for her – and every interaction with Luke was professional and perfunctory.
Han and Leia eventually took the stage – Leia resplendent in a fitted ivory bodice embroidered with a delicate gold lattice, Han surprisingly dashing in a tailored vest‑and‑trouser ensemble that almost made him look respectable. They thanked the assembled crowd with practiced diplomatic charm and invited Luke to the front of the platform to the ripple of polite applause.
But then, as Luke delivered a stirring, painfully earnest toast to his sister and brother‑in‑law, Wes Janson decided it was the perfect moment to yell “Cheers to Solgana!” across the room. Bottles of premium Corellian wine had been flowing freely, which probably explained where one of Rogue Squadron’s famed members found the courage – or the lack of judgement – to shatter the event’s carefully maintained formality.
Booming, unrestrained laughter echoed off the walls – justifiably, really, as the entire Solgana fiasco had been objectively hilarious. But Leia’s mortified face, masked behind a tight, brittle smile, had been the true highlight for Mara. Han, meanwhile, threw his hands up in a noncommittal gesture and Luke had turned the exact shade of Neonan cheese.
After the gathering diminished to its natural conclusion, Luke intercepted her at the turbolift. He insisted on driving her home – ostensibly for safety reasons, although Mara could’ve easily walked the short distance and had concealed a vibroblade and mini blaster on her person in case of trouble. To her credit, she had brewed a pot of caf like a responsible adult, fully intending to engage in a proper event debrief like she and Luke normally did after every mission. But the mugs are cooling on the kitchen counter, her kitten heels and his dressy boots abandoned by the front door, and she doesn’t remember who reached for the other first.
The memory dissolves. She draws back to the present by Luke’s hand splayed securely on her thigh, his thumb tracing an idle pattern near her inner crease where the skin is thinner and chiffon-like.
“Oh,” Luke says, brow furrowing in a way that suggests he filed the festivities away the moment he got Mara alone. “Think about this instead.” And he leans in to suck gently on her earlobe, causing Mara to shiver and thread her hands through his freshly trimmed blond hair to muss it up again. But she’s in a teasing mood, and the temptress inside her stretches like a loth-cat and wants to play.
“What do you think our couple name should be?”
Luke lifts his head, blinking at her in confusion as if she’s just asked him to recite the Jedi Code backwards. “You insist we’re not a couple.”
“Oh, we’re most definitely not,” Mara says. Just friends who occasionally save the galaxy and kriff each other senseless, she tells herself. “But hypothetically speaking.”
“Really, Mara? Right now?”
“Yes, now.” She smiles sweetly at him, and Luke’s eyes narrow in response. He knows her well enough to recognize the mischief in her request and that it’s in his best interest to play along.
Luke shakes his head, as if the movement itself can disperse the potent current of arousal flowing between them. His fingers flex on her thigh before he forces them still. He ponders for a few seconds, then: “Maraluke?”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s too obvious. Another one.”
“Lukemara?” he offers, sounding more uncertain this time.
“Farmboy, you’re not even trying!” she exclaims, though the grin lifting the corners of her mouth betrays how much she’s clearly savouring every second of his suffering.
“Luma. Maruke. SkyJade. JadeSky.”
Mara grunts. “No, no, no, and no. You just came up with names for a high-end brand of moisturizer, a species of burrowing sand rodents native to Tatooine, a shady nightclub that only Lando would frequent, and a defunct ship manufacturer from the Clone Wars.”
She readjusts her position on the couch – not intentionally seductive, but the effect on Luke is immediate and deeply satisfying. She taps a finger against his chest before dragging it slowly and deliberately downward. Luke groans and gives her a pleading look, but there’s no way Mara is stopping now. “Where’s your imagination, Skywalker?”
Luke swallows, and the tips of his ears turn pink. “Okay. What names do you have in mind?”
Pretending to think, Mara hums a tuneless melody and stares up at the ceiling. She does her best not to squirm in anticipation as Luke finally gets a grip on the zipper of her dress and yanks it down impatiently.
“Well, I, for one, am thinking outside the box: Farmboy and the Assassin. Or is that too on the nose? The Jade Order – I’m partial to that one, I have to admit. How about the Lizard Tamers? No one else will get the reference, though. The Sky Alliance – no, forget it, that sounded much better in my head.”
But Luke isn’t listening anymore. The delicate shimmersilk that clung to Mara’s skin all evening loosens, then cascades in a fluid whisper to pool around her hips. She’s clad in a borderline sheer, lacy black bra that, judging by the helpless expression on Luke’s face, has completely short-circuited every functioning neuron in his frontal lobes.
Triumph blooms through Mara as Luke stares hard at her rather impressive cleavage, his breathing heavy. A couple of days ago, Mara had purchased a few sets of underclothes at a lingerie boutique in the lower market districts – for herself, of course, because she deserves nice things, and sometimes a girl just wants options other than utilitarian basics. Luke’s flustered reaction is simply a delightful bonus.
She nonchalantly fiddles with the bra straps and jiggles the cups a few times. One by one, she removes and sets aside the bejeweled clips that held her intricate updo in place. Reddish-gold waves tumble past her creamy shoulders, and she fluffs her tresses with a breezy sigh. Then, she drapes an arm over the back of the couch, completely casual, as though she hadn’t just improvised that whole show for the sole purpose of watching Luke come undone. Success is far too easy – Luke continues to ogle her every move, his eyes wide and entranced, groaning like he’s in pain. It’s more than enough for Mara to pin a medal on herself for her effort.
And to think he hasn’t even seen her matching thong yet.
“Uh, Luke? So what do you think of my suggestions?” she asks with feigned innocence, biting back a smirk as he takes a few moments to register her voice.
He glances up and looks at her face – more than that, actually, because the man is outright studying her – and for a heartbeat, Luke doesn’t move. Then, his gaze flickers unhurriedly to her mouth and back to her eyes.
The air between them shifts. Mara senses it before her mind processes the reversal.
The dopey side effect of lust disappears from his features, and a challenge begins to spark in his baby blue depths – focused and predator-sharp. He sits up straighter and rolls his shoulders. Luke isn’t that much taller than her, but suddenly he’s the most towering thing in the room.
He licks his lips, and the grin that follows is primal enough to send a prickle of goosebumps skittering over her exposed skin. “I think,” he says, low and controlled, “that you’re stalling.”
Mara opens her mouth to retort, but Luke is quicker. He tilts forward, bracing both hands firmly on her hips to effectively cage her in with those lightning-fast Jedi reflexes. Mara struggles to keep her breathing steady. He’s got her close to outright panting, but there’s no way she’s yielding the advantage here.
“And,” he adds, and maybe it’s Mara’s imagination, because Luke’s voice sounds even deeper than before, “I think you know exactly which name I like best.”
She quirks an eyebrow, thoroughly enjoying wherever this is heading. She tips closer to Luke so that their noses almost touch and runs a hand along his trouser-clad thigh. The muscle jumps beneath her palm and the linenfiber, and when she unfastens his trousers, he releases a filthy moan that sends a lightning bolt straight to her pelvis.
“Oh? Why don’t you enlighten me.”
His grin slides into dangerous territory, so completely unlike the affable and boyish countenance he bestows upon the rest of the galaxy.
“Master and Hand.”
A swell of pure heat floods through her, but not from embarrassment. Master and Hand. It’s almost preposterous – a joke that started months ago during a routine hyperspace jump had become one of their favourite bedroom games. Trust Luke to pull out a flawless hand of Sabacc at the exact moment she thought she had him cornered.
He knows exactly what he’s doing, and he didn’t even need to read the Force to do it.
Well played, farmboy, she thinks.
Before she can generate a response, his hands grip her waist in an attempt to guide her closer. She tries to lean back, to reclaim even a sliver of control, but Luke follows her movement easily, eliminating the little distance between them until she feels his weight pressing down on her and the warmth of his breath against her cheek. His hands stay exactly where they are, tightening around her middle and holding her in place with nothing more than his formidable strength.
“Mara Jade,” he murmurs, and the way he says her name – with that huskiness and velvety scrape – sends another sensuous shiver racing through her. “You wanted imagination, didn’t you? I have some ideas.”
Her pulse speeds up, and her eyelids flutter closed. She tries rubbing her thighs together but there’s no leverage within Luke’s durasteel embrace. Her hands flail by her side, and she fists his collar, scrambling for purchase. He has her right where he wants her, and stars, she feels every exquisite inch of it.
“Skywalker – ”
But he cuts her off with a feathery brush of his lips along the underside of her jaw – not quite a kiss but stimulating enough to make her inhale sharply and curse every Jedi meditation technique she never bothered to learn.
He pulls back to meet her eyes again, blue and steady locking onto green and wanton.
“Your turn to stall,” he says with a touch of arrogance curling the words, and Mara can’t even be mad because he’s earned the right.
She’s now found herself in a predicament of her own making – a former imperial assassin, survivor of warlords and bounty hunters, breaker of empires – suddenly robbed of a single clever thing to say. So she pushes against his shoulders and Luke relents, letting her slink off the couch. Enraptured, he watches as Mara rises, stands before him, and shimmies out of her dress. It puddles at her bare feet, and she nudges it aside with a graceful flick of her toes. She lifts her leg and rests her sole atop his knee, then slowly and delicately removes the thin holster strapped to her upper thigh. Luke makes a spinning motion with his index finger; she obeys, turning in a leisurely arc so he can get a full, unfiltered look. There’s nothing subtle about the frisson of electric heat that passes between them the next time they make eye contact.
She climbs into his lap and it’s a tangle of limbs and skin and hitched breathing. Luke’s hands are on her instantly, hungry and restless, roaming over her smooth curves and squeezing as much flesh as he can fit in his hot palms. Her arms automatically loop around his neck, and she rolls her hips once, twice. Nimble fingers discover and unhook the front clasp of her bra, and she arches into pure, aching sensation.
“How’s this for – ” stalling, she means to say. But the thought disintegrates when Luke’s mouth claims hers in a devastating kiss that utterly wipes her mind of anything resembling coherence.
Three months later, after Luke and Mara become holonet-official, the press, gossip sites, and celeb-watchers all over the galaxy seemingly unite on a single couple name: SmugglerJedi, abbreviated to SmugJedi. Mara snorts at the lack of creativity, although she doesn’t fully hate it. Luke, on the other hand, threatens to issue a public statement decrying the “categorically inaccurate branding,” as he repeatedly terms it, and requesting a formal retraction. She attempts to offer reason, theorizing that doing the opposite of Han and Leia will actually help promote his efforts to rebuild the Jedi Order and position him as the “cool warrior uncle” among the galaxy’s youth.
Her entreaties fall on unreceptive ears, and Luke silently fumes…until one night, when he enters Mara’s apartment. She greets him wearing nothing but frilly girl boxers with ‘SmugJedi’ emblazoned across the rump and a wicked smile on her face.
He immediately reaches for her, but Mara shakes her head and evades his grasp with the effortless polish of a dancer.
“Do you like it?” Mara asks, swaying towards the couch. Luke’s expression is a mix of awestruck and lecherous, and she basks in her power as she reclines onto her back. For good measure, she bends a knee, her heel digging into the upholstery, just so she can pose like a model in a trashy holovid. And then, to cap it off, she stretches her arms overhead – and if Luke wasn’t drooling before, he sure is now. “Or do you still need convincing?”
It takes all of two seconds for Luke to pounce, and the public statement idea is forgotten.