It's right over here; one of those three-section ones.

She's tall, about his height, and built on the slender side, but filled out impressively with muscles, with just a bit of fat padding them - enough to soften their definition, but not to hide it. Her chest and hips are modest; not androgynous enough to cause confusion, but not enough to draw attention, either. Her hair is dark brown, falling just to her shoulders in a plain style - she used to wear it longer, but she can't handle it that way any more, even with the droid to help with upkeep - and her eyes, when she makes the effort of making eye contact in the mirror, are a matching shade.

She's also sporting a collection of bruises on her torso and limbs, like she fell down a flight of stairs or was tossed around by a large animal or perhaps both in quick succession.

...she's gorgeous.

now i'll be able to recognize you when i see you.

He tries to move their hand up to her face.

Yeah.

She lets him move the hand; she's making good progress on making that a reflex.

...he moves it down her neck, over her chest, fingers trailing down lightly to splay on her stomach.

He certainly feels something.

.....oh.

She could...go... shoo the droid out of the bedroom? If he wants?

Well. If she wants. That would be good.

Or they could just...take a very long shower.

She hadn't actually thought of that, before, even with the flirting. But now that she considers it - yeah. She does want.

Well. They should get the bedroom to themselves, then.

The droid is easily shooed; the bed is nice and comfy.

They sprawl out on it, feel the fabric against their skin, squirm a little just to see how it feels.

(The bruises pressed down against the bed feel good, at least to him.)

Bruises aren't her thing, but she doesn't mind them enough to counteract them being his thing; he can feel her smiling a little at the effect.

He runs a hand over their body again, down to their thigh, taking his time with it.

Mmmmm. (She seems not just content to let him call the shots, but curious about what he'll do with the option.)

He takes his time with it, feels the shape of her with her hands, drags light fingertips over the insides of their thighs before he actually touches her properly.

She squirms and bucks and moans, quietly, under the touch. It must have been a while; she's very sensitive.

She's sensitive, and it's different, it's new. He likes it a lot.

He doesn't quite have the self-control to keep teasing after that. He bites his lip and he doesn't know whether it's in his body or hers.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, Force, she makes the best decisions.

He definitely agrees.

(Nothing about his body matters right now. It's all hers.)

He's clumsy, but so focused, so in awe of the sensation they're feeling, that his mind makes up for it.

Mmmmmmmm.

Nothing he's doing is very new to her, but having him right there enjoying it along with her, feeling his enjoyment, his awe - she loves it. She loves him.

He loves her too.

Right when they go over the edge there's a moment when nothing but "them" exists.

It's perfect.

It is perfect.

(There's a bit of ambiguity, in the afterglow, about what's his and what's hers, but she sorts it out without even properly noticing that she's doing it: her things are hers, and belong exactly where they go; she loves him, and he should keep all his things, too, in their rightful spots.)

He lies there in a daze as she returns him to himself, piece by piece.

He would have thought that becoming himself again would be painful, but it feels more right somehow than it did before.

Of course it feels right. He's lovely. And she's right here to show him, since he has trouble seeing it.

Well, if she thinks so, there must be something to it.

It takes a while before he remembers there was supposed to be a shower.

Yeah, there was,wasn't there? That sounds nice. She stretches and pads back off to the bathroom to soak under the steam.