RPlog:Vacation

They have been driving for a good fifteen to twenty minutes, or so it seemed to Ylsa, who, propped in the front seat of the hovercar with eyes securely covered, has been losing track of time and distance. She is extending her other senses, smelling the clean, salty air and hearing the sounds of an undeveloped location, and the sensory input is raising a smile on her features. To one side of her, as the wind tosses backward her golden blonde locks, she comments mildly, "This must be quite a surprise where you are taking me, ammadto, for me to be subjected to such secrecy. I hope my patience will be rewarded, hmm?"

"Let's just say," Paul's voice and breath close to her ear as he leans to one side, "that I'm fulfilling your request as ordered." Sitting back up he adds, "Besides, if you don't like it, you haven't been able to see how we get there, so you'll essentially be trapped with me, whether you like it or not." She cannot see the smirk that curls the Corellian's lips, but she can feel as the car dips down, the sound of rustling leaves growing louder before finally the repulsor engines turn off. Jumping down from his side, Paul leaves the luggage where it is, taking Ylsa by the hand as he assists her from the transport.

Ylsa makes her way carefully, lest she stumble, and allows Paul to guide her with trust that would have been impossible two months earlier and would still be impossible with any other man. Her nostrils flare, her head quirks, and she admits, "It must be lovely. And we are entirely alone, yes? I have heard and sensed no one else nearby."

The ground goes soft beneath their feet, Paul's arm wrapping behind her back, hand resting at her waist to further balance her. "Yes we are entirely alone ... though there is a native town not too far away that we can visit - handmade everything there ... I think you'll approve." He finally stops, his mouth brushing her cheek as he steps behind Ylsa, his fingers working the knot at the back of her blindfold. The fabric flutters away on the next breeze as Paul's arms slip about her waist tenderly. "Well? Did I get it right?"

"Secluded beach cove" .... the simple three word description doesn't begin to do the place Paul had chosen justice. The white silk smooth sand gleams brightly in the warm sunlight, the skies permanently blue with fluffy white clouds slipping along the horizon simply for the pleasure of watching. The water breaks upon the shore in medium sized waves, loud enough to be heard throughout the quaint cottage up the slight incline of the beach. The water shifts in color from foam white, to frosty green, to a lush blue green, and then a luminous shade of sapphire, the sand beneath the surface clear as crystal through the sparkling crests. Trees surround the back end of the structure, offering an area of shade complete with hammock. The small house, stained in cool pastel tones over raw wood planks, offers a restful retreat to both the soul and the eye. Off to one side is a trail that leads through the trees to yet another cove .... this one mooring a delightedly old fashioned sailing boat of gleaming wood and cloth sails, bearing the name "Delight".

The full colors of the surrounding flora and fauna, not to mention the sand's pristine whiteness and the water's varied blue and green hues, win a gasp from Ylsa as her hands meet just before her lips, steepling there to subdue further sounds. "Oh...gods...Paul..." she whispers, as though afraid her voice would shatter the illusion of natural perfection before her. "Oh, have you ever seen such beauty...?" She stares about her, making a slow perusal of the surroundings with no rush, no hurry: sights such as this are not to be gobbled but to be savored lingeringly.

As always, her pleasure is his. His embrace is light enough to allow her to shift within his arms and take in the whole view. "You once told me that I owed you a private cove somewhere .... so I thought this might suffice." He pauses then before murmuring. "It's ours ... well, for two weeks at least it is." The Corellian's eyes gleam in the bright light, lit from within as much as they are lit from without. His smile is open, easy .... his main aim to make Ylsa happy. And he wonders to himself, when did this goal become so terribly important to him?

Pleasure, sheer and unadulterated in its delight, radiates from her every pore, her eyes alight with childlike glee. She kneels, breaking his light hold on her, to scoop a handful of sparkling sand, cupping it in her palm before turning it sideways to watch the pearly cascade of particles return to their brethren. As she rises and places an arm about his waist, she utters the two words most fitting in the situation: "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he returns with the customary words. One hand reaches up to brush a loose tendril of hair before Paul grins fiendishly and starts to deliberately remove any and all pins holding Ylsa's carefully coifed locks in place. "We're on vacation," he intones gravely, the smile refuting the tone, "All hair must be down and shoes off."

Ylsa's hands raise to bat at his fingers while her hair obediently descends from its placement to fall in gilded sheets against her shoulders and back. Eyes lingering on his hazel orbs, she steps out of her shoes so that her manicured toes press into the sand's warmth, then she reaches for his shirt and begins working the fastenings. "Shoes off, shirt off, therefore."

Ylsa: Languidly fluid in her movements, her long-limbed body supple in its femininity, this lady of some thirty Standard years is a graceful creature whose attire suggests an elegant, privileged upbringing. Her hair - waves of golden blonde - is carefully coiffured so that each hair is in place, a counterpoint to the brilliant azure of her eyes. Makeup is added with discretion and subtlety to enhance her complexion and features. Her clothing is presently casual elegance: a caftan in sapphire silk, its sleeves and hem punctuated by gold threads and twinkling gems that resemble diamonds.

Paul Nighman(#19Pc) Paul Nighman is a tall and lanky Corellian, 6'3", with a lean and muscular build. His face sports rugged handsome features and a neatly trimmed short beard which accentuates the cut of his jawline. His hair is light brown with gold highlights, has recently been cut shorter and into a more attractive style, though one swath still has the tendency to cross over his brow and sometimes over his left eye. His eyes are expressive and hazel in color with a green sunburst at the center. His skin is lightly tanned and he seems a touch leaner and harder than used to be a few months ago. He has long muscled arms with light scars and nicks crisscrossing them. His hands are similarly large and strong, laced with thin scars. His voice is deep, warm, and gravelly.

Currently wearing a forest green silk shirt tucked into black breeches, he looks both comfortable and well dressed. A black vest hangs about his a touch loosely, black boots adorning his feet. For once he isn't wearing his blaster, which is a little unusual for Paul.

Raising one wry eyebrow, Paul murmurs, "Fine with me," his fingers moving to undo the top buttons of her dress before looking down and back again. "Hmmmm, we seem to have a small dilemma here." Hazel eyes drop down to sapphire and he notes dramatically, "With you, it's all or nothing ..."

Ylsa smiles playfully and backs away, then, with her gaze holding his, finishes discarding her attire until all that remains is a silken undergarment. With the gay, tinkling laughter of someone whose problems are lightyears away, she sprints toward the shoreline and the surf, calling behind her, "Fine with me, but keep your distance, ammadto: I am shy."

His mouth drops open before Paul reaches down to draw off one boot, hopping up and down to keep his balance before removing the other. He dashes after her, laughing at the very idea of this woman being -shy-. Clothes are scattered as he pursues her, diving into the wondrously perfect water - just below skin temperature, neither too hot nor too cold. Bursting up out of the water he swims over to her calling out "Shy? You ... shy?" He catches her up against himself with a rich delighted laugh. "Next thing you'll tell me you're demure," he murmurs, his lips dipping to brush her mouth playfully, then her ear.

"There is a part of me that is demure, it is true, and a part that is shy, as you saw with Jedi Skywalker." Her arms encircle his neck as she balances against him, water sheeting down her flawless frame. "Oh, Paul, I have never seen a place so beautiful before, not like this. It is almost impossible that such a lovely place could exist." She angles her head so that her ear and, subsequently, her neck are offers to his lips, a hand curling about the back of his head to urge him onward. "How did you find such a paradise?"

His mouth cruises over her proffered throat, biting lightly at her ear before dipping behind it and trailing down along with the water and hair streaming along her willowy frame. "I have my connections," he murmurs at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. "We xenoarchaeologists know all about unexploited planets ... and we like to keep 'em that way too." His hands shift about her tenderly and breaking his exploration for a moment he gazes into Ylsa's eyes lovingly before murmuring "Ammarada te'sa ..." his fingers delicately drawing along the side of her face.

Ylsa draws her left hand along the slender sinews of Paul's back, tracing the lines and the scars within those muscles with devoted care, like a seeress reading her future in tea leaves. The worries and woes of her life conjoin with the water droplets to drizzle away into the sea, spattered and washed away like a baptismal cleansing. She dips her head to his throat, nuzzling the Adam's apple, nipping at the flesh over the pinnacle of his sternum, and murmurs, "Ammarada teo'sa," in return.

A swallow ripples his throat in reaction, hazel eyes growing hazy and heated. His voice dropping low he purrs out her name adoringly, his hand delving back beneath the slick weight of her hair, tilting her up to meet his heavy lidded gaze. Bending close he murmurs at her ear, "There's lunch in the cabana ... are you hungry?" But if he expected a reply, he rudely cuts if off, his lips toying with hers as he drifts past them, as if he couldn't resist taking a sample before hearing her reply.

Ylsa's hands are exploring still lower, first against the concave perfection of his hips, then the muscled tightness of his buttocks, which she presses nearer to her. From this she takes both the physical pleasure of his heat against hers and the greater emotional delight in being so close to the man she blatantly adores. "If you are hungry," she mentions with lips still flickering around his mouth, "then I am hungry."

He takes her mouth as his lawful possession, kissing Ylsa fervently as the water and waves sluice about their figures in silken passes. Drawing away slowly he rumbles, "We haven't unpacked yet .... but what the hell," he rasps after a moment. He scoops her up in his arms, chuckling, and makes his way through the ocean back up the beach. "I suspect we'll need our strength for all the lazing about and sunning we're going to be doing, let's see what they've left us for supplies."

Ylsa giggles, a startlingly girlish sound from so adult a woman, and lets him carry her toward the shore. "We will not need clothing, I am guessing," she teases, balancing herself with arms linked about his broad shoulders, head resting against his chin. "Shall you carry me for the duration of our holiday, ammadto? I could come to like having a body servant again."

"Clothing is optional, but sun screen isn't," he chuckles lightly as he makes his way up to the airy cabana. The steps creak ever so slightly as he climbs out, passing an outdoors shower stall before entering into the front. The door has no lock, merely opens as he presses through it. Carrying Ylsa into the kitchen, he looks about for a moment before setting her on the counter with a snide comment of, "You look good enough to eat," escaping his lips. Leaning back against the opposite counter he then queries, "_Body_ servant? What in the blazes is a _body_ servant?"

Ylsa reaches behind her for a dishtowel to mop idly at her streaming alabaster figure...which promises to tan or burn effectively in the coming days. "A body servant," she explains with a haughty touch of the elite speaking to commoners, "is someone who cares for a princess's every wish, every whim. He bathes her, feeds and clothes her, massages her sore muscles and carries her if she so desires." Her aqueous gaze encompasses his figure with open admiration as she adds, "And you look ... like... what is the word? Abrosya? Ambrozia?"

"Ambrosia? That's something tasty to eat," he clarifies with a wry smile, "not a handy dandy servant." Drawing closer, Paul lays a hand on either side of Ylsa, his gaze drifting down to her toes and then lingeringly rising until it rests once again upon her face, every bit a princess even in her current state of undress. "I see .... tell me, did you -really- have body servant when you were a reigning princess?" He seems both fascinated and surprised beneath his confident exterior. After all, this is a world that he only catches glimpses of in the woman before him. Despite his strength of character, every so often he has the distinct feeling he should bow in her presence or something.

Ylsa traces the line between Paul's pectorals and down the hard terrain of his abdomen while gazing deeply into his eyes. "Ambrosia, yes...nectar of gods and goddesses. That is you." She draws her fingertip upward again and answers his question in the soft offhandedness of bland honesty. "Yes, I had body servants. I was treated with the privileges of royalty. My feet were bathed in rare oils each night, my body draped in jeweled silks, my hair brushed by a woman whose duty was only that and that alone. I was spoiled, Paul. I lived without the pains and anguish of common people until the Empire came, then my life changed." Then she smiles quirkily and licks the end of his nose, murmuring, "In many ways, I am happier now."

Everything she admits to has always been suspected, certainly always belonged to the fantasy realm of royalty. But to have her actually say it was so causes Paul's eyes to widen fractionally before he finally murmurs softly, "Mercy."

Laughing, Ylsa assures him, "That was the past. Even if I were to return to my home and see the Empire away, things would never be the same again. The excesses of royalty, where we had everything we desired when we desired it, are a disgrace beside the suffering of those who sweated and toiled for our leisure. I cannot see myself living thusly again. But..." And she smiles faintly, her eyes attaining a distant glow, "when I was younger, naive to the world...what beauty we saw, my darling, what glory in our palaces. I wish you could have seen us as we were. As I was."

"You're making me weak in the knees," Paul only half-teases, taking her hand in proper courtly manner and bestowing upon it a kiss. "Come, allow me to feed you like the good old days," he murmurs, opening the fridgeration unit curiously. "What do you want?" he asks idly over his shoulder.

"Fish," she orders with a hand raised in regal proclamation. "And shellfish. And fruit that is cleaned and washed for me, fed to me without my fingers soiling themselves upon it."

He valiantly stifles a disparaging snort and instead pulls out the requested items from the wondrously stocked unit. Turning to face her, Paul's gaze takes in her near nude form once again as he respectfully requests with merrily gleaming eyes, "Would her majesty prefer to remain in her birthday dress, or would she prefer to don some other choice outfit while she awaits her meal?"

Ylsa glances out of the glass doors leading to the cabana's porch and the seascape beyond, and with a lingering sigh, as though already bored with this locale, she shrugs, "The sun outside will be warm enough on me, once I am placed upon the chaise there." A finger raises lazily to indicate the sunbathed lounge she means.

What is the saying .... Queen for a Day? The Corellian figures he can indulge such a fantasy ... or memory ... for the day. Maybe the week. He takes a few purposeful steps over to Ylsa, removing her from the counter readily. Gathering her up comfortably in his arms he strides through the room and outside again. Laying her down on the indicated chair he offers her a dutiful bow, intoning gravely, "If her majesty is comfortable, I'll be back momentarily with her lunch and a refreshing beverage?" He then eyes her pale flesh before adding, "And some sunning lotion?"

"That would suffice." Dignity and just a brush of dismissiveness remind Paul that this woman -did- once find herself immersed in such expansive care and consideration for her every whim; she is neither giggling nor surprised by his kowtowing to her. She treats it, as true royalty may, like her due. "Bring wine and any berries you may find. And yourself. Yes, do bring yourself again."

Offering yet another discreet bow, Paul obsequiously vanishes from sight, the only clue of his presence the soft pad of his footsteps and the sounds of preparations coming from the kitchen. While part of him is amused to give Ylsa a slice of the past for lunch, the manner with which she so readily slips back into her haughty persona surprises him. _And yet why should it?_ he muses to himself. _After all, it's never really been gone_ Sure, she's been through harrowing experiences, but since the day they met she has exuded her royal bearing with or without her noticing. Her aloof nature, the better than thou bearing, her taste for only the best and most expensive. Paul would never tell her that she's been burning a hole in his pocket. He doesn't really care. So long as he has enough to get by on, the Corellian is content. _But man, am I ever gonna need to unload that shipment when this vacation is over ...._

From the patio on which Ylsa is reclining comes the crystalline sounds of her voice, raised in an exotic song much like the one he heard her hum days earlier in the shower. She is sitting up, arms wrapped about her legs which are drawn against her, her gaze trained on the crashing waves below. Poignant, sweet, and carefree, the melody is an child's invocation to the gods and goddesses of nature to rain beauty and bounty upon the denizens of the planet, to shower them with the simplest pleasures in life: good food, good company, good weather. In this moment, one in which she seems lost within herself, she seems well and truly happy.

Paul returns with a large pillow and a sumptuous platter of food. The fruit has not only been washed, it has been prepared into slices, balls, and wedges, ready for consumption without the hassle of seeds or skins. There is warm crusts of bread surrounding a hot vegetable cheese dip, and a bowl full of delicate shellfish salad, chilled to perfection. To top it off is a bottle of Alderaanian champagne. The platter is set upon a small table, the pillow dropped beside Ylsa's seat as Paul lowers himself to it's comfortable surface. He pours out her glass handing it to her before surreptitiously pouring one for himself ... after all, servants rarely are allowed to drink in the presence of royalty without doing so on the sly. Then, as demanded, Paul picks up the first offering, a richly rose colored berry, and presents it before Ylsa's mouth.

Ylsa's lips, those supple, petal-like lines of feminine softness, part and take the berry into her mouth, teasing it backward onto her tongue before she chews with ladylike delicacy. "Acceptable," she breathes, her eyes running up and down Paul's far-beyond-acceptable body before she opens her mouth for the next morsel.

The Corellian raises an eyebrow, most likely sufficient cause for being fired if not actually executed. But the man can't help it. _Acceptable?_ The next tidbit is offered, this time a bite of the seafood salad. Why couldn't he be like all of the other Corellians .... sexy, rude, and brutish? Half-heartedly cursing his sensitive side Paul offers the champagne to wash the bite down with.

Ylsa raises herself to meet the champagne and savors it as well before swallowing, then, eyes softening and smile lighting, she instead chooses the Corellian for her next sampling because she, after all, prefers him just as he is. One of her long-fingered hands urges his face nearer, her head tilting so that she may capture his lips with hers at just the right angle. "Perfect," she purrs, and means it.

Chuckling softly against her mouth, another likely cause for dismissal or death, Paul returns the gentle pressure, his tongue requesting permission to enter her chambers.

Lips again parting to invite him in, Ylsa kisses him with the slow, languid pleasure of a lover who has a long and unhurried future with her mate. Her tongue dances with his while she presses closer still, mouth sliding against his lips and fusing there as though she could kiss him forever.

Tasting the variety of flavors she has to offer ... fruit, champagne, and herself ... Paul loses himself in the kiss, one hand raising to cup her jawline and he delves deeper with a sigh. He reaches back, picking out a piece of fruit to offer her as he withdraws his lips from hers, pressing a different sort of sweetness against her mouth.

Ylsa takes the fruit and nibbles on his fingertips, never dropping her eyes from the arresting gilded green of his irises. In her expression is a shining adoration, a sentiment that brags of love as well as like, of friendship alongside passion. He is her companion as much as her lover, her confidant as well as her mate, and she takes much joy in this unfettered intimacy. "Kiss," she requests, not demands, pouting her lips forward for him.

Such a royal request he cannot refuse, all the more of it's asking rather than demanding. His lips descend to hers gently as he shifts ever closer, one hand again claiming her face as the other drops lightly to her throat, trailing down the length to dawdle at her collarbones, tracing the line of each before slipping down to cover one breast.

While her body sings, and stridently so, of its desire for Paul and a union with him, she denies her passion because such delight as a Paul Nighman kiss ought to be enjoyed as long as possible...at least from time to time. She hooks an arm behind his neck and, reclining slowly, wordlessly urges his body to cover hers. In her temple a tiny pulse thrums its approval of their togetherness and taps out a message that she is not as inwardly controlled as her languid movements imply.

The chair may have been designed with this in mind, it's proportions not outrageously obvious, but certainly ... well ... generous. Shifting himself over Ylsa, Paul settles his hip to one side, his torso hovering over Ylsa's as he gazes appreciatively at the form beneath him and what he knows lays beneath that pale flesh. But he is also content with this gentle intimacy, offering his lips and then offering her fruit in a give and take ritual. While his hands skim her form, it is not so much to arouse as to please.

Ylsa murmurs as her gaze holds his, fingers playing idly with the curve of his cheekbone, "You do realize that tonight we will have no sleep whatsoever..."

"Sleep?" The Corellian laughs, a warm sultry sound as he reminds her, "Ylsa .... we're on a secluded beach cove ... with enough food and drink to last us two weeks .... there's no such thing as time in a place like this ... we eat when we want, sleep when we want, swim, sun, and play when we want ....." As his voice sets forth their options, it grows deeper and richer until he softly growls, " ... and make love whenever we want." His mouth drifts, prodding her chin to one side to expose her throat to him ... a sacrifice as he lays a line of kisses along her pulse, his breathing tickling her long line of vulnerability.

Ylsa's fingers nestle in the brown softness of his hair, tangling there, and hold his face against her alabaster throat, which tastes still of the salty seawater in which is was so recently bathed. "I meant sleep tonight," she explains faintly, insofar as she can speak with his lips raising goosepimples along her nuzzled flesh. "Oh, ammadto...I do adore being so close to you...." And with that she encourages him to regard her, so much the better for her to indulge herself in a fiery kiss.

He gazes upon her only briefly as she claims his mouth as her own, her sovereign right to do with as she will. And willingly does he give it to her, his body dropping closer to press against her own, his legs entangling with hers. When she allows him breath, he murmurs, "I knew that ... but what does it matter if we sleep tonight or all day tomorrow??" This time he draws away from her sufficiently to gaze upon her features, one hand drifting over her damp hair. Hazel eyes dark and deep with emotion and contentment, they flicker over her features, touching everywhere before returning to her sapphire gaze. There are thoughts there, but they remain unspoken, only bathing her in the warm glow of his affection.

Her laugh is the sound of unadulterated delight, of liberated pleasure unfettered by any of the common concerns of daily life. Her hand skitters lower, down his chest, across his belly. "It matters not to me at all when we do what, except for right now," she answers honestly and angles herself forward to nip gently on his shoulder blade.

A deep breath is taken, pupils dilating fractionally as Ylsa's hand drags down his torso to caress him. "I'm yours to command, majesty," Paul breathes softly, his lips paying homage to her features, his body rippling and shifting beneath her touch.

"In love, as in life, Paul...we should and are equals," Ylsa murmurs against the language of their little game and bids him remain still while she trails kisses downward, enjoying the marbled heat of his taut torso while her fingers continue their gentle ministrations. She is certainly in no hurry whatsoever.