He was known as Lord Vader. She managed to pick up another thing or two about him before walking through his door: he’d been an envoy for only about a year, but was already close to the top of their pecking order. There was a story too that his birth hadn’t been normal, and that his mother had instead been impregnated by mystical means, but Padmé was reserving judgement on that.
She bowed before him, and was almost smothered by the sense of power he radiated. Had he toned his presence down so as not to disturb the play, or was it that he had her, and he knew it?
“Padmé Naberrie. I am Darth Vader. Have you heard of me?”
“I am merely an traveling actress, my lord,” she replied. “I don’t know the names of people like you.”
“I would have everyone know your name. I would have them see you and adore you as I do.”
“Lord Vader, you hardly know me,” Padmé protested, though she knew it was in vain.
“But I will,” he insisted. “I knew it the moment I saw you standing at the edge of the arena, heard your voice. And surely you knew it when I removed my hood and you saw my face.”
“Knew what?” she pleaded.
Boldly he lifted her into his arms and said, “The Force has spoken to both of us. Perhaps you can’t hear it as well as I, but to a command this loud noone is deaf. We are made for each other.” With that, he kissed her.
Padmé would have thought that, if she believed in the Force, and she wouldn’t pledge to that, she wouldn't believe it would grant anyone to someone like Vader. She would have thought that, if in that moment she'd been capable of thinking, or of anything besides frantically returning his kisses, sinking like a stone into his embrace, her skin and heart assaulted by unbearable heat. It was hard to protest his words when she wanted him more than she had wanted anything in her life.
Still, when they broke for air, she made one last feeble protest. “I can’t.”
“You can and you will.”
There was nothing more to say. Vader led her, now unprotesting, to his bed.
Yet once there, they stood there for several minutes until Padmé finally snapped, “What are you waiting for? You won’t expect me to initiate this, at least?”
“Padmé...” he started, stopped, and then started again, “Padmé, you may not be aware of this, it might even seem contrary to some appearances, but these kind of relations, however much some envoys overindulge in them, in fact are not...encouraged...by my Master.”
“You’ve never done this before?” she demanded, shocked.
“I have not. Padmé, I am not so foolish as to assume you have not. Teach me. Please.” He grasped her head and forced her to look at him. “Show me.”
Such beauty and such fire in his eyes, and she was kissing him again, initiating after all, and now it was he who was claimed by her, he who lay limp and passive as she lowered them both onto the bed, skillfully running her hands under his dark robes as he arched under her touch. His hands reached up, tore at the clasps of her dress, and she guided them around her body, which he grasped at like an animal.
With his robes removed and they were pressed skin to skin, Padmé started to lose her ability to concentrate. But by now both were running on instinct. She took him into her body and he howled and came. He looked dismayed, but she only murmured to him, “We have all night.”
In the hours following, she was proven right. Unable to keep their hands off each other, they spent almost the entire night entwined in wild passion, a haze of gasps and thrusts and cries and the rustling of the blankets as they were twisted and thrown every which way. Near morning they all but passed out.
Many hours later Padmé woke up alone in Darth Vader’s bed, her body still limp and sore and worn, and fled from his rooms in terror.