The Star King by Susan Grant

the few delicacies left on the ship. Some vessels were covered, with steam wafting from beneath the ornate lids; others contained morsels that were iced, salted and dried, or preserved with liqueurs gathered from around the galaxy—some acquired through legally recognized means, most not. It had been years since he'd enjoyed a meal presented entirely in the old way, and he found he was looking forward to the evening.
     
    If only you weren't as apprehensive as a young man on the night of his marriage rites.
     
    He cinched the tie on his robe and poured himself a tiny glass of rare and quite illegally obtained star-berry liqueur. Eyes closed, he let the sweetness glide over his tongue. Fleetingly, it numbed his throat before warming his belly, leaving behind the barest hint of its notorious intoxicating power. Tonight he would partake sparingly, so he could apply the time-tested erotic skills he'd been taught at the palace in his youth, along with the more subtle techniques he'd gleaned as a man, to give Jasmine the most exquisite pleasure imaginable—if she allowed him to make love to her. Heat pooled in his groin as he pictured ways to arouse her before bringing her to fulfillment, and he chose several that he was certain would inspire her to give up her secrets as easily as star-berry blossoms fell in the first snow.
     
    "Open." The doors to his personal-items repository slid apart and he chose his attire prudently, skillfully, as a warrior might select his weapons. Lifting his best shirt from a protective wrapper, he fastened the coppery Nan-dan silk tunic from left to right across his chest, and then tugged his dress boots over a soft pair of Nandan trousers—procured years ago, and worn but once. In texture, and in feel against bare skin, the luxurious fabric had no equal. He poured a few drops from a golden flask into his hand, rubbed his palms together, and massaged the oil into his scalp. Peering into the mirror, he combed his freshly trimmed hair back from his face. This was not preening, he assured himself, but a hunter's meticulous attention to setting his snare.
     
    His viewscreen chimed. He flicked it on. Jas was standing in the corridor outside his door, her arms wrapped around a packet that looked suspiciously full of paperwork. The soles of her shoes sported cylindrical protrusions that raised her heels off the ground. With surprised pleasure he noted that her skirt, decorated with blossoms of some sort, reached only to her knees. It was not the custom for women—other than the pleasure servants who advertised their wares in the sex markets—to wear short dresses, so Rom treated himself to a leisurely perusal of her bare calves. "One moment," he said into the comm. The doors swished open. She cast an admir-
     
    ing but nervous gaze around his quarters. Bowing, he beckoned her inside with a sweep of his hand. "I'm pleased that you came."
     
    "I look forward to this. We have much to talk about." Her tone was purposeful but pleasant. "I can tell you more about the agreement now."
     
    "Care for a drink?"
     
    She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Yes. Thank you."
     
    He filled two thimble-sized glasses with star-berry liqueur and touched his glass to hers. "To adventures not yet taken."
     
    Her mouth curved. "Perfect."
     
    He waited until she'd almost lifted the glass to her mouth before he stopped her. "Wait. This is star-berry liqueur, a very special drink. It is to be shared in the traditional way." He dipped his finger into his glass and dragged his moistened fingertip along her warm, pliant lower lip.
     
    She stiffened, her nostrils flaring. They maintained eye contact long enough for him to see her alarm. Then, glancing away, she said dryly, "That is some tradition."
     
    "Thousands of years old. Now you anoint my lips with star-berry liqueur. Methods vary. Be as inventive as you please."
     
    She gave him a long look, color rising in her cheeks.
     
    "Perhaps another time," he said