Fit for a King

“You were all alone,” she said quietly, avoiding his eyes. “I felt sorry for you. I was alone, too. I … well, I thought it would be nice to have a friend.”

“You had Warchief,” he pointed out, grinning. “Speaking of Warchief …” He glanced around. The big parrot was on his perch ring, one foot drawn up, his eyes closed. “Unusual, his going to sleep without being covered. Is that antibiotic working, do you think?”

“He isn’t sneezing or rasping,” she said, grateful for the change of subject. “He’s better. He’s just sleepy. He always goes to sleep at dusk, when you’re not around.” She grinned. “He’s in love with you.”

“I think he’s a she,” he laughed. Then he turned his attention back to her, looking down at the bodice of her jump suit with narrowing eyes. He moved experimentally, rubbing his chest against her, and she gasped at the sudden, sharp pleasure the friction produced.

She flushed to the roots of her long dark hair. “King!”

“Shocking, isn’t it?” he asked, lifting his narrow gaze to hers.

Her eyes searched his, curiosity momentarily displacing her nervousness at this new intimacy.

His gaze held hers while the hands at her waist began to move her in a sensuous circle against his hard, warm chest.

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