Star Wars_ Tales From the Mos Eisley Cantina - Kevin J. Anderson [78]
Porcellus, who only operated the Court of the Fountain during those few hours not spent in preparing the Bloated One’s gargantuan repasts, knew perfectly well that he’d be fed to Jabba’s pet rancor if the Hutt ever grew bored with his menus, so he was an enthusiastic chef, indeed. And, in a way, he took great pride in his work. The filet of baby dewback with caper sauce and fleik-liver pâté was the best Trevagg had ever eaten, and when Nightlily hooned, with modestly downcast eyes, that virgins of her people were only permitted fruits and vegetables, Porcellus outdid himself in the production of four courses of lipana berries and honey, puptons of dried magicots and psibara, a baked felbar with savory cream, and staggeringly good bread pudding for dessert.
And a great deal of wine, of course.
“Nothing is too expensive for you, beautiful one,” responded Trevagg, to her hummed protest about the expense. “Or too good. Have another glass, my darling.” He would definitely, he thought, have to have a chef who could cook dewback like this when he collected his reward. “Don’t you understand that fate has brought us together, fate in the form of a stupid ruling by a venal official?” He took her hand in his, loving the satin texture, the smooth eroticism of the way the knots on its back tightened and swelled at his touch. “Don’t you understand what I feel for you? What I felt for you the moment I entered the office, the moment I heard your voice?”
The moment I sensed in you the ultimate prey, the most beautiful of conquests to be vanquished?
She turned her face aside, confused. The long silver serpent of her knife-pointed tongue ran nervously out to pick at the remains of the bread pudding in a gesture he found almost unbearably sexual. It had to be muscled to those three sets of cheekbones on the inside—what could he not persuade her to do with that tongue!
He wasn’t sure exactly what inner vibrations he should transmit to convince her of his overwhelming desire for her—she obviously didn’t have the civilized sensitivity of a Gotal, maybe couldn’t pick up anything at all and was operating entirely at the face value of his words. Judging by her conversation, she was either barely sentient or truly stupid, and in any case, Trevagg had very little interest in females’ thoughts or desires.
He cradled the side of her face with his hand, reveling in the daintiness of the cheekbones under his clawed strength. He felt her timidity, and with it, a dawning wonderment, a surge of glowing excitement in her heart.
“Don’t you understand that I need you?”
“Are you proposing … marriage?” She stared up at him, awed, dazzled, halfway to surrender.
Softly he nuzzled the side of her face. Stupid as a brick, he thought. But he’d get this one into his bed before the day was through.
“Trevagg, leave the girl alone.” Balu spoke in a low voice, so that Nightlily, in the outer office, would not hear. The security officer slouched in the doorway of Trevagg’s cubicle while the Gotal keyed through a credit transfer and ticketing information on the Star-swan, leaving early tomorrow morning. The least he could do, he reflected, was give the girl passage out of here—third class, naturally—to wherever the hell she was going. Besides, once he’d had her he certainly didn’t want her hanging around under the impression that he was actually going to go through with marrying a semisentient alien bimbo, wondrous though she might be between the sheets.
“Leave her alone?” Trevagg turned around disbelievingly, staring at the human. He kept his voice quiet, still excluding Nightlily, who was just visible through the doorway past Balu