The Princess rolled off Harran and lay gasping in the spacious master bedroom of her father’s pleasure yacht. Her skin, normally the aching azul of an oxygen rich atmosphere, was a deep midnight blue.
“O tucandeira! You truly are a renaissance man.”
“Nothing like a good bout of xenophilia to get the blood flowing,” grinned Harran.
The Princess laid her head on her hand. “All these big words… and bigger moves. And I thought you were just a savage.”
“I am that,” Harran had to admit. “Everything makes sense with a battleaxe in my hand. But…” He sighed. “Look, does the name Mowgli mean anything to you?”
“No.” There was a beeping sound. “Do you know what that means?” asked the Princess. Harran shook his head.
“The requisite pillow talk is at an end,” she said, getting to her feet. “Ship has located the coordinates for the downed craft.”
“Thank God!” cried Harran. “I don’t know how long I could have kept that up!”
She narrowed her eyes. “Did you want some more of this?”