She went perfectly still again when he took the wing in his hands. It
had its own geometry, hard to understand and irresistible. He followed
the mysterious and powerful muscles and bones, the vast expanses of
cartilage, finding knots and squeezing them, kneading her as he'd
kneaded her back, and she groaned and went limp, leaning back against
him so that his face was in her hair and smelling her scalp oil and
stale shampoo and sweat. It was all he could do to keep himself from
burying his face in her hair and gnawing at the muscles at the base of
her skull.
He moved as slow as a seaweed and ran his hands over to her other wing,
giving it the same treatment. He was rock-hard, pressed against her, her
wings all around him. He traced the line of her jaw to her chin, and
they were breathing in unison, and his fingers found the tense place at
the hinge and worked there, too.
Then he brushed against her bruised cheek and she startled, and that
shocked him back to reality. He dropped his hands to his sides and then
stood, realized his erection was straining at his shorts, sat back down
again in one of the club chairs, and crossed his legs.
"Well," he said.
Mimi unfolded her wings over the sofa-back and let them spread out, then
leaned back, eyes closed.
"You should try the ice-pack again," he said weakly. She groped blindly
for it and draped it over her face.
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