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She climbed over the back seat once they cleared Queen Street, giggling
as her wings, trapped under her jacket, brushed the roof of the big
Crown Victoria he'd rented. She prodded at the radio and found a college
station, staticky and amateurish, and nodded her head along with the
mash-up mixes and concert bootlegs the DJ was spinning.
Alan watched her in the rearview and felt impossibly old and
strange. She'd been an incredible and attentive lover, using her hands
and mouth, her breasts and wings, her whole body to keep him quivering
on the brink of orgasm for what felt like hours, before finally giving
him release, and then had guided him around her body with explicit
instructions and firm hands on his shoulders. When she came, she
squeezed him between her thighs and screamed into his neck, twitching
and shuddering for a long time afterward, holding him tight, murmuring
nonsense and hot breath.
In the dark, she'd seemed older. His age, or some indeterminate
age. Now, sitting next to him, privately spazzing out to the beat, she
seemed, oh, 12 or so. A little girl. He felt dirty.
"Where are we going?" she said, rolling down the window and shouting
over the wind as they bombed up the Don Valley Parkway. The traffic had
let up at Sheppard, and now they were making good time, heading for the
faceless surburbs of Richmond Hill and Thornhill, and beyond.
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