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Supple Wings

I half-expect him to stop me, tell me I’m not his type, but instead he holds me closer, his breath warm as he seeks my ear, neck, curve of jaw leading to lips. His are soft, moist, hungry, and I want to feed him as prodigiously as I want to be fed. Our lips and tongues flick and roll as that cold smooth ball taps channels flowing to breasts, navel, veiled lips pulsing with blood. My thumb and forefinger sandwich his left nipple, rising hard. I flip the ring up and down, aching to slide as gracefully as that slender loop along his skin.

— Elizabeth Weaver