She sent her hands up his back, and he bent to taste her, those lips, that soft, teasing tongue, to suck and lick and indulge in this final taste, but as they moved together, the contact deepening into something lush and promising, Brigan became aware of the path of her touch, diverging from the norm. Lovers’ hands always passed hungrily from his backside to his shoulders or the same path in reverse, groping and possessive and entitled, but invariably their fingers would pass, unfeeling, over the site of eruption, the obstacle of powerful muscle and bone and feather extending from his back.
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