[As though in response to the wordless plea, more vines unfold, looping loosely around her torso, shifting and rustling restlessly. The flowers have dried, their petals drifting to the car seat and the floor; there is no new pollen added to the air, now, but what remains is still sweet and heady]

[His hands rub restless against her thighs, up and then down again, as though he can't get enough of the feel of her; his tongue works eagerly against her, as though attempting to answer her cry. The vine inside her twists and coils along with its thrusts, the odd ridges as it shifts adding perhaps an extra layer of sensation as it catches against that spot inside her]