[The ridges don't quite hit her like that each time--which is for the best, since the first time the vine twists just so, curling in towards the front of her pelvis, her vision goes white. By the third, she's arched forward enough that her head rests against the tinted window, fogged as she shakes out another moan. Her hips artlessly tumble forward, wings and tail jerking against the seats and into the vines tangling over her skin, and she squeezes around him tightly enough that it's difficult to move.

The sweet scent of his flowers is deep in her nose as she writhes against him, pressing into his touch best she can. By now she can manage at least one word--please--and she groans it out as he twists over her chest and her wings and her thighs, as if even this much of him isn't yet enough.]