The Secret Allure of "woman wings"

Rain lashes the floor-to-ceiling windows in woman wings. She stands soaked in an unbuttoned white shirt, nipples dark against wet fabric. In woman wings, the shirt drops, and rain-cold skin meets warm palms. She backs against the glass, city lights strobing across her body while her hand disappears between her thighs for woman wings. Every thrust of her fingers fogs the window anew. Thunder rolls just as her knees buckle in woman wings; lightning flashes on her open mouth mid-orgasm. When the storm quiets, the only sound in woman wings is water dripping from her hair and the soft click of her satisfied sigh against the pane.