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Riyo’s mouth is relentless, velvet-smooth, her teeth sharp as the edge of a knife—or like the edges of the Ripper, he supposes—and he needs to tilt his head back and cover his eyes with his hands to escape it, to catch his breath (gelid in his wet mouth, on his wet lips), to will the heat in his body to go down (which isn’t exactly easy with her lounging in his lap like this, pressed close, close, closer), to say, “I think I’m gay.”
Riyo laughs, which just makes Zanka burn more.
“Duh; what, did you think I’d mind?” she says, “I don’t care, and I knew that already, you idiot; it’s more surprising that you apparently didn’t!”