They ran. They ran across the width of the street-dodging around smashed cars, jumping over bodies-and in through a doorway and up a flight of stairs. Monk glanced back only once. The woman he had breathed into was up on her feet and staggering around. She grabbed some slag in reddish camos and tore his eyes right out of his head.
Monk opened his mouth and screamed.
The slag screamed, too.
A door slammed open. Monk pitched forward through the doorway. The door slammed again to his rear as he tumbled to the floor, onto his back. In some little, one-room apartment Panting, gasping, thrusting back her hair and groaning, "Oh godddddd…," Minx knelt down beside him and laid her head on his chest. "That was the wrong thing to do, you little booty," Minx said, catching her breath. "She must've been dead already."
Monk gaped, panting. "Dead?"
Abruptly, Minx's hands were moving gently all over his face, and she gazed down at him with a red-hued look of genuine affection. "Oh, Monkie … are you tired?" she crooned. "You must be tired. Like you're drained or something."
Now that she mentioned it…
"Come're," she murmured. She pressed her mouth down over hi , and exhaled. Monk felt his whole body tingle with excitement. When she did it again, breathed into his mouth again, he inhaled deeply. It was sexy and wild and it made him feel like, like… Like sex. Better than sex.
Later, when they were lying nude in each other's arms, Minx whispered, "Are you still hungry?"
Monk thought about that. "I'm not sure."
Minx smiled and snuggled close. "You're so booty."
"You're all red," Monk said. "Everything's red."
Minx giggled. "Of course."