The demon's back arched as he felt the fingers brushing along the sensitive plane of his wing, making the feathered appendage rustle from the strange (yet altogether sinful) feeling. He was by no means a... stranger, to this sort of thing, but the times he had bothered to put forward the effort to be... equipped, so to speak, he had nixed the wings, simply to avoid that discussion, or the effort of removing the memory. Now, he was remembering exactly how wonderful it was, to have someone else touch him there, and the sentiment was probably written all over his face.
His own hands moved up the angel's arms, to the fabric of his shirt, giving it a light pluck which sent it into nonexistence.