She sends me out just as the storm hits. Her kiss is brief, almost perfunctory, but her hand lingers on my forearm for just long enough to tell me that she knows – that the timing is not a coincidence.
Few things turn me on more than being properly caught in the rain. I’m not talking about your pissy, London drizzle – the weather equivalent of having someone repeatedly sneeze in your face – but instead the sort of torrential downpour that leaves you gasping when it first hits your skin. Rain that churns up a shimmering cloud a foot high and makes it impossible to see the ground in front of you.
It’s a battering I’m powerless to resist, so I close my eyes, spread my arms wide, and embrace it. Who wouldn’t? We are drawn to that sort of elemental fury, precisely because it strips us down, layer by layer, and leaves us feeling utterly exposed. Pinned under nature’s microscope.
I love the way water always finds a path. Always. It sneaks down my collar, and gathers in the hollow at the base of my throat. It spatters and freckles the backs of my hands, clinging to the hairs that tuft out of my jacket sleeve at the wrist. When I touch my face, it is like skimming a stone across the surface of a lake; the skin dimples under my fingers, and is filled quickly by the water that already covers it in a thin, cool film.
Sodden and heavy, my clothes plaster themselves to my body. It should be unpleasant, but even the cold denim wrapped tightly around my thighs sets off a shudder of arousal rather than discomfort. It prickles at my nerve endings, leaving me twitchy and primed; charged with a restless sexual energy that makes me want to toss my head back and scream at the sky.
The heat rushes to my stomach and groin as I splash through the puddles. I must look half-mad, with my head bare and a smile so wide that the corners of my mouth start to ache. Saturation is liberating somehow, and I am so giddy that I start to feel like I’m floating above the spitting, bouncing raindrops as they hit the ground.
She is waiting for me on the doorstep, a towel draped over one arm. She makes me stand there in front of her, stamping my feet impatiently, my cock starting to push out a dark blue bulge in the front of my jeans.
She takes a half-step forward and extends one arm, just far enough to brush my chest with her fingertips. The rain attacks her bare skin immediately; it is fierce and greedy for her, and we both stare as it runs off in fat, glistening streaks.
I clear my throat to speak, but she shakes her head and pulls me towards the door. When it closes behind us, I am momentarily disorientated by the change. It is quiet here – the surge and roar of the storm replaced by expectant silence. By the low hum and purr of her voice, as she looks me up and down. Slowly, and with deliberate, obvious intent.
“Come on. Let’s get you out of those wet clothes…”