May 2025

Obscenities tore from my lips like lightning flaying the sky, and my nails clawed desperate hieroglyphs into the sculpted terrain of his back, jagged, sacred, raw.

It had begun in my front room as I arrived home from work. Heat undulated low and slow across the room, thick, heady, electric. The atmosphere held its breath, pulsing with the same exquisite tension that lives just before the sky splits open in a storm.

With a single lifted finger, laced in satin command, I had frozen him where he sat as I entered, curious and still, bound by my voice alone. He had waited for hours for me, working from my velvet couch, coiled, eternal, a god denied his worship. My presence hung just beyond reach as I moved about the room. Still, he did not rise, barely a muscle twitching as if he moved, he would lose control altogether. I preened, prowling the edge of his desperation, luxuriating in the exquisite ache of delay. “Stay,” I had said. “Wait.” Two words, and Olympus held its breath.

But what of me?

Inside my Inner Goddess roiled. Like sheaves of bound wheat, my limbs tingled with static; the fine hairs across my skin stood in reverence. A week’s worth of restrained desire burned beneath my ribs at the sight of the thick thunderclouds in his dark eyes. I was a prairie desperate for the rain not yet fallen, lightning curled tight in my lungs. Every breath was a plea. Every second, a seduction.

I slipped the ruby stilettos from my aching feet, one at a time, relishing the relief, toes unfurling like bound petals. The god moved, just slightly. His bronzed shoulders twitching, breath shallow. He dared to rise. I raised my hand again, amused, imperial.

Perhaps I would retreat to my chamber, trailing the scent of anticipation behind me. I would undress slowly, out of sight but not out of mind. Let the rustle of satin whisper promises he could only imagine. Let each deliberate sound, pillows dropped, sheets drawn back, be a torment to his sharp, immortal senses. A single swish of fabric, a crescendo. The perfume of my need hung in the air. Heavy. Cloying. Maddening.

I let one heel fall to the floor with a resonant thunk, thunder incarnate, as I cast him a glance from beneath dark lashes. My fingers curled around the back of a burgundy chair for balance. The storm in his gaze told me: the game was about to shift. One word from me and the gale force of his essence would be upon me.

The shirt that had once felt daring now clung oppressively, the plunging neckline somehow a noose. My sleek trousers gripped my thighs like vines grown too tight. He advanced, slow, assured, each step a rumble of gathered clouds, the hush before chaos. Would I command again? Or would I run, fleeing down the corridor, my coquettish laughter begging to be caught?

I remained. Frozen. Staring at him. A Desolate, barren prairie with eyes locked on the prowling storm. 

He did not wait for my answer.

In a blink, I was over his shoulder, my body seared against his. He moved with purpose, long strides striking the floor like lightning bolts. My laugh turned to a gasp as his palm landed sharply upon my backside, the echo crackling down the narrow hall. The gaul of him! I retaliated, my own hand lashing out in amused protest. He answered in kind, harder this time.

Ah, so the beast beneath the storm wanted to play.

My Inner Goddess bared her teeth. Very well. Another faint sting, another ripple of challenge across my skin.

But as we crossed the threshold into my room, he paused. The air grew stifling. The pressure built, desire and tenderness twining like opposing storm winds and rain. With reverent strength, he shifted me from his shoulder and cradled me instead. His lips found mine, not demanding, but sweet and devouring. And in that kiss, I felt it: the ache of days apart, the unbearable need to belong to each other once more.

Like golden wheat bending to the gale, I yielded. We cast aside duty and time, surrendering to a single purpose: to recall the taste of each other’s skin.

He laid me upon the bed with the gentleness of the first falling drops. I bounced slightly, then sprawled like a spoiled cat in the last sunlight. My eyes narrowed, calculating. I would not make this easy. Let him work for every inch he wished to claim.

As he reached for my waistband, I offered no aid, my smirk a dare. In one graceful motion, he stripped away both pants and the hidden lace, a sudden gust revealing my drenched want to the cool air. I gasped, eyes widening, impressed. Clever god.

While he shed his shirt, I stripped the bed, banishing pillows to the floor. A storm needed open prairie. Space to rage. Space to consume.

I sat at the edge of the bed, watching him, his eyes fixed on the hem of my blouse. He peeled it away with intent. But there, beneath it, another layer: a soft tank, obstinate. I smirked unhelpfully. He removed it, too, expression darkening, but the corner of his eyes sparkling, knowing me far too well. Beneath that waited my brassiere, delicate, sheer, embroidered with black blooms that floated unmoving across my ample bosom. Still, I withheld.

My Inner Goddess and I imperiously ignored the strain of his arousal, monumental, demanding just inches from my fingertips. He would not rush. Not yet. And still, I did not yield. My body begged, but I… I would not beg.

He unclasped the bra, and it surrendered, adrift on the gale between us, forgotten before it even touched the floor.

Slow as a storm cell rolling across open plains, he moved over me until I was fully reclined, my sapphire halo gleaming like an oasis amidst the white sea of sheets. I dared not breathe. But then…his lips found mine.

My arms and legs wound around him, feral and fluid, drawing him closer, pulling him into the furnace of my remembering. My body recognized him, craved to transmute the palpable warmth between us into a maelstrom of wind, water, fire, and holy ruin. Hands and mouths never parted, an unbroken communion of want. The storm loomed, roared, hovered, and poised in the heavens, and in that moment, I fancied Olympus herself might pause to bear witness.

His girthy length found the slick, secret cradle of my thigh, pressing purposefully into the crease, deliberately grazing but not yet claiming. He lingered, as if choosing to savor the taste of my crimson lips, the wild perfume of my skin, before the red haze of need began to swallow him whole.

I smiled, serene, almost cruel, ignoring the keening wail rising from within me like wind through canyon walls. I would make him beg.

And then, at last, his head of him nestled at the humid gate of my ache. I tilted my hips back, down, denying him full access. Not yet. A wicked self-punishment, true, but a deliberate decadence. I permitted only the shallowest invasion, the first few inches of intrusion, sweet and searing. My nails raked over his sun-warmed skin in distraction, and I devoured his mouth in punishment, all tongue and hunger and slight of hand.

He rocked sinfully slowly, thrusting just within reach and then retreating, his ridge dragging along sensitive flesh, slick and insistent. In and out. In and out. A rhythm of torment. The only sounds were wet and wanting, primal and reverent, the elemental hush of our breathless moans joined by the creak of the bed beneath us. Alone, we composed a stormsong all our own.

“You are not teasing me,” his baritone murmured, a dark thunder at my ear.

I blinked, dazed and half-lost in the spell of his mouth, half-drowning in the ache of what his body wrought, and still giddy with the thrill of my victory. I blinked again.

“I am teasing you,” he whispered, lips curling with wicked triumph.

Shock rippled through me like a sudden cold front slamming across summer fields. No, surely not. To disprove his scandalous claim, I thrust my hips upward, trying to impale myself further upon him, to pull him into the inferno that had been so carefully stoked. But he only withdrew farther, a smug retreat that made my breath catch and my limbs tremble.

I was outraged. And awestruck…and a little impressed.

Pure mirth bubbled through me, un-restrained, luminous as if a sudden sunbeam had broken through a sky of stormclouds. Laughter burst from my lips like rain shattering the surface of a sun-warmed lake. I laughed and laughed, the joy so radiant, so raw, it rippled through me to the very edges of myself, down to the curling tips of my toes.

He nuzzled the column of my throat with quiet, pleased reverence, each exhale against my skin a sultry summer breeze turned electric. Then he resumed, agonizing, measured, holy. The same shallow thrusts. The same exquisite denial.

Each movement, a prayer.
Each laugh, a spell.
Each moan, a plea to the storm we were becoming.

No more teasing. I could not stand it.
No more laughter. Not now.
Just him.
Just us.

The storm buried itself to the hilt, wrapping my sun-drenched prairie in the unrestrained passion that had gathered at the very peak of Olympus herself. I did not resist. I opened to him, wide, wild, unleashing my need as our bodies clashed like thunderheads, wind and rain slamming, culminating, cracking me open, splitting my soul again and again.

So immediate, so feral was our bond that I nearly had him in those first few seconds. We had starved too long, restrained distance, and when at last our bodies collided, it was not love, it was impact. The pulse of his essence swelled inside him like thunderheads boiling black with menace, the whole sky a breath from rupture. He teetered, caught on the knife-edge of my hunger, held back only by the trembling leash of some ancient, sacred restraint. 

My Inner Goddess, unrepentant as Lilith, rose triumphant. Arms lifted. Horns gleaming. She was ready to take him as the old gods once did, the taking that was also worship, the rapture that burned temples down.

But just as the heavens threatened to tear, he found a terrible strength and wrenched himself back from the edge, his breath broken, his eyes lit with something desperate. The storm within him did not abate. He held it back and twisted it deeper before it threatened to swallow us both, yet it swelled to fill every scorched hollow of my sunburnt soul.

My Inner Goddess hissed at the delay, lips curled in a smirk edged with fang. But she understood. This would not be a summer squall. Nohe was crafting a tempest, a sky-splitting supercell destined to rend the veil between this world and the next.

With a growl low and lethal, he hooked my right leg into the crook of his arm and drove into me like the fury of the gale, over and over, devotion clothed in carnality. The fresh wounds I had left across his shoulders sang red and raw beneath his onslaught. But something wasn’t right. The angle. The tempo. The ritual faltered.

Gasping, half-mad with sensation, I rapidly tapped his bulging shoulder, my voice a rasping whisper clawed from my throat.

“Please.” 

He stilled instantly, his molten gaze snapping to mine, all worshipful concern. “Other side,” I breathed. “Please.”

Like liquid shadow, he slipped my leg down and lifted the other, adjusting his hips until he found it, that sacred, aching hollow where my soul had been waiting, weeping, wanting.

The moment he sank into me, perfect and divine, I tasted the stars.

The thunder cracked.

Time died.

My breath scattered.

The bed, the room, the world vanished.

And just when I thought I might unravel entirely, he withdrew with a devil’s grin and shifted, backing off the bed until his feet were braced wide on the cool maple floor. Hands clasped behind my knees, he yanked me forward with the spiraling hunger of a cyclone with my name in its mouth. My hips dangled like dusk over the edge, knees drawn nearly to my heaving bosom. I was exposed. Offered. 

He paused, savoring. His thick crown grazed my swollen pearl with relentless cruelty. Again and again, he soaked himself in my nectar, each pass an invocation, a threat, a promise. 

When he plunged back in, he thrust like a manic storm. Merciless and magnificent.

My cries rose to the stratosphere. My back arched, helpless, holy. Unrelenting as a straight-line wind. A spark ignited in me, wild and commanding. My Inner Goddess bared her teeth in delight. Obscenities tore from my lips like lightning flaying the sky, and my nails clawed desperate hieroglyphs into the sculpted terrain of his back, jagged, sacred, raw.

With a growl of my own, I slipped from beneath his grip and seductively turned over, presenting myself with a shameless swish of my hips and a wicked glance over my shoulder. He had, apparently, been thinking the same. He answered with a snarl, deep and dark.

A courtesan of the sky gods, I rose onto invisible stilettos and poured myself forward, fingers sinking into the bedding as my mouth opened for the screams to come. He gripped my body, his fingers branding my flesh. His hips struck mine like thunderclaps. One hand clutched me at the waist like a tether between sky and earth; the other fisted in my hair, tugging me back just enough for his breath to burn against my ear.

We became elemental.

Thunder. Wind. Flesh. Moan.

The deluge of his attention nourished the cracked soil of my soul. My Inner Goddess lifted her arms to the rain and roared. His cool fingers curled around my hip, slipping lower to circle my pearl, each stroke a rain-lash against the cracked earth of me, seeping deep into the dusted hollows that had forgotten what it was to be wet. I shoved back into him, demanding more. More. More.

The storm was not enough. I wanted a cataclysm.

The scent of sweat, the taste of lust twisted around us, heady and electric, but it was nothing compared to the feel of his truth driving into mine. On and on he pistoned, barely mastering the beast within him, holding onto the wild without breaking the flame.

He did not shatter. We transcended.

He drove me up the bed, my elbows sinking into the mattress, hips high and trembling. My breath vanished. My mind fractured. Only his rhythm, relentless and divine, remained.

At last, I collapsed flat, belly to bed, thighs quaking and pressed together. Still, he did not falter. Still, he surged and claimed, and I screamed, again, and again, and again, offering him everything, all of it, willingly.

Then stillness.

His hands moved over me, reverent. Worshipping the slick, glistening truth of what we had summoned: a storm sky, of soul, of body.

He withdrew, walking barefoot across the floor to fetch water, the god returning to earth for a moment of mercy.

Time pressed in like an impatient tide, but I did not rise. I sprawled in the aftermath, luxuriating in the stickiness, the ache, the glow. My Inner Goddess was not sated, no. But she was fed. Revived. Watered, if only just.

When he returned, I looked up at him through heavy lashes, my limbs limp, my grin wicked.

“Oh, you did well,” my Inner Goddess purred, her voice like cream and sin. “But I am far, far from finished with you.”

And if the Fates were merciful, perhaps…perhaps…they would grant us a second storm.

Until next time, XO. Elsie