Stormfront

Her head was pounding. Her life's flow pulsing, whacking bruisingly against her temples, each throb so minutely felt, she was certain the cranial bone was bowing under the rhythmic torture. There was no point in pressing sweaty, trembling fingertips to the points of agony. That only made it worse. She had tried a massage technique taught by her mother, but today the gentle manipulation brought no relief. Trigger points were no match for the freight train barreling along the intricate network of veins, arteries, and nerves.

She had known upon waking that morning. Her sleepy eyelids had lifted to reveal dark chocolate eyes, and, already, their customary flash was fading with the arrival of pain. Sighing heavily, she pushed the thick matching curtain of hair from her tightening forehead and rose to prepare for work. If she stayed home each time the headaches manifested, she would not be able to make a living. It all meant one thing. The weather was changing again. She never needed to watch the evening news or open a newspaper. Her finely tuned senses matched par for par with fancy scientific equipment.

She could smell it coming in the wet breeze on her drive to the office. The slow thickening of air, like a warm, damp blanket encroaching over all creation. It permeated, enveloped, invaded. Stagnant. Spit didn't evaporate from the sidewalk, and cigarette smoke didn't dissipate in it. The most common adjective used was muggy. Meteorologists measured it in dew points and barometric pressure. Her co-workers lamented its arrival with bad hair days and hormonal outbursts. Her own method system lay in the number of amber capsules of Advil Migraine she consumed, and in timing the short intervals that she could keep her eyes open against the unmitigating pain. She and her father both suffered through these crippling maladies. Most times, he made the trek to a local emergency room to receive a pure shot of relieving medication. But not her. Willful and stubborn to a fault, she braved them alone in silence.

And the worst was still to come. The iron bands secured firmly around her head, and blood vessels constricted as the storm clouds churned angrily in the slate gray sky. Lightning streaked as the blue-black towers rumbled, swollen with rain, chasing her home from the endless work day. Hot, angry pellets crashed against the sturdy frame of her home as she stepped inside the dark sanctuary. The merciless throbbing of blood and the frenzied howl of wind, a jarring discordant melody. Louisiana weather. It was the price to be paid for the state's rich food and vibrant culture. To settle here meant surviving the stifling heat in the summertime, and enduring the bone-chilling dampness of winter. Not to mention hurricane season. Its erratic patterns could be as wicked as Marie Leveau herself. Voodoo, she snorted. Pins protruding from the head of some hapless cloth doll. How appropriate.

Not bothering to turn on a light or fix a light supper, both of which would only make her nauseated, she headed straight for the bathroom, disrobing along the way. Her milky skin glowing softly in the quickly descending darkness. She showered briskly. Lavender bath gel swirled in haphazard circles, the fragrant suds dripping over soft curves, twining around her long legs. Leaning her forehead directly into the nozzle, she willed the hot spray to drum the incredible ache away. Beat for beat. Gulping mouthfuls of wispy steam, groaning as each muscle struggled to relax. Shiny and sleek, she rinsed quickly and stepped onto the tile floor, tucking a thick towel under her breasts. The room swam in waves for a moment, and she swayed unsteadily. A scalding shower combined with fatigue and the incessant assault raging in her skull. Her sigh, long and frustrated.

Remedies, she mused, padding soundlessly to her dark bedroom. Tea with honey and lemon? An unconscious flick of her wrist sent the towel to the carpet. Damp and naked, she stood thinking. No, that was for sore throats. And besides, she had never cultivated an acquired taste for tea. The brew was too damn weak, she nodded, pulling on a cotton T-shirt and blue shorts, buttery soft from multiple washings. Warm milk? She grimaced, the thought alone nearly gagged her. Rain clattered against her bedroom windows, and wind rattled the panes as she turned down the comforter and slid gratefully into the downy coolness. Resting one hand under her drying curls, she melted into the firm mattress and pillow, watching the crazed shadows of tree branches entangle and claw into the wall. A fair representation of the battle continuing to crash under her sensitive skin. A bullet? Oh yes, that would do the job. But she wouldn't be around to savor the results. The smile that curved her full lips was humorless. Sex? A dark brow arched fell, arched again as she contemplated. She had read somewhere, probably in Cosmo, that orgasms were proven to be wonderful cures for illness, including headaches. Some complicated theory about contractions and endorphins. A giggle of genuine amusement burst from her throat as she indulged the scene. Excuse me, Sir, would you have sex with me? I have a headache. Wasn't that backwards? Weren't headaches the most cliched and often given excuses not to have sex? The point was moot anyway. She wasn't the type to actively advertise for a fuck in the first place, and her wardrobe lacked severely in naughty lingerie. Her few close friends constantly chastised her for being too hard on herself. Sexual encounters were not immune from her grasp, not nearly. She, herself, often wondered why she didn't play more; maybe it was the idea that she just didn't care. So much expectation, so much hoopla, when 30 seconds after the deed was done, she returned to normalcy, rationality. It just didn't seem worth the trouble. She firmly believed Victoria's Secret was one of the biggest crocks on the planet. Shelling out half a paycheck for a scrap of silk that a man would oogle for the space of heartbeat, then would be ripped off and kicked under the bed. A new haven for dust bunnies. CD's, a piece of fine jewelry, the latest Laurel K Hamilton installment; now there's a good investment. She lay motionless in the sheets, breathing slowly, totally immersed in her thoughts. Maybe there was an attraction for satin, nylons and delicate buckles. And maybe she was just jaded. Her ex-boyfriend of three years had never bought anything of the sort her to wear, and on one occasion, when she had actually taken hopeful initiative and selected a short filmy gown of the softest powder blue and walked shyly into the bedroom, he had barely given her a glance. The damn confection had been sheer, her nipples dark and pointed under the fabric. At the time, she had felt quite romantic, but he proclaimed it "not his style" and dismissed her with an abrupt nod and went back into his book. The gown had been stuffed into an obscure drawer and was probably still there. After that, her sleeping attire was restricted to the utmost casual. She stole a peek under the comforter at the T-shirt and shorts. Yes, a man would just have to be satisfied with cotton instead of lace. And so, the headache remained. Her moment of effervescence dissolved, the storm raged outside unabated, and the dull ache now reigned not only in her head, but also in her heart. Bah. She issued a sharp sound of self-disgust and rolled over into the pillow, drifting into a restless, unfulfilled sleep.

Hands, warm hands, roughened fingertips and palms stroking over her legs and stomach. The soft cotton shorts slipping away with each insistent caress. She moved languously as the thin T-shirt followed, her mind fighting through the layers of unconsciousness, resurrecting the unappeasable pounding. Hallucinations, yes, that must be it. The headache and her pre-bedtime thoughts must have conjured the image on top of her. The silken path of his hot mouth where hands had been moments before, the broad back, rippled with hard sinew under her hesitant fingers was only a dream. Her bed was cold, her body chilled under the sheets, and he was hot, urgent. Fire met ice. Sparks ignited. An intimate stormfront.

Sudden pain seared her head, and she reared back into the pillows, certain the bone would finally split apart. He immediately drew near her anguished face, as a desperate sob escaped her throat, gliding his firm lips over her icy jawline up to her tightly clenched eyes. He never spoke, instead laid a large hand against her cheek, the question hovering in his slightly curled palm, in the hushed patter of raindrops on the roof. It hurts, she whimpered, finally giving audible confirmation to her agony. It hurts so much. Please make it go away, her dark haunted eyes opening to view lightning flashing in the deep, clear, cerulean of his. Thunder blasted the core of her home, the very foundation shuddered as he lowered his mouth to hers.

The kiss was light, gossamer, designed to soothe. A gentle rubbing of lip to lip, withdrawing, soft heated breath. Their hands roamed, his slipping into the indention of her waist, over her rounded hips to cup the globes of her ass. Her pale fingers caught in the dark net of hair on his broad chest. With each pass of his mouth, her need grew, a line of fire scorching her senses, her twisting body. So this was steaming up the sheets, the thought registered briefly before quickly pushed aside by the slow lick of his tongue on her earlobe. She clutched his powerful shoulders, making small, distressed sounds, demanding that he satisfy her. Desire spinning like the frenzied leaves outside in her backyard. Nipping her chin, he leaned up and watched her. His smug grin deepened at the sight of her lush breasts, pouty nipples straining in the expectation of a thorough suckling. Skin, smooth and slightly dotted with perspiration. His azure gaze turned feral and hungry at the tiny triangle nestled atop her trembling thighs.

She glared and poofed a lock of hair from her snapping eyes, when he ever so faintly traced the edge of one dewy nether lip with a calloused finger. Looming over her, calm expression to her flushed one, he repeated the motion, slower this time, teasing. She melted. Her surrendering cry captured by the brutal ravishing of his mouth. Plundering, a soulful, wet kiss, changing angles, his teeth grating along her bottom lip. Her sharp gasp, as he broke the contact and flipped her onto her stomach. Pushing her heavy mane up with one hand, the other molded to her hip, his ravenous mouth branding the back of her slender neck, the long sensitive spinel column. A burning, wet journey. She writhed helplessly, hips undulating in slow waves. The ache he had taken and replaced with another; the one only he could console. Instinct parted her legs, and he accepted the invitation.

Delving a single digit inside her tight passage, stroking in little circles while she wiggled harder. Chest inches from her back, he laved the side of her throat and whispered a single word, "More?" She nearly sobbed in relief as the second finger joined the other, rocking back against his palm, his thumb twirling the delicate patch of skin between his entrenched fingers and her puckered rosebud. All the while, he nibbled, exacting sensual bites of her moist back, ass and outer side of sweet breast. She bent her knees, flexing and pointing her toes to the rhythm he set inside her longing pussy. He placed a tender suckling kiss on the instep of each foot before turning her yet again, seeking mouth descending quickly to capture her ripe nipple.

A hawk snaring its prey. Her cries of pleasure exploded in the room, answered by his approving growls and the roar of thunder. She thrashed deliriously as he counter-timed the come-hither motion of fingers to his vigorous sucking. Pull. Stroke. Over and over, until she seized his thick hair with white knuckles and howled in tandem with the battering storm. Silky honey coated his fingers with each fluttering contraction. He gave her no quarter, ignored her pleas for rest and instead gave the well-suckled nipple one last lick before moving to the other, his fingers coaxing magic one again as his mouth latched onto the rosy, quivering cap. He didn't stop when she bucked nor when she cursed. The exquisite ministrations proceeded until she scored her nails into his back, ragged shrieks of delight burst from her panting lips.

Spreading her legs wide, he braced her heels against each shoulder, hands sliding down to her sensitive inner thighs, pushing them apart. Her drenched pussy open to his intense study, the slick shaven folds swollen and ruby red with arousal. Drowning in the blue flame of his eyes, she watched as he dipped a finger in her spent honey and brought it to her mouth. At the instant her soft tongue wrapped around it, he plunged to the hilt inside her weeping sheath. Hot flesh clamped tightly around his thick shaft, her scream of shock and stunned pleasure muffled by his finger. Her inner muscles primed and strong, involuntarily commenced to milk him. For a time, he allowed her to work him, watching with hooded eyes. The simultaneous tug of her mouth and pussy, unabashed lust flaring in her inky gaze. Enough. He replaced the finger with his lips, tasting the residual flavor of her inside her silky mouth, his hips settling a rhythm old as time, his tongue mimicking.

She had no idea who he might, this stranger who had appeared in her pain and ransacked her senses, her carefully built barriers with his carnal appetite. He was the storm inside her head, the one obliterating the land, sweeping her along in a maelstrom of passion. With each pelvic grind, he demanded more of her and she supplied, twining her legs with his. She gave, and he took, tearing down her dam of resistance with each consummate stroke of cock, of hands, of expert mouth. Intertwining their hands and raising them above her head, forcing her to stare straight into his eyes as he fucked her hard with long, singular thrusts. His savage possession of her body in the most intrinsic, intimate of ways. Commanding her to realize, accept and glory in it.

She clung to him and locked her ankles around the small of his back, meeting his pulsating cock thrust for thrust, reveling in his harsh hiss when ivory teeth sank into the dense wall of his chest. Slipping against each other, sweat matted hair to her ears, he licked a bead of the hot brine between her breasts. Pillows flung, scattered across the carpet, bedding wrinkled by her gripping fists. She needed nothing but the punishing drive of his cock between her legs, wanted nothing but his mouth returning to hers again and again, knew nothing but the firm smack of his palm on the back of her thigh urging her on. A warning that she dare not even think of not fucking him back.

"Come for me," he ordered, "again, on my cock. I gave you what you needed, now give me what's mine." And she did. Golden light spiraling, ignited in her belly and burst outward, evident in the violent squeeze of her pussy, the scalding flood of feminine climax. The abrupt shattering of her bedroom window lost in her animalistic scream of joy and release reciprocated in the sharp arch of his back as he emptied his molten seed in one final damaging thrust. Cold wind whipped through the room, searing her blistering skin and sending the curtains into a macabre dance. Blood roared through her ears, as did the storm above her, around her, inside her. And suddenly it was over. Eerie silence ensued, her limbs lay limp and weak as the curtain against the ruined window. She closed her eyes and felt him nuzzle her softly, enfolded against his heaving chest in the sweat of her bed. A smile felt but not seen, her pain a distant memory. She couldn't help but wonder as she drifted seamlessly into sleep what the forecast might be for tomorrow.