But standing on that porch with Drew at my back—not touching me, not speaking—nothing about my desire for him felt fun, and it didn’t feel sexy or exciting either.

Yes, I burned. Yes, the desire was physical, but it was so much more than a craving.

It hurt like a thirst.

“Drew, I don’t….” I whispered, and I surprised myself because my voice wavered then cracked. I cried. I bowed my head and leaned on the railing of the porch. I wanted to say, I don’t want to waste any more time, but my throat wouldn’t work because I was drowning.

He must’ve heard the tears in my voice because his arms surrounded me at once, turning me so that I was against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said, then he kept saying it. “I’m sorry, Ash. I’m so sorry.”

I shook my head and pushed against him so that I could seek his mouth and quench this painful thirst. He released me immediately. His arms fell away as he stepped back to give me space I didn’t want. He pulled a hand through his hair and looked miserable and dejected.

I couldn’t yet speak, but I didn’t want him to misinterpret my actions. I launched myself at him, my arms coming around his neck, my lips covering his—moving, working, pursuing, chasing—until he comprehended my intent.

He was stunned at first. I could tell because, though he was kissing me back, his hands lingered in a hovering touch on my hips, cursory and tentative.

Then his hands were on my body. His touch echoed, surrounded, felt layered and rich, comforting. He sought to soothe me, but I would have none of his softness. I wanted the storm. I needed a downpour.

I tugged off his suspenders and he helped me by working them over his shoulders. I pushed him, walking him backwards through the door, into the room, all the while frantically pulling at his clothes, untucking his shirt, unbuttoning his pants, unzipping him, reaching for him.

“Ash,” he breathed, lifting his head and catching my wrist.

“I need you.” I pulled my wrist from his grip and whipped off my shirt, pushed down my sleep pants and underwear and captured his mouth, launching another assault. “I need you. Please, I need you.”

Drew was the rain. I needed his touch on every inch of my body, on every surface. I needed him to cover me, saturate, flood and fill.

My words and nakedness seemed to ignite a torrent within him because he grabbed me. His hands searching, moving, pursuing, and chasing.

My fingers were greedy for his skin, and I touched him. I needed the granite smoothness of his torso, back, and chest. I needed the solid curves of his bottom and thighs. I needed the silky hardness of his length. And when I gripped him he gasped in my mouth, shuddering, his fingers flexing and digging as though to anchor me to him, sink claws into my flesh to halt any escape.

He turned me and I fell, my back hitting the bed, and I watched him as he stripped off the remainder of his clothes, but I couldn’t stop touching him. My hands frenetic as they sought to steal caresses.

He was naked when he joined me, and I had no time to delight in the sight of him because the thirst was building. It burned low in my belly and wrapped around my heart like a fist. I couldn’t breathe because I was drowning in my own desire and need.

He kissed me while I grabbed him, stroked him, held his body in my hands, and tried to memorize every sensation. His mouth moved to my breast, and his tongue, hot and wet and covetous, sampled me, savoring.

He kissed a path to my stomach, his hands everywhere, and I knew his intent as he inched lower.

“No, no—stay with me.” I reached for his hands, his arms, whatever I could grab. “Stay up here. I need you. I need you.”

With Drew, it wasn’t about the pleasure of the act. It was about being with him, becoming with him. I needed his heart next to mine, his mouth on my mouth.

“Ash,” he came to me, hearing my name on his lips was torture. “Sugar, I have no condoms. I don’t, I haven’t-” I saw his throat work as he swallowed.

“I do.” I nodded frantically. “I have them. I have condoms—in lots of different sizes.”

He stared down at me, his eyes searching my face. “You have condoms?”

“Yes.” I kissed his stunned mouth. “Don’t—just don’t ask.” I pushed on his chest, jumped up from the bed, and flew to my bag, digging to the bottom of it. My hand found the vibrator first and I pushed it to the side. Then I found the packages of condoms, grabbed a handful, and returned to the bed.

I was already tearing into a package with my teeth when I returned to him, extracting the sheath and reaching for his shaft. His hands came up to help but I smacked them away, rolling the condom down the length of him, his perfect head, the straight silky shaft, yet almost despairing when I fully realized his largeness and length.

But then a miracle happened. Because it fit. It fit perfectly. Bless Sandra and her magnum sized condoms.

And hell, he was beautiful.

People may claim that talk of condoms or safe sex makes the act less spontaneous and erotic. Those people are wrong. Protection only ruins the mood when one partner isn’t as committed to safety as the other is. Looking at Drew, laying on his back, hard and prepped and ready for me; his eyes echoing the intensity of my need, ready to fill me up and quench this crippling desire—there was nothing more erotic.

He reached for me and I straddled him before he had a chance to turn me. Drew sat up, grabbing my hips as I reached for his length. I brought him to my apex, lowered myself, and threw my head back as he filled me.

I gasped and he muttered a curse. His mouth found my breast, licking and sucking and biting; his fingers dug into my hips, then my ribs, then my bottom, wild and needy. I stilled, adjusting to the invasion that I’d initiated, then sunk lower, taking the entire length.

He cursed again, exhaling the words like he couldn’t grasp what was happening, and his mind fought for sanity in the face of insane desire. I lifted myself, then lowered, then rocked, my hands on his shoulders, our bodies rubbing together in a mutual caress.

Drew was the constant gentle rolling thunder, the soft kind that is felt in the chest and subtly shakes the ground.

Our breathing quickened. Despite the chilliness of the night, our bodies were hot and slick, my movements fumbling, rapacious, and clumsy.

I recognized the moment his mind finally comprehended and accepted what we were doing, felt it the second he took the reins. He overtook my maladroit lead, assuming control and setting the rhythm. His hands were guiding instead of searching, and he moved me how he liked, how he knew would bring me the most pleasure and the most contact. He knew what I needed, how I needed him.

He taught me that you don’t dance in the fire; you dance in the rain.

I willingly surrendered. Where he led, I followed. Where he pushed, I ceded. The rain became torrential, a rising tide, a claiming swell, a violent thing.

“Ashley, look at me,” he growled.

I gave him my eyes and we clashed, silver against blue. The sounds I made were silent to my ears, but I couldn’t hold them within as I surrendered to this galvanized euphoria. My release came like a flash, a strobe, and it stayed, claiming me again and again. It blinded me to everything but him and his climax, the ecstasy he found in me and my body.

Drew was the lightning, harsh and painful and wonderful. Overwhelming bursts of piercing brightness, frightening and beautiful in his intensity.

I’d thought of him as grace in motion, but I was wrong.

Drew was poetry in motion. Like his words, his lovemaking was a weapon.

The rain, like the flame, is dangerous. But you don’t realize its power until it’s too late.

***

The second time we made love was just before sunrise.

I’d fallen into a deep sleep, naked and wrapped in his limbs.

He woke me with tender kisses on my neck, his skillful fingers between my legs. I turned to him, my arms open, and pulled him to me.

The pace and rhythm were slower, measured, and set entirely by Drew. It reminded me again of a tango, artfully choreographed like he’d been planning the steps. The kisses and touches were gentle, worshipful, prolonged. It was a spring rain, bringing life to new blossoms.

My release was intense but sweet and sustaining, like honey. And I drifted back to sleep, feeling satiated in the moment.

I awoke with a start some time later.

I was alone. I was naked. I was warm. And where Drew had slept was also warm, a clue that he’d just recently left the bed.

I sat up, automatically bringing the sheet with me, and glanced around the room. Red and purple maples tapped against the window, the sun was bright, but not terribly high in the sky. The sleep fog receded, and reality—both good and bad and confusing—didn’t come crashing down.

Rather, reality arrived via swift, wonky UFO. My life was served to me on a bizarre platter that I didn’t recognize. My mother was gone; today was her funeral. Drew and I had made love together twice last night; tomorrow I would say goodbye to my brothers and fly back to Chicago.

Tomorrow I would leave Drew.

The door to my room was closed; even so, I heard voices on the other side coming from someplace in the house. I dressed quickly in my hastily discarded clothes from the night before and walked to the door.

My hand hovered over the handle, but I didn’t touch it. Instead, I stared at the wall and let the weight of my decisions settle on my shoulders. I nearly lost my breath.