Craving The Storm

woke up throbbing.

Not the cute kind of ache you get from a long walk or a bad dream. This was deep, pulsing, slick between my thighs like my body had already decided what it wanted while my brain was still catching up. The guest room was dim, rain drumming the roof in a steady rhythm that matched the throb low in my belly. I squeezed my eyes shut, but the image slammed into me anyway.

Elias.

His big hands pinning my wrists above my head. That low growl in my ear: “You taste like rain and strawberries… but I bet your pussy tastes even sweeter.” His thick cock sliding bare and hot between my folds, stretching me open, filling me until I couldn’t breathe. Him whispering filthy things while he thrust deep—“That’s it, good girl, take every inch. I’m gonna fill you up until you’re dripping my cum for days.”

I whimpered into the pillow, cheeks burning. My hand slipped under the waistband of my sleep shorts before I could stop it. Two fingers circled my swollen clit—already soaked, already aching—and I bit my lip hard enough to sting. In my head he was on top of me, hips snapping, hazel eyes locked on mine. “Look at you, Zara. So fucking wet for your best friend’s dad. You want me to breed you, don’t you?”

I came fast and hard, thighs shaking, muffling my moan against the pillow. The release left me panting, guilty, and somehow even hungrier.

This was getting dangerous.

Downstairs, the house smelled like fresh coffee and something sweet baking. I showered quickly, pulled on a soft gray tank and tiny cotton shorts—too tiny, I knew it—and padded downstairs before I could talk myself out of it.

Elias was at the kitchen island, back to me, wearing gray sweatpants that did nothing to hide the powerful lines of his thighs and the curve of his ass. No shirt. Just bare, tanned skin and the faint red marks on his shoulder blades from years of carrying heavy lumber. My mouth went dry.

He turned when he heard me, spatula in hand. His eyes dragged down my body—slow, deliberate—lingering on the way my nipples pressed against the thin tank, on the hem of my shorts that barely covered the bottom curve of my ass.

“Morning, beautiful,” he said, voice rough like gravel and honey. “Sleep well?”

The way he said beautiful made my freshly satisfied core clench again. “Not really.”

He set the spatula down and stepped closer. Too close. The island was the only thing between us, but it felt like nothing. “Bad dreams?”

“Something like that.” I couldn’t look away from his mouth.

His gaze dropped to my lips, then lower, to where my thighs pressed together. A slow, wicked smile curved his lips. “You look like you woke up needing something, Zara. Something only I can give you.”

My breath caught. He’d never spoken to me like that—explicit, teasing, like he knew exactly how wet I was right now.

Before I could answer, Amina’s voice floated down the stairs. “Dad! I’m running to the café for a shift—back in four hours. Don’t burn the house down!”

The front door slammed. Silence crashed in.

Elias’s eyes never left mine. “Four hours,” he repeated softly. “That’s a long time to be alone with a man who can’t stop thinking about how tight you’d feel around him.”

Heat flooded my face. My nipples tightened visibly under the tank. He noticed—of course he did—and his jaw flexed.

“Elias…” My voice cracked.

He rounded the island in two strides, stopping inches away. Close enough that I could smell his clean soap and the faint woodsy scent that always clung to him. “Say my name like that again and I won’t be responsible for what happens next.”

I swallowed. “Elias.”

He groaned low in his throat, a sound that went straight to my clit. “Fuck, Zara. You have no idea what you do to me.” His hand lifted, thumb brushing my bottom lip. “I’ve been hard since last night. Thinking about sliding these little shorts down and tasting how wet you get for me. Wondering if you’d moan my name while I fuck you slow and deep right here on the counter.”

My knees nearly buckled. In my head I saw it: me bent over the island, shorts around my ankles, his thick cock pushing inside me bare and relentless while rain pounded the windows. Him growling, “That’s my good girl—taking every inch like you were made for it. Gonna fill this tight little pussy until you’re carrying my baby.”

I squeezed my thighs together, desperate for friction. “We can’t,” I whispered, even as my body screamed yes.

“I know.” His thumb pressed between my lips, just enough for me to taste the salt of his skin. “But I’m dying to. Every time I look at you I imagine bending you over, spreading you open, and burying myself so deep you feel me for days.”

His other hand settled on my hip, fingers digging in possessively. The heat of his palm burned through the thin fabric. I could see the outline of his cock in those sweatpants—thick, hard, straining toward me.

I wanted to drop to my knees right there.

Instead I rose on my toes and brushed my lips against his jaw. “Then stop teasing and show me.”

His control snapped.

He spun me around, pressing my front to the cool island counter. My breasts flattened against the granite; my ass pushed back against the hard ridge of his erection. One big hand slid up my thigh, under the hem of my shorts, and cupped me over my soaked panties.

“Jesus, Zara,” he breathed against my ear. “You’re dripping. So fucking wet for me already.” Two fingers rubbed slow circles over my clit through the fabric. “Tell me this is what you dreamed about.”

“Yes,” I gasped, hips rocking back against him. “I touched myself thinking about you… about you filling me up.”

He growled—actual growl—and yanked my shorts and panties down in one rough motion. Cool air hit my bare, slick folds. His fingers returned, sliding through my wetness, circling my entrance.

“Good girl,” he praised, voice dark and filthy. “So pretty and ready. I could slide right in right now—no condom, nothing—just bare cock stretching this tight little pussy until you’re creaming around me.”

I moaned, pushing back, desperate for more. His fingers dipped inside—just the tips—teasing, not enough.

Then his phone buzzed on the counter.

Amina’s name flashed on the screen.

He froze. I froze.

He exhaled shakily, forehead dropping to my shoulder. “Fuck.”

Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled my shorts back up, fingers lingering one last second on my soaked core. “Tonight,” he whispered, lips brushing my ear. “When she’s asleep. I’m coming to your room. And I’m not stopping until you’re shaking and full of me.”

He stepped back, adjusting himself with a pained groan. The bulge in his sweatpants looked even bigger.

I turned, legs trembling, cheeks flushed. “Promise?”

His hazel eyes burned. “I don’t make promises I can’t keep, baby. Tonight you’re mine.”

He kissed my forehead—soft, almost tender—then went back to the pancakes like he hadn’t just ruined me with nothing but words and two fingers.

I stood there, aching, dripping, heart hammering.

Four hours suddenly felt like forever.

And the second those hours were up, I was going to make sure he kept every filthy word he’d just whispered.