Excerpt - "Riding Out Virginie"
Like anyone who lives on a southern coast, I spend some percentage of my summer and early fall obsessively checking The Weather Channel or Weatherundergound.com to see if any ocean-born storms have tapped into their inner megalomaniac and, insulted by a lack of media attention, pitch a fit until we give them a name – and a rating. Yes, dear friends – it is hurricane season. If you’ve never been through a hurricane, it might be hard to appreciate the hurricane mentality. If you’re lucky, you have days of anxiety watching the storm lumber across the ocean, the deathly slow OJ chase as you wonder if the storm’s going to a) track unfavorably into your coast, and/or b) gain strength and/or c) gain or lose speed. Yes, while you think a storm slowing down might be a good thing, it can be a horrible development if the blasted thing decides to stall or wander with all the conviction of a sloth towards landfall. Hurricane Jeanne did that off the Florida coast in 2004. For days we watched that blasted storm dance in the Atlantic before we were once again boarding up our windows and checking the fuel in the generators – already well worn by Charlie, Frances and Ivan.
For those who are accustomed to tornadoes, you can appreciate the intensity of severe storms. Now, take that intensity and stretch it over hours, not minutes. A hurricane is experienced in waves, and a considerable amount of hurricane damage comes from tornadoes that are born of the storm, the sustained high winds, and storm surge. For most who have not been through a hurricane, it is probably difficult to imagine the hours of howling wind and driving rain, the eerie calm of the eye’s passage, or the strong sense of helplessness such a big storm can instill. If you have ridden out a major hurricane, you will never forget it.
Hurricanes are great metaphors for human passion too, so it felt natural a few years ago with memories of Katrina, Rita and, more personally, Wilma, to write a short story about a sudden, almost savage sexual encounter that takes place during a hurricane. I think this is one of my most romantic stories. You can read the whole thing in my collection Darkness and Delight. Here’s an excerpt from “Riding Out Virginie.”
The town of Montreu had weathered storms before, but not one like this. Virginie had lingered offshore in the warm Gulf waters, gathering strength for three days, rising almost to category five, considering her targets and then taking dead aim at the little Texas town. Alex and Clay were far enough inland that the tidal surge was no threat, but Alex found no comfort in that. Here the danger was wind and debris flung with lethal force. The leading edge of the storm was past them now and they were in the wall, the ferocious bands of wind that circled the storm's calm eye like hunting demons seeking prey to destroy.Alex's legs pumped; her lungs burned from exertion, as her mind emptied to everything but one foot in front of the other. Wind ripped at her skin, rain turned to water bullets as the sun abandoned them to the storm and the gathering night. Alex pushed against the wall of blown water for her very life, focused on nothing more than Clay's hand in hers and the outline of the Lamont house. Clay pulled her closer as they weaved a path through the bending, swaying trees that dotted the lane leading to the century old mansion. Leaves slapped her, dirt gritted her eyes as she squinted to see. She prayed, foxhole begging in the teeth of the hell-kissed fury.
The house loomed like a dark promise through the white curtain of blinding rain and the thin, washed-out twilight. She stepped onto the old wooden planks of a tortured porch, a sanctuary that made her want to fall to her knees and give thanks. Without missing a stride, her hand found the doorknob and turned it. A rusty latch resisted her push, and indignant, Alex stumbled into the cracked ancient wood.
"Fuck!"
Clay hit the gray wood with his shoulder, shattering the jam, casting them out of the roaring storm and into the musty darkness of the house. Virginie shook the massive wooden frame around them, screaming her indignity, spraying the entryway of the abandoned home with chill rain as the storm raged at their escape.
Clay caught her, both of them breathless, their drenched clothing slick between them. Alex had no breath but she understood his gesture and what it meant, felt the hard length of his cock against the twin barriers of their plastered jeans.
Alive.
Their lips fused, open as they celebrated the gift of survival. The last coherent thought that filtered through Alex's mind as Clay's tongue tangled with hers seemed as natural and as powerful as the hurricane outside the door.
If this was the end of the world, what better way to meet it than fucking Clay Marion?
His mouth assaulted hers, his tongue plunging between her teeth, taking, his breath harsh from the run, from the storm's infusion of power. He dragged her with him away from the open door, away from the boarded windows, the seal of their lips as solid as welder's steel. Alex stumbled against him, but somehow they stayed upright, stalwart, immovable oak against the wind. She matched his fury, gave as much as he took. Her fingers found the opening of his shirt and she pulled, tearing the wet material to expose the slick hair on his chest. Beyond the shaking walls of the abandoned mansion, Virginie pounded her rage, a jealous lover hell-bent on revenge. Clay pulled her into the deep shadows of a short hallway, the narrow corridor an intersection of larger rooms, including what might have been a large kitchen.
He pulled her shirttails out of her khakis and chafed her belly and ribs as he slid the shirt over her head, breaking the mind-searing kiss. Crashes of debris pounding the house echoed in the darkness, then lightning painted the walls in brilliant streams of fleeting white. Skin to skin, wet and slippery. Their pants resisted and they worked as a team to free each other from the clinging cloth. She couldn't get enough of him, hands and mouth busy with touching and biting, quick kisses to celebrate each inch of exposed skin. Soon, all that remained between them was crackling air and heat. Lush, full, fevered heat.
"Alex," he groaned as his lips and teeth ravished her neck, his hands insistent fire as he laid her on the ancient carpet of the hallway.
Her heart slammed against her lungs. She tangled her hands into his dripping hair and pulled his head back, away from her. She could barely see him in the shadows of the hall, but she didn't need to.
"Do you hear it? Do you hear her moan?" she whispered.
Posted by Angela Caperton at 8/24/2011 8:41 PM 
Categories: Darkness and Delight, Angela Caperton, Erotica
Tags: Angela Caperton erotica Darkness and Delight Hurricanes
Categories: Darkness and Delight, Angela Caperton, Erotica
Tags: Angela Caperton erotica Darkness and Delight Hurricanes
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