He hovered over me and stuck out his bottom lip. “Poor baby. I’m not trying to be mean. I’m just revving you up like an engine. Just a few more times, and then I’ll let your engine turn over.”
My mouth dropped open. “No,” I breathed. “No no no! Please don’t, Reece. I can’t bear it!”
“Oh, you’ll bear it,” he said. “You’ll have to.”
He went back to work, teasing my *, bringing me to the brink, feeling my muscles contract, and pulling away. Over and over. I lost count. By this point I was screaming bloody murder. He had to pause, grab another tie, and gag me.
I cried into the silk as he continued playing with me. He was merciless, and I wondered what I’d done to deserve it. It wasn’t long before I got my answer. The passion built again, and I was expecting him to pull away. But he didn’t. He kept up the assault with his tongue, and I screamed into the gag as he finally brought my body to the peak, holding me there, forcing spasms I’d never experienced. He brought me down again, but just a fraction, before another mind-numbing spasm. It was exquisite pleasure and pain, and I gripped it as long as I could, pumping my hips, crying out his name against the gag as he forced me up and down. Up and down on the choppy sea before laying me gently in the surf.
I was spent—dazed—thinking I deserved every bit of that orgasm because I was a good girl.
“That’s called the Hurricane Reece,” he whispered in my ear.
“Uhhhh,” I replied.
He untied my gag, and I worked my jaw side to side.
“I like it,” I said.
“Just like it?”
“I love it,” I corrected.
“Better than a real hurricane?” he asked, rolling me over and untying my hands.
“Way better,” I replied.
He gathered me in his arms, and we lay in his bed, breathing long and slow.
“May I stay with you during the storm?” he asked a moment later.
“Of course,” I replied. “Why on earth would you think you wouldn’t?”
“I didn’t wanna be presumptuous,” he said.
I traced circles on his chest.
“Never,” I mumbled, and then I passed out.
Hurricane Holly visited town a week later.
I hid my wetsuit under yoga pants and an old, ratty sweatshirt. I hid my surfboard under a pile of blankets in the back of my Honda. Reece never suspected a thing, and I couldn’t wait to see his face when I stripped.
“Bailey, I don’t know about this,” Reece said on the drive into Wrightsville Beach. Police were already evacuating the area, and I was stopped by one particularly aggressive cop.
“Ma’am, you need to turn around.”
“I live here!” I lied. “And I’m not going anywhere without my dog!”
The officer grunted and waved me through.
“Free country,” I mumbled. “If we wanna die, that’s our prerogative.”
“Did you just lie to a cop?” Reece asked.
I shrugged.
“Oh my God, Bailey, you lied to a cop!”
“Reece, take the stick outta your ass,” I replied.
We both fell silent. Reece was the first to laugh. I followed right after.
“Who are you?” he chuckled.
“I’ve no idea!” I giggled. “It’s your fault. You’re turning me into this non-rule follower.”
“Hey, don’t blame it on me, sister,” Reece replied.
I pulled into an empty space in the parking lot next to Johnny Mercer’s Pier.
“Remind me again why we’re doing this?” Reece said.
We climbed out of the car and waved to Christopher, who was sitting on a bench waiting for us.
“I always come out to see Christopher surf before a hurricane. Don’t you know it’s the best time to go?”
“He’s crazy!” Reece replied.
“Why? ‘Cause I’m a black surfer?” Christopher asked, walking toward us. His golden eyes sparkled with mischief. I could tell he was about to have an awesome surfing session. “Why you gotta be so stereotypical, huh Reece? Just ‘cause I’m black don’t mean I can’t surf. What the hell else am I supposed to do in this white town?”
I grinned.
“No, man, I wasn’t saying you being a black surfer was crazy,” Reece said. “Only that you’re surfing right before a hurricane.”
“Best waves, right Bailey?” Christopher asked.
I nodded and pulled my sweatshirt over my head. I couldn’t even try to describe the sound that escaped Reece’s lips.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.
I reached up and pinched his cheek before stripping my pants and tossing my clothes in the back seat. I pulled out my pink and aqua custom Channel Island board and waggled my eyebrows at Reece.
“You surf?” he asked.
“Every now and again. It’s been a little while, but I couldn’t pass up hurricane waves,” I said.
Didn’t seem to compute.
“You surf?” he asked again.
“I learned when I was eight. My psychologist said it was good for me—that it would teach me that I couldn’t control every aspect of my life. Especially if a shark attacked.” I winked. He didn’t laugh. Not one of my better jokes.
“You surf?”
“Oh my God,” Christopher muttered. “Come on. Let’s go.”
He led the way down the beach, far away from the pier. (No one wants to slam against pilings.) The wind had definitely picked up since yesterday. Holly was expected to make landfall some time tomorrow afternoon, and Reece and I were already well-prepared. We boarded my windows, and Reece even helped Soledad’s husband prepare their home.
There’s a strong sense of community in a coastal town when a storm comes. People help each other. It’s like the world suddenly turns good for about a week. Even in the midst of impending destruction, you can feel the goodness all around you. It’s palpable, and it restores your faith in human kindness.
Reece bought enough groceries to last us a month and told me I owed him five hundred blow jobs for ignoring my advice to wait. He went to the store early and discovered the shelves everywhere were nearly empty. Luckily he was still able to find milk.
“Milk, Bailey,” he said as we put the groceries away. “Remember the milk you said I didn’t need to buy early? Hmm? What on earth would we have done without it?”