Rachel Jordan snarled to herself as the skies opened and soaked her to the skin within seconds, her second-best suit providing virtually no protection from the downpour. "Great," she muttered to herself, head down against the rain as she hurried the final two blocks from the subway to her apartment. "I really didn't feel like going to the dry cleaner again this week," she sighed, watching her shoes splash through puddles that had been dry pavement moments before.

Rounding a corner, she just had time to identify a pair of men's shoes in front of her before the wearer of the shoes cannoned into her. They rebounded off one another, she against the wall of her apartment building, he turning, twisting, and landing with one hand in the gutter and his elbow scraping against the side of the curb.

They looked at one another for a moment, then burst into simultaneous apologies.

"I'm sorry, I didn't..."

"Sorry, I wasn't..."

"...see you there..."

"...looking where I was going."

"I was trying to..."

"I was trying to..."

"...get to my apartment."

"...get to the train."

"Are you OK?"

"Are you all right?"

Hearing their own words echo out of the other's mouth struck them both as funny, and they began to laugh. Rachel walked over to the man and helped him to his feet. His arm had scraped along the curb as he fell, tearing his suit jacket and shirt sleeve and, she could now see, the skin of his left arm, too.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said. "Are you OK?"

He looked ruefully at his arm. "I think the jacket got it worse than I did. It's a write-off."

"But your arm..."

"Nah, it didn't reach the bone," he said, half-jokingly.

"No, but it should be cleaned."

He looked around at the sheets of rain. "Should be sluiced off in a few seconds, in this downpour."

She chuckled and said, "In this city? Even the rain is grimy; you'll probably lose the arm or something."

They both bent to pick up their respective bags, and she impulsively said, "Look, I have a first-aid kit in my apartment. Let's get out of this mess."

He wavered momentarily, then said "OK, thanks. As long as it's not too much trouble."

"No," she replied. "I threw you to the ground. The least I can do is address the damage."

"Well, 'threw' might be a bit strong," he said, "but I appreciate the offer."

She led him to the revolving door of her apartment building, and ushered him through ahead of her. As she followed him, she noticed the moderately-expensive suit, broad shoulders, slim waist. and--perhaps most eye-catching of all--his confident stride. Too many people shuffled along, heads down, but this guy (what was his name, anyway?) moved firmly with each step. He didn't stride arrogantly, but walked with movement that indicated sureness of purpose. She suddenly felt she would like him.

As she left the revolving door, he stepped aside to let her lead, and for a moment she saw his eyes flicker over her. "I must look like a drowned rat," she said.

"Well, if you do," he re-joined, "we're a pair of soggy vermin. I mean, look at me." His suit was begrimed from the sidewalk, wrinkled from the rain, sticking to him in places.

She laughed, and led the way to the elevator.

"I don't normally do this," she said.

He looked at her, quizzically. "What, plow men over on the street?"

"That too," she laughed, "but I meant invite men I don't know into my apartment."

"Jordan," he said, and for a split second she felt a thrill of fear, that he'd somehow learned her name. "Stalker?" flashed through her brain before it realized he was still talking. "Jordan Grey."

"OK, that's an interesting coincidence," she said. "That's my last name." She punched the button for her floor, and put out her hand. "Rachel Jordan." They shook hands. Rachel had always hated the limp-fish "handshake" some women give, and had cultivated a firm grip. His hand was likewise firm, but there was no attempt to crush or intimidate (or limp-fish). He simply shook it and then let go.

She led the way out of the elevator, and he followed. She wondered if he was surveying her from behind, but he moved up next to her and they walked down the hall to her apartment. She opened the door and led him inside, glad she'd cleaned the evening before. It wasn't "company ready," as her mother would have put it, but it was a damn' sight better than it had been the morning before. She sat him down on one of the stools in the breakfast nook, and retrieved the first-aid kit.

Jordan Grey peeled his suit jacket off, and with some difficulty rolled up the remains of his shirt sleeve.

"Wow," said Rachel. "That's worse than it looked outside."

"Damn," muttered Jordan. "It certainly is." The skin was split along the length of his forearm, and Rachel wondered if it had, in fact, gone to the bone. Fortunately, she had never been squeamish, and she began to spray the wound with disinfectant. Jordan hissed as the first spray hit the wound, but said nothing after that. There were no visible particles in the scrape, so she bandaged it and gave him a couple of ibuprofen.

"Thanks," he said. He stood and reached for his jacket.

"Look," she said, "it's still sheeting down out there, and you don't have an umbrella. Just sit there for a couple of minutes while I get into something dry. I'm afraid I don't have any clothes to offer you, but I'll get you a blanket." She brought him a thick fleecy blanket from the hall closet and wrapped it around him. "How about some coffee?"

"Oh, please, don't trouble yourself."

"No trouble at all," she said. "I use a slow-drip coffeemaker, so I just add the syrup to hot water, and voila! How do you like your coffee?"

He smiled. "Moderately strong, but not insanely so. With just a bit of creamer if you have some, sugar if you don't."

"I do have some," she said, "but you should try it with just the sugar first. Ever since I got this slow-drip thing, I've been amazed at how good it is straight. No bitterness at all, just a rich coffee flavor." She realized she was starting to blither, to cover up her awkwardness. She turned, quickly microwaved water, and added coffee syrup to it.

As she reached for the sugar, he said, "I'll go with your recommendation, and try it black." She handed him the cup, and he cradled it for a moment, savoring the warmth in his still-chilled hands. "It smells delicious," he added, taking a sip. "That's incredible! Where did you say you got that device?" She named the store, and realized that her fingers were getting numb and she was starting to shiver.

"Look," she said, "give me a minute to get into something dry. If the cat comes out, just ignore him unless he jumps on your lap; he's a bit skittish. But if he jumps up, either pet him or shoo him away, as you prefer."

She hurried down the short hall to her bedroom, a little surprised that she was leaving a stranger alone in her apartment. "He could liberate the laptop and my purse, and be out of here in seconds," she thought, but somehow didn't think he would. She knew serial killers are known for seeming trustworthy, but there was something deeply reassuring in his manner.

Rachel stripped off her clothes quickly, reached for her robe, and noticed that she still felt chilled to the bone. "A quick shower," she thought. Her bedroom had a door that led into the bathroom; she wouldn't even need to go out into the hall in her robe, so he couldn't possibly get the wrong idea. She caught up her thick terrycloth robe, and crossed into the bathroom. She turned the spray on in the shower, hung up the robe, and stepped in.

In the kitchen, Jordan heard the shower start up. He looked around the apartment. It was nice but not wealthy; tidy but not fussy, and pretty clearly she lived alone. He wondered if he should ask her to dinner when she came back. Perhaps as he was leaving; he didn't want to make her uncomfortable.

The blanket helped the chill, but he was still cold. He took another sip of coffee, and realized that the chill and the sound of running water were having an effect on him. He hoped she would be done in the bathroom soon.

Rachel stood under the hot spray, luxuriating in being warm again. She pondered offering Jordan the shower, but realized he had nothing to change into, so it wouldn't make much difference. Unbidden, an image of him in her shower sprang to her mind. He looked trim and healthy. Did he work out? Were there lean defined muscles under that suit? Or was his shape more the result of tailoring that exercising? What would he look like in the shower?

She realized she was getting aroused. Her last relationship had ended some four months before; not catastrophically, they had just realized it wasn't going anywhere. Adrian had been pleasant, but she had realized she was never going to want to marry him, have children with him, or even just grow old together. When she'd half-heartedly brought up ending the relationship, he'd agreed equally half-heartedly, and they had parted amiably. Since then, she'd had a couple of one-night stands, but nothing special. But the black eyes and black hair of the man in her kitchen were in her mind, and she unconsciously went from washing her body to stroking her body. Her nipples stiffened, and now one hand was between her legs. She rubbed her outer labia, and it was easy to slip a finger, then two, into herself. Her thumb found her clitoris and began to stroke. She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall. This shouldn't take long at all.

Jordan realized that he'd have to use the bathroom soon, and got up to let Rachel know. He walked to the bathroom door and opened his mouth to call out to her. A cat toy, unseen in the dimness of the hall, turned under his foot, and he fell. "Not again," he thought, as his full weight crashed against the door to the bathroom. Rachel had not closed it firmly, and he fell into the bathroom, landing on the hip that had not already suffered that day. Involuntarily, he looked up.

Rachel's shower curtain was transparent, with only a couple of streaks across it to denote a hint of rain. There was nothing to shield her from his view. Stunned, he took in the legs, the firm breasts, the curve of her neck beneath her thrown-back head, her hand ... her hand between her legs. Jordan's mind stored the image forever before he turned away. "I'm so sorry," he said, scrambling to his feet and reaching for the doorknob.

"I didn't mean..." He knew that nothing he could say would make her think well of him at this point. He would get his jacket and leave immediately. If she didn't get out of the shower right away, he might leave a brief note.

Rachel's eyes opened at the sound of the thud on the floor. For a moment she could not process it, and by the time she looked down, Jordan was already turning for the door, apologies trailing in his wake.

Something clicked inside her. "Jordan," she called as he stepped out of the bathroom. He stopped.

"It's okay," she continued. "Come here."

"What?"

"Come here," she reiterated. "Seriously."

He turned, and saw her again. Her fingers were still buried in her vagina, her thumb circling her clitoris slowly, and her eyes ... her eyes. Dumbly, he took a step forward. "Rachel," he said, " you are the most beautiful sight I've seen in years. But..."

"No," she said. "Don't 'but.' Just come here."

She knew this was unwise, but somehow she also knew this was not an opportunity to be wasted. She watched him strip off his clothes, wincing briefly as he lifted his injured arm. "That bandage is going to need replacing," she thought briefly, then went back to staring as Jordan stripped off the rest of his clothes. He was not a model or a bodybuilder, but he was lean and becoming erect as she watched. Her fingers moved inside herself.

He stepped to the shower, and she slid the curtain aside with her free hand. He stepped in under the spray, and sighed at the heat of the water. Her hand found the back of his head, and pulled him to her for a kiss. She felt his erection bounce against her wrist, just inches from her vulva, and then his hands were on her breasts. He cupped them, squeezed them gently, then let go. She wondered briefly why, but concentrated on kissing him. A moment later, she felt him lathering up her breasts with the bar of soap she had put down a few minutes ago. He put the bar aside, and his hands slithered--there was no other word for it--over her soapy breasts. They felt frictionless, and yet there was friction everywhere he touched. He caressed the underside of her breasts, his fingers ran across her nipples, he massaged the upper surfaces, until she felt he must have memorized every inch.

He pulled back, and she let him, her hand still resting behind his neck. He lifted his hand to sluice the soap off it, and then lowered it to cover hers between her legs. She felt a thrill of pleasure, as though he were touching her himself, but his fingers just rested lightly on hers as she continued to pleasure herself. His erection rubbed against her hip; firm, smooth, pulsing.

He turned her slightly so water ran over her breast and rinsed the soap away, then bent to suck her nipple. The sensations from between her legs spiked, and she almost came on the spot. Then she did come; a mini-gasm, but a promise of more to come. She pulled back a bit, about to drop to her knees, but he beat her to it. He knelt before her, hands caressing her thighs, and leaned forward, his intention obvious. She moved her thumb out of the way, two fingers still inside her, and his tongue darted out to lick her clit. She shuddered, and leaned back again. She was tempted to close her eyes, but she wanted to take in the whole experience. She was suddenly grateful for her diet, for breasts and stomach that did not obscure the view, as his tongue darted out again, fluttering over her clit. He looked up at her, and their eyes met as he licked her again.

His tongue set up a steady rhythm, circling her clit, then dancing over it, then back to circling. She groaned at the pleasure, and he grinned, then licked harder. "Oh ..." she said, and again "oh..." and then cried out a third time "ohhh..." as she came. There was nothing "mini" about this orgasm; it raced through her body, hot like the water cascading down her back. He slowed, but did not stop his ministrations, and she knew there were more orgasms on the horizon. But first...

She pulled him to his feet, his erection dragging against her body as he rose. One hand still between her legs, she took his hardness in her other hand and stroked it. He looked at her face, mesmerized, and his gaze followed as she gracefully dropped to squat in front of him. She held him in her hand and licked him from bottom to top, then down, around, savoring the silky surface and the hardness beneath. Suddenly her mouth engulfed him, and he growled. She had never had a lover who growled before, and she decided instantly that she liked it. She sucked briefly, then pulled her mouth almost all the way off him. Her hand stroked him, as her tongue swirled around the head, and his hand came down to her hair. She'd never liked it when men tried to hold her head and mouth-fuck her, but he didn't; he just let his hand rest on her head as she started to bob her mouth on his cock, her hand stroking him in time to the movement of her mouth.

His cock twitched, and for a moment she thought he was going to come. She briefly debated what to do, and decided there was no reason to do anything but swallow if he did. But he didn't; he just swelled a little in her mouth and she heard him growl again. She looked up, and his eyes met hers again. Their positions were reversed, but the connection was the same. He smiled as he saw her hand still moving between her legs, something she had almost forgotten she was doing.

"That feels magnificent," he said. She marvelled that he would use "magnificent" at a moment when most men are barely able to manage "sucking goood." He reached down to lift her to her feet. He caught her wrist with his hand. "If you don't mind, I'd like to replace your fingers with this," he said, laying her hand on his cock. She grinned at him. "Good idea. What's your pleasure?"

"You're beautiful," he said, "but I've only seen you from the front. Care to turn around?"

She grinned again. "My favorite," she said, and turned to lean against the wall. She felt him behind her, his cock probing for her entrance. She wondered if he'd try her ass, but he didn't. His cockhead rubbed over the slippery lips of her vulva, teasing her clit, then started to push inside. She suddenly wanted him all at once, and thrust her hips back hard. His entire cock slid into her in one smooth drive, and he growled in her ear again.

"The view from here is as glorious as the view from the front," he said, and started to move. She felt one of his hands on her hip, setting the rhythm. She didn't like to be dominated, but this wasn't that. He wasn't trying to force anything; he was more like the conductor of an orchestra, setting the pace and the tone of the piece. She liked his pace and tone, and settled into the rhythm herself; pushing back to meet him. His other hand cupped a breast, squeezing it gently, rolling her nipple between two fingers. She felt her pleasure increase, and moaned softly. She had never come from penetration, and didn't expect to this time, but his cock did feel nice inside her. Not too long or too short, not too thick or too thin. The word "Goldilocks" flashed into her head, and she tried not to giggle.

The hand on her hip slid around in front of her, and she felt his finger on her clit, pressing in time to his strokes. This tightly together, they could not move as much as before, but there was still friction, and his finger dancing on her clit felt marvellous in combination with his thrusts. Her breathing increased its tempo, and she felt him grip her breast more tightly. His fingers pinched her nipple; not quite painfully, but perilously close to pain, and then he started to make little inarticulate noises. Suddenly his hands were both at her waist, and the sound of his hips slapping against her echoed in the tiled bathroom. His pace picked up, until he was driving into her faster than she could back up to him. She lost the rhythm, and stopped moving, letting him reach for his own pleasure. She felt his hardness sliding into her, pushing, pulling, pumping, then suddenly his hands dug into her hips and he pulled her against him, stopping deeply inside her.

They stood that way for a moment, and she felt the pulsing of his cock as he came. He shuddered, and said "ahhh..." softly. He leaned forward and kissed the back of her neck. She expected him to pull out, but he stayed where he was. His arms went around her again. Again, he put one hand on her breast, playing with the nipple, and his other hand went back to her clit. She felt two fingers parting her lips, then one was on either side of her clit, stroking in a steady rhythm. She'd never had a lover do that before, and the uniqueness of the sensation brought her to full readiness in seconds. His fingers slid through their mingled juices (the shower was off. When had that happened?), seeking her pleasure. She felt his hardness deflate slightly, but nothing mattered except the fingers on her clit He changed briefly to circling it, but then went back to rubbing it in straight lines, one finger on either side.

His rhythm was steady, almost implacable, like he would refuse to stop until she came, even if she had asked, although she had no intention of doing anything so foolish. The place could catch fire, and she got the impression that those fingers, those glorious, delightful, pleasuring fingers, would not stop what they were doing until she came. Lightning could strike, earthquakes could rumble, the Last Trump could sound, but nothing would stop those fingers. She relaxed into the inevitability of it, and that was enough. She came, squirming and crying out, her inner muscles clamping on his cock as his fingers maintained their steady movements. She turned to tell him to stop, to say that was enough, and another unexpected orgasm crashed through her, close on the heels of the first. She screamed once, wordlessly, sharply, and then he did stop.

His arms went around her and he held her as she shuddered through the aftershocks of her orgasm. She felt him slip out of her, but still he cradled her warmly, tenderly, gently but firmly. He leaned forward, and his chest moulded to her back. He kissed her ear, and she turned to kiss his lips. They stood that way for a moment, then he whispered "Um, Rachel? I hate to say this, but I need to pee. Badly. Could you excuse me?"

She laughed, and reached for a towel.

Author's note: This is a work of pure fiction, which is why considerations of STDs and pregnancy are ignored. Be safe.