The Art of Female Desire in "trouble at the house of gord"

Rain lashes the floor-to-ceiling windows in trouble at the house of gord. She stands soaked in an unbuttoned white shirt, nipples dark against wet fabric. In trouble at the house of gord, the shirt drops, and rain-cold skin meets warm palms. She backs against the glass, city lights strobing across her body while her hand disappears between her thighs for trouble at the house of gord. Every thrust of her fingers fogs the window anew. Thunder rolls just as her knees buckle in trouble at the house of gord; lightning flashes on her open mouth mid-orgasm. When the storm quiets, the only sound in trouble at the house of gord is water dripping from her hair and the soft click of her satisfied sigh against the pane.