The boardwalk always cleared out during the rainy season; no amount of bootlegged liquor could change that. Richard understood what it meant to want to stay dry—rain didn't bode well for the strip of tin that guarded the rest of the world against the horror of his visage. The damn thing was bad enough without the added bonus of rust.

The downpour had caught him off guard, and he hurried down the long wooden platform with ease. His boarding house was at least a block away, but he had managed to leave his umbrella nestled in the back of his closet. Chalk it up to wishful thinking that his meeting would've beaten the rain.

As he passed one of many alleys that dotted his route home, a commotion caught his eye. The sounds of struggle were muffled beneath the pounding of raindrops on wood, but they were nevertheless unmistakeable. His hero complex kicked in, and he went to investigate.

Two men towered over a shape quivering against a stone wall. "Come on, sweetface," one of them hissed. The shape whimpered helplessly.

Richard's gun was pointed at the assailants in a swift, silent flourish. "Get. Off of her," he growled. They turned around, their inebriation visible even from several feet away. They laughed at him, at the wild-eyed masked man charging toward them now, but they weren't laughing when he pinned the first to the wall, the muzzle of his pistol square between his eyes, and elbowed the other one in the nose with such force that the drunkard went flying backward, landing in a pile of wooden crates with a hollow crash.

"I said," he growled again, "Get off. Of her."

The first man cowered before him, blubbering like a lost little puppy. "I'm sorry," he whimpered, tears in his eyes. "I didn't mean nothing by it—"

"Beat it. Before. I lose my temper."

The man ducked his gun and scampered off. Richard bent down until he was eye to eye with a scared red-headed girl, white as a sheet with red, puffy eyes. Her hair and luminous skin glistened with raindrops.

"Come. With me." He held out a hand to help her up, and she dutifully obeyed.

His modest room was warm and inviting within the cold, startling storm. He closed the door softly behind them before sidestepping her to reach the blanket folded neatly on the bed. "Hm. Here you go," he said, wrapping it around her shoulders. She clutched it over her breasts—the fullness of which hadn't been lost on him—and took a seat on the small bed, watching as he carefully peeled his coat from his arms. They were both soaked to the bone.

"I wish. I had a fireplace."

"It's all right," she said, teeth chattering.

Down to his trousers and clinging undershirt, he turned a knob on the radiator until they could hear a flame bursting to life within. "You can. Take. Your dress off," he said bashfully, turning away from her. He could sense that she hadn't moved, and spoke again. "You'll. Catch a cold. If you don't."

He heard a rustle on the bed, then a tiny "ahem." He turned tentatively around, enough to see that she see that the blanket was protecting her modesty and that she held her wet dress out to him expectantly. He took the balled-up cloth and spread it over the radiator; his own clothes would have to wait.

"Shouldn't. Take long. To dry." He took a seat at the desk and tried not to look at her—an astonishing feat, given the tantalizing goosebumps on her neck and shoulders and the suppleness of her lips in the lamplight.

"I suppose I should thank you," she said after some time.

"Did they. Hurt you?"

"No, thank god." She looked at the floor, twisting the weave of the blanket in her fist. "Do you make a habit of rescuing damsels in distress?"

His cheeks flushed scarlet. "I was just. Trying to help."

"Do you mind if I lay down for a while?" She was already spreading her legs out, anticipating his answer.

"Not. At all."

"What will you do?" she yawned.

He said nothing, unsure of the answer himself. For several pulse-pounding moments, not a word was exchanged between them.

Finally, she spoke again. "Aren't you going to get out of those wet clothes?"

His throat released an embarrassed hum.

"It can't be comfortable. Want me to clothes my eyes?"

He nodded innocently, and she held her hands over her eyes while he nervously pulled the wet fabric free. "The shirt, too," she said. He did as he was told. What was he doing, standing practically naked in his own room with a strange girl curled up in his bed? He held his hands over his growing erection, the hardening appendage clearly oblivious to the chill that racked the rest of his body with a slow, constant quake.

"Well?" she said mischievously. "Aren't you going to join me?"

It took him a moment to force his limbs to obey his orders and carry him to the bed. He climbed in beside her as she lifted the blanket to accommodate him, the damp silk of her undergarments cold against his eager skin. "Do you mind," he began, as softly as his damaged vocal chords could manage, "If I. Turn out. The light?"

"Not at all," she cooed, her fingertips grazing his chest. He reached for the lamp and switched it off, thrilled by the possibilities that were unfolding before him.

In the dark, she nestled against him, bodies warming at each other's touch. Her ample breasts pressed against him, begging to be caressed. He was glad to find no resistance from her as his hand reached them, the tips of his fingers examining the smooth fabric of her slip for a deliciously teasing moment before he felt her back arch towards him and took his cue to pull the straps from her shoulders. His strong hands squeezed her gratefully, entranced by the moans escaping her lips.

"How can I thank you?" she breathed, her smile evident in the shape of her words. He didn't know how to respond, but it was as if she read his mind. Her head sank beneath the blanket, planting luscious kisses down his torso until it enveloped that secret, shameful part of him that he had never felt fully comfortable appeasing. Her tongue was like warm velvet running over and around him, every closing of her mouth sending him careening towards release.

He grabbed her, suddenly unable to contain himself, and pulled her on top of him. Her bloomers he ripped away in one deft motion, and he lifted her effortlessly until he was guiding her down and around him, pushing his swollen member deep within her and drinking in her excited gasp. She glided up and down above him, bucking her hips in sensuous circles. She pulled his hand towards her and led his thumb to press against the hot bundle of nerves that left her screaming in pleasure. His other hand found it's way to her chest, squeezing her breasts hungrily as he felt the world crash around him in a crescendo of ecstasy.

He could feel the throb of her walls around him, her chest heaving as she wilted above him. She collapsed into his waiting arms, the raindrops indistinguishable from the sweat on her brow.

They drifted off into unconsciousness to the rhythm of the rain against the window.

The morning brought hazy sunshine, and no trace of the mysterious red-headed girl. He saw that his clothes were laid neatly atop the radiator, and pulled his hands behind his head as he wondered whether it could all have been a dream. The stirring in his boxers was inconclusive, but the reality of it mattered little to him as he let his hand disappear below the blanket, to feed the hunger that had awoken with him.