Monica has been so focused on Tracy until this second, that she lost track of her own physical need. Like being slammed back into herself from an out of body experience, she is suddenly very aware of everything from the trickle of Tracy's sweat on her heated skin, to the very blood in her veins.

Heightened and hypersensitive, Tracy's kisses on her neck combined with the breath from her nose is a mixture of touch, and temperature beyond definition. Even the scents of the moment are amplified, the heady, rounded tones of sex, and perfume, Bergamont, and Jasmine, Gardenia, and Vanilla, mixed with the smell of new rain creeping through a cracked window.

On their knees, in full embrace, Monica shudders as Tracy draws her earlobe between lips, tracing its shape with the tip of her tongue. Monica pulls back just enough to take Tracy's face in her hands, brushing her slick bangs off of a damp brow.

"Are you OK?" Monica asks with a nurturing, yet nervous tone, even as Tracy is still trying to regain contact with Monica's flesh, her hands already snaking around Monica's waist, trying to re close the gap.

She marvels at Tracy's appearance. Her pupils are large black islands in a tumultuous ocean of lapis, her skin moist, glistening, and rosy. She looks 20 years younger, and suddenly wonderfully treacherous. Thunder rolls in the distance.

Tracy knows something in her as irrevocably shifted. She is changed on the inside, like a lake that a pebble has been tossed into. The ripples on the surface are gone, no one would ever guess as they walked by, but something new resides in its depths.

Even so, she does not want to discuss it. It is truly beyond words. She wants to share it, top it, and cause it to ring clear as a bell in Monica now. She would easily die before she let that Monica had become her savior.

"I believe this isn't about me anymore honey" Tracy says at a low simmer, like a Phoenix from the ashes rising stronger and fiercer.

She starts to stand, albeit she won't let on how her legs are still shaky. She runs her fingers through her own hair, slicking in back from her face, and stretches like she just awoke from a thousand year sleep. Her evident satisfaction and rejuvenation excited Monica to the core. She extends a hand to Monica, and pulls her to her feet noticing the sly smile painting her face.

She runs her hand up Monica's damp throat, then around her neck, under her hair, and back.

"You look very, very proud of yourself" she says with a grin, cocking her finger under Monica's chin, before capturing her mouth in a sinking kiss. Arms encompass Tracy's body. Monica loves the feel of her like this. Nude, moist, muscles taught, attitude loose.

She desperately wants to get out of the entranceway, and somewhere more comfortable.

The anticipation was thick, the rain began a steady drone on the window panes, and the sky crackled sharply, causing both women to startle. Tracy realized that the squall was matching her mood. Monica was equally aware.

They stand before each other, as the storm rattles the house again, and the lights flicker.

Tracy has known for many years, from pure observation, that a decent thunderstorm always brought Monica's nerves closer to the surface. How pleasing this change of the weather is to Tracy, as she can see plainly that Monica couldn't be anything less than raw right now.

She slithers out of Monica's arms, and takes a few backward steps. This leaves herself in full view of Monica. Looping the straps of her undies in her thumbs, Tracy slides them down her thighs, seductive and slow, stopping just above her knees.

Monica swallows hard, her mouth dry as sand, as she watches Tracy turn around, and just with that action, the panties drop to the floor, and she casually steps out of them and continues towards the bedroom.

The sky groans again in its decadent build. Tracy turns back, stopping right in the doorway. The lights dim again.

"I really think now would be a good time to unglue your feet from the floor" she states, beckoning with a tilt of her head.

Monica laughs a brief very nervous giggle.

Tracy is like a jewel with a sin hidden inside, beautiful to behold, but still very dangerous to possess.

This Tracy before her, naked, hungrier and renewed, is a result of her actions, her lust. That being said, she realizes she has created a whole new predator.

It was hard to move; she thought to herself, Tracy disappeared into the room. She took not but one step and the lights faded and died a split second following another clap of thunder.

An instinctual, frightened squeak slipped out, as she was cast into darkness. Monica scanned the black room with her eyes, trying almost desperately to adjust them. She was familiar enough with the lay of the room, to manage a few more steps. And orange flick, then another, illuminates the doorway of the bedroom, once more, then a faint continual amber glow.

She turns the corner, and sees her, standing at the foot of the bed, a single candle on the nightstand. Monica felt the earth shift under her feet, as the sound of her own heart rendered the storm mute, pounding in her ears.

This was a vision, a devastating image beyond her wildest fantasies that Tracy always managed to invade. Hair back from her face, intermittent blue white flashes of lightning lend a sharp contrast to already razor like features, and pale her eyes.

Tracy's every curve and contour awash in gold and shadows. The glitter of sweat like liquid fire on tight skin, the dark triangle between her legs, the shadow of erect nipples was almost more then Monica could process.

She suddenly felt more defenseless, then ever before in her life. That was not a bad thing.

Tracy began a catlike crawl onto the crisp white bedspread, stopping dead center, coming upright onto her knees. She pats the spot in front of her.

"You're not afraid of the dark are you Monica?" she says oozing with sarcasm

Monica steps to the edge of the bed. Trying to recoup her confidence was an epic tug of war with her senses.

The stark contrast of vulnerable, to powerful, is gripping to Monica as she hesitates. Is this the woman before her, beckoning and in control, which pleaded, crested, and cried in her arms not so long ago?

Yes, magnificently yes. Tracy is confounding, and all encompassing. Monica has never wanted to surrender more as she starts to climb onto the bed.