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“Mmhmm,” I lie, staring at a water stain on his ceiling that’s shaped strangely like the state of Texas.

He slaps my thigh, but not in a hot, dominant way. More like he’s trying to pat out a small fire.

I try to guide him gently, with all the patience I can muster. But then, he shushes me.

Shushes. Me. Mid-sex.

“This is my signature move,” he pants, sweat already forming along his hairline. “Just let it happen.”

Oh, something’s happening, alright.

His hand fumbles down between us, landing somewhere in the vicinity of my lower stomach. He starts rubbing small circles about two inches north of where any action is actually happening.

“Yeah, right there,” he whispers to himself. “That’s the spot.”

It is decidedly not the spot.

I open my mouth to redirect him when his face contorts. His eyes squeeze shut, his mouth drops open, and he lets out a noise that sounds like a duck being slowly deflated.

“Oh! Oh my god! You’re so—I’m—” he cries out, his hips jerking erratically.

And just like that, it’s over. He collapses on top of me, his full weight pressing me into the mattress while his fingers continue their useless expedition across my belly button.

“Did you…” He pants against my neck. “Did you feel that?”

What I feel is the overwhelming desire to fake my own death and move to another country.

“Mmm,” I say noncommittally.

“Told you,” he says smugly. “Hurricane.”

I want the self-confidence this guy has.

“Oh,” I say, bright and cheerful. “Was that the Category 5 part?”

He rolls onto his side and gives me a grin that has no business being that proud. “Most girls can’t even handle it.”

“Wow.” I hope my tone conveys the proper level of sarcasm, but Hurricane Boy seems entirely too pleased with himself to notice.

“I know, right?”

I sit up, gathering the sheet around me with as much dignity as possible. My underwear has somehow migrated to his lampshade. Fantastic.

“So,” he says, propping himself up on one elbow, “round two?”

I nearly choke. “I think I’ve weathered enough natural disasters for one night.”

His face falls slightly, but he recovers quickly. “Yeah, most women need recovery time. The hurricane isn’t for the faint of heart.”

I slide off the bed and collect my scattered clothing. “Or for people who actually want to orgasm,” I mutter.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” I pull my shirt over my head. “Just thinking about the…intensity.”

He nods in agreement. “It’s a gift.”

“It’s something,” I agree, stepping into my jeans.