We make love in a storm on top of the hill. We both know how dangerous this is but this only adds to the thrill.
As we fuck on the wet, slippery grass, the storm seems to follow our motions, growling when we do, growing fiercer with every passing second, rocking the air around us. The lightning and thunder get louder and faster with us. A bolt strikes a nearby tree, which bursts into flames, echoing our heat. Another strikes the ground near us causing the grass to steam and smoulder, we feel the earth tremble and tingle under us.
Now the storm is directly above, one continuous symphony of sound and light and heat. You, on top and less afraid than I, lift your head to the skies and throw out your arms as if to beckon it.
Hard, heavy raindrops batter your beautiful, naked flesh and when the lightening bolt strikes us we hardly notice. Its billion volts are nothing to the power of our shared orgasms, and death seems puny in comparison to our love.
It turns us instantly to cinders, saving a fortune on cremation fees.