We go slow for another few minutes. My sweaty palms start to slide against the wall behind us. Trace bends low and clasps his lips around my taut nipple, continuing to drive into me as he flicks his tongue across my raised bead, tugging me. At one point, he takes the most sensitive tip of my breast between his teeth. He applies no pressure, but the sight of him hovering over me when I look down, suspending me between pleasure and pain, is enough to make my nether muscles contract. This pulls another groan from him, and his mind swivels back to her coitus. He slaps me on the ass, just this side of too-hard. His eyes glimmer with intention as his thrusts start to come harder and harder and faster and faster.
One hand digs hard into my ass, so I feel where his fingers will leave imprints. The other finds one of my breasts, and begins to massage me freely. His breathing grows husky and harsh, his face takes on the look of someone possessed. I press against him, rising to each of his humps like someone diving into a wave. I feel him squeeze me, I watch his mouth contort. “Jesus,” he murmurs, as our eyes lock, as I feel his thick cock pulse with a final and furious burst of energy.
Then, Trace collapses against my shoulder. I feel like his heart is beating all over his body—beneath every patch of damp skin, I think, thrums and rhythms clang for attention. I rub his broad back, enjoying how he quivers a little beneath my touch just like I do for him. We stay like this for a while. Until his breathing begins to settle and compose. Until the room begins to feel cool again, and I'm aware of the sweat drying on my skin.
“Sorry,” Trace murmurs, into my hair. “Got a bit carried away. Next time we can go longer.”
He kisses the soft spot below my earlobe, and reaches a hand up to my hair. His fingers rummage across my scalp in a way that's come to feel like the epitome of peace.
Over Trace's shoulder, I can see a slice of window—and beyond this, a patch of the raging city below us. Taxis honk, ambulances cry, teeny tiny people walk back and forth. They probably yell. They probably listen to music. They probably cry and smile and fall in love, every single one of the millions.
I wrap my legs a little tighter around my foster brother, so he can't wriggle away from me. I feel our heartbeats begin to lapse into their own, unique time signatures. And I think to myself, for all the little people down there: I hope, someday, they all know this.
THE END
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A Family Affair: My Bad Boy Foster Brother Page 16
