Page 71 of Proof Of Life
“See for yourself,” he says, grabbing his phone from the nightstand. His hips still as he fumbles with the camera, and then the slow thrusts resume.
It’s fucking killing me that he’s recording us. I’m never deleting that shit.
Ever.
“We can watch it together later. I’ll make popcorn,” he teases, making me grin despite my foggy, lust-fueled fever.
He sets the phone down and hitches his longer leg over my hip, cradling me against his body even tighter. He uses my body as leverage to fuck into me faster, deeper, harder, and I push back, meeting him thrust for thrust.
“Fuck, Brandt. Fuck.”
I can’t keep going like this or I’ll come, and I really want to be facing him, for him to see my face when he pushes me over the edge. Sliding my hips forward, I pull off his dick, and he chases me, locking me in with his leg.
“Where’re you going?”
“Let me ride you.”
West only considers it for an eighth of a second before grinning and rolling to his back. He grabs another pillow and props it under his head so he can see me better. Gripping his shaft, now shiny from being inside me, He holds it still and stiff for me at the base. Gingerly, I straddle his hips and lower myself onto his dick, impaling myself in one slow descent.
West hisses and lets go, gripping my hips instead. “Fucking ride my cock, Reaper. Fuck me.”
Planting my hands on his chest, I piston my hips back and forth over his lap, bending low to suck his nipples.
“Go up and down, not back and forth. It’ll hit that spot better.”
Taking his advice, I bounce on his shaft, feeling a little self-conscious, but he’s right, it feels so fucking incredible I soon forget everything but my need to come. Quicker and quicker, I chase the feeling, until he pinches my nipples and I shout as I shoot thick white ropes over his chest.
“Fuck, you didn’t even touch yourself.” West rises up to claim my lips, thrusting his tongue deep inside my mouth, and he comes in my ass, his hips jerking as he pumps his seed deep. “Fuck. Fuck, I’m–”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, just gets lost in the kiss as I roll my hips, milking him dry.
“Wish I’d filmed that part too,” he pants.
With a last peck of my lips on his, I leave him to go shower. When I come back to bed, West is practically asleep. I shut off the light and snuggle up to his side, comforted by his warm body and his clean, familiar scent.
“Rack out, soldier,” I say, just like we did in the barracks every night before lights out.
Surprising me, he pops a kiss to my cheek but misses and it lands on my nose instead, making me laugh. “You always do the last thing I expect from you. But it’s always just what I need,” I say, trying and failing to find his lips in the dark. My lips brush over the stubble of his chin, and that’s where I leave my kiss.
Every morning when I open my eyes to the onslaught of the morning sun streaming through the bedroom windows, my head splits with a sharp pain.
It takes me several long minutes for my eyes to adjust before the pain subsides. Pulling the covers over my head, I burrow deeper into the warm nest of soft bedding.
The sound of the TV carries in from the living room, blasting at full volume due to Brandt’s hearing loss.
He’s at it again.
I groan, knowing it’s coming any second.
“Son, your ego is writing checks your body can’t cash.”
Fucking Top Gun.
This has to be his four-hundred and fifty-sixth viewing.
Even buried beneath the covers, I can’t tune his voice out as he recites line after line. He knows the entire movie by heart, and as much as it can be annoying, today, it’s the thing that lures me out of bed. It’s familiar, and routine, and it’s unequivocally Brandt. And lately, anything Brandt-related makes me smile, all dopey and ridiculous.
Sitting up, I grab my crutch propped next to the nightstand and hop to the bathroom to take a piss before returning to the bed to attach my leg. I throw on a pair of gray sweats with the Army logo, a relic from my early enlistment days, and shuffle to the kitchen in search of coffee.