For the first months she’d just wait him out, pretending to sleep through it until his loamy wet-heat happened and they could both sleep again, her inseams gluey and his drying stain starching her panty’s seat and padded cotton crotch (he wet the bed, she’d chide, for the three days each month she was bitchy and off-limits to any more than ‘goodnight ’ and a handshake).
She watched her brother’s blond scalp nod and turn within the peace-V her thighs made, finding that she wanted to as selfishly pump him full of her as he’d been lately filling her body, and she laced her fingers behind his head, rough-riding him as marvelously hard as he’d been on her ass the other night.
“I know what you mean” she said, “me too,” and resting her head again, she watched their incestuous harmony in the mirror for another minute before George, realigning his aim into her, inadvertently knelt on the stereo’s remote that had been lost between the sofa’s seat cushions.
