He leaned down to give me a slow, wet, thorough kiss as he pulled out of my body. I whimpered as we lost contact.
“I’m gonna take care of this condom.”
I curled onto my side as he got off the bed and watched his ass flex as he walked across the room and into what must’ve been the bathroom on the other side of the stairway opening. Every inch of my body was covered in goose bumps and sensitiveto the touch, like it had been so overloaded with sensation that it didn’t know how to return to baseline.
Reaching behind me, I yanked on the comforter and pulled it over me so I was folded inside. That’s how Bas found me when he came back out carrying a white washcloth in his hand.
“Cold?” he asked, sitting down beside me.
“A little,” I replied as he peeled the blanket back.
I lay there languidly as he lifted my knee and slid the washcloth between my legs, softly cleaning me up. He tossed the washcloth into a hamper against the wall and lay down beside me, pulling the comforter over both of us.
“There’s no way it’s covering you,” I said, leaning up a little to check.
“Yeah, it’s a little breezy on my ass,” he replied with a grin. “But I’m not cold. It’s fine.”
“Sorry, I messed up your bed.” I snuggled deeper into the comforter. “It was so nicely made.”
Bas lifted his head and scratched his cheek before resting it on his hand again. He was braced on his elbow, his dark hair was a mess, and his lips were swollen from using them on my body. I wished I was an artist so I could have immortalized him just like that.
“I had a foster mom that made sure we made our bed every morning when we got up.”
“You were in foster care?” I asked, remembering the Bas who’d come to the club when he was just a kid looking for work.
“I was,” he confirmed. “My mom lost custody the first time when I was four. Got her shit together for a couple of years, and then I was back in the system to stay right after I turned seven.”
“Shit, Bas.”
“It wasn’t so bad,” he said, reaching out to affectionately brush hair away from my face. “I barely remember the foster home I was in when I was little. Bounced around a little that firstyear, but before I turned eight, I got placed with my foster mom and stayed there.”
“You stayed with her until you turned eighteen?”
“Seventeen,” he corrected.
“And she was a good one? Home, I mean.”
“The best,” he replied.
I smiled, imagining a little Bas.
“Where did you grow up?” I knew it wasn’t Eugene.
“Portland.”
“Oh, I thought it was further away.” Leaning up, I mirrored him, resting my head on my hand. “Do you go back to visit? Has she ever been here?”
Bas shook his head. “No.”
“What? Never?”
“Not once I left, no.”
“Oh.” Part of me was dying to ask why he’d cut contact with the foster mom he said was the best, but a bigger part knew that it was none of my business.
“I, uh, actually, that night of Brody’s party?” he asked, and I nodded, like I could ever forget my cousin’s birthday party. “I got a call that day from a lawyer sayin’ she’d left me some shit in her will.”
“Oh, no.” My stomach sank.
