Page 22 of Missed Steps

I’m breathing heavily. Mark is resisting the grinding motion my hands are trying to lead him in (who is controlling these hands?!),and my face is pretty much on fire.

“Do you mean, keep going, and get off?” I ask, my voice thready.

“Yes.”

One thrust and I’m going to cream my pants. I’m suddenly shaking my head. “No.”

The limited grinding I’ve been able to pull Mark into stops. Even as he withdraws, my misbehaving hands are trying to pull him on top of me. He makes no comment on my mixed signals but continues his retreat until our hard cocks aren’t pushed together, separated only by stupid fabric.

I whine in frustration.

“Me too,” Mark murmurs, squeezing my thigh. He blinks a few times, staring at me—I’m prone on the couch, unable to move—and his eyes are half-lidded as he regards me. “Want me to get you off?” he asks.

I’m, for some insane reason, shaking my head again.Why am I saying no again? Am I insane?

“Okay,” Mark says.

After another second, I’m talking, “The painkillers make me spacey. I don’t want to, you know, when I’m—if they kick in in the middle, that would suck.”

Mark nods his understanding.

My gaze sinks downward to the bulge in Mark’s trousers. “I can help you out, though. If you want?”

Mark huffs. “Do I want a hand job after you’ve told me you’ll be out of it on pills?”

“I can try a blow job, if you prefer.” I blink up at Mark, who stares down at me in silence for long seconds.

Mark rubs my thigh as he sinks back onto his heels. “Those pills have kicked in already, haven’t they? You’re too shy to suggest that sober.”

“What does that mean?” I object. I start to sit up, but Mark pulls my good leg up, knocking me back.

“Stay lying back,” Mark instructs. “I’m taking this off.”

I do as I’m told, watching as Mark expertly peels back the sleeve of my prosthetic. Just before he pops it off, he stops.

“Come here,” Mark tells me.

I lean up as he pulls his black scarf off. Mark fastens the scarf around my eyes, and it’s a thousand times softer than the one from yesterday. Not to mention it’s warm from Mark’s body heat and smells like him.

Mark guides me back down into the cushions. I grunt in pain as he removes the prosthetic.

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” I say with a hard exhale.

I hold still as Mark massages my thigh and rubs the cream onto my stump.

“Okay, come back to me again.”

I do so, and Mark guides my arms over his shoulders. They’re broad, firm, and I enjoy sliding my hands over his muscles. “Hold on to me,” Mark instructs. He slips one hand under my behind and stands, lifting me with him. I yelp, grabbing him, but my fear of falling is completely unfounded. I can feel the ease that Mark has in lifting me.

Still. I can complain about it.

“Mark.”

“I’ve got you,” he reassures me.

I don’t doubt that.