Interlude

He’s a little unsteady, but you’re not, so he anchors himself to your sway, forehead pressed to yours as you stand face to face, his flesh flexing hot against your palm, his fingertips holding to your shoulders as you stroke – gentle, slow – and when his exhale is shakier than his knees you pull him forward by the cock, lower yourself to kiss his twitching tip and wrap your lips around his length, press your handhold to his hips, and orchestrate the symphony of his groans.

“Don’t clench your abdomen.” You say it and he knows it’s not a request.

He doesn’t remember the PT’s orders but you do and you know he’s still healing so you make those orders your own and silently, with glazed eyes and trembling knees, he obeys.

Afterward, when you’ve taken him to your bed, massaged him slick between your fingertips, nursed his wounds and eased his pain by creating more of it – lower, burning, ticklingly intense – pulling it out of him in a hot-lava flow of aggravated relief…

Afterward, he says, “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to…”

And you look at his cock, fallen over cum-drunk, passed out half-hard against his thigh, and you smile that smile — that smile, you know the one — and he smiles back as his body blushes pink-red under the incredulous stare you level at him (Really?) and you remind him with your hands and your lips and your body that he’s alive and that he is, indeed, able. That he can, in fact, do

Any
Damn
Thing

You please.