“Are you comfortable? Do you want another pillow?” Mark asks.
I hook my arm around the cushion under my head. “I’m comfortable.”
The next sleeve to come off is the final layer. The air is cool against my bare skin. Mark tenses. He examines me, or at least I guess that’s what he’s doing, and then the hand on my stomach tightens to grip the hoodie.
“Kyle,” Mark says, tone full of admonishment.
It must look bad.
“I told you it’s all scarred.”
“You’rereallybruised,” Mark says, and there’s a distinct upset edge in his voice. “And your knee is swollen. You shouldn’t have been on your feet at all today, and you definitely shouldn’t have been wearing the prosthetic.”
I got that from how much it hurt today. “I don’t like how it looks without it,” I admit.
Mark mutters a curse under his breath. “Wait a second,” he says. I hear him digging through the pharmacy bag from yesterday, and yelp in surprise at the icy touch against my stump. Mark arranges the soft throw blanket over my leg and then reaches over to tug at my blindfold.
I tense.
Mark hums. “It’s okay, you’re all covered.”
With the scarf off, I have to blink a few times to get used to the light. As my vision adjusts, Mark’s disapproving expression comes into focus.
“What?” I grumble.
“You know what,” he says.
“I—”
I try to sit up, and his hand on my stomach exerts enough pressure keep me pinned down.
“We’ll ice this for twenty minutes, then we’ll do a heat compact for twenty, and then ice it once more before I apply the bruising cream,” Mark explains.
“It’s late,” I say. The clock on the wall points to eleven.
Mark’s dark eyes indicate he doesn’t give a damn. I swallow as my dick twitches. I’m very glad that the throw blanket is over my underwear.
We fall into silence, Mark angry, me abashed, until I pluck up the courage to speak again. “How does it look?”
“Sore as shit, Kyle,” Mark replies.
I’m surprised at the curse.
Mark’s gaze darts back to me. “I’m not happy with you,” he adds.
I laugh. “Oh, come on. I’ve done a lot worse to piss you off over the years thanthis.”
“You haven’t,” Mark answers, completely serious. And from the way his gaze fixes on mine and holds, I believe he’s being completely sincere. He’s genuinely upset that I didn’t treat my leg properly yesterday. It sobers me a little.
“It was going to bruise no matter what I did,” I tell him.
He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes meet mine. We regard each other in silence. I could have broken it, suggested we turn the TV on, but I don’t. I just stare at Mark, examining his face in detail, enjoying the way his thumb is stroking my thigh. My lids become heavy as my breaths grow deeper.
Mark breaks eye contact first, his gaze trailing slowly down to where his hand rests on my stomach. He withdraws it a few inches, and then slips his fingers underneath the hem of the hoodie. I let out a harsh breath as his warm hand skims across the bare skin of my navel. He strokes my skin, making me twitch—yes, down there, too—and my breathing alters as he skims his fingers against me in a teasing manner.
I grab his wrist.
“What are you doing?” I ask breathlessly.
