“Good?”
“Oh, yes,” she panted as he pressed deeper. “Let’s move to the bed.”
He stopped and bent his head sheepishly. “Think I’m stuck.”
“You can’t be serious?” Her stomach muscles jerked with a laugh that squeezed his cock, although to be fair her butt also felt welded to the fake wood top.
“Not there.” He proved it by popping out, with the condom covered by his hand. “Knee.”
“Oh.” She stopped laughing. “What should I do?”
“Ahh?” He scanned the room, hand still holding the prophylactic in place.
“Garbage can, right.” She wiggled and the suction sound as she unpeeled made both of them burst out laughing again. “Don’t drop it!”
It took three triesto convince his knee microprocessor that he wasn’t in danger of losing his balance and it ought to loosen itself and play, but Grace helped him totter to the bed, where he collapsed onto his back. The mattress was the best this week, the blankets the softest, and damn if he didn’t feel great.
“Now what?” She’d tied a bath towel like a sarong, but it was nicely narrow.
He raised his right leg, looked her in the eyes and said, “Would you help?” Despite five days together twenty-four seven, they’d vigilantly respected each other’s privacy. He knew it was past time to let her get close and personal with his stumps. “Please.”
“Okay.” When the towel started to become intriguing, she tightened the knot over her breasts. “What should I do?”
He scrunched his pants leg high enough to show the green button on the side of his below-the-knee prosthetic’s socket. “Push that and twist.” The precision mechanics popped, and only the silicone liner remained.
“One down.” She moistened her lips as if talking to herself again.
“Now the hard one.” He lifted his hips from the bed and wiggled his pants below the bionic knee of his left leg so she could reach the release pin, and in seconds the whole mess, including his pants, came off in her arms.
“Next?”
“Peel the banana.”
Her mouth made a circle and her eyes darted immediately to where he’d intended.
“The liners.” He circled his right leg in the air. If the Marquis wore a towel and looked like Grace, therapy would have been more popular.
“I thought you meant—”
“I know.”
She looked exasperated while her first fingers slipped under the silicone liner’s grippy lip like it was a tight sock. “Do they hurt?”
“Off and on. Not now.”
She finished rolling down the second liner while he reclined on his elbows, legs stuck across the sheets. Only his boxers remained and they’d be off as soon as conversation ended. The reddened knobs at the end of his legs felt tenderized by the forcehe’d exerted at the dresser. He should get a purple marker and draw hearts on stumpy and lumpy. They deserved recognition.
That lip chew meant she’d gone away to think. Since the happy man was covered, and there were no marine life forms in the vicinity, he asked, “They bother you?”
“No. Although sometimes what they stand for does.” She looked into his eyes. “You were hurt. And the Andersons lost their son.” She walked to the table to extinguish the bedside light, effectively hiding her face. “It challenges me to pay attention, to think about politics, duty, America. A lot to consider.”
“Lot to put on a guy.”
“Seems like a pretty strong guy.”
“Not a…” Alone on the bed, chilled without clothes or her touch, he could sense his speech fluency fading. “Not a symbol.”
“I know that. You once accused me of flag-waving just for talking to you, remember?”
