Page 42 of Hot Doggin'
That twinkle returns to his eye, the one that was missing earlier in the waiting room, when he was filled with self-doubt. “You are. Dead-as-balls hot.”
Unfortunately, that’s the moment Dr. Sanders chooses to cock block me, putting an end to my flirting.
“Gentlemen, good afternoon.” He tacks Stiles’s X-rays to a light box on the wall and then takes a seat on his rolling stool. “Your scans look good. And by good, I mean, there really isn’t much change since your last visit. The neural pathways are not repairing themselves, but they’re also not deteriorating.”
I can actually feel Stiles’s body deflate, letting go of the tension he was holding onto. It’s better news than he was expecting. If Stiles’s brain was deteriorating further, if he developed early onset Alzheimer's, dementia, or even Parkinson’s, I’m not sure I could deal with the fallout of losing him. Because having him standing in front of me doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be lost, inside his head, inside the past. Maybe someday we’ll cross that bridge, but if I think about it now, I’ll fall apart.
Nothing in this world poses a greater threat to me than losing him. There’s nothing scarier.
I’m so relieved that my hand slips to his leg again, and I grip his thigh, not even thinking about what it might look like to the doc. Stiles must be lost in his head as well because he doesn’t push me away.
Dr. Sanders slips his pen from his coat pocket and scribbles on his prescription pad. “You’ve tried cognitive behavioral therapy and didn’t have successful results. Beyond that, there are herbal supplements you can take to improve memory, but I’m not guaranteeing that it will. There’s a new medication out on the market that may help. I’m writing a prescription for you.”
I know for a fact Stiles has an entire cabinet full of meds back at his apartment that he doesn’t take because the side effects are worse than any benefit they might provide. I hope this isn’t more of the same.
“Thanks, Doc.” Stiles reaches for the script and stuffs it in his pocket. “I’ll check it out.”
He doesn’t say a word as we walk back to the truck, and it’s not until we’re pulling onto the highway that I ask, “You hungry? Want to grab lunch?”
“Just drive through somewhere. I’m in a big hurry to get home.”
“How come?”
“Your dick ain’t gonna suck itself. You told me the more often I do it, the less likely I am to forget how badly I want it.”
Fuck driving through somewhere. I’ve got hotdogs at home. And I’m in a big hurry to get there.
We barely make it home without me passing out from high blood pressure, or an elevated heartbeat, or whatever the fuckis happening in my body right now. Everything is working overtime, including the amount of blood being pumped down south. All I can think about is getting his mouth on me.
His beard is going to tickle and scratch my balls so good. I've never felt that before, but I can imagine it. We rush through the door and I toss my keys on the counter.
Stiles wastes no time getting down to business. “Where are we doing this? On the couch, or in our bedroom?”
Ourbedroom. Sounds like we’re a couple. I love it. “In there,” I point, hiking my thumb over my shoulder. “I’ll be right back. Gotta hit the bathroom.”
Yanking my pants down, I let them pool around my ankles and waddle over to the linen closet to grab a washcloth. Running it under the sink, I soap it up the rag with warm water and scrub my parts, just in case they’re sweaty or musky. Better I smell like… What is this shit? I turn the bottle of soap toward me. Vanilla sugar. That’ll do.
Inspiration slaps me upside the head, and I grab a razor, lather my balls, and start to shave all the hair off. His tongue is gonna feel so…
“Hurry up. You done yet?”
“I’m coming!” I shout through the closed door.
“Hopefully not yet,” he chuckles, his voice muffled.
I’m rushing, but trying not to knick my balls. Presenting him with a sac covered in pieces of toilet paper to stop the bleeding is not sexy.
After the last swipe, I rinse the razor clean and pull my pants back up. Or should I leave them off? Yeah, I leave them off. Stiles is laid out on our bed like an offering, dressed in nothing but black briefs. His thick hairy thighs and flat belly are all I can see. I want to run my mouth over his skin, to tickle him with the tip of my nose and breathe in his scent.
As much as I want him, and want his mouth on me, I’m nervous as shit. Is he? Hard to tell from the way he’s laying there, so casually, rubbing himself as he watches me.
“Come here, Mac. Take off your leg and get comfortable.”
If I was nervous before, I’m scared shitless now. Perching on the edge of the mattress, I unhook my prosthetic and prop it against the nightstand, and then begin to roll the sleeve down my thigh. Stiles sits up, and the heat from his body covers my back, his hands gripping my shoulders, and I feel his soft, warm lips touch my neck. A shiver rolls through me, pure pleasure, and some of my nerves dissipate under his skilled mouth.
“You’re so tense,” he observes, digging his fingers deeper into my tight shoulders. “You nervous?” Not trusting my voice, all I can do is nod. “Me too. But also, kind of excited. I really want to do this.”
“Me too.” The words come out, gruff, gravelly, and I clear my throat.
