Page 42 of On Dry Land

I frown. Done to me is a telling turn of phrase. My ex-husband, who seems to be looming over my shoulder more than usual today, loved sex being done to him. That was my role—the giver—and he the taker. I hadn’t particularly liked always being the top, but Dylan had never asked, and I’d never considered that I could say no. Shiloh and I had more of a vers relationship in the bedroom, which I had found more comfortable. Something tells me Spencer isn’t meaning quite that, though. I wait.

He sighs, taking a sip of coffee and puffing out his cheeks. “Sex is meant to be equal, right?”

“Sure,” I agree. Nothing is ever equal.

“I like to be the one performing—doing things to someone else. But I don’t want anything done to me. Ever.” He stares hard into my eyes after this pronouncement, as though waiting for me to put a hand to my chest and gasp in shock. I am a little bit surprised, but I’m also thinking of his earlier entreaty not to touch him.

“You don’t want anyone touching you,” I fill in, making him sigh again.

“No, it’s not that.” Sitting up, he reaches a hand toward me, wrapping his fingers around my wrist. I flip my hand, my own fingers resting gently against the underside of his arm. I wait for the discomfort to come—I hate holding hands—but it doesn’t. Carefully, I brush my fingers along the soft skin of his arm.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had this much discussion before sleeping with someone,” I comment. He huffs, rolling his eyes like I’m joking, even though it’s the truth. Sex, in my experience, is something that happens and I go along with. I like it sometimes, and I certainly seek it out when I want it. But I don’t make a production of asking for things I want, nor, I realize now, have I ever asked a partner what they might want. Maybe that’s why I find myself so fucking unsatisfied all the time.

“It’s kind of a requirement for me, since I think I’m on the asexual spectrum,” he admits. “But I don’t know, even when I do discuss my limits, I feel like I do a poor job of explaining. I don’t mind you touching me, I really don’t, as long as it’s not sexual. I just can’t have your mouth or your hand or anything else on my dick. I don’t want you to blow me or give me a handy or go anywhere near my ass. None of it.”

He lets go of my arm and puts both hands on his mug, bringing it to his mouth and drinking the last of his coffee. I watch him. Even I—selfish and narcissistic, according to my ex-husband—can pick out a few issues with this scenario. One party doing all the work and getting nothing in return doesn’t sound like it would end up being enjoyable for anyone. Sure, I’ve had sex I wouldn’t rave about and some I felt forced into, but at least both people involved came by the end of it.

“Sorry.” Spencer’s lashes obscure his eyes as he looks down at his hands.

“Don’t apologize unless you have something to be sorry about.”

“Do you get what I’m saying?” He raises his eyes to mine, wide and intent and beseeching. He badly wants me to understand.

“The parameters? Yes. The execution? Unsure.”

“Only way to know is to find out,” he says carefully, voice just unsure enough to show his discomfort. Reaching forward, I cup a palm under his chin and tilt his face up, looking for a clearer view of those eyes.

“You can tell me what to do. I don’t mind being bossed around—thinking can be exhausting sometimes.”

The corner of his mouth tilts into a half smile, and he leans into my hand, chin pressing harder into my palm. I like how it feels, so I pull away, unable to help but swipe a thumb across his cheek as I go.

“Excellent. Then it’s time to get up,” he tells me, standing and stepping around my foot to bring his mug to the kitchen. “Go put on something warm. We’re going outside.”

I don’t often get taken by surprise, but that does it. Looking out the wall of glass toward the backyard, I frown.

“It’s snowing,” I remind him, staring at what has already accumulated on the ground. Nearly a foot already would be my guess.

Walking over to his coat, he shrugs it back on. I watch him pull the beanie over his hair, tugging it down to cover his ears before zipping the jacket shut. He raises his eyebrows.

“Thought you wanted to be told what to do,” he says, sliding on his gloves. I drum my fingers on the back of the couch. Spencer hovers by the back door, smirking at me, a challenge in his eyes.

“Fine.” Rising, I discard my mug on the coffee table and walk around the back of the couch, heading toward the staircase that leads upstairs to my bedroom. “But I’m not shoveling snow, no matter how nicely you ask me.”

His laugh echoes in my ears as I go upstairs to change, slipping out of my sweats and leaving them on the bed for later. I have every intention of coming back and lying around after whatever it is Spencer thinks he can coerce me into doing. I’ll finish reading the book I’ve been working through and find something to put on the TV. Perhaps I’ll just lie in bed thinking dangerous thoughts of brown-eyed men.

“Absolutely not,” I tell one such man and the current bane of my existence, standing outside the back door and scowling at him.

“It’ll be fun,” Spencer tells me, crouched down in the yard and running his gloved hands through the snow.

“No. It will be cold and wet,” I correct. “And a waste of time. The snow will melt eventually.”

Spencer laughs, standing up and forming the snow in his hands into a hard-packed ball. If he throws that at me, I’m going to drown him in the pool.

“The point isn’t to have it forever. The point is to experience the joy now. Come on, come help me.”

Exhaling hard enough for the cold to fog in front of my nose, I fidget with the cuffs of my gloves and wade through the snow to join him. Fat flakes float lazily from the sky, making soft pattering noises when they hit our jackets. I stop when I’m near enough to see them clinging to Spencer’s eyelashes.

“Here. You take this one.” He puts the snowball in my hands, ignoring the way I’m glaring at him. “I’ll start another one.”