Page 47 of On Dry Land

I smile at him, a soft huff of laughter escaping. No punches pulled with Dryden.

“It is,” I agree, but still I keep the cuff of the sweater caught between my fingers so it doesn’t fall down my forearm. Free hand still on his arm, I slide my fingers down to his wrist, stopping just before I find skin. “Can I?”

“Yes,” he says, black eyes still on mine. I can feel the press of that gaze even as I break eye contact, watching my hand as I trace the bones of his fingers.

“What were you going to do today if we hadn’t made snowmen?” I ask, gently turning his hand over so I can touch his palm.

“Read. Maybe paint some buoys.” His voice is even, with barely a hitch in breathing as I stroke my knuckles down the outside of his leg. After a moment, he puts the last of his snack on the bedside table, foil packaging crinkling beneath the low murmur of the television.

“I can help you paint,” I offer, shifting a little closer on the bed so I don’t have to reach so far. He doesn’t answer—doesn’t move at all—as I wiggle my fingers beneath the hem of his hoodie.

His skin is soft, warm underneath my palm as I flatten my hand and spread my fingers. I rest there for a moment, enjoying the shallow rise and fall of his belly as he breathes.

“You can’t sleep here,” he tells me. I look up at his face.

“Okay.”

“I don’t do that,” Dryden continues, as though I’d argued.

“Okay,” I repeat, gently circling my thumb across the ridges in his abdomen. Later, I’ll tell him that I wouldn’t have slept here anyway, that I don’t do that either. Later, though. For now, I want to soak up the heat of his skin and the weight of his attention. I want to peel back the corner on another of his layers and peek at what’s underneath, smooth another coating of relaxation over his sharp edges.

He doesn’t move, and his hands remain limp on the bed. I slide closer still, easing the distance my shorter arms have to reach and giving myself a better view. Sliding my hand down, I tease the waist of his sweatpants and look at his face. His mouth is soft, lips parted just slightly, and there’s no telling the iris from his pupils. I don’t think he’s stopped watching me once.

The skin just below his waistband is even warmer than what was above. There are minute reactions as I touch—small flinches and caught breaths. Warmer, yes, and more sensitive. I tease my fingertips down the inside of his thigh, smiling when he widens his legs an inch, the fabric of his sweatpants making a soft swishing noise against the bedspread.

Syrupy heat spreads through my body like honey. I can feel myself relax, muscles unlocking and a held breath finally released. The bedroom is balmy, Dryden’s skin warm, and for a few heavenly minutes, I forget what it means to be cold.

He’s aroused when I wrap my fingers around his dick, but not fully hard. I stroke gently, keeping my grip loose, the motion of my wrist hindered slightly by the band of his sweatpants. Letting him go, I dance my fingers lower and am rewarded with the softest of groans from Dryden. Another inch of space is given as he opens his legs.

This time, he’s hard when I grip him, a little bit firmer, a little bit more purposeful. I can feel moisture when I circle my thumb over the head of his cock, pressing and teasing until I get another little hitch in his breathing. I stop watching the motion of my hand beneath his pants and turn to look at his face—the soft mouth and the beautiful eyes and the peace that has finally succeeded in pushing aside the guardedness.

He arches his back off the bed when he eventually comes, eyelashes fluttering down to obscure the black for just a moment, gasping softly. I try to look back at where my hand is still caught in his pants, his dick warm and pulsing against my palm, but his arm rises off the bed, and fingertips gently press against my chin, keeping my face tilted toward his.

We stay locked together, eyes held, both of us still. I can feel him softening in my hand, my fingers warm and sticky with cum, every inch of my body deliciously hot like I’ve been stretched out on the beach, being kissed by the sun. I want to stay here just a bit longer, basking in the intense bliss of giving someone else pleasure. I’m not ready to go back out into the cold just yet.

I let Dryden break the moment when he’s ready, his fingertips leaving my jaw and falling back to the bed. Just as slowly, I pull my hand from his pants, trying to mitigate any mess. When I look away from him, he sighs.

“I think you might have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen,” he says, voice even and low and slightly shocking in the words that he said. I smile at him, not making a big deal of the compliment, but carefully tucking it away inside where I can protect it from others. Nobody ever says things like that to me and means them.

“May I use your bathroom?” I ask him. I want to wash my hands. He nods, and I get up from the bed, legs heavy.

I’m pleasantly floaty as I wash up, uncaring about the scar on my hand as I twist my fingers together under the water. In the mirror, my cheeks are pink, and my eyes seem bigger, somehow. Brighter. Pretty, apparently, which burns with a pleasant ache in my chest. Dryden’s clothes don’t look too big on me, right now. They look just right.

Chapter Sixteen

DRYDEN

Fear is such a strange emotion and one, like love, that I do not understand. There was no panic when the engine stalled and died on the Maiden, nor even dread. It wasn’t fear I felt, but purpose. A problem had presented itself, and it was time to solve it.

Logically, I know that being scared serves a biological purpose. That fear often arrives before something is about to happen, tapping its knuckles on the window and whispering for you to pay attention. Perhaps I’m never afraid because I am always paying attention. Or perhaps you can only feel truly afraid when you have something to lose.

I wonder now if fear feels a little bit like being short of breath—fingers curled around your throat, not tightening just yet, but pressing hard enough to keep you aware. I wonder if it feels like the reckless abandon that follows someone down when they make a running leap from a cliff. Perhaps fear is nothing more than this—a lobster boat leaving dry land with Spencer Davis on board.

He’s sitting inside the standing shelter, hands braced and a smile on his face as he jolts with the motion of the boat. He doesn’t have sea legs. I don’t think he even has lake legs. The Maiden Seas had been sitting calmly in her slip when we’d boarded, and he’d staggered like her nose was pointed into a hurricane. He’s probably going to get sick today. He’s going to regret ever coming along, and I’m surely going to regret bringing him. This is an insurance nightmare and very possibly a personal one. This is exactly why I’ve remained so adamant about keeping my crew small. I don’t want to be responsible for people. I don’t want to be emotionally invested in the well-being of people. I want to take care of myself and only myself.

I look over at Spencer, who catches my eye and smiles. His little camera is clipped to the front of the coat I lent him and is probably getting a lot of footage that will make people seasick if they watch it. Partially seated, with one foot braced on the deck, he’s pitching from side to side hard enough to make my neck hurt, watching it.

I hook the first buoy with the gaff, slipping the line into the hydraulic pot hauler and listening to the moan of the rope dragging through the machine.