Page 53 of On Dry Land

The sheets are pushed down as he silently complies with the request, long fingers hooking into the waist of his sweats and drawing them down his legs. The socks are the last to go, and I’m the one to remove them—hands gentle on the backs of his calves and making him jump when I slide my fingers over the sole of his foot. I drop them over the side of the bed with everything else and take a moment to appreciate all the beautiful brown skin in front of me as Dryden stretches out on his back.

I touch his knee, sliding my hand up to feel the catch of black hair against my palm. He’s not shy at all, lying there naked while I’m kneeling here fully dressed. The air of expectation between us is thick, but it also feels secure. Trusting. He’s letting himself be safe in my hands, and I’m relaxed in the belief that he won’t push for more than I can give.

“Do you want me to undress, or will that be too misleading?” I ask him quietly, running my knuckles up the outside of his thigh before once more flattening my palm on his abdomen and leaving it there. Not pressing down, just resting—a point of connection in a moment that is often absent of them. Some of the loneliest times of my life were when I was in bed with another person. I don’t want Dryden to feel that with me.

He doesn’t answer right away but thoughtfully employs that aggressive eye contact he’s so adept at. I return it, letting the ease between us wrap around me like a hug. Beneath my palm, his skin feels burning hot.

“Undressed,” he says eventually, and I nod, having thought that would be the case. Slipping down to sit on the end of the bed, I turn my back to him and untie the laces on my borrowed sweats.

“I don’t look like you,” I feel the need to remind him. I’m scarred and ugly, sickly thin and visibly uncared for.

Goose bumps break out on my thighs the moment I slip the fabric down my legs. My skin looks frightfully pale in the dim room. Glowing, but not with health and virility like Dryden. Leaving my boxers on for now, I take a deep breath and tell myself he’s seen me in my swim trunks, and, really, is that any different? I tug off my sweatshirt and leave it on the floor with the rest of our clothes, keeping my eyes down as I turn and retake my place beside Dryden on the mattress.

I can feel the weight of his eyes on my chest, on my thin arms and concave belly, on the press of my ribs, visible beneath my skin. I don’t want him to say something about how good I look or how desirable. I don’t want him to lie. And he doesn’t. He’s quiet and contemplative, and my discomfort burns away as the calm settles over us like a blanket of snow once more.

Taking time where I’ve rarely been allowed it before, I touch him. He’s sensitive in places I wouldn’t expect, shivering and letting out little exhalations from his nose when my fingers brush up his forearm or the soft curve where his arm meets his chest. I like learning these things and tuck each one away to remember and utilize later. Sensitive lovers are my favorite. There are so many ways to make them feel good.

Swinging a leg over his waist, I lean down and kiss the side of his jaw, close to his ear. I smile to discover yet another sensitive patch of skin and kiss him again, trailing my lips slowly over his cheek. Fingertips graze my leg—there and gone in a second, like he’s fighting his body’s natural reaction in this situation to touch.

“Thank you,” I whisper when he doesn’t grab or reach for parts of me I want left alone.

I kiss him on the mouth this time. He sighs a little bit, body relaxing as though I’d excited him with my gentle touches and teasing, and the built-up pressure is being released. I enjoy kissing when it feels like this—intimate and not a sexual act in itself. Dryden struggles with words, and I want to say something to him that I can’t quite manage with just my fingertips alone.

I let the affection spin out around us, kissing him soft and sedate. He reciprocates in kind, understanding without me having to say it that kissing, for me, can never and will never be sexual. He doesn’t try to simulate fucking with his tongue; doesn’t try to take the lead. I melt into him, warm and safe and close.

“Do you have lube?” I ask him sometime later, hand planted above his shoulder as I look down at him.

“Linen closet.” I raise an eyebrow, surprised. He shrugs and says in explanation, “I don’t bring people here often.”

Retreating to the bathroom, I glance at the kitten, now curled up on her blanket, and search for what I need. When I return to the bedroom, Dryden is unmoved on the mattress, sheets in a tumble at his feet, stretched out like a young god awaiting worship.

I join him, tapping a finger against the box as I set it next to us. He looks at it.

“Everything in here a yes?” I ask him.

“Everything,” he confirms, lips pressing into a smirk.

“If you want to stop, just tell me to stop,” I add. He doesn’t answer, just watches me with eyes liquid enough to be pools of ink, plump lips parted slightly.

I settle between his legs this time, nudging them out until he’s spread wide enough for me to have access to things I hadn’t before. My pulse thrums when I put my hand on his dick, still teasing, even now. I stroke him lightly and let go immediately when his hips roll upward, seeking more. I slide my fingers downward and smile when he again tries to nudge my hand where he wants it, pelvis straining. If he thinks I’ll be hurried along, he’s in for a very long night.

He lets out a soft sigh that sounds like relief when I finally open the lube. The gel is cold on my fingers when I tease the delicate skin of his perineum, making his toes curl into the bedspread. I watch him for every caught breath and flicker of his eyelids as I stroke and fondle and circle his hole without ever pressing inside. It’s minutes before he lets out a low “Spencer” in warning.

“Stop?” I ask.

“Start,” is his reply, but I only smile and keep doing what I’m doing. I get to take care of him tonight. I get to strike the matches and put them out, controlling the burn. I’m going to make him feel better than he’s ever felt in his life.

“Trust me,” I request, one finger circling his hole before slowly pushing inside. He relaxes into a sigh, hands flat on the bed, fingers spread. When he closes his eyes, I take that as an answer. I do.

Every inch of Dryden is hot to the touch, and inside is no different. I stroke him, fingers slowly driving in and out, and feel an almost physical high when he pushes against my hand, back arched off the bed. So, so sensitive.

I alternate my rhythm, never giving him time to adjust to a pattern. With my free hand, I touch him. Not his dick, hard and straining against his belly, but everywhere else. I scratch my nails lightly up the back of his thigh at the same time as I add a third finger inside him, increasing the pressure. I run my fingers up his chest and across his nipples, circling the sensitive skin until he squirms. I stop thrusting my fingers—stilling inside him—and gently stroke my thumb across his taint. Eventually, he loses the hold he has on his silence and gasps quietly at every change. He fights a battle with his eyes, unable to keep them closed or open, and moves his pelvis in small aborted thrusts at each change in pace. I haven’t touched his dick again, but there’s a small line of precum stretching from the tip to his belly.

Dryden meets my eyes when I slowly pull out of him before tracking the movement of my hand as I reach for the cock ring. He doesn’t say anything—lips pressed into a firm line as he watches me slip it on him. Every twitch of his hip sends tremors of pleasure through me, like a violin string plucked and vibrating. When I reach for the dildo and begin coating it in lube, he closes his eyes. Turning the vibration on the lowest setting, I rest the tip against his hole and then drag it up his perineum when his hips begin to thrust.

He jolts when I tease it across one of his nipples, opening his eyes and looking down at me in surprise.

“Sensitive,” I tell him, letting the pleasure bleed into my tone and form the word into something carnal. In my mind, I add perfect. Perfect for me.