Page 54 of On Dry Land

There’s no resistance at all when I push the dildo inside him, pulling it out slowly before pressing back in once more, mimicking a placid, thorough fucking. It’s a big toy, and I make use of every inch, working it slowly and making sure to drag over the most sensitive parts of him. When I seat it fully inside and leave it there, base pressed to his skin, I turn on the vibrations once more. I go slow, toggling upward through the settings, giving him just enough time to adjust before I move to the next. When it’s vibrating at the highest level, Dryden’s thighs are tense, and his fingers are twisted into the bedsheet. I leave it there.

He gasps when I kiss his stomach, just below his belly button, and again when I do the same to his nipples. His skin feels feverish against my mouth as I press my lips to different parts of him, one hand down between his legs, making sure the vibrator stays in place, and the other against the mattress, holding my body off his.

When I feel the muscles in his legs start to tremble, I sit back so I can watch his face as he comes. The internal orgasm rolls through him like a wave, curling his toes, tensing his thighs, flexing his fingers, arching his neck. He barely makes a noise that can be heard over the buzzing of the vibrator as it happens, but there’s a haze to his eyes that wasn’t there before when he opens them. I lower the vibrations on the dildo and pull it out, almost to the tip, before sliding it slowly back in. Underneath the palm of my free hand, Dryden’s thigh is still quivering.

I keep the toy moving through a second internal orgasm, adjusting the vibration pattern but maintaining a rhythm with the thrusting. There’s a shine of sweat across his chest by now, and his abdomen flexes as he mindlessly moves his hips. His still-erect dick is leaking and untouched, the white cock ring bright against the dark flush of his skin.

Dryden can’t control his breathing any longer, panting as he tries to come down from the internal orgasm. I don’t let him. Seating the dildo all the way inside, I press it back up to the highest vibration and leave it there once more, stimulating his prostate and pushing him back to the edge he only just stepped away from. I want one more, and I get my wish as he moans low in his throat, neck arched and eyes squeezed closed as a third crests.

His limbs are actively shaking when I lower the vibrations and reach for the cock ring, removing it. It takes only two thrusts of the dildo and a gentle squeeze of my hand on his dick before he’s coming. This time, he groans, cum painting his stomach as his hips jerk. I stroke him through it, watching closely for the moment when the overstimulation begins to cause hurt instead of pleasure. Dryden’s eyes are closed, and his breathing is choppy when I turn off the vibrator and slowly pull it out. He shudders.

I’m simultaneously heavy and lightheaded as I slide carefully off the bed, slightly woozy as I retreat to the bathroom. I feel high off the pleasure of making Dryden feel good, hands shaking as I quickly clean the toy off in the sink and wet a couple of towels. I’m dizzy as I approach the bed, vision tunneled on Dryden, lying unmoved but for an arm resting above his head on the pillow.

I feel like I’m on fire, hands shaking as I clean him off. I love this part. I love making someone feel good and having the right to take care of them afterward. I stroke the wet cloth gently over his hole, cleaning up the lube, before lowering his legs down to the bed. I clean off his stomach, too, and then, chest aching with so much want I can’t do anything but let it out, stroke gentle hands over his muscles, urging them to relax.

Dryden slowly falls asleep while I touch him. I nearly faint with pleasure, so much joy and desire in my chest it feels like I can’t breathe around it. Tugging the blankets over us, I curl into his side and borrow some of his heat. I close my eyes and fight sleep, not wanting to trade this moment for the next just yet. I’m still awake when Dryden rolls over in his sleep, turning onto his belly and sighing. He scoops me closer, head turned my way and lips parted as he softly breathes. I fall asleep with the weight of his arm across my stomach and a heaviness in my body that feels like hope.

Chapter Eighteen

DRYDEN

Spencer wakes up the moment I do, both of us stiffening and jolting back to consciousness. I’m groggy, limbs lethargic like I’m coming out of anesthesia and not sleep. I turn my face against the pillow, groaning slightly, trying to organize my thoughts into something coherent. Spencer shifts, body close enough to mine that I can feel the tickle of his hair against my arm. When I try to force myself to pull away from him, I can’t manage it.

“Is it morning?” Spencer whispers. I turn my face back toward him, resting my cheek on the pillow. It’s too dark to see him, but he’s there—slim body curled beneath my arm, skin hot against mine. I should move away. I’m awake enough to know that, conscious enough to understand that letting him spend the night and waking up like this is a mistake. He doesn’t have to leave the bed, but he can’t be this close.

Spencer slides a little nearer, fingertips tentative when they find my shoulder in the dark. Using the touch to orient himself, he slides his hand up, tracing across my jaw and over my ear. He strokes a line down my back, mapping out muscle and bone. I want to tell him to stop. That this doesn’t have to be like that, that I don’t require affection or tenderness, and that he shouldn’t waste any of it on me.

It’s hard to move, though. The blankets are warm, and my limbs are heavy. I feel like I’m caught in quicksand, not stretched out on my mattress. My arm rises and falls with Spencer’s steady breathing. I don’t remember how it got there.

“Do you have to get up?” he asks, fingers stroking up and down my back. I wish he’d never started and that he’ll never stop.

“No.” I have to clear my throat to make the word come out. I should get up. Use any excuse to rise and put space between us. I can’t think clearly when we’re like this.

With me lying on my stomach, Spencer doesn’t have to strain to trail his fingers along the curve of my back and down over the slope of my ass. He does it a couple of times, touch as gentle as butterfly wings. I’m grateful for the dark, hiding his face and mine. It doesn’t feel like the kind of gesture meant as a precursor to something. If anything, it feels like he’s trying to put me back to sleep. I close my eyes, willing to let him. Maybe he’ll be gone when I wake up again.

I drift a little bit, not falling fully unconscious, but just enough to relax my thoughts. I stop worrying about all the things that can, and will, go wrong with Spencer. I doze, listening to him breathe. He stops touching my back, tucking his hand back between our bodies like he got cold. I adjust my arm and, in doing so, bring him closer into my side.

Neither of us fully goes back to sleep, both too aware of the other, albeit for different reasons. I find myself wishing the sun wouldn’t rise. It’s easy, like this—silent in the dark, with no expectations and so little space between our bodies.

Spencer is the one to leave. Carefully, as though he’s unsure whether I’ve gone back to sleep or not, he slides slowly out from underneath my arm. I want to grab him and pull him back. I want to tell him I need more time and I’m not ready for him to go yet.

Opening my eyes, I watch him tiptoe quietly across the room to the bathroom, arms crossed over his chest like he’s cold. The bed feels cold, too, despite my still being in it, as though Spencer was the source of all the warmth. I roll onto my back, rotating my foot until my ankle pops and stretching an arm above my head. My body feels as loose as a wet towel wrung out and spread to dry in the sun. I don’t remember a time I’ve ever felt this good, this relaxed.

Spencer murmurs softly behind the closed bathroom door, the kitten answering him at a slightly higher volume. I close my eyes, listening. When he creeps back into the room, I turn my head to look at him. He smiles as he slips back into the bed, sliding over until his skin is pressed against mine. Cold, now. Without meaning to, I drop my arm, putting it around his shoulders. I close my eyes again, trying to ignore the numb sense of dread that threatens to engulf me. I’ve never made so many mistakes in my life as I have with Spencer Davis.

“The kitten shredded your toilet paper,” he says softly. I huff a sigh, and even without looking at him, I know he’s smiling. I can feel it.

“She’s going to be a menace.” Like you, I want to add, but don’t. Spencer turns on his side, adjusting so he can rest his chin against my pec and torture me with his doe eyes.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

The cat makes a growling noise and parkours herself off the end of the couch before scampering into the kitchen and scaling my leg, claws sticking to my pants. I grab her and try to pull her away, but she clings tighter. For every paw I remove, the other three remain attached.

“You are a demon,” I tell her, giving up the hope of saving my clothes from further holes and continuing to make coffee. She’s still stuck to me when Spencer wanders down the stairs, wearing a new set of my clothes, fresh from a shower in my bathroom. He sees the kitten attached to my ass and laughs, coming around the counter to help.

He holds her with a hand across the belly, the other cupping her back feet, and her front legs hooked over his hand. I scowl at her, and she begins to purr as Spencer uses his thumb to stroke her.

“Have you thought of a name yet?” Spencer asks, no longer even bothering to pretend that I’m not keeping the damn thing.