Page 15

His heart races, the steady throb of which he can feel in his fingertips. He barely knows Mal, but does he have to tell him about this? Does he owe it to him? Is it unfair to either of them for Rowan to hide it? After all he’s stable, hasn’t had a major episode in at least a year, and stays on top of his shit. Keeps all his emotional ducklings in a row and checks in on himself more than his overbearing but well-meaning siblings had when he was younger and out of control.

And after a long, long while of pacing his apartment, opening and closing the fridge, reading and rereading that bullet point in the book, he decides that it’s his own business. If something comes up down the line that could potentially impact Mal, he’ll tell him.

That’s what this shit’s all about, right? Honesty, communication, trust? It has to be. If the situation calls for it, he has to be willing to reveal parts of himself that sometimes scare him to someone who might be scared of them in order to keep them both safe. While Rowan’s a far cry from being dangerous anymore, it’s always a possibility. He could always slip up and miss the signs and be too engrossed in the siren call of false pleasure or vindictive anger to realize that he’s on a slippery slope to a physical and emotional crash.

And he vows silently to keep himself in check and one thousand percent ensure that he doesn’t do anything that would compromise this new and evolving relationship with Mal. To flat-out tell him about his illnesses if he needs to, or to end things altogether if their play becomes too much for him to handle.

That’s how Rowan becomes a Loving Dom .

ON SATURDAY night, Rowan is once again checked in by Camilla.

“So,” she says by way of greeting, “I hear you’re coming to the shibari class next month.”

Rowan blinks at her, still not entirely used to her blunt attitude. “Hey. Uh, yeah. Did Malcolm tell you that?”

Even after only a couple weeks of calling him Mal in private , it still feels weird to go back to using his full name when talking about him in public. He makes a mental note to ask him if he still wants to be called his full name in front of other people.

“Mm-hmm, he booked a spot for the two of you, so you’re all set. Normally for special events like that, you need to go through the app.”

“Right, I remember Clover saying that when I joined.” He folds his arms over his chest, looking for something to do with his hands. “How often do those come up?”

“A few times a month, usually. There’s an Events tab on the app that you can check out.”

“Got it.”

She rapidly types something on her computer before looking back up at him with a radiant smile. “All set, same room as last time.”

“Is that his usual or somethin’?”

She purses her lips to the side momentarily, one sharp cheekbone casting a shadow across her jaw. “Mmm, sorta. From what I remember, he sticks with one room per Dom and switches when he gets a new one.”

“Huh.”

Interesting. Rowan wonders if that’s typical for subs in general or a quirk of Mal’s. It almost sounds like something you’d do when you break up with someone and start dating someone new. Which, in a way, their Dom/sub relationship kind of is. Mal had been with someone before Rowan, and probably someone before him, and while there isn’t the same romantic connection as you’d have with a traditional dating relationship, there must still be some of that lingering discomfort about fucking someone in the same place as someone else.

But maybe not. This is a sex club, after all. A place of business transactions.

Rowan dwells on it throughout his customary single beer, not even bothering to finish it completely. He makes idle conversation with Jeremiah, rejects the advances of an attractive silver fox, and keeps a mental tally of how many people an enthusiastic twink makes out with on the dance floor.

Barely fifteen minutes later, Mal appears by his side and skips a drink altogether, opting to lead Rowan straight into the back rooms with little more than a “Hey” and a nod.

IN THE Gold Room, Mal flings his messenger bag down on the bed and unzips it in three quick movements, opening it like a briefcase. Inside are numerous bulging pockets, the contents of which Rowan can’t see, plus several toys nestled in the middle.

“Brought some shit,” Mal tells him unnecessarily.

He pulls out a pair of black leather cuffs, each a little over two inches wide with a silver buckle on one side and a D-ring on the other, connected by a sturdy-looking metal connector that clips on to each ring. As Mal had told him before, the inside is lined with short black fur that looks almost like velvet. Next to the cuffs he places a long string of silicone anal beads, identical to the ones they’d looked at last time in the toy cabinet. Finally he places down a bottle of strawberry-flavored lube.

“Strawberry, huh?” Rowan comments. “That your favorite?”

“The other flavors taste like ass, man. And not in a good way.”

Rowan mentally slaps himself for nearly forgetting. Forgetting that tonight , he’s gonna fuck Mal’s mouth after he fucks his ass.

He’s gonna come in his mouth after he fucks his ass.

He remembers how greedily Mal had swallowed each load at the gangbang, how delicious he looked with come coating his tongue and lips and dribbling down his chin.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Rowan tells him, finally.

He feels his dick give an interested twitch as he picks up the cuffs to examine them. He unclasps them from one another, turning one over in his hands, feeling the softness of the fur and the smoothness of the leather and the cold bite of the metal clasps. He flicks open the clasp, testing it several times to get the feel for it. Going through the motions. Pull, flick, clasp, tighten. Repeat. Pull, flick, clasp, tighten. Repeat. He practices a few more times, until his fingers slide over the material confidently.

Comfortable in his ability to open the cuffs quickly should the need arise, Rowan places them aside. Looks up to find Mal staring intently at him.

“You good, Boy Scout?”

The flush comes to Rowan’s cheeks against his will at having been clocked on his brief dalliance in the Boy Scouts because of some damn cuffs .

“Yeah.”

Mal half zips his bag and places it atop the supply table on the other side of the room.

When he returns, Rowan asks, “Since this is gonna be a bit more involved than our last scene, do you want me to check in throughout? Like, ask for your color?”

Mal chews his cheek in consideration.

“I normally don’t ask for that unless it’s a scene that I think will push me to my limit or it’s somethin’ I haven’t done before. But is that something you wanna do?”

“Maybe?” Rowan replies, hating how uncertain he feels.

“Gotta be on the same page about it, Red. One way or another.”

It’s a bit jarring—hearing the nickname so close to their scene—but it solidifies the desire he has to check in with Mal throughout.

“I’d like to, at least for today. Does it take you out of it?”

“Eh, yes ’n no. It makes me have to pause and think about how I’m feelin’, so there’s gonna be that moment where you kinda take a bird’s eye view of yourself and everything goin’ on. But at the same time, it’s reassuring that if something’s wrong, you’re in a safe place to fix it.”

Of all the things Rowan likes about Mal, his honesty and intelligence are creeping higher up on the list every time they meet. Rowan takes a deep breath, thinking through his words.

“Just don’t wanna go too far, y’know?” he confesses.

“Yeah, I get it,” Mal says with a shrug. “Lotta new Doms find it hard to get over the fear of causing pain. Unwanted pain anyway. And then when they get over that, they gotta wrestle with another part of themselves—morals or whatever—that tells ’em they shouldn’t like causing pain, even if they only like it in a controlled setting and they’re not just a fuckin’ psychopath.”

Rowan remembers a bit from The Loving Dominant that said something about domination, sadism, cruelty, and brutality becoming confused, and he thinks it’s a pretty apt description of what Mal’s talking about.

“Hope you don’t think I’m a psychopath.”

Mal scans him, and Rowan’s never felt quite so much like a worm in a petri dish.

But the illusion shatters with a swipe of Mal’s tongue across his lower lip. “Nah,” he says, lips quirking to one side. “Think you’re kind of a freak, though.”

Unable to help it, Rowan laughs. Because there was no judgment or vitriol in Mal’s tone. Only a sort of camaraderie that stems from ’cause I am too.

“Yeah,” Rowan agrees. “But so are you.”

That little side smirk appears again, and it shouldn’t get Rowan going as much as it does. “Yeah.”

“How ’bout l check in if it seems like something might be too much?”

Mal nods. “That works. Not afraid to use the words on my own either, so you don’t gotta worry about me waiting to be prompted or whatever if somethin’ starts crossing a line.”

Rowan knew as much, but hearing it confirmed again for him helps dissolve that last little bit of tension that had his shoulders and neck stiff all day.

“’Kay, good.”

As Mal moves to lean back against the edge of the bed, right in front of Rowan, there’s that electric charge in the air again. That shift that Rowan’s body understands instinctively on a primal level. And when Mal lifts his chin to smirk up at Rowan? Well. The electricity surges, heat and steam and sparks flying.

Against his own desires, Rowan doesn’t touch him yet. Doesn’t reach for him. First, he unbuttons the cuffs of his shirtsleeves, neatly folding each side up to his forearms, watching Mal’s eyes track his every move. He doesn’t remove anything, much more interested in getting Mal naked again.

For a moment, Rowan considers making Mal undress himself again.

But this time, he wants to do it. Wants to unwrap this gorgeous man like the fucking gift he is and watch him watch Rowan savor every goddamn second of it.

And yeah, Mal said that he wanted to be treated rough, and Rowan’s gonna give that to him, but the temptation of the buildup to it is stronger than his desire to give in immediately.

He turns Mal in place, slotting his chest against Mal’s back, gripping him by the biceps. Held in place, he hears Mal take a deep breath in, one, two, three seconds, followed by a jagged exhale as he tilts his neck to one side.

Like this, the cords of muscle running down Mal’s long neck pulse mere inches from Rowan’s lips, and he’s struck with the sudden urge to lick, suck, bite . Mark him up. Someday maybe, when they’ve talked about it. But for now, he noses behind Mal’s ear, breathing in that same minty scent he’d smelled last time, pressing his hips forward into his ass and letting Mal feel him grow hard. With the way he’s started hitching his ass back against Rowan’s crotch, he must feel it. Good.

Rowan might be willing to play into Mal’s desire to be degraded—and if he’s being honest, his own desire to do it to him—but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t let the other man know how much he’s enjoying this too.

But he’d enjoy it more, if….

He shifts one hand down to grip Mal’s hip, stilling his movements. Squeezing enough to feel the sharpness of his hip bone even through his jeans. Rowan moves his other hand from Mal’s bicep to curl around Mal’s chest, palm resting flat against his sternum, fingertips skimming his neck. He shifts the hand on Mal’s hip around Mal’s waist to unbutton his jeans. Rowan feels Mal’s hands wriggle underneath, attempting to take over in getting them off, but Rowan quickly slaps them away.

“It look like I need your fuckin’ help?” he growls in his ear, popping the button.

“Dunno, can’t see ya.”

It’s a taunt. A good one, because it almost works. Almost gets Rowan to spin him in place and tear his clothes off. Shove him to his knees like he did last time.

But it’s what Mal wants, and Rowan’s not gonna give in that easily.

Because Mal also likes being denied.

“Shame,” Rowan tells him. “Clasp your hands behind your back.”

He loosens his grip to let Mal do as he’s told, but unsurprisingly he doesn’t.

“Make me.”

With a turn of his head, Rowan can see Mal’s smirk in profile. That shit-eating grin he seems to sport whenever he knows he’s being a brat.

And listen. Rowan’s got a much better handle on his temper than he used to, but two taunts in a row reach right up to the limit. Almost but not quite boiling over. It’s Rowan’s pettiness that does him in, really. In one swift motion, he wrenches Mal’s arms from his sides to behind his back, bending at the elbows so he can grab his own forearms.

“Need me to wipe your fuckin’ ass for you too, Princess?” Rowan growls.

“May—”

“Finish that answer and I walk out that door.” With a final squeeze to Mal’s arms, after Mal finally locks his hands in place, Rowan resumes his previous task.

No faster than before, he drags Mal’s zipper down and pries apart the fabric enough to free the tip of his hard cock under his briefs. He ignores it, though, focusing his attention on the lowest button of Mal’s shirt.

Each tiny pop of a button releasing gets Mal squirming in front of him. Impatient. By the time Rowan is on the last button above Mal’s pecs, he hears a low huff of breath.

“You got somewhere to be?”

Mal doesn’t respond, and this time, Rowan presses.

“Tell me, Mal. Am I wasting my time here?”

“Wasting mine .”

Rather than the trickle of annoyance he should probably feel, Rowan feels like laughing, the sound coming out low in his throat.

“Oh yeah? What would you be doin’ if you weren’t here right now?” Rowan asks, sliding the smooth fabric of Mal’s shirt off his shoulders and tugging at his arms until they release.

With a careless flick, he tosses the garment on the floor behind him, then runs his hands lightly over Mal’s sides. Bare, no undershirt or tank beneath it, which feels sluttier than it should.

“Findin’ someone who’d actually fuck me sometime this century,” Mal says, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

“Try again.”

Because it’s obvious that Mal would not, in fact, be going out and finding someone else. Rowan knows that much in his fuckin’ soul . They’re too good a match for that, and while they’ve firmly established that they’re not exclusive, Rowan’s confident enough in his abilities as a partner to keep him coming back—even if his confidence as a Dom isn’t quite there yet.

“Maybe go find that Jason guy.”

The guy at the bar last week. Beefcake with bedroom eyes. Dick that may or may not be bigger than Rowan’s. “Thought it was Jackson?”

“Same shit.”

Rowan snorts in the back of his throat and runs his palms over the taut planes of Mal’s stomach, delving beneath his open jeans and feeling the heat of him.

“Can’t even remember his name. Sounds like you had a great time with him.”

“Don’t need to know someone’s name to get dicked down.”

“Mmm. But you know mine. Made sure’a that.” With that he curls his hand around the base of Mal’s cock through his briefs in a slow, teasing stroke.

“ Hhhh —” Mal breathes.

“Know what I think you’d actually be doin’?” Rowan asks but doesn’t wait for a response. “Think you’d be sittin’ at home, jerkin’ off. Coupla beers, maybe a few hits on a joint if you smoke. Thinking about how much you wish it was me.”

“Can jerk my dick just fine, man,” Mal huffs, defensive. He doesn’t deny it, though.

“Can’t fuck yourself just fine, though.” Rowan slides one hand around Mal’s hip to the curve of his ass, rubbing a fingertip between his cheeks through his briefs.

“Got toys.”

“Mmm. It’s not the same with toys, though, is it, Mal?” he asks, slipping his hand under Mal’s briefs and squeezing his asscheek, still lazily stroking him as a wet spot starts forming in the fabric from the tip of his cock.

Rowan likes this banter. Loves it, if he’s being honest, and wants to keep it going as long as Mal will tolerate.

“Toys can’t touch you,” Rowan purrs in Mal’s ear, hands leaving his cock and ass to stroke up over the heated skin of his sides, his chest, his shoulders. “Can’t hold you down.” A firm grip to muscular biceps. “Can’t treat you how you wanna be treated.”

In one swift motion, Rowan shoves Mal’s briefs and jeans down off his hips, making him gasp at the sudden exposure.

“Isn’t that right, Mal?”

“ Hn …. They got some fancy fuckin’ toys nowadays.”

“If they had a toy that could do all this, you’d’a bought it already. Instead, you spend three hundred bucks a month to come here and have someone do it to you.”

Mal’s already well and truly lost this argument, but Rowan can still sense the fight in him. The urge to push and the need to be right . But more than that, to be in control and then have that control stripped away.

“Maybe if—”

“ Enough . On the bed. Ass up,” Rowan tells him, nudging him toward the bed. “Finish stripping first.”

Mal does as he’s told, shedding his boots, socks, jeans, and briefs and tossing them in the direction of his shirt on the floor. With practiced ease, he positions himself on the bed, resting on his elbows with his knees spread wide. From above, Rowan can see the sinful dip of his spine and the pronounced muscles of the back of his thighs, begging to be grabbed.

“Look at you,” Rowan says, more to himself than to Mal as he gives in and squeezes each thigh in turn.

“Don’t got eyes in the back of my head,” Mal replies anyway.

Smack!

A sharp spank under one asscheek, red already starting to blossom on his skin as Mal’s surprised gasp fades away.

“There’s an idea,” Rowan muses, soothing over the heated skin. “Get a big fuckin’ mirror in here. Make you watch yourself fall apart.”

“ Hn ….”

Smack!

“Hah!”

“See how desperate you look till you get what you want.”

“N-not fuckin’ desperate ,” Mal mumbles, but the way he’s rocking his ass back against Rowan’s hands tells a different story.

“We’ll see about that.”

Rowan reaches for the beads that Mal placed on the bed earlier, the weight of them a pleasant heft in his hand. Grabbing the strawberry-flavored lube, he pops the cap and squirts a drop on his thumb, surprised to find that it’s clear, not red as he’d thought it might be. With the pad of his thumb, he circles Mal’s hole, not pressing inside but simply testing the resistance—it’s tight, he can tell that much, which means Mal must not have prepped much beyond whatever his cleaning routine is.

But before he fingers him open, he circles the rim a few times with his thumb, a pleased hum coming from Mal. And Rowan knows he’s supposed to be mean. Supposed to push him and shit, but he can’t help dipping forward and pressing a kiss straight to Mal’s hole, feeling the muscles quiver against his lips and tasting the artificial strawberry of the lube.

Sweet.

Unlike Mal’s grumbled, “You just fuckin’ kiss my asshole, man?”

And well. Yeah. He fuckin’ wanted to, all right? But he’s not gonna say that. Mal might kick him to the curb if he did. So he doubles down, sucking on the puckered hole before licking a long wet stripe over it.

A sharp inhale from Mal tells Rowan he’s not as put out by it as he originally seemed.

“Yeah,” Rowan tells him, pressing another semblance of a kiss to his hole. “Can do whatever the fuck I want.”

“Nng… ’cause I let you.”

“Yeah. You let me. ’Cause you fuckin’ love it.”

There’s nothing Mal can say in response that wouldn’t be a flat-out lie, and Rowan knows they both know it. He lets the sentiment linger in the air between them and sets to work, lubing his fingers quickly, along with Mal’s hole, focused on getting him prepped enough to take the beads.

As he stretches Mal, Rowan grows harder in his jeans, the tight heat around his fingers a promise of what’s to come.

When there’s little resistance and Mal’s making these beautiful, gaspy little noises, Rowan withdraws his fingers and grabs the string of beads.

“Think you’re ready for these?” he asks, dragging the strand of beads over Mal’s slick hole.

“Fuck yeah.”

“How bad d’you want ’em?” Rowan teases, circling the first bead around Mal’s hole and putting the tiniest amount of pressure against it.

“C’mon, been dying for ’em all day,” Mal replies, pressing backward in an attempt to get more of the bead inside.

And yeah, okay, that’s pretty convincing, but….

“Bet you have.” He walks around to the side of the bed, Mal rising up on his hands and turning up to him expectantly. “Show me. Get it wet,” he orders, holding the first bead to his mouth.

Mal’s lips part, pressed lightly against the silicone bead. The sight of the bead obscuring his mouth makes Rowan’s own lips water, and his cock jump as he imagines Mal stuffed with a ball gag.

Slowly, Mal opens his mouth wide enough to suck the tip of the bead in, all but kissing it as his lips close around it and push it back out, saliva gleaming against the matte black.

“Said get it wet, Mal. You call this wet?”

He doesn’t give Mal a chance to respond, pressing the bead back up against his lips. This time, he takes the whole thing in his mouth, lips closing tight around Rowan’s fingers where they grip the bead by the stem. The look in Mal’s eyes as he works his tongue around the bead is utterly devious, his tongue hot as it flicks against Rowan’s fingertips.

Heat pools in Rowan’s belly as he lets Mal suck on the bead and his fingers, feeling the spit start to trickle down his wrist.

It’s surely wet enough now, but Rowan’s selfish, and he’s not done watching Mal suck and lick the beads like candy. With his other hand, he presses his thumb against the side of Mal’s lips, stilling them.

“Another.”

He watches as the realization dawns on Mal and his eyes widen before slipping half closed. His mouth drops open enough for Rowan to shift his grip and shove the next bead inside. This time he keeps his fingers outside and covers Mal’s mouth with his palm, careful to not block his nose, the stem of the second bead slotted between his index and middle fingers.

“ Hnn …,” Mal groans.

Mal’s tongue darts out to lick at Rowan’s palm once before slipping back inside, his jaw working and cheeks hollowing as he sucks—a tantalizing reminder that Rowan’s going to be coming in that mouth by the end of the night.

“One more,” Rowan tells him, watching the pretty bob of Mal’s throat swallowing once, twice. “Give me a nod or shake.”

A firm dip of his head, and a third bead is popping in, Mal’s jaw slackening at the weight of them.

“Mmm,” he hums, mouth full.

Rowan squeezes at his cheeks, forcing him to look up at him. His eyelids flutter but remain open, the slivers of gold standing out against his skin—pale where it isn’t flushed—and Rowan swears he can feel his own eyes dilate further.

“You’re ready for ’em now,” Rowan tells him, tugging the whole string out with a sharp tug as soon as Mal relaxes his jaw.

Mal gasps, panting with his mouth open. A dribble of saliva runs over his bottom lip, and Rowan swipes at it with his thumb and pushes it back inside Mal’s mouth. Mal greedily tries to suck on Rowan’s finger, but Rowan pulls his thumb out and circles back behind Mal, palming his asscheek roughly.

Eager to get the show on the road, Rowan quickly lubes up the first bead and presses it against Mal’s waiting hole. There’s little resistance as he pushes it inside, mesmerized at the way Mal’s hole seems to swallow the bead.

“ Hnng …,” Mal moans, dipping his head against the bed.

“Took that one right in, huh?” Rowan tugs on the bead, watching rapt as it starts to emerge. “Keep it in.”

Mal shudders lightly but dutifully clenches and sucks the bead back inside. The act looks filthy , and it’s definitely doing something for Rowan.

“Next one,” Rowan warns, quickly lubing the second bead and pressing it inside after the first.

“Mmm….”

Good, but Rowan wants more.

He circles the rest of the string of beads, making the short silicone strand between the beads circle Mal’s rim, tugging on it enough to expose the end of the bead inside.

“Shit!”

Better.

Rowan’s hand rubs in a soothing motion over Mal’s ass as he pushes the next two beads inside in quick succession, Mal’s breathing growing harder with each one. He teases him, tugging the fourth bead halfway out before shoving it back inside, watching rapt as Mal’s hole adjusts and eventually swallows it greedily, closing back up like nothing happened.

“Last one,” Rowan tells him, again circling the strand around Mal’s hole to draw out more of those gaspy little moans from him.

“Fuck… do it , c’mon.”

“All together, these are almost as long as me. You sure you don’t want my cock instead?”

With a slow but firm tug, Rowan pulls the fourth bead back out, the scent of strawberry permeating his nose.

“ Nnnng !”

“Seem to enjoy this just fine. Why bother with the last one?”

A slick pop , and the third bead’s out.

“Shit… fuckin’….”

When Rowan starts tugging the second bead out, Mal lets out an honest-to-God whine that sends a spike right through Rowan’s core.

“No!”

The word makes Rowan freeze.

“Color?” he asks quickly, hoping the panic swelling in his chest isn’t evident in his voice.

“ Green , shit, fuckin’ green. Just need….”

Rowan’s relief is instant, washing over him like a tidal wave. Briefly he pictures himself leaning in, kissing Mal’s cheek and smoothing his hands over the backs of his perfect thighs, cooing at him that it’s okay. That he’ll give him what he needs.

But that’s not what Mal wants. Not what he asked for. So that’s not what Rowan gives him.

“What you need,” he starts, tugging the second bead out completely, to Mal’s audible dismay, “is to quit fuckin’ whining and let me play with you how I want.”

He reaches between Mal’s legs with his free hand, stroking his cock leisurely and finding that he’s hard as a rock. Good.

The beads are slippery with lube, making Rowan fumble them in his haste to position them back at Mal’s hole.

Two.

Three. Four.

Three. Four. Three.

Two.

He pumps each bead in and out, marveling at the way each one disappears so easily. Equally marveling at the effect it has on Mal—a constant stream of moans and whimpers that makes it hard to tell if Mal likes the beads going in or coming out more.

Either way, it’s a delicious melody in Rowan’s ears. It makes him want to reward Mal with what he’s been near begging for since the start.

With a quick swipe of his fingertip to coat the fifth and final bead in the lube already dripping from Mal’s hole, Rowan ultimately presses the last bead inside.

“Fuuu—” Mal whimpers, body stilling save for a subtle quaking in his thighs.

Color Rowan impressed. He gives Mal a moment to adjust to the new fullness before again twirling the looped end around in a wide circle, tugging Mal’s rim. Mal gasps, arms collapsing beneath him, head buried in between as he shoves his ass back at Rowan.

Smack!

“Mmm!”

“Finally got what you wanted, huh? Only minimal bitching,” Rowan states, slapping each asscheek twice more in quick succession, watching as Mal’s back arches beautifully and his legs spread another inch apart.

Mal simply lets out a shuddering breath in response.

“Mmm,” Rowan hums in appreciation. He palms himself once, painfully hard from the lack of direct stimulation all night.

And really there’s no need for that. Not when he’s got such a willing partner right in front of him. He climbs on the bed, only pausing to kick his boots off before swinging his legs up beside Mal.

Mal looks up at him, eyes bright but back still arched and tense, no doubt from the fullness of the beads.

“Come here.”