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WHEN SATURDAY night finally arrives, Rowan is nearly vibrating out of his skin. He received his test results from his doctor’s office this morning—all negative, thankfully—which means that he can stay at the club tonight once his membership is finalized.

He doesn’t even fully know what that entails yet, but hopefully he can meet someone at the bar there and spend the night with them. God, just the thought of hooking up with someone who will likely have the same or similar interests as he does has his cock twitching in his jeans.

Since receiving Clover’s email two days ago, he’s jerked off six times and feels like he could go another six rounds at least and still not be satisfied.

He takes a deep breath and tells himself to calm the fuck down. The long hot shower he takes helps. He makes sure to scrub his body thoroughly, wash his hair, and use some leave-in conditioner so he can style his undercut properly without it frizzing up on top like it usually does on these warm summer nights.

He towels off and considers his wardrobe. He still doesn’t have much, but the hand-me-downs from his older brother, Jay, are gone, and he has a mostly full closet of clothes he likes and more options than he’s ever had before. The FAQ portion of the website said business casual to cocktail attire is common, so he searches for something that will fit those criteria without being too formal.

Freshly dressed in dark jeans and a white button-up, he gathers everything he’ll need for tonight and hops in his Honda Civic to make the twenty-minute drive to the club.

He finds a parking spot in the back and circles the building to enter through the front. The club looks much the same as it had when he was here a few days ago, but now he can fully appreciate the ambiance. He approaches the desk at the entryway, nestled before the room opens into the familiar lounge and bar area.

The same blond woman who had ushered them inside the other day is standing at the desk, but this time she’s dressed in a slinky black leather dress with a matching choker collar. The blue light of a computer casts a glow on her face, and Rowan notes the cherry-red lipstick and smoky eye shadow. She looks intimidating, but in an entirely different way than she had in her business suit.

He clears his throat.

“’Scuse me?”

She looks up at him through her long eyelashes.

“Hi there! How can I help you?”

“I have a meeting with Clover Monroe at seven, I was just approved for a membership. Rowan Campbell.”

“Welcome, Rowan! I’m Camilla. I run the front of house. Follow me.”

She leads him past the bar and down the same hallway he’d taken to get to the injured man earlier in the week. She hasn’t given Rowan any cue that she recognizes him, which seems odd, but he’s sure it’s the same woman.

“Did we meet the other day?” he asks, unable to contain his curiosity. “When there was an incident at the club?”

She pauses in front of a door with a plaque that reads Office and eyes him curiously.

“I think I’d remember a face like yours.”

“Uh, I was one of the paramedics who responded to the emergency here a few days ago? You showed me and my partner in.”

“Oh!” She laughs. “That must’ve been Clover. My twin. She runs things behind the scenes.”

Ah. Twins.

“Oh, sorry.”

“Happens all the time.” Camilla waves him off and knocks on the door in two quick raps, waiting for a Come in ! from the other side before opening the door, revealing Clover—identical in appearance to Camilla except for her attire—behind a large white desk.

“Rowan Campbell for you,” Camilla tells her sister, ushering Rowan inside.

“Oh! You’re the EMT who was here earlier in the week,” Clover says as soon as she sees Rowan.

Rowan nods, not bothering to correct his title.

“Please, have a seat. Thanks, Cam.”

Camilla leaves with a wink to Rowan.

“Is that how you heard about us?” Clover asks.

“Yeah.”

“Not the best first impression, though I’m glad you decided to give us a shot anyway.”

“I was impressed by how it was handled, honestly. You’d be surprised how many people either don’t call, call too late, or withhold important details from us because they’re scared of the consequences.”

Clover nods solemnly in response. “I can’t even imagine. But you can be sure that won’t happen here. Safety is one of our primary concerns, and I’d rather the club get shut down than have someone be harmed because we didn’t do enough to help.”

“Good to know.”

With that, the conversation shifts to business.

Clover gives him the rundown of the club. He learns that there are four levels, each catering to different demographics. The ground floor is mostly professional, with a bar, lounge, and dance floor; nudity and any sexual acts are forbidden on this floor, as it helps ensure anyone who may enter from the street isn’t exposed to anything untoward, even though members need to check in at the desk upon arrival.

The second through fourth floors are for sexual acts, with the second floor being open to everyone, the third open only to female-identifying members, and the fourth to male-identifying members. Each floor has its own full bar, several small lounges, a bathroom and locker room, playrooms, and recovery rooms. To Rowan’s surprise, each floor also has an area off the lounge specifically for exhibitionists. He makes a mental note to investigate the one on the fourth floor.

Clover is thorough in her explanation of the club rules and membership perks, though Rowan has already read through them all several times. When prompted, he tells her he’d like to try the Silver membership for the month and gives her his license, credit card, and copy of his test results.

Multiple signatures later, he’s a hundred bucks poorer and officially a member of the Menagerie.

He shakes Clover’s hand as she pages her sister to come get Rowan and show him around.

“The layouts are all pretty much the same, but which floor would you like to tour?” Camilla asks once they are back in the hallway.

“The fourth.”

She nods and leads them to the elevator.

“You picked a good night to join, Rowan,” she tells him conspiratorially.

“Why’s that?”

“ Malcolm is here tonight.”

She says the name like it’s supposed to mean something to Rowan. When he stares at her blankly, she makes a small ah sound and explains.

“He’s… hm. He’s basically a god around here. VIP, you could say. Been coming for years. Everyone who sees him in action wants him, even some people not usually into men. Gorgeous, confident, incredible scene partner, etcetera, etcetera.”

“He a top?” Rowan asks. Because god or not, if he’s not a bottom, Rowan’s really not interested. He didn’t exactly come here to be the one getting fucked, despite the fact that he does get an itch for it once in a while.

She huffs out a laugh. “Nooo. Power bottom. Think I can count on one hand the number of times he’s topped, at least that he’s told me about.”

That gives Rowan pause. “You’re friends?”

“Mm-hmm. Well, as close to it as I think he lets people get, anyway. We’ve both been here a long time.”

Rowan doesn’t know what she means by as close as he lets people get , but he nods. “So what’s so special about him being here tonight if he comes all the time?”

“He booked the Black Room for the entire night.”

Again, like that’s supposed to mean something to Rowan.

“Black Room?”

He mentally runs through the list of themed rooms that Clover had mentioned but is drawing a blank.

“Unofficially, the gangbang room.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

Rowan feels his cheeks flame up and hates himself for it. He’s literally become a member of a sex dungeon and is being escorted by a woman dressed more or less as a dominatrix, and here he is blushing at the thought of a gangbang.

“So… is that something anyone can join in on?” Rowan hedges.

“Yes and no. He’s done it a few times in the past, and each time he’s picked the participants. You’re free to go to the room later tonight to see if he’s interested, though it’s usually quite crowded, and only a handful get chosen. It starts at eight.”

“Got it.”

Jesus.

This guy must be a literal god if he has to hand select people to fuck him from a lineup. Camilla hasn’t said anything about his physical description, but Rowan’s picturing some tall, dark, and handsome man with bulging muscles straight out of a Chippendale’s calendar. It’s not Rowan’s usual type. He prefers someone at least a little scrappy and imperfect, but if this guy’s as good as he sounds, Rowan can get on board with whatever he looks like.

The fourth floor is styled similarly to the ground floor, all dark walls and décor with golden accents and tastefully placed strips of white and blue lights. About half of the patrons are walking around in various states of undress, and it has Rowan’s pulse quickening. A tall, thin man wearing a mesh top and tight leather pants walks past him with a wink before grinding on a group of guys on the dance floor opposite the bar, and Rowan thinks he might like this place a whole lot.

He snaps back to himself when Camilla points out the various playrooms, locker rooms, and changing rooms that her sister had detailed. She also points out the area tucked away into the corner, barely visible if you stand at the right place at the bar, where members can go to watch or partake in public sex acts—the VoyEx corner. Not the most original of names, but it piques Rowan’s interest regardless. While full-on sex is prohibited in the main bar and lounge area for cleanliness’s sake, since they do serve appetizers and drinks, there’s nothing against it there.

He’s much more interested in the upcoming gangbang, which really is the best of both worlds.

When the brief but thorough tour is over, Camilla leaves Rowan plunked down at the bar, tells him to ask any of the staff if he needs anything at all, and disappears.

“What can I get ya, handsome?”

Rowan snaps his head up to see the bartender smiling at him. He’s beautiful, easily taller than Rowan by a few inches, deep brown skin, short hair styled in effortless-looking sponge curls, chocolate brown eyes. Rowan wonders if it’s taboo to ask for a staff member’s number.

“Just a beer, please. Whatever’s on tap.”

The man nods, starts pouring the amber liquid from the tap.

“I take it you’re new here…?”

“Rowan. And yeah. Just joined.”

Placing his drink on a black cocktail napkin, he gives Rowan a coy smile. “Jeremiah. What’s your poison?”

“Thanks. Uh, I’m a top. Dom.”

Jeremiah waggles his eyebrows. “Have you heard what Malcolm has planned for tonight?”

There he is again.

“Camilla mentioned it. He really that big a deal around here?” Rowan takes a sip of beer. A little too hoppy for his taste, having grown up drinking the cheapest watery swill anyone in his family could afford.

“Mm-hmm.”

Rowan’s curiosity is officially piqued.

“What’s he like?”

“Quiet, but a bit of a sourpuss when he does talk. Pretty outspoken. He’s helped shape some of our policies over the years, believe it or not. Gorgeous too.”

That’s the second person who’s called Malcolm gorgeous , and it’s not doing anything to dissuade Rowan from picturing some Adonis-like man.

“Think I should try to get in on this gangbang?”

Jeremiah shrugs. “Your call. But if that’s your thing, you won’t find a better place or a better person for it in the whole city.”

Rowan nods slowly a few times, pretending to mull it over in his head as if he hadn’t already decided the second Camilla mentioned it that he’s going to check it out. If he strikes out, he’s sure he can find that guy who winked at him earlier, or even see if Jeremiah’s shift is ending anytime soon. After all, he’s never had a hard time finding someone to spend the night with when he’s wanted to.

“Are you planning on getting another drink tonight, or should I put that in for your freebie?” Jeremiah asks.

“Oh, uh, no, I’m good with this. Thanks.” He pauses, tapping the side of the glass a few times. “Do you guys carry Blue Ribbon by any chance?”

To his surprise, Jeremiah huffs out a quick laugh, but it doesn’t sound unkind. “We do, but hardly anyone orders it ’cause it’s such a shitty beer.”

Rowan isn’t offended. “I’m a shitty beer kinda guy.”

“You’re in luck. Turns out so is Malcolm—he’s one of the few who drink it, so I always keep a couple cases in stock.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmm.”

That surprises him. For some reason, Rowan had expected him to like top-shelf liquor, so now his mental picture of the guy is all over the place.

Jeremiah makes small talk with him between helping other members at the bar, none of whom catch Rowan’s eye. Rowan lets himself get lost in his thoughts, most of which migrate inevitably to this Malcolm guy. It’s an uncommon name. Rowan doesn’t know shit about name etiology or he’d try to develop a picture of him based on his name alone.

He’s finishing his drink when he notices many of the members in the bar and lounge migrating toward the end of the hallway and a set of black double doors. He checks the time: 7:58 p.m. This must be what Camilla was talking about.

The gangbang is going to start soon.

He discards the empty glass on the bar with a five-dollar bill under it as a tip and heads toward the crowd. There’s an excited buzz in the air, like the feeling at a concert after all the openers have left and the main act is about to begin.

Rowan worms his way to the front to find the double doors to the Black Room have been opened and the men have started filing in.

As expected, the walls and floor inside are completely black, the room lit surprisingly well by white spotlights in the ceiling. Also on the ceiling are large hooks, likely designed for suspension rigs. Rowan can practically feel his pupils dilate.

A series of glass cases lined with black velvet adorn the walls, filled with more toys than Rowan’s ever seen in his life . Everything from cords of every color rope to dildos to bondage gear. The cases are surrounded by open black curtains on either side, the silky fabric catching the light and making them shine.

In one corner is a table set up with condoms and numerous bottles of lube, sanitary wipes, a sink with hand towels, and a mini fridge filled with bottles of water. Rowan hadn’t considered the logistics of something like this, but it seems like pretty much everything is taken care of.

In the center of the room is a larger than king-size platform bed, topped with a thick black leather cushion rather than a mattress and sheets.

But the bed is much less interesting than what’s in front of it.

Who’s in front of it.

Malcolm.

And fuck, when Rowan actually takes him in—this mysterious Malcolm whose reputation preceded him from the second Rowan stepped into the club—Rowan’s both over- and underwhelmed.

He’s standing at the foot of the bed, weight on one leg, with his arms crossed low over his chest. And Rowan doesn’t know how to describe what he sees other than good in all the right ways, but definitely not how he was expecting.

For one, he’s short . He can’t be more than five foot six or seven to Rowan’s six two, and he’d be lying if he said that the height difference didn’t do something for him. And he’s…. Rowan doesn’t want to say stocky, because that tends to come with a certain sense of unattractiveness, but he’s broad around the shoulders and chest, clearly defined muscles half hidden beneath a layer of softness in his arms and belly that Rowan immediately wants to squeeze and watch the skin turn white under his fingertips.

And Rowan had expected bronzed, but Malcolm is pale , not washed out but with a healthy glow making all that porcelain skin look smoother than it probably is, if the sparse dusting of dark body hair on his arms and legs and the smattering of scars are anything to go by. But the color of his skin is broken by dozens of blackwork tattoos—not an ounce of color from what Rowan can see.

The first piece he notices is across the man’s chest, a trio of lilies—the largest in the center with two smaller ones on either pec—intertwined with two old-fashioned pistols aiming toward his shoulders, plumes of smoke swirling out of each barrel and up toward his collarbones. Next comes his right inner forearm, a skull and crossbones shrouded in black mist.

On his rib cage on the left side is a traditional American-style tattoo—minus the color—of a heart with flowers and leaves peeking out behind it and a curled scroll with the word LISA. It stands out among the realistic style of the rest of his tattoos, and Rowan can’t help but wonder who she is and what garnered her a position on one of the most painful parts of the body to get tattooed. Rowan still shudders, thinking of the pain of getting his own cross tattoo on his rib cage.

His eyes are drawn downward. Black boxer briefs are the only piece of clothing Malcolm is wearing, tight enough to cause a slight bulge where the fabric digs into the flesh of his thighs and the V of his hips. On his right thigh, a thin strip of detailed lace is inked beneath the hem of the briefs, wrapping around like a fucking garter belt, a knife expertly tattooed underneath as if actually holding the weapon against his skin. Realistically, the blade would cut through the delicate material, but in the world of ink, this impossible scenario is making Rowan’s head spin.

There is a smattering of other, smaller tattoos on his arms and something peeking out on either side of his hips underneath his briefs, and Rowan finds that he desperately wants to get closer to inspect them all.

Malcolm rubs his hands over his face, giving Rowan a perfect view of his knuckle tattoos. It takes a second for his brain to register the words upside down, but as soon as it does—the tattoo spelling THUG LIFE—something in him lurches.

He needs to know more about him.

About this man who’s completely blindsided him and who has somehow flawlessly combined feminine and masculine symbols on his body to create an image that isn’t wholly one or the other. Rowan wonders if maybe he’d gotten the rougher tattoos first—the knife and the skull and the pistols—then come to terms with something about himself that led him to add the lace, the flowers, the heart with a woman’s name on it. Or maybe it was the other way around, or maybe neither is true. Either way he desperately wants to find out.

So far he’s spent so much time ogling Malcolm’s body and tattoos that he’s hardly noticed his face at all. And when he finally flits his eyes upward, once again his breath catches. Dark hair buzzed short at the sides and longer on top, curling attractively over his forehead. Thick, dark eyebrows that show so much expression even though he’s not actively talking. Sharp nose leading to pouty lips that Rowan both wants to kiss and see wrapped around his cock.

And his eyes .

God.

Rowan’s always been good with words, but coffee and chocolate and all that other corny shit have nothing on the piercing golden caramel of this man’s eyes, and no other comparison does them justice. The whole black-and-white aesthetic he has going on is shattered by the pop of gold. And when his eyes flit around the room and land on Rowan’s—for the briefest of seconds—Rowan swears his heart stops.

It’s clear that the other men around him have seen him before. Hell, most of them have probably fucked him before. But they seem to be so unaffected by his presence, casually chatting with each other and hardly paying attention to him at all, and Rowan can’t help but want to grip each of them by the shoulders and shake , because how is no one else having as much of a reaction as he is right now?

And fuck, gorgeous is the perfect word, isn’t it? Rowan understands why he kept hearing it. He’s not hot, not handsome, not beautiful, not pretty. He’s a combination of all of those things in different, subtle ways. The intensely hot smolder in his eye, the handsome cut of his jaw, the beautiful curve of his cheekbones, the pretty fluttering of his eyelashes… it all adds up to something that Rowan likes far more than he should.

Just… gorgeous.

Throughout his life, especially during his wilder teenage phase, Rowan has been with nearly every type of guy under the sun. But Malcolm is different. It’s like he is the sun, or some shit. Like he’s what Rowan’s been gravitating toward his whole life but never managed to catch up to. Always circling, never getting a chance to meet.

But now he has a chance. To fuck the sun, or whatever.