Page 29

He scribbles them down in his mind and erases them over and over with a firm shake of his head. So many “I” statements. His psychiatrist would be proud if Rowan weren’t too gut-wrenchingly embarrassed to say any of this shit out loud. One of his many character flaws is that he’s always been terrible at talking about his feelings. Maybe it’s his brain chemistry, or maybe it’s from growing up Southie, where sharing your weaknesses—real or perceived—was a sure way to get your ass kicked.

Maybe that’s why he’s always had such bad luck in relationships, and why he doesn’t want to fuck up this one.

This… arrangement.

He’s gonna tell him tonight. At the diner. Just needs to find the right words, the right time. When they’re walking home? Yeah. That way if it goes south, they both have a quick getaway.

The words will come to him when the time’s right, he’s sure of it. It’s gonna be great.

ROWAN’S GOT Mal trussed up on the bench, calves roped to his thighs, legs wide. Spread-eagled for Rowan like he’d been wanting to get him for months. Face down on the bench, arms outstretched, muscles taut.

It’s the most intense position they’ve done by far, and Rowan’s mind reels with the trust that Mal is showing him. The clicker in Mal’s hand has been silent save for the single click for “green” when Rowan’s asked for a check-in.

All he hears instead are moans. Sweet, guttural, broken moans that vibrate around the breathable ball gag in his mouth.

It’s a trade-off. One moan for every one of the beads Rowan pushes into Mal’s hole, two for every one he drags slowly back out.

And as much as he craves Mal’s moans, it’s been too long since Rowan’s heard his voice. Fuck, an hour? Fifteen minutes, maybe? He’s lost all track of time, relying solely on the alarm on his phone to alert him if they’re close to overstaying their time limit. He stuffs the last two beads into Mal’s ass, toying with the loop at the end and circling it around his hole before rounding to Mal’s front, carefully unclasping the gag from behind his head. Soft hair sweaty under his fingertips.

As the gag comes free, slick with spit, Rowan cups his cheeks, gingerly rubs at the redness on the sides of mouth from the bite of the gag’s leather strap.

“So good for me, Mal. Tell me how it feels.”

“Full….”

“Yeah? What else?”

Rowan pets over his shoulders, feeling the coils of rope one after another under his hands like speed bumps interrupting the smooth expanse of Mal’s arms.

“Feels… fuck ….” Mal’s voice is raspy as he clears his throat. “Feels like I’m floating.”

Mal’s very much not floating. Not with forty feet of rope securing his limbs, anyway. He’s well and truly rigged in place, unable to even push back the slightest bit against Rowan’s prying hands. But fuck if that doesn’t go straight to Rowan’s dick—getting Mal right where he wants him, knowing that he wants to be there as badly as Rowan wants him there.

Every time Rowan gets Mal into that headspace—gives him that the safe, secure, floaty feeling—it’s a direct shot of dopamine straight to his brain. There have been very few sessions that he’s failed to get him there, something that Rowan prides himself on. It’s the ultimate high that Rowan seeks out as much for Mal as for himself.

“Gonna fuck you like this,” Rowan tells him, stroking his cheek. “And you’re gonna sit here and take it like I know you can. You gonna be good?”

“So good, wanna be good….”

“You are, Mal. Always.”

The beads come out one by one, a slow and steady pull that has Mal’s hole stretching wide and clenching shut over and over. When they’re all out, Rowan smooths his palm over Mal’s hole, spread wide for him and twitching at the contact.

“Please…,” Mal whines.

It’s amazing how far he’s come. From adamantly refusing to beg for anyone, now freely begging for Rowan’s cock without prompting and at the tiniest hint of contact.

He’s so fucking good.

“Shh…,” Rowan coos. “Thought you wanted to be good for me?”

“I do.”

“And you know I’m always gonna take care of you, right?”

“Right.”

Smack!

“ Hhn !”

Mal’s asscheek vibrates and reddens with the force of Rowan’s hand on him.

“So quit beggin’ for it like I’m not gonna fuck you in five seconds.”

With that, he slides into Mal’s waiting hole, matching groans bouncing off the walls. The sight of Mal bound before him drives Rowan’s hips forward, slow at first, then gaining speed with the breathy moans pouring from Mal’s lips.

As much as Rowan loves heaving Mal around like a rag doll, having him perfectly still and unable to move is as much of a turn-on. He loses himself in the sensation, in the heat, in the bliss that is Mal’s body, and lets himself drown in the din of slick skin and guttural groans.

And Mal may not be able to press back into him like he usually does, but it doesn’t stop him from clenching around him, milking Rowan’s cock for all it’s worth. He’d once called himself the “world’s best bottom,” and Rowan swears he’s right. Like he’s sucking Rowan’s soul out through his goddamn dick, and it makes him grip Mal’s hips harder and pound into him faster.

Too soon, he’s nearing his end, the room all but spinning and his body throbbing head to toe.

“Gonna fill you up.”

“Yeah, yeah ….”

“Wanna feel you come on my cock first.”

“Can’t… need—”

Smack! Smack!

“C’mon, Mal. I know I’m hittin’ that spot. Focus.”

“ Nngg ….”

Rowan slows down his thrusts, grinding his hips in tight circles and drawing back only an inch or two before drilling back in, working Mal’s prostate.

“Fuck!”

“Know you can do it. Wanted to be good for me, ’member?”

“Yeah… want to… more, please ….”

“I got you.”

Rowan gives him everything. And in a dozen more thrusts, Mal’s moaning beautifully, a crescendo from a soft mumble to a near shout as he spasms around Rowan’s cock.

“Fuckin’ perfect , Mal, God….”

And Rowan’s right there with him, emptying inside Mal, body bowstring taut as he milks his release. The pleasure courses through him in waves, in time with the rhythmic pulsing of Mal’s walls around him, perfectly in sync.

He pulls out slowly, watching in wonder as Mal’s open hole winks at him and a dribble of Rowan’s own come trickles out and drips onto the bench below.

Fuck . It’s almost enough to get him hard again. If there’s anyone able to make Rowan’s body defy biology, it’s definitely Mal.

Rowan grabs a damp cloth from the supply table and gingerly wipes the come and lube from between Mal’s cheeks and thighs and the come from his cock where it’s softening among his pubes. Something Mal’s only really allowed him to do the past two months or so, after their more intense scenes, and Rowan takes the job and the gesture seriously, wiping thoroughly yet gently.

Rowan unties Mal like he’s unwrapping a gift. Gingerly and with a precision that frees him quickly and efficiently. He flings each coil of rope over the bench, not bothering to wind it yet as he guides Mal to standing, then leads him to the bed. It’s clear his legs are shaky from disuse, but he manages to stay upright and lies flat on his back on the leather bed.

The rope indentations zigzag along Mal’s legs and arms, sweet pink to violent red from how hard he’d strained against the binds in some areas. Rowan rubs them gently, hands massaging Mal’s skin to stimulate the blood flow. Pressing, pulling, sweeping, up and down and across. As he works him over, Mal’s head dips softly back to the bed, eyes lightly closed.

“Feels okay?”

“Mmm. Yeah…. ’S good.”

Rowan shifts to his legs, stroking his shins and his knees and his thighs, past his groin and up to his hips, then all the way back down to complete the circuit.

By the time Mal’s breath has evened out and his skin has mostly returned to its normal color, Rowan’s got a smile on his face that won’t go away.

ROWAN IS still coasting on the high of their session on the walk back from Sheila’s diner. He’s gonna tell him. The marquee lights of the club are visible over the horizon, half a mile away, give or take. Plenty of time for a heart-to-heart. A confession and a plea.

“So…,” Mal starts before Rowan can even open his mouth.

Rowan’s pulse races, body a live wire and suddenly too alert for the quiet night.

But….

“My old Dom’s gonna be back in town next week.”

There’s that chill in the air again, the first week of September signaling the end of summer, and it passes straight through Rowan’s body like a ghost.

“Yeah?” Rowan asks, because what else is he supposed to do with that information?

“Said he wanted to do a scene together.”

Rowan’s feet don’t stop moving, but he’s pretty sure his heart does.

With a shuddering breath, he feigns nonchalance. “Okay? Go for it. You know you don’t need to ask me, Mal.”

Bitterness laces his tone; he knows it does, but it can’t be helped. Not when he was seconds away from telling Mal that he wants to be more.

“I want you to be there. If you’re cool with it.”

Oh.

“To… watch? Or join in?”

“Prob’ly just watch. He’s not big on sharing, but he’s a big exhibitionist.”

Last Rowan checked, you can’t share something that doesn’t belong to you in the first place. He chances a glance over at Mal, and he can faintly see the marks on his wrists and forearms from the rope.

Rowan lets himself be silent until they get to the next block. It’s fucking weird hearing Mal talk about his old Dom. Rowan’s predecessor. It feels like asking if your new boyfriend is cool with watching you sleep with your ex. And yeah, whatever. They don’t have those titles for each other. Their arrangement still lets them sleep with other people, if they want. But the thing is, Rowan hasn’t wanted to in a long time. And he thought that Mal was finally on the same page as him with that.

But it seems like Mal had his own agenda for their walk back tonight. Maybe this whole time Rowan’s only been seeing what he wants to see. Maybe he’s been interpreting Mal’s actions the past few months as intimate when they should have been classified as something else. Something more platonic.

He thought they had something, is what it boils down to. And now he feels a lot like an idiot for thinking that.

“Are you gonna do the scene with him whether I’m there or not?” Rowan asks, and he knows it’s pettiness and an unhealthy dose of spite that’s making him ask.

But, mercifully, “No.”

So Rowan’s at a crossroads again, isn’t he? Mal clearly wouldn’t have brought it up if some part of him didn’t want to do a scene with his former Dom again. But he also doesn’t want to do it without Rowan there. For… what? Exactly? To show Rowan what a real Dom is like? It’s been a while since he had doubts about his ability to dominate Mal, but now the worry rears its ugly head and comes straight to the forefront of Rowan’s mind. He doesn’t know how long Mal was with this guy before Rowan, but he must have been good enough to warrant a scene when the guy happens to be in Boston for a weekend vacation or a business trip or whatever.

A big part of him wants to say no. Now that he feels like he and Mal have gotten to the point of being nearly exclusive, he’s finding it real hard to give that up. But that’s the thing that he has to keep telling himself: No matter how much he wishes they were, they’re not exclusive. Not yet. Maybe not ever if Rowan freaks out and gets all clingy and possessive like he’s wont to do.

So maybe this is the cost of getting there. Watching someone else take his place for one night. Who knows? It could even be hot as hell. He’s gotten off on thinking of the gangbang more times than he can count—seeing Mal with all those men. Maybe this won’t be any different.

But even as he tries to rationalize it, he knows that it’s different now. They’re different now. Their dynamic at the very least, if not their actual selves. Hell, Rowan knows he’s changed in countless ways since he started his arrangement with Mal.

What exactly those ways are, though, he’s not sure he could put into words. His life feels like more now that he has Mal in it. It’s in the little things, he guesses. A pep in his step on the way into work, a penchant for humming along to the schmoopy songs on the radio, a feeling of well-restedness the morning after waking from syrupy sweet dreams. Little things that could single-handedly cure his depression in one fell swoop if only he could grind them up and wash them down one at a time with a glass of water. He hasn’t felt this good in a long time, and for once, he’s not even waiting for the other shoe to drop.

At the very least, he can anticipate how good it’ll feel to show Mal what a kickass Dom he has become.

The Menagerie looms over him by the time he finally gives Mal an answer.

“Okay. Text me the details.”

He makes a break for his car with little more than a “See ya” and a wave goodbye.

THE SESSION is booked for the Green Room. Rowan remembers enough from his English literature classes before he’d tested out of them that the irony of being in a room associated with envy isn’t lost on him. This will be the first time he’s had to see Mal with someone else since the gangbang all those months ago. And while he knows that Mal has at least slept with other people—the condom incident still fresh in his mind, far away as it is—seeing it is a whole ’nother story.

The normal sashay in his step when he’s walking into the club is all but gone, replaced with a sluggishness that should have him turning tail and heading straight back home. If Camilla notices his drastically different demeanor when she checks him in—which she almost certainly does—she doesn’t mention it. She simply smiles and gives him directions to the correct room.

When he finally gets to the room, Mal’s already there with another man. Standing—fully clothed, thankfully—and talking. The guy’s not what Rowan expected, but he immediately dislikes him. The man is an inch or two taller than Mal, an inch or two shorter than Rowan. He’s dressed in black slacks and a blue button-up with a starched white collar. Black belt. Shiny black shoes. Rolex watch. Dark brown hair that’s starting to hit the salt-and-pepper stage putting him somewhere probably in his forties, maybe late thirties depending on his genetics.

He looks like a fucking accountant, Rowan thinks. Then he remembers that Mal is an accountant and throws that theory out the window. A CEO or something, then.

“Hey!” Mal says when he spots Rowan.

Though, Rowan guesses, he’s Malcolm now.

“Hey,” Rowan says, closing and locking the door behind him.

“Rowan, this is Steven. Steven, Rowan.” Much more formal than when he’d introduced him to Amy at his birthday.

Steven. Probably spells it S-t-e-p-h-e-n like an asshole. Such an ordinary fucking name for an ordinary-looking guy. Definitely not someone who deserves someone extraordinary like Mal. Rowan shakes the guy’s hand and finds it too clammy and delicate for his liking. Like this guy’s never worked with his hands a day in his life, and it doesn’t bode well for his ability to be a good Dom. How he managed to bag Mal is a mystery.

“Nice to finally meet my replacement. I’d wondered how long it would take Malcolm to find someone new.”

His voice is a low purr that makes the hairs on the back of Rowan’s neck stand up.

“Not too long, it seems,” Rowan replies, though in truth he has no idea how long before the gangbang Steven left.

Steven snorts lightly through his nose and eyes Rowan up and down. Scrutinizing. Rowan feels his blood heat up in his veins, but returns the favor, keeping his face completely impassive.

“All right, put the rulers away,” Mal quips with a roll of his eyes.

And yeah, Rowan knows what Mal’s saying, but all he can think is that this guy better not have a bigger dick than he does.

“So how’s this going to work?” Rowan asks. “Do you have a plan for the scene?”

“Pretty standard stuff—gagging, wrist restraints, and spanking.”

“I assume we’re going to do it raw like usual?” Steven asks, a glint in his eye.

“Condoms,” Mal replies curtly.

Rowan’s heart swells.

“Shame, but all right.”

There’s a thick leather armchair in the corner, several feet from the same platform bed that’s been in all the other rooms so far. Rowan takes his cue from Mal’s nod to retreat to the chair, where he’ll have a front-row seat to watch Mal get fucked by someone else.

As Rowan drops down into the chair, the air in the room suddenly shifts.

“Clothes off,” Steven instructs.

There’s a bite to it that tells Rowan the guy knows how to order others around, but the cadence of it makes it seem more like he’s used to ordering around the hired help. But Mal complies, and with a swift nod, he deftly strips out of his black button-up shirt, letting it fall to the floor, followed by his shoes and the rest of his clothes.

Seeing Mal naked predictably spikes Rowan’s pulse, but he’s a far cry from being as hard as he would normally be if he were in Steven’s position. The same goes for Mal, Rowan notices. There’s a pulse of interest between his legs, but he isn’t fully hard yet. Rowan chalks it up to nerves, maybe. But then, Mal hadn’t even batted an eye when he’d gotten on his knees for ten men a few months ago, so this might as well be a regular old Saturday night for him. Or maybe he’s bored already with Steven.

In a practiced set of motions, Steven binds Mal’s wrists behind his back with leather cuffs. Something Rowan’s done more than a dozen times himself by now. His fingers twitch with the phantom sensation of cool metal and soft leather as Steven pushes Mal onto the bed.

Mal is facing Rowan, eyes heavily lidded. Intense. The look alone makes him throb in his jeans. Steven climbs on the bed behind Mal, barely looming over him. He shoves his hips against Mal’s bound hands.

“Get me out,” Steven tells him.

“How d’you expect me to do that?” Mal quips.

Rowan tries to force down his laugh, but it comes out a garbled sound that he tries to cover with a cough.

“Same way you’ve done a hundred times, you little slut.”

The realization of how long they’ve been together—exaggerated or not—hits Rowan like a freight truck, and suddenly he’s not laughing anymore. That’s at least two years if the number is to be believed. Despite his own connection with Mal and their chemistry, Rowan feels himself shrivel a bit. But he shakes it off. Mal wanted him here for a reason. And Rowan owes it to him to at least pay attention and enjoy the show, as much as he’d rather be up there himself.

Mal fumbles with Steven’s pants, eventually working him free. Steven shuffles around so his back is facing Rowan and Mal is turned three-quarters of the way to him. Still perfectly in view. From the glimpse he’d gotten, he can tell that Steven’s cock is average. Nothing special in either the girth or length department. How a size queen like Mal got by with it is a mystery. Rowan knows for a fact that it’s not all in how you use it. Size does matter. Or maybe Mal became a size queen after Rowan. That thought sends a rejuvenating rush of possessive pride through Rowan that he doesn’t even try to shake off or ignore.

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t even notice Steven wrapping his cock and shoving it deep in Mal’s throat. He hadn’t even gotten fully undressed, his already undone slacks now shoved halfway down his thighs.

Rowan can’t lie that the sight of Mal sucking dick gets him going, even if he has to fight off the curl of jealousy in his belly. Mal’s a goddamn natural. Taking Steven deep, jaw slack and breathing raggedly through his nose as Steven fucks his mouth. His mouth was fucking—

“Made to suck cock,” Steven grunts.

For once, Rowan agrees with him.

He spreads his legs wider and palms himself, his growing erection in desperate need of attention. But he won’t take it out yet. As much a tease for himself as for Mal, whose eyes are glued to where Rowan’s hand strokes rhythmically over his bulge. Even with another man’s cock in his mouth, he’s still got all his attention focused on Rowan.

And fuck if that isn’t the hottest shit.

With a sharp hiss, Steven mutters, “Watch the teeth. You’re getting sloppy.”

As if Mal’s head game isn’t top tier, even if—hell, because —he gets filthy and sloppy with it when he really gets into it. Like he’s getting into it now. He adjusts his stance so he can get a better angle, legs spread wide and head dipped low, bobbing freely and with lewd slurping noises that go straight from Rowan’s ears to his dick. Rowan sees that Mal’s hard now, cock hanging heavy between his spread legs.

It’s torture to not jump up and suck his beautiful thick cock down, Steven be damned. He palms himself harder when Mal pulls off with a gasp, a thin trail of spit connecting his lower lip to the tip of Steven’s cock. It’s now that Rowan would pet his face and tell him how good he was.

“You’ve gotten rusty, Malcolm” is what Steven tells him instead.

Last week, Mal sucked him off so well that he nearly saw stars and had to pull off to avoid blowing early. And that is rusty? Rowan thinks that Steven either has no idea what good head is, or he’s being an asshole for the sake of being an asshole. Something that Rowan knows doesn’t usually make someone a good Dom.

“Is that how he likes to be sucked? Badly?” Steven asks, tearing the condom off and tucking himself away before chucking the condom in Rowan’s general direction.

Rowan nearly gets up and throws it back at him.

“N—” Mal’s eyebrows knit together for a beat before he answers firmly, “No…, Sir.”

“And you’ve nearly forgotten my title. Tsk, tsk . Let’s get that mouth of yours shut before you make a bigger fool of yourself.”

Even when he’s being rough and mean with Mal, Rowan’s own admonishments never come with the harsh bite of cruelty underlying them that Steven’s seem to.

They’ve used a breathable ball gag a few times, but Steven grabs a long piece of black cloth from the bed that Rowan hadn’t noticed.

“Open your mouth,” he tells Mal.

“Make me.”

In his seat, Rowan smirks.

But Steven clicks his tongue again, spins Mal in place, and forces the gag in his mouth, tying it tight across the back of his head. Mal lets out a groan as the fabric tugs at the corners of his lips.

“Still acting out, I see,” Steven notes.

Like being a brat isn’t Mal’s default state the majority of the time he scenes. It’s practically his signature fucking personality trait in bed. Part of Rowan can’t help but wonder if Mal’s changed since he was last with Steven, or if Steven really didn’t know him at all.

Steven adjusts Mal’s cuffs so they’re clasped in front of him, then pushes him down on all fours, still facing Rowan.

“Think it’s time we see if you can still take it like you used to.”

After climbing off the side of the bed, Steven stands beside Mal, stroking roughly over his back and ass.

The first spank is hard, straight to Mal’s ass.

“Mmm!” Mal groans.

Mal’s head dips, breaking eye contact with Rowan for the first time since they got started. More hard spanks in quick succession, the sound reverberating off the green walls. He grunts or groans into the bed with each spank, fingers clenched together and turning pale white, tattoos all but popping off his knuckles.

Steven didn’t even ease Mal into it, which Rowan knows he prefers.

Mal’s grunting grows more frequent, but varies in its volume from the barest squeaks to throat-rattling groans. Something about his noises sounds stilted, though. Not quite what Rowan is used to hearing week after week. Not like the sweet sounds he’s committed to memory.

Steven keeps spanking, stopping every few hits to adjust himself in his jeans. Clearly enjoying him self, while Rowan’s all but gone soft.

As Rowan watches, his mind reels. Does Steven know what Mal’s favorite positions are? Probably. Does Steven know that Mal’s toes curl before he comes? Maybe. But does Steven know why Mal goes by Malcolm? Most likely not. Does Steven know that he raised his sister by himself to get away from his abusive father? Definitely not.