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He can feel his insides bubbling with molten desire, then freezing solid at the realization that he might not get picked, and liquefying all over again at the thought of wrapping his hands around that pretty throat and watching those fucking caramel-gold eyes roll back. Club rules be damned.

Before he can get even more lost in thoughts of all the things he wants to do to the man in front of him, he speaks.

“Aright, let’s get the boring but necessary shit over with,” Malcolm says.

His voice is a soothing baritone with a hint of gravelly rasp to it. And his accent sounds like he’s actually from Boston; Rowan knows from overhearing the other men talk that many of them come from out of state to be here, so it’s a pleasant surprise.

Malcolm continues, “First off, if you somehow aren’t aware, this is a gangbang, not an orgy. You wanna fuck someone else here besides me, get your own goddamn room.”

Rowan barely stifles a laugh, has to cover his mouth with his hand to hide his smile. He already likes this guy. Camilla’s words echo in his mind: Gorgeous, confident, incredible scene partner ….

“Before I go over what’s on and off the table, my safewords will be the color system. If you’re not familiar with that, green is good to go, yellow is slow down or pause, and red is hard stop. Any questions on that?”

Malcolm looks around the room, and apparently seeing no objections, continues.

“Club rules require frequent negative STI tests. That bein’ said, if you’ve been with anyone unprotected since your last check-in, including oral, get the fuck out. This is a bareback scene, and even if you’ve got the best dick in Boston, I ain’t riskin’ anything.”

He looks pointedly at the crowd for a heated moment before three or four people exit, tails tucked between their legs.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Malcolm mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest, biceps bulging. “Anyone else?”

No one else leaves. Rowan’s glad he got his test results back yesterday.

“All right. I’ll go over what’s acceptable and not before I pick, so anyone not cool with anything can also fuck off. On the ‘yes’ list for tonight: oral and anal, fingering, rimming, spanking. I like it rough, so don’t hold back. All positions are on the table. So is double penetration, provided both’a you don’t have Mandingo dicks.”

There’s a murmur in the crowd and quite possibly in Rowan’s chest as well. He vaguely recognizes the name as an old porn star with a massive dick, but his brain is currently stuck on the possibility of fucking Malcolm at the same time as another man.

He’s been in a threesome before, once, but the bottom wasn’t interested in DPing. Even though Rowan’s never seen it outside of porn and he knows how much prep it takes, he can’t deny how hot it is.

“Calm down, fuckin’ animals,” Malcolm mumbles. “Club rules obviously apply for the ‘no’ list. No breath play or choking, though making me gag on your fingers or cock is fine. No cutting, bloodplay, deep biting, or anything else that will leave a lasting mark, including hickeys. No fisting. No toys. And no kissin’ on the mouth. You wanna lip-lock with someone else in here, be my guest, but I’ll knock you out if you try to kiss me. Spit’s fine, though.”

Rowan feels a shiver race down his spine. Well, there goes one thing he’d wanted to do with Malcolm’s mouth. But it’s understandable. He may be about to get fucked by an as-yet-unknown number of people, but kissing is a fairly intimate act, and Rowan doesn’t blame him for not wanting to do it with strangers.

“Also,” Malcolm continues, “I can’t believe I have to say this, but the only bodily fluids allowed on or in me are spit and come, got that?”

The grimace comes to Rowan’s face unintentionally, and he feels himself nodding along with the others.

“We’re all here for a good time. But break any of the rules or cross my boundaries—or anyone else’s here—and I’ll make damn sure you get blacklisted. Enrico’ll be happy to throw you out, but I have no problem kickin’ your ass myself.”

It shouldn’t, but the threat goes straight to Rowan’s dick. He wasn’t lying when he said he liked his partners to be scrappy. He assumes Enrico is some kind of bouncer or security guard, but something tells him that Malcolm could take half the guys in this room if he really wanted to.

“Questions?”

The person next to Rowan raises their hand. Rowan can’t help but roll his eyes.

Malcolm huffs out an incredulous laugh, raising his eyebrows at the guy. “This ain’t middle school, man. What?”

“Sorry, uh, how many are you picking?”

“Ten.”

Rowan can feel his lips parting on their own accord.

Ten people.

Christ.

There have to be at least forty people crammed into the room, and maybe more spilling out into the hallway. That means Rowan only has a roughly 25 percent chance of getting picked, and while he’s always been a bit of a gambler, a bit of a risk taker, those odds are still a little slim for his liking.

“And,” Malcolm starts, taking a deep breath and exhaling through his nose. “My last Dom moved outta state, so I’m lookin’ for a new one. Impress me tonight and we’ll talk if you’re interested.” His eyes sweep the crowd, landing on Rowan’s for a beat before moving on.

Rowan’s pulse quickens as excited whispers spread through the crowd. Although Malcolm didn’t specifically say the words contest or competition or tryouts , Rowan can’t help but feel that’s what this is. And he’s never wanted to win something so badly in his entire fuckin’ life.

Fuck. He hasn’t even seen this guy in action, he reminds himself. He’s purely relying on what others have told him of Malcolm’s skills in bed. For all he knows, he could be complete shit and not what Rowan’s into at all.

But even as he thinks it, his gut tells him that isn’t true. Something about the man is utterly magnetic, drawing Rowan in like a lost sailor to a siren promising dry land. He can only hope he doesn’t end up drowning chasing blindly after what he wants.

“Any other questions?” Malcolm asks, eyes sweeping around the room. “’Kay. I’m gonna come around, and if I see somethin’ I like, you’re in. Not just lookin’ for who has the best dick, but if you think it’s a selling point for ya, feel free to whip it out.”

Most of the people around Rowan scramble to undo their pants and either shove them down to mid-thigh or pull their dicks out straight through the zipper hole. Most start jerking off, and Rowan idly wonders if he should too. He knows he has a nice dick and that he’s firmly on the “above average” side of things, but something stops him. Call it his ego, but he feels like he doesn’t need to show off his dick to be chosen.

Despite Rowan being fairly close to the bed, Malcolm starts on the opposite side of the room closest to the door.

Rowan can barely hear what Malcolm is saying, but he watches him pick each person, not asking for names but rather giving them nicknames based on their physical appearance. Rowan sees each man picked circle around against the wall closest to the bed.

The lucky few.

First is a young white guy with light skin, a tall but lean frame, and blond curls. Malcolm dubs him Shirley Temple, which makes Rowan have to stifle another laugh, though he is curious why Malcolm didn’t ask for the guy’s name.

Next is a Hispanic man— Shortstop , though he’s actually the same height as Malcolm—with a medium complexion and black shoulder-length hair. A broad chest and thick legs make him look bigger than he is.

Then Jean-Claude, a deeply tanned probably white guy with short brown hair and more muscles than his namesake, if Rowan is correct in assuming Malcolm was going for a Van Damme reference and the guy’s name isn’t actually Jean-Claude.

By now it seems clear that Malcolm has no interest in learning anyone’s name.

A Korean guy is next, and even Rowan could have guessed what his nickname would be. Leg Day. As in, the guy probably never does it if his scrawny legs and massive gym-sculpted chest and torso are anything to go by. He’s young, early twenties maybe, with overly styled and gelled black hair and an attractive face. The frat boy look is broken only by the scar running from his temple to his cheek.

Next are Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, who don’t look anything alike except for the matching red button-up shirts and black bow ties they’re wearing. ( Seriously ? Rowan thinks.) “You two plan your outfits or somethin’? Never mind, I don’t care. You’re both hot, you’re in. Fuckin’ Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum,” he hears Malcolm say. He doesn’t actually specify which man is meant to be Dee and which Dum, and Rowan can’t decide if that’s better or worse than the other nicknames so far.

One of them is Japanese, with a swimmer’s build, high cheekbones, and short, neatly coiffed black hair. He’s an inch or two taller than the other man, though the latter has at least thirty pounds of muscle on the former. He’s white with model-messy sandy hair and a figure that looks sculpted through physical labor rather than at the gym.

After them comes The Rock, and yeah, Rowan has to hand it to Malcolm. He does kind of look like The Rock. An older man, probably in his forties, with a medium complexion and no hair except for a goatee. His musculature rivals that of his namesake, save for the slight paunch around his belly and thighs.

Then comes Cupcake. Rowan has no idea where he got that name from, since the guy is at least six four or six five and built like a strongman. He has dark skin, long black hair in neat twists pulled back into a low ponytail and accentuated with colorful beads, and a short but full beard. It might be the beads, he thinks. Something about sprinkles?

Finally there’s Tats, which is the least original of the names. He looks Middle Eastern, with deep olive skin, dark hair that’s tied into a bun, and stubble on his face. An athletic body and cheekbones that give even Malcolm’s a run for their money. And of course full sleeve tattoos on both arms in a variety of colors and designs.

From the lineup, it’s pretty hard to tell if Malcolm has a type other than big . Only one of his picks is the same height as Malcolm is—Shortstop—but his musculature makes up for his lack of height compared to everyone else.

Rowan mentally slaps himself for already thinking of these men in terms of the names Malcolm has called them, but really, without names, what else is he going to call them? He’d be thinking much the same things, but probably a little less insulting in most cases.

He thinks briefly of the woman who had choked her scene partner a few days ago. I don’t even know his real name , she’d said. Rowan suppresses a shudder. There are positives and negatives to being anonymous in places like this, but for Malcolm that anonymity only goes one way. Because everyone sure as hell knows who he is, but he doesn’t seem interested in learning about anyone else.

There’s only room for one more person, if Malcolm sticks to ten people. And with at least a dozen people still milling around between the two of them, Rowan’s chances are suddenly a lot slimmer than they were a few minutes ago.

Miraculously, Malcolm passes by all of them and stops in front of Rowan. He gives him an obvious once-over from his shoes up to his hair, then quirks his eyebrows at him.

“Never been with a redhead before. Carpet match the drapes?”

Rowan almost rolls his eyes at him, barely stopping himself. He really hates that question, but he does actually want to get picked, so he’s thankful he manages to steel his face.

“Gonna have to see for yourself.”

“Oh yeah? Not gonna pull it out like everyone else?”

“Don’t need to. Either you’re into me or you’re not. My dick’s not gonna change your mind no matter how good it is.”

“You think you’re hot shit, huh.” It’s not a question.

“All the people I’ve made cry seemed to think so.”

Douchey, but true. Rowan knows he’s good in bed. Though he doubts he’d be able to make Malcolm cry in a group full of other people, he’s filled with the sudden hope that he’ll get a chance to try.

He’d love to see those golden eyes filled with tears.

The corners of Malcolm’s lips dip into a quick frown as his eyebrows raise, looking impressed , and he nods. “’Kay. You’re in, then. Better not disappoint me, Red.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Despite the confidence in his words, Rowan’s heart is pounding in his chest. Red . He’d been expecting Carrot Top, Chucky, Bozo, Firecrotch… anything along those lines. Red is a significantly better name than the rest of them, but he doesn’t let himself read into it.

“All right, the rest of ya, get out.”

The size of the crowd had already diminished as Malcolm passed over each person, and the rest file out, the last man closing the doors behind him.

Holy shit.

This is happening.

This is happening .

“Been trying to get in on one of these things for years ,” the guy next to Rowan— Van Damme —whispers.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Guy’s supposed to be super fuckin’ hard to please.”

“Says who?”

“ Everyone , man. You new here or somethin’? Can’t wait to finally show ’im what he’s been missin’.”

Rowan doesn’t respond, partly because he has nothing to say, and partly because something about the guy’s tone makes him want to knock his teeth out. Instead he wonders how many of the others here are in the same boat as that guy, having waited to get invited to a scene like this for ages when Rowan had more or less rolled in off the street and gotten picked the first time.

He turns his attention back to Malcolm, who eyes the lot of them before circling around the bed to face them. The breath Rowan had been exhaling catches in his throat as he waits for the other man to do something. To signal for them to start , because he’s never done this before and doesn’t know how these things are supposed to work.

At once, Malcolm drops to his knees, punching out the rest of the breath from Rowan’s lungs and answering his question all in one.

Fuck.

“Well?” he asks, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Who’s first?”

Fuck.

The Van Damme look-alike steps up first, shirt already gone and jeans unbuttoned and unzipped. He strokes himself roughly a few times, then with zero finesse, grabs Malcolm by the hair and yanks his head back, rubbing his cock along Malcolm’s parted lips. Rowan feels his body jerk forward, his fight mode kicking in as it would when he had to protect one of his siblings from a schoolyard bully, but the low groan that pours from Malcolm’s throat stops him in his tracks.

Because fuck, this is what he wants, isn’t it?

To be used .

Fuck.

With that, the floodgates have been opened. The rest of the group starts shedding whatever clothing they have left on, a couple flinging pieces haphazardly on the floor, others stashing them in the cubicle against the side wall that Rowan had overlooked in favor of ogling the sex toys.

He strips down to nothing, quickly folds and stashes his clothes in a cubby in time to see Malcolm take the man’s cock into his mouth, lips tight and cheeks hollowed and eyes closed like he’s savoring it. Rowan’s own cock jumps at the sight, blood rushing down when Malcolm starts bobbing his head.

The Van Damme look-alike throws his head back and groans loudly while curling his fingers in Malcolm’s hair.

And fuck, Rowan needs to get closer. It’s been barely more than two minutes since he started, but already the other men have circled around Malcolm like vultures, eagerly awaiting their turn. Rowan joins them, shoulder to shoulder with the Tweedles, unashamedly looking at the nine other men around him, admiring their bodies.

He notes, with not a small amount of pride, that aside from Tats , whose cock is a bit longer than his—though skinnier—and Cupcake’s, whose is wider around the base, Rowan has the biggest dick of the lot. Most of them Rowan could see himself fucking if they bottomed. He’s attractive enough himself to be picky about his sexual partners, but why bother as long as his partner gets him going?

“How’s his mouth, man?” the Rock look-alike asks.

“Fuckin’ incredible.”

Rowan watches his technique. Watches him bob his head and relax his jaw and stick out his tongue and flick his fingers over the head each time he pulls off to take a gasping breath when breathing through his nose isn’t enough. Watches him savor every moment of having a dick in his mouth. Like a goddamn porn star or something.

It’s gotta be good with the groans pouring out of Van Damme’s mouth. With how quickly he pulls off with a slap to Malcolm’s cheek and the next man takes his place. And Malcolm doesn’t bat an eye at each new cock presented to him, taking in each as greedily as the one before it until he’s blown most of the group. His jaw must ache, ’cause fuck, Rowan knows his does after a while, after just one dick, but Malcolm’s that good, apparently.

Rowan’s achingly hard. His hand isn’t enough. Not when there’s a very willing mouth a couple feet away that’s all warmed up.

He steps up next to the guy with the skinny legs, whose head is thrown back while Malcolm works him over. Feeling Rowan approach, he grins, grips Malcolm’s hair and tugs him off, cock slipping out with a lewd pop .

“Almost fuckin’ came, dude,” he says, clamping a hand around the base of his dick. “Can’t wait to try his other hole.”

Rowan doesn’t respond, simply runs his fingers through Malcolm’s mussed hair— soft soft soft —to get him to open his eyes. When he does, Rowan could laugh at how they widen as he takes in the sight before him. As a redhead with matching pubes and a big dick, he’s used to it, but it never fails to kick up his heart rate a notch. Malcolm’s head snaps up to gape at him.

“That answer your question?” Rowan asks teasingly.

The only response he gets is a breathy, low “ Fuuuck ” before Malcolm wraps his hand around Rowan’s shaft, small hands not able to wrap fully around the widest part of him—fuck , why is that so hot?—and dips his head underneath, eyes closed. Rowan’s cock spans his entire face—fuck, why is that so hot?—and he lets out a long groan.

Definitely a size queen.

God, even though it’s obvious from the fact that he’s blown so many people already, the knowledge that Malcolm is this much of a cock slut makes Rowan impossibly harder. Malcolm tongues at the base, hot breath sending a shiver down Rowan’s spine before he pulls back and sucks him more than halfway down.

“ Nnnng, shit ,” Rowan gasps.

His brain is stuck in a mantra of hot wet tight hot wet tight as Malcolm works him over, tongue laving around his head and along the veins in his shaft like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted and can’t get enough of. And when he finally starts bobbing his head in earnest, lips pulled tight and tongue flattening out beneath, it’s heavenly. His fingers, slick from his own spit and the precome from a half dozen other men, wrap perfectly around Rowan’s dick, and he pumps Rowan in time with the motion of his head.

He cradles Rowan’s balls in his free hand, rolling them deftly and tugging as he pulls back, and it’s so fucking good that Rowan can hardly think straight.

Shit.

Shit shit shit .

Rowan’s never been one to blow his load early, but he might right now because he feels like he’s going to pass out. And when Rowan tugs on his hair harder and Malcolm opens his eyes, shimmering gold nearly completely blacked out by blown pupils, he nearly does.

Fuckin’ incredible is right .

But he remembers the first guy who’d wrenched Malcolm’s head back and gotten the loudest groan of the night so far, and Rowan wants to get him to top that. He tangles both hands in Malcolm’s hair and holds the other man’s head still while he thrusts his hips—gently at first, earning him a whimper. Good, but not enough.

When he feels Malcolm’s jaw slacken, he pistons his hips harder, faster, until he’s fucking Malcolm’s face like he’s been dying to see someone do for the past however long it’s been, balls slapping against his chin. It’s not as tight as when Malcolm was in control, but fuck, it’s almost better, the fast friction driving Rowan insane. But he wants more, and he’d bet his life that Malcolm does too. So he thrusts in a couple more inches of his length, instantly causing a gurgling cough to bubble up as his cock hits the back of Malcolm’s throat.

The other man pulls off with a pant, catching his breath as spit dribbles down his red lips and his chin. Rowan quirks an eyebrow at him in a silent question, and in response, Malcolm wraps his hands around the back of Rowan’s thighs and sucks him back down.

“ Fuck , that’s good. Knew you could take more,” Rowan tells him.

The calls from the men around them agree.

“Yeah, that’s all he’s good for.”

“Fuckin’ slut. Look at him gag for it.”

“Wonder if his ass is as greedy as his mouth is.”

Rowan drives his hips forward, fucking into Malcolm’s mouth, the faintest scrape of teeth every few thrusts making Rowan inhale sharply and fuck him faster, gripping his hair in warning. And each time he pulls, he gets a louder moan from Malcolm. The sounds rattle against his cock like a fucking vibrator, and Rowan’s going to come. He’s gonna come too soon like a teenager for fuck’s sake, and as much as he wants to fill Malcolm’s hot mouth with his come or paint his pretty face, he needs to control himself.

“Enough,” Rowan says, grabbing the base of his cock and pulling out.

Malcolm’s eyebrows knit together, but he pulls off with a pant before looking up expectantly, chest heaving.

“Get on the bed.”

“’Bout fuckin’ time we got this show started,” someone calls out behind Rowan.

He couldn’t agree more.

Before Malcolm can even rise up to his knees fully, the strongman guy—Cupcake—hauls him up under his armpits like he’s not a fully grown man and dumps him on the bed. He lands on his knees, falling forward and catching himself on his hands with a slap ! against the leather cushion before he faceplants onto it.