Page 34

ROWAN AND Mal bask in the afterglow of their scene, sated and warm and utterly spent.

It’s been two weeks since Rowan bottomed, three since he told Mal about his depression, and he feels better than ever. They’ve been taking things easy the past two weeks, their scenes more praise than degradation or humiliation. More intimate too. Soft touches and free-falling whimpers and so, so much emotion that it makes Rowan’s heart swell almost painfully in his chest.

Rowan wants so badly to tell Mal how he feels. He’s sure now that Mal feels something for him, so there isn’t really that lingering inkling of doubt anymore, but something still holds him back. It’s mostly to do with the fact that Mal hasn’t made a move yet to initiate anything more. He’s definitely the bolder of the two, at least when it comes to sexual things, so Rowan thought that would translate to romantic things as well.

So often during their scenes or their now-frequent phone calls, the words are on the tip of his tongue. He’s so close to blurting out I’m in love with you nearly every time he sees Mal that it’s becoming a real problem. He’s bitten his tongue more times than he can count to stop it from slipping out without his permission.

But would it be so bad? Would Mal react badly? Shove him away with a scoff and a look of disgust? Or would he welcome him into his arms and cradle his face and kiss him till he’s breathless?

Despite how intimately Rowan can confidently say that he knows Mal after months of scening—after months of friendship —he honestly can’t predict how he might react. And that’s what scares him most of all. What makes him bite his lips and tongue and the inside of his cheeks until they’re raw and red. The not knowing .

THEY’RE AT the diner, enjoying a well-deserved dinner, when Mal says something that makes Rowan’s heart stop in his chest.

“I want you to choke me.”

“What?”

“We’ve been dancin’ around it for months, man. I can tell you wanna do it as bad as I want you to do it.”

“Mal, we can’t—” Rowan starts, about to remind Mal of the club’s rules against choking and breath play which he clearly very well knows, when Mal cuts him off.

“Come over.”

And Rowan’s…. Rowan’s brain stops. Because did Mal just ask him to…?

“Come… over? Like to your apartment?”

Mal rolls his eyes, but Rowan can tell it’s in that fond way of his. When Rowan’s being an idiot and doesn’t realize it. “Yeah, dumbass.”

Rowan knows all the signs of heart attacks in men—shortness of breath, the feeling of a heavy weight crushing your chest, dizziness, nausea—and he’s in great shape, but he’s not ruling it out as the cause for the stuttering tightness behind his ribs. He wants to do a stupid dance and shout Dear fucking God, Yes!, But all he can think to do is sit there gaping, and all he can think to say is: “But I don’t know where you live,” like Mal was going to make Rowan guess that information rather than giving him his address.

“Jesus Christ, Red,” Mal says, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.

He pulls out his phone, types a quick message, and Rowan’s phone vibrates a few seconds later.

“Next week? Same time?” Mal’s tone sounds somehow both hopeful and fearful.

“Ye-yeah. Course.”

Rowan shoves a french fry in his mouth and can’t keep the smile off his face.

AS SOON as Rowan wakes the next morning, he takes his meds and Googles sexual asphyxiation .

He’s aware in theory how to do it safely, partly from having done it in the past, and partly from his training as a paramedic. Avoid the trachea, the larynx, and the hyoid bone and squeeze gently at the carotid arteries to slow the flow of blood to the brain. Always press on the sides of the neck, never the front. He’s done it a little bit with some partners in the past, but this is Mal , and Rowan doesn’t want to risk his well-being for anything.

There are dozens of articles on it, some sketchy and some legitimate. He opens a few tabs and begins reading: The history behind it, the cultural taboo around it, the inclusion (or exclusion) of it in some BDSM circles… there’s so much information. Some of it he can tell immediately is crap, reminding him of when Mal had sent him a list of BDSM books to read and warned him against stuff that was total bullshit.

He reads the copious warnings carefully. There are common side effects, including muscle weakness, loss of coordination, dizziness, and coughing, which can be expected if done for too long a period of time. Then there’s the chance for permanent brain damage, lung damage, artery damage, or even death in some cases (though most often when done to oneself). The list goes on and on and makes his head spin. He won’t lie, he is worried about the potential consequences, and those warnings should be a full-stop deterrent, but….

The thought of getting Mal to a state of extreme bliss—that rush of dopamine and serotonin and endorphins straight to the brain—is so tempting. It’s tangible, literally right at his fingertips. Rowan wants to get him to the point of giving complete control over to Rowan and trusting, trusting, trusting him to see him safely through to the other side. And he knows that Mal wants it as badly as he does. Asked him to come over so they could do it away from the Menagerie in the safety and privacy of his own home.

Rowan remembers way back to their first meeting after the gangbang. About how Mal had said he goes to the club—never invites anyone over to his apartment—because it keeps shit separate . That must mean that things between him and Rowan aren’t separate. Must mean there’s something more, right? Rowan would bet his life on it.

Or, he thinks painfully, Mal just really wants to get choked out. Break his own rule badly enough to have Rowan come over rather than breaking the club’s rule against choking and breath play.

Rowan shakes the negative thoughts out of his head. He knows by now that he and Mal have something special. Mal admitted as much to him on the phone a few weeks ago, and they’ve only grown closer since then. Their scenes have continued to evolve from largely impersonal, like they were at the start, to more and more intimate, and it sets Rowan’s heart ablaze knowing how far they’ve come since they first met each other.

He keeps reading, watching a few videos he’d found on a kink-related Reddit page that shows how to choke someone out safely—well, saf er .

Once he’s comfortable with the motions in theory, he tries them out on himself. Wraps his hand around his own throat and positions his thumb and the rest of his fingers on opposite sides of his neck, gently starting to squeeze until he can feel his pulse in his fingertips. In barely a minute, he feels the light-headed rush that everyone online swears is better than an orgasm. In truth, it doesn’t do much for him—kind of makes him panic a little bit, honestly—but he can easily see how the tingling he’s feeling from his cheeks down to his toes could be pleasurable.

He can easily see Mal finding it pleasurable. Getting off on the danger of it as much as the physical sensations. And all at once, Rowan feels his cock stir. He releases his neck, trails his hand down his body and over the hardening bulge in his briefs. It shouldn’t be so easy to rile him up, but God, even the thought of Mal gets him going like nothing else. As he loses the battle to not jerk off—twice in a row—he pictures what Mal’s face will look like when Rowan finally gets a hand around his neck.

ROWAN WANTS so badly to tell someone about Mal. About how he asked him to come over , but the harsh reality is that he can’t exactly do that without revealing that they’ve only been seeing each other at a BDSM club.

He thinks about telling Jay, but there are some things that family shouldn’t know, even if he’d known about Rowan’s illicit club days when he was younger.

He thinks about telling Addison, but he doesn’t think he’d live down the humiliation of admitting the same thing to her. And she doesn’t know about his past.

Hell, he even thinks about telling Aubrey, who’s as open about sex as Rowan himself is, but he’s really only mentioned Mal to her in passing as a friend , and he doesn’t want to get into the whole story.

Which is why he finds himself at the Menagerie on a Thursday night. He already knows that he’s not going to need to use one of his four monthly visits this Saturday—because he’ll be at Mal’s , his brain reminds him helpfully—so he doesn’t care about wasting it on seeking advice.

He’s never been here on a Thursday before, but the place is packed . As Rowan makes his way to the bar, he’s leered at constantly and groped no fewer than five times, some probably unintentional as he moves through the throng of people, but some definitely intentional.

“Hey, Jeremiah,” Rowan says, plopping down at the one empty seat at the bar.

Jeremiah looks up and beams that bright smile of his, throwing up a finger to signal one sec as he expertly mixes a cocktail.

Another bartender that Rowan’s never seen before comes over to take Rowan’s order, pours him a plain seltzer with cut-up lime wedges and sets it down on a napkin in front of him.

By the time he’s three sips into his drink, Jeremiah slides over to him and leans across the bar, half shouting over the din of the music and chatty patrons.

“How’s it going?” he asks.

“Good, you?”

“Busy as hell,” Jeremiah laughs. “But great. What brings you here on a Thursday?”

“Wanted to see if I could get your advice on something.”

Jeremiah checks his Apple watch. “I’ve got a break in about ten minutes if you can wait till then.”

“That’d be great. Thanks.”

The ten minutes fly by, mostly taken up by Rowan fielding advances by twinks and daddies alike and letting his thoughts fade into nothingness under the heavy bass of the music. He swears it’s more attention than he’s gotten in his entire life, but absolutely none of it interests him. Not when he’s got Mal to look forward to now.

Jeremiah waves at him and gestures for Rowan to follow, Rowan taking a last sip of his drink before sliding a five under the napkin and pushing it closer to the edge of the bar. He follows Jeremiah through swinging double doors behind the bar, past a bustling kitchen area, and into an employee lounge that’s blissfully empty and quiet. A few tables and comfy-looking chairs are strewn about the middle, with a fridge in one corner and countertops filled with all the necessities, plus an expensive-looking deluxe coffee machine.

“Don’t tell the twins I let you back here,” Jeremiah says conspiratorially.

Rowan laughs and says, “I won’t,” but wonders if they would actually care if they did know.

As Jeremiah grabs a protein bar out of his locker, Rowan sits at one of the round tables.

“So what’s up?” the other man asks, taking a heaping bite of his bar.

Rowan feels a twinge of guilt for taking up his time, but steadies his breathing with a long, slow breath.

“Mal asked me to come over.”

It’s said in a rush, a blurted-out thing that he’s been bottling up for the past week. As Rowan half expected, Jeremiah’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and he stops chewing on his snack altogether.

After a brief moment and an audible swallow, Jeremiah says, “Holy shit.”

It reminds Rowan of the time after the gangbang when he’d told the then-stranger that he and Mal were going to be starting a Dom/sub relationship.

“I’m kind of freaking out” is all Rowan can say to explain why he’s here, taking up Jeremiah’s break.

The smile he gets in return is kind—not pitying—for which Rowan is eternally thankful.

“Am I correct in assuming he wanted to break one of the club’s rules?”

Rowan’s eyes widen a fraction. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Mal is one of my best friends, and we’ve known each other for years now. It’s not exactly a secret that he likes getting choked out, even if he is the one who suggested banning it from the club in the first place.”

There’s a twinge in Rowan’s gut that he doesn’t like. “So, he’s done this before, then?”

“Nah, not even close. Anytime we’ve talked about it, he’s been extremely intent on mentioning that he keeps his personal life separate from his sex life.”

The twinge turns into a cascade of warmth and churning rapids.

“Oh.”

“You don’t sound thrilled about that. I thought you were into him as more than a scene partner?”

“I am!” Rowan insists, too loudly for their quiet conversation. “I’m just….” Rowan sighs, unsure how to phrase his qualms.

“Just what?”

“Worried if it doesn’t work out. If he doesn’t want something more.”

“I think the fact that he’s inviting you over speaks for itself, Rowan. Again, from what I know, he doesn’t do that. Not even to do something outside the club’s rules, no matter how badly he wants it.”

“Yeah?” Rowan’s voice is hopeful, giddy.

“Mm-hmm,” Jeremiah hums. “And I obviously don’t know too much about your sex life together, but Mal’s been different ever since you two started scening.”

“Different how?”

“Less grumpy. More open. Dare I say, happier .”

Sheila’s words from weeks ago echo in Rowan’s mind. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen Mal so happy.

“He makes me happy,” Rowan confesses, feeling like a blushing teenager.

“I think you’re good for each other. Not that you need it, but you’ve got my blessing.”

“That means a lot, actually.”

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Just make sure you know how to do whatever specifically he’s asked for safely, and anything that happens beyond that is a bonus.” He takes another bite of his bar, half chewing before adding, “It obviously means something that he’s asked you to come over, so run with it. Let yourself have it.”

Rowan’s stomach churns again at the thought of something more happening on Saturday night. But Jeremiah’s words successfully cure his fears, and now he finds that he’s immensely looking forward to this weekend.

“Thanks, Jer.”

“Anytime.”

ON FRIDAY night, Rowan’s phone vibrates with a message. When he opens his text thread with Mal, he’s greeted with an artsy, slightly out of focus photo of Mal’s neck. The picture is cropped above the cut of his jaw and below his clavicle, the corded muscles of his neck and shoulders on tantalizing display. Rowan’s mouth waters.

[MS] can’t wait till tomorrow

Fuck.

[RC] Me neither

[RC] Gonna make it so good for you

[MS] i know you will

[MS] been dying to feel those big hands for real

In an instant, Rowan’s hard in his sweats.

It’s going to be a long twenty-four hours.

ROWAN LETS himself take a few deep breaths inside the foyer before he presses the button to be buzzed into Mal’s apartment building. From there, it’s a quick elevator ride and he’s face-to-face with Mal’s door. It takes him a good minute to quell his nerves to knock, and Mal must be wondering if he got lost.

In a matter of seconds, Mal’s flinging open the door, looking comfortable in a plain white T-shirt and black sweats, but with an eager glint in his eye.

“Hey,” Mal greets.

“Hey,” Rowan replies, stepping inside and toeing off his shoes, kicking them off to the side where a shoe mat lies filled with Mal’s boots and sneakers.

Mal gestures to the space around him, adding, “Well, this is it. I’d give ya a tour, but there’s not much to see.”

Mal’s apartment is clean and tidy. Almost suspiciously so. Like he’d shuffled everything around a dozen times and eventually shoved anything out of place into some too-full closet that’s going to spill everything the moment it’s opened. It’s a pretty standard layout, the front door opening into the living room with the kitchen off to the left and a short hallway, where presumably the bathroom and bedroom are, to the right.

The walls are apartment-standard white, the furniture all shades of black and brown and gray, made of leather and soft-looking fabric and dark-stained wood. He doesn’t have a kitchen table, but there is a small island off one end of the counter that has two wooden barstools tucked in underneath it. Rowan pictures Mal eating breakfast here in the morning, and it fills him with a sense of warmth.

“Want a beer?” Mal asks, shuffling off to the kitchen before Rowan replies.

“Sure.”

Rowan steps further inside, taking in his surroundings.

It’s minimally decorated, some framed movie and band posters comprising the majority of the decorations. A couple of unframed candid photos of Mal and Amy and the staff of the club strewn about the twin bookshelves in the living room, curled at the edges. What looks like an urn next to a small black-and-white photo of a young Mal and a dark-haired woman Rowan doesn’t recognize. On top of the photos, there’s a plant or two here and there, mostly succulents and low-maintenance plants by the looks of it, one pothos in particular vining all along and down the side of an end table in the living room. There’s a small desk in one corner with a beast of a computer on the floor and three monitors side by side on the desktop, which must be where Mal does his work.

It’s cozy and simple. It’s Mal , and part of Rowan still can’t believe he’s being let into this side of Mal’s life, so different from the gilded glamor of the Menagerie.

Mal passes him a Blue Ribbon, twisting off the cap before he does.

“How was your day?” Rowan asks, taking a sip.

“Eh, not bad. Did some chores, cleaned up a bit. Lounged around and tried not to spend the entire day jerking off. Usual weekend shit.” Mal pauses to take his own drink, a much deeper sip than Rowan had taken. “You?”

“Same, except I failed at the not jerking off thing.”

Mal laughs and rolls his eyes. “Better not have blown it all before tonight, Red.”

“Nah, I’m good. Can get it up again pretty quickly. Besides, that was hours ago.”

“Yeah? You think of anything in particular while you were jerkin’ it?”

Rowan gives him a pointed look. “May have gotten off to the pic of your neck that you sent the other day.”

Mal’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Of all the filthy shit I’ve sent you over the past few months, that’s what you got off to?”

It’s Rowan’s turn to give Mal a surprised look. “You said yourself that you could tell I wanted this as bad as you did.”

“Knew you were a fuckin’ vampire or somethin’,” Mal says, grinning. He’s got the cutest little dimples in the middle of his cheekbones that Rowan wants to run the pad of his thumbs over.

“Pft, your ass is paler than mine, Mal.”

“So? No way your Irish ass doesn’t burn like a motherfucker.”

“You got me there. Though yours gets pretty damn red when I spank you.”

All at once, Mal splutters, the beer in his mouth spewing across the table, little droplets hitting Rowan in the arm.

“Thought I was gonna make you choke in a different context, but all right,” Rowan says with a laugh.

Once he stops coughing, Mal laughs, a warm golden sound that makes Rowan squirm. “C’mon, enough chitchat,” he says, placing the still half-full bottle down and nodding to the hallway where his bedroom lies.

This is it.

Rowan follows Mal into his bedroom. Like the rest of his apartment, it’s neat and minimally decorated. A queen-size bed sits in the middle, a nightstand with a lamp on each side. The comforter is a dark navy, two pillows on each side of the bed making it look like something out of a hotel, except that the comforter is folded at the bottom of the bed, exposing the white sheets underneath. There’s a bureau off to the side of the room, scattered with belts and deodorant and other personal effects. Next to it, a bifold closet is partially ajar, giving Rowan a glimpse into the rows of neatly lined-up hanging garments and a hamper with a piece of clothing partially hanging out. It reminds Rowan a lot of his own bedroom.

“You wanna use anything tonight?” Rowan asks. “Cuffs or toys?”

“Nah. Gonna be intense enough without anything else. Let’s work up to it for next time.”

Rowan’s heart stutters at Mal already anticipating a next time when they haven’t even gotten started yet.

They stand at the foot of the bed, staring at one another for a beat. Then another. Then another. It’s awkward until Mal laughs, shoving Rowan gently in the chest with his palm.

“C’mon, tough guy. Show me what you got.”

Rowan laughs in response, the tension instantly dissolved between them.

Normally, he’d order Mal to strip off his clothes right now, like he’s done a dozen times before. Call him selfish, but he wants to undress Mal himself tonight. Let himself live in the fantasy that this is spontaneous and has more meaning than a preplanned BDSM scene.

He feels his spine straighten as he looms over Mal, who’s looking up at him through long, dark lashes, lips parted. Rowan cups the back of Mal’s neck, tugging his body toward him in one firm motion, chests pressed together.

Mal lets out a tiny whimper, and Rowan can feel the start of the hardness in his lap.

Rowan covers one hip with his free hand, stroking up under his shirt to the side of Mal’s ribs. He’s hot to the touch, burning Rowan’s fingertips as he trails across bare skin. He releases his grip on the back of Mal’s neck, Mal’s breath leaving him in a whoosh as Rowan strips off Mal’s T-shirt, yanking it over his head. He allows himself time to take in his tattoos, the flowers and pistols spread across his chest and shoulders, the smattering of smaller tattoos gracing his arms and chest, the hint of vines growing on either side of his hips from under his sweats. The LISA tattoo on the side of his ribs.

Tucking his thumbs into either side of Mal’s sweats, Rowan slides them down, letting them pool onto the floor and coaxing Mal to step out of them. He leaves his briefs on for now, teasing the inside of his thighs with light strokes as Mal’s head dips forward to his chest and his breathing grows ragged.

“Quit teasin’ me,” Mal tells him.

Rowan grabs either side of his face, pinching his cheeks between his thumb and forefinger.

“Gonna tease you all I want.”

To prove his point, Rowan cups Mal’s cock, hard enough to get the other man to jerk his hips forward at the contact, but too light to provide any real relief.

Mal moans softly but presses on when Rowan pulls his hand away. “Brought you here for a reason.”

“Uh-huh. And we’re gonna get to that when I say we are.”

Rowan lets his hands travel back up and ghost over Mal’s neck, the corded muscle taut under his palms. He feels his own cock stir in his jeans.

“Words are gonna be tricky tonight,” Rowan says casually, though they feel heavy in his mouth. “You’ll make sure to tap out if you need to, yeah?”

“Yeah, course,” Mal assures him.