Page 143 of The Menagerie

Chorus after chorus, verse after verse, their dancing gets more and more intense. Much harder to control as they meld into one another. Hands everywhere and thoughts only on the other. Heat wraps around Rowan, threatening to boil him from the inside out as he pulls Mal closer, hands dipping into his back pockets and squeezing his ass.

Another moan from Mal grazes his ear, hairs on the back of his neck rising like he walked through a phantom. Their movements get messier, sloppier, the more into it they get, and by the time the song ends and fades into the next, they’re all but panting into each other’s open mouths. Staring at one another, drinking in the sight of sweaty and flushed faces, and Rowan swears Mal’s eyes dip down to his lips.

And then he leans forward and—

“Gonna go get a drink,” Mal shouts in Rowan’s ear, hot breath tickling at his earlobe and making him shudder. “Want anything?”

Disappointment curls itself in Rowan’s belly.

“I’m good. Gonna go back to the table for a bit.”

Mal nods, and in a flash, he’s disappeared into the crowd, and Rowan’s left in the middle of it, cold and achingly hard.

But he shakes it off, wandering to the other end of the bar to flag down a glass of water. When the cold glass is placed down in front of him, he takes a long, deep drink, the cool liquid a lifesaver for his dry throat.

He downs half of it before he sees Jeremiah and Mal talking across the bar, blissfully unaware of Rowan watching them through the gaps in the ceiling-high shelves of liquor.

Even with the pair yelling loudly over the thrum of the music and his probably better-than-average ability to read lips thanks to his job, he’s still only able to make out snippets of what they’re talking about.

“… laid on yourbirthday?” Jeremiah shouts. “Just ask….”

“…notaskin’ him….”

Rowan’s heart thuds in his chest. Did Jeremiah tell Mal to ask him to fuck? Because yes. His answer ishell fucking yes, if Mal will only ask the question.

But the rest of their conversation is cut off when they’re pushed aside by a group of drunk bachelorettes. When Rowan finally returns to the table with his half-empty glass in hand, alone, it’s like the exchange never even happened.

MAL’S BEENeyeing him across the bar, where he’s now been planted with Jeremiah and Amy for the last half hour. Rowan knows, ’cause he’s been eyeing him right back from the table wherehe’ssitting with Clover and Camilla. Despite that enough time has passed since his only real drink, he still feels tipsy enough that the lingering stares are sending wave after wave of heat and want coursing through him.

Rowan’s not listening to what the Monroe twins are saying. Something business-related, maybe. Maybe something about some hot woman at the bar. Rowan ismm-hmming andyeahing along at what he hopes are appropriate times when it feels like they’re talking to him, but his attention is solely on Mal.

Specifically the heated, glazed-over look he gives him over the rim of his beer bottle. How his fingers slide along the curved neck of the brown container, slick with condensation.

Rowan’s waiting for it. Some sign that Mal wants it as bad as Rowan does.

But it’s gotta be Mal. It’s his birthday after all.

Ask me. Ask me, ask me, ask—

There.

With a glance over his shoulder and the quirk of one neatly sculpted eyebrow, Mal has Rowan excusing himself from the knowing stares of the twins. Has him trailing Mal into the bar bathroom, an invisible string tugging at his chest and winching him forward.

They shouldn’t do this. Even as his legs carry him forward, Rowan knows they shouldn’t do this. They’ve been sexting at least once a week between their scenes, but this is…. Well. It’s crossing a big line fromjust fuckin’to… something else. There’s hardly an ounce of blood left in Rowan’s brain to think about what thatsomethingelsemight be, which means it must be a good idea after all. Even if a bar bathroom is a far cry from the comfort of a bed, this will be the first time they’ve hooked up outside the confines of the Menagerie.

And fuck, he wants it.

The second the door to the bathroom swings shut, a tattooed hand latches on to his shirt and drags him into the largest stall. Their hands are a blur between them, fumbling to get each other’s jeans unbuttoned and relieve the mounting pressure that had built up earlier on the dance floor. The stall door creaks open, hitting Rowan in the shoulder. He slams it shut and flicks the lock, attention immediately back on Mal as he shoves him against the door.

A spark zaps between them when Mal presses their foreheads together, ragged breaths mingling across the tiny gap between their lips.

“Tell me your words,” Rowan demands, ripping his gaze away from Mal’s mouth.

Mal’s fingers still on Rowan’s zipper, face pulling away as he looks up at Rowan, lidded eyes widening.

And fuck, did Mal not think this was going to be a scene? Was he expecting a regular hookup? Through the fog in his brain, he realizes that he may have fucked this up entirely.

But Mal answers after a tiny, shaky breath. “Green’s good to go, yellow’s pause, red’s full stop.”

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