Page 151 of The Menagerie

Rowan’s gonna tell him.

Ask him?

Tell him.

He needs to find the right time. The right words.

I think we should—

The past couple months, I’ve been feeling—

What if we—

When I’m around you, I feel—

I know you feel it, too—

I like you, I like you, I l—

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 hedoesn’twant 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 GOTMal 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 singleclickfor “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 muchnotfloating. 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,floatyfeeling—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….”

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