Page 23 of The Menagerie

Rowan is good at sharing, because he’s the middle child of a family of six from a neighborhood where people took care of each other. But he hates it. Now that he has a taste of having his own things, he never wants to have to share anything ever again. And apparently that desire extends to Malcolm too. The entire night has been hot as fuck, but he doesn’t want to see him get other people off or see other people gethimoff. He wants to do it himself or make Malcolm do ithimself under Rowan’s watchful gaze.

So he shoots up, pulls out, and coaxes Malcolm onto his knees. He pulls his back flush against his chest as he pushes back into him in one smooth stroke, marveling at the slight resistance he still somehow feels. He squeezes Malcolm’s pecs, feels the pounding of his heart reverberating through the taut muscle.

He stills when he’s fully seated, Malcolm groaning low and dipping his head forward as if it’s the first time a dick’s entered him tonight rather than the hundredth.

Rowan slides a hand up from his chest to his throat, skimming his hand along the long column of his neck until he’s cupping his jaw and leaning his head back nearly on Rowan’s shoulder. He doesn’t apply any pressure, keeping his touch featherlight. As much as he’d love to choke him properly, it’s against both Malcolm’s and the club’s rules, and he wouldn’t cross those lines for anything.

But the sensation must be doing something for Malcolm if the sharp inhale through his nose is anything to go by. Or the ragged breaths that follow when Rowan starts stroking him with his other hand, Malcolm’s cock hard and warm and slippery with come. Rowan ghosts his fingertips along Malcolm’s neck and jaw, feels Malcolm clench around him in response and buck his hips back.

“Comeon,” Malcolm growls.

Impatient. Back to being a brat. Malcolm grinds his ass into Rowan’s hips the best he can but groans in evident frustration at not being able to get fucked like he wants.

“Hm?” Rowan teases.

“Fuck me, Re—sh-shit.”

Rowan huffs out a laugh through his nose. “Gonna have to use a different name for me ’less you wanna accidentally safeword.”

“Nng!” Malcolm groans, bitten-off curses spilling from his lips as Rowan pulls back and pushes in, pace slow but thrusts hard.

Rowan can hear the struggle in his voice. The knowledge that if he calls him Red like he did earlier, like he clearly wants to again now, Rowan’s going to stop. That Rowanhasto stop.

“Or better yet, I could make you call me sir. Or master.”

It’s not really the time or place for it—this isn’t ascenescene, not like that—but he wants to see Malcolm’s reaction to it. And Malcolm nods, a quick dip of his chin to his chest. It’s too neat. Too practiced for Rowan’s liking. No fight, no resistance, none of the fire he’s seen all night. None of the desperation,which means he’s only doing it to get what he wants.

But…

I can count on one hand the number of times he’s topped.

“But something tells me you’ve called loads of people that. Fuckin’ bottom brat like you’s used to those. They don’t meanshitto you.”

“Fu-fuckin’ Firecrotch,” Malcolm grunts.

“No. You’ve given everyone here shitty nicknames all night. When I make you come this time, you’re gonna say my fuckin’name.”

“Fuck y—hah!”

Rowan wraps his free hand around the base of Malcolm’s cock, tight enough to stave off the orgasm he can sense building from the rippling of his walls.

“It’sRowan. That’s the only thing that’s gonna let you come on my cock tonight.”

He strokes Malcolm but keeps his grip tight, right to the edge of what he knows is painful.

“I can feel how fuckin’ close you are. Cock dripping over my fingers. Slutty ass tightening around me. Didn’t think you’d still be able to clench after all the cock you took tonight.”

“Fuck me, si—”

Breathy, but monotone.

And while the instant switch from cursing him out to near begging is insanely hot, it’s not what Rowan wants. Judging by the lungfuls of air Malcolm is gulping down as Rowan slows his hips more, angling up to brush against his prostate, not whathewants either.

“Name’s not sir.”

“M—”

Rowan grips him tighter around the base, stills his hips to a torturously slow crawl.

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