Page 25 of The Menagerie

This is definitely the end of the night, but Rowan wishes he could keep going. Keep being inside Malcolm and making him come on his tongue and fingers and cock over and over until he’s worn him out this much all on his own.

He hopes he’ll get to try. Hopes he wasn’t imagining their connection. Theirchemistry.

Because there’s something there, right? You can fake a lot of stuff during sex, even if you’re a guy with a dick, but you can’t fake everything. Not blown pupils or dripping sweat or full-body shudders or any of the dozens of miniscule facial expressions Malcolm made while Rowan was touching him.

But he doesn’t get to dwell on it any longer, Malcolm slumping onto his knees, still partially leaning back against Rowan’s hips and thighs. Rowan places a steadying hand on his upper back and shuffles around on his knees to look at him. His eyes are closed, nostrils flaring slightly as he breathes. Rowan watches his chest rise and fall, counts his breaths, notes his fingertips flexing where they’re pressed flat onto the soiled bed.

“You okay?” he asks gently.

Malcolm nods with his eyes still closed, then clears his throat. He blinks up at Rowan, the gold catching him off guard as Malcolm’s pupils shrink in the light and make something stir in Rowan’s rib cage.

“’M good, man.”

Rowan watches him for a few seconds more, trying to gauge whether he’s actually okay or not. He watches Malcolm’s abs flex as he reaches his arms above his head in a stretch, the popping of his spine audible even over the chatter of the men and the shuffling of their clothes as they dress.

There’s nothing to suggest he isn’t okay, at least not right this second, so Rowan rolls off the bed, wincing at the mess he picks up along the way, and crosses the room to the supply table. He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge as well as two washcloths, wets one in the sink and tucks both under his arm when someone slaps him on the back.

Startled, he whips around to find Leg Day grinning at him.

“You were so hot out there, dude.”

Out there, like they had a pickup game of basketball rather than a fucking gangbang.

“Uh, thanks?”

“Any chance you wanna meet up next time you come? I’d love to try that thing out for myself,” he says, flicking his eyes to Rowan’s still very exposed dick.

He’s hot. He is, even with his skinny legs and the frat boy thing he’s got going on, and Rowan wants to kick himself for what he’s about to say, but he’s gonna say it anyway.

“I’m not really lookin’ for anything right now.”

The guy laughs. “It doesn’t have to be anything serious, dude. No one comes here looking for the love of their life.”

Rowan’s eyes wander over to the bed, to where Malcolm is now sitting up straighter and stretching his neck from side to side. He said he didn’t want anything serious, but really, the guy talking to him isn’t who he wants. Rowan watched him all night, watchedeveryoneall night, some more than others, inevitably, but no one as much as Malcolm. God, how could he? That would be like going to some museum and looking at the pedestals instead of the sculptures or the frames instead of the paintings. It wouldn’t make sense.

And when Malcolm’s gaze sweeps the room and lands on Rowan’s before snapping away, he can’t help but wonder again if the feeling is mutual.

“Sorry,” he finally says.

He barely registers the guy leaving, only catching the tail end of his “Whatever, dude,” when he sees the Van Damme look-alike approach the bed, hover, say something to Malcolm. The little pang Rowan felt earlier in his chest migrates to his stomach, barely more noticeable than a mosquito bite, but there and persistent and making Rowan pay attention. Malcolm shakes his head, and the other man leaves with the start of a scowl on his face.

What…? Had he been propositioned the same way Rowan had and turned the guy down?

The wetness seeping into his skin from the washcloths he’d tucked under his arm snaps him back to his senses and reminds him of why he came over here in the first place. Shaking his head at himself, he discards one of the washcloths, now both damp, and grabs a dry one before returning to the bed.

“Here,” Rowan says, cracks open the seal on the bottle of water and hands it to Malcolm.

The other man looks at him with wide eyes, slightly parted lips. Like Rowan handed him a bar of gold he’d mined and smelted himself rather than a bottle of water he’d gotten from the mini fridge a few feet away.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

Rowan can’t help but watch the pretty bob of his throat as he chugs nearly the entire bottle. When he’s finished, Rowan hands him the washcloths. Normally, he’d do it himself—clean up his mess, so to speak—but Malcolm is still a stranger, even if he’d been filled with Rowan in more ways than one, and that’s something that some people find too personal.

He gets the same incredulous look as before, but Malcolm takes the washcloths from him and wipes his face, Rowan turning to get another bottle of water to give him some semblance of privacy as he starts wiping down the rest of himself. When he returns, Malcolm seems to be finished, pulling on his briefs straight from the floor with little finesse.

“Do you need anything?” Rowan asks, handing him the other water bottle. “I mean, aftercare-wise?”

He takes the water with a nod and replies, “’M good.”

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