Page 29 of The Menagerie

Rowan watches him exit the room—still in nothing but his briefs—admiring the way his back muscles flex as he walks. He feels a stirring in his groin, like he hadn’t come twice in the span of a few hours. He can’t help but wonder if it’s the newness of Mal that’s getting him going like this, or if this is what it’s going to be like as long as they’re…whatever. Dom and sub. Fuck buddies. Though Rowan’s pretty sure you need tobebuddies first before the term “fuck buddies” is actually appropriate. Right now they’re just people who have fucked and are going to make plans to fuck again.

Probably. Hopefully.

The point is, Mal’s hot, and Rowan already wants more.

When he hears the door to what is presumably the changing room slam shut, Rowan realizes he’s been standing by himself in the Black Room. He tugs at his shirt, regretting having gotten dressed now that he’s going to be out in public again. He’d planned on going home, showering, and passing out for at least ten hours, but Mal had completely changed those plans. And Rowan’s immensely looking forward to spending more time with him, but he feels gross, having only given himself a cursory wipe down before he’d put his clothes back on.

He heads to the bathroom down the hall, marveling at the warm cream-colored walls and soft lighting and cleanliness. Rowan hadn’t been expecting a gas-station bathroom, exactly, but this is some five-star hotel shit.

Mercifully, a basket full of travel-size toiletries sits on the sink counter. Rowan washes his hands, splashes some cold water on his face—careful to not drip onto his shirt—and towels off with one of the rolled hand towels stacked in neat rows. He takes a miniature bottle of mouthwash and gargles with the entire thing, spitting it in the sink after a minute or so. There are a wide variety of deodorant sticks and sprays, including the same Old Spice that Rowan uses at home. He applies a fresh coat, smooths out his shirt, and pockets the rest of the tube, not wanting to waste it.

Somehow, his hair is still mostly fine despite everything that happened tonight, so he simply wets his fingertips and flattens down the curls at his temples that are starting to get a little too long to be left ungelled.

Returning to the lounge, he sees that there are still a decent number of people milling around, which isn’t surprising since it’s only around midnight on a Saturday night. He wanders to the bar, seeing that there are several empty barstools and that Jeremiah is still working.

“Don’tyoulook freshly fucked,” Jeremiah says to him with a devious twinkle in his eyes as Rowan plants himself on a barstool. “I take it you got in?”

Rowan can’t help the corners of his lips turning up. “Yeah.”

“Good for you. Malcolm’s picky as hell.” He leans closer and drops his voice. “Which is also good forme, since I always make a killing in tips from his rejects.”

Rowan laughs, picturing the scenario perfectly. Dejected men slumping down at the bar, throwing their money at the next pretty thing they see after being turned down by Mal, probably not for the first time. He’s reasonably sure at least two of the men at the bar were in the room with him when Mal picked.

“Anything I can get for you?”

“No thanks, just waiting on Mal—uh, Malcolm.”

Rowan stops himself from sayingMalbecause he isn’t actually sure if the other man wants people knowing his nickname. Clearly everyone here refers to him as Malcolm, so it’s a safe bet to stick with that when they’re not in private. The little flip in his stomach returns tenfold at the thought of already having athingbetween the two of them, but it’s likely that Rowan’s reading too much into things.

To his surprise, Jeremiah’s eyebrows shoot up to his forehead. “Oh?”

“Oh… what?”

Jeremiah’s lips pull back into a secretive smile as he takes a black cloth from behind the counter and wipes away a condensation ring on the bar. “Just surprised, is all.”

Man, for a guy who’s seeminglyextremelyopen about things, everyone is secretive as fuck about Mal.

“Why?”

“He’s usually a one-and-done guy when he’s not subbing for someone long term.”

Once again Rowan’s unsure if he should mention their soon-to-be Dom/sub relationship, but he figures they’re going to be seen together at the club, so it couldn’t hurt to share with a staff member.

“Ah, we’re kinda….”

“Hooo-ly shit,” Jeremiah laughs. “First day at the club and you’ve managed to snag the most sought-after fish in the pond.”

Yeah. He kinda did, huh? Unless Mal decides sometime between now and whenever that Rowan’s not up to his standards and seeks out someone else. It seems he’d have plenty of options.

Rowan gets that now too. Why apparently everyone wants a piece of him. There’s something deeply satisfying about getting to tame someone like Mal. Like Malcolm. To take this wild, feral thing and bump him down a notch or two because that’s exactly what he wants.

And Rowan hasn’treallytamed him. Not yet. Probably won’t ever be able to, and that thought renews all his vigor in an instant before Jeremiah speaks again.

“Should’ve taken a swing at you when I had the chance.”

“Hands off, Jer,” Mal’s voice sounds from behind Rowan.

Rowan spins on his stool to see Mal, taking in his fully clothed figure for the first time. He looks good, wearing black jeans with wide holes in the knees, a plain black shirt, and a light-colored jean jacket. He’s evidently freshly showered, the tips of his hair still misty and tousled like he’d only run his fingers through the length of it rather than brushed it properly.

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