Page 82 of The Menagerie

Mal meets his eyes, and the intensity that Rowan sees there turns the flutter into a full-on palpitation.

“You start feelin’ like that after our scene’s over, tell me. Or text me if it’s later in the week or somethin’,” Mal tells him, voice serious.

Rowan wants to saythank youand he wants to sayI like learning this stuff with youand he wants to leap across the table and kiss the tiny fleck of mustard off the corner of Mal’s lip because sure, Rowan’s clinically mentally ill, but he’s also apparently fucking crazy and way too into this guy he’s basically only hooking up with.

What he says instead is nothing, and what he does is nod and take another bite of his grilled cheese.

Mal mirrors his nod, seemingly satisfied. “Anyway,” he says, “don’t be afraid to push me more’s all I’m sayin’. Gotta trust yourself that you’re not gonna fuck it up. But that’ll come with time. Already pretty damn good at it for a newbie.”

That same rush of tingling warmth he’s felt countless times tonight spreads through Rowan once more.

Mal was right. You can learn a lot of shit from books, and Rowan has so far, but nothing beats actual experience. And nothing feels better than hearing your sub say youdid a good job. The irony isn’t lost on Rowan—that as the Dom, the one who’s supposed to take care ofMaland tell himhe’sdoing a good job, the opposite feels just as good.

A two-way street.

Chocolate sauce on pizza.

THEY WORKthrough their meals, snippets of meaningless conversation sprinkled in.

Mal unzips his messenger bag to check something on his phone, Rowan catching the light glinting off the metal clasps of the cuffs he’d unceremoniously tossed inside after their scene.

“Is there anything of the club’s that you actually use?” Rowan asks, recalling that Mal said he mostly brings his toys and equipment.

“Eh,” Mal shrugs. “Not really? Basically just the rooms and benches and shit. People are fuckin’ gross, man.”

Rowan thinks that the club isn’t nearly as gross as it would be if it weren’t in a fairly posh neighborhood. In fact it’s been pretty spotless every time he’s been there. Though he does remember the thorough toy cleaning and maintenance instructions he’d read in the book earlier in the week and thinks that Mal’s probably right despite Rowan’s recollection of the club’s toy-cleaning standards when he’d signed up.

Still.

“Must be kinda used to gross, though,” Rowan comments. “You’re Southie, right?”

Mal’s eyebrows quirk up.

“Your accent. I am too.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah. Lived on Hampton Street.”

“Huh,” Mal says, looking thoughtful and—if Rowan’s reading it right—a little impressed. “Lived, like, a mile from there. On Baker.”

“Damn, small fuckin’ world.”

A smirk settles on Mal’s face. “Knew you seemed like a scrappy fucker.”

Rowan snorts in the back of his throat. “Why, ’cause I was gonna fight that guy at the gangbang?”

“Just in general. Don’t really take shit from what I’ve seen so far.”

With a shrug, Rowan replies, “Yeah, guess so. The result of being the middle of six kids.”

“Fuck, I thoughtSavarynsbred like cockroaches.”

“Don’t think that’s the right expression.”

“Whatever, Red.” Mal tilts his bag of BBQ chips up and empties the crumbs into his mouth, crunching loudly. “Left that shithole so I didn’t have to deal with that shit anymore. Bein’ fuckin’… dirty all the time. Usin’ other people’s stuff. Can finally use myownshit and not hafta share it with anyone.”

Rowan’s heart gives a little kick in solidarity, having felt the exact same when he’d moved into his own place after having to share everything he’s ever touched his entire life.

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