He can’t; he knows that. But fuck, Rowan’s gotta be a bit of a masochist, because having to deny himself that is easily the hardest thing he’s done, especially when Mal’s lips are pink and slick and parted just so.

“Okay?” Rowan asks.

Mal nods, blinking slowly and rolling his shoulders.

And Mal’s still hard.

“You want the cuffs off, or do you want me to get you off again?”

“Cuffs,” Mal tells him, voice low.

Shuffling behind him, Rowan quickly unclasps the latch between the cuffs, freeing Mal’s hands. One at a time, he raises Mal’s hands and removes the cuffs, the fur slightly damp from the thin sheen of sweat that’s accrued from their session.

Once Mal is free, he rolls his wrists and shoulders, tilts his neck from side to side. Rowan holds the back of his elbow and helps him to his feet, guides him to the bed and lets him get comfortable on his back before he slicks his hand and brings Mal off again in smooth, slow jerks.

When he’s panting and sated, Rowan helps him come down.

A privilege he still can’t quite believe he gets to be a part of.

THEY’VE MADE going to Sheila’s diner a tradition of sorts, and it brings a welcome sense of familiarity to their sessions, coupled with an anticipation that has Rowan floating the entire walk there.

Because here, tucked away in the corner booth under the fluorescent lights, Rowan can actually get to know Mal’s mind rather than his body. Here he’s more than a bratty sub—he’s a wholeass person that Rowan’s been dying to get to know since he first locked eyes with him at the gangbang three weeks ago.

And sure, he knows some of what Mal likes sexually. Knew some of that shit before he’d even spoken two words to the guy, so it’s easy to think he knows a lot about him. But so far everything he’s learned has been carefully curated, filtered, sterilized almost, in a way that makes him realize he doesn’t know the other man at all. It’s like he’s still getting Malcolm, this caricature that he’s sculpted to present to the outside world so he doesn’t have to get too close with anyone.

Rowan wants to know Mal.

The guy who’s friends with the Monroe twins and Jeremiah and a sweet old lady who runs the diner they’ve come to frequent.

The guy whose tattoos are equally delicate and threatening.

The guy who shares pie and cigarettes with an almost-stranger without batting an eye.

That’s the guy Rowan wants to get to know, and he has no problem admitting that, even after only two scenes alone with him.

“SO, WHAT’S the verdict?” Rowan asks, pouring the packet of oyster crackers into his tomato soup.

“Was good,” Mal replies after he finishes a bite of his sandwich. But he doesn’t bother to look up from his food, diving in for another bite immediately.