One of the men, clearly the sub, is standing with his legs and arms spread and bound to a Saint Andrew’s cross. Thin red welts cover his chest and thighs, angry and long but with no trace of blood, which speaks to the skill of the Dom whipping him with a long black flogger. The Dom reels back and cracks it across the sub’s chest, the sound of it hitting Rowan’s ears before the sub even lets out a peep.

He doesn’t know how long they’ve been at this, but the sub’s cock is flushed and hard and the wet from his cunt is dripping down his legs, catching the light as he squirms both toward and away from the flogger.

Rowan watches the exhibitionists and the crowd of voyeurs around him, half of whom are unabashedly jerking off, and lets his mind wander. To whether any of these men are married, to the slice of cheesecake from Addison sitting in his fridge at home, to the text from Clara he forgot to reply to earlier. To Mal. To their argument the other day, to the class they’re taking tonight to improve their scenes, to what Mal’s ass is going to look like once Rowan gets his hands on it afterward.

Always to Mal.

Rowan’s too caught up in him. Too emotionally invested in something that’s supposed to be casual and fun, and he can feel it start to weigh on him.

Maybe he should skip a session with Mal—tell him he’s sick or something and use one of his four precious monthly visits to the club to seek out the company of some other willing bottom. It might help. But then again, it might make things worse, especially if Mal comes anyway, seeking someone else out too. Caught playing hooky by the principal. His mind is reeling with made-up scenarios that could put soap operas to shame, and he physically shakes his head to bring himself back to the moment.

The thoughts of finding someone else are all abruptly dismissed when he realizes he’s barely turned on by everything happening around him, only a tiny blip of desire. A few weeks ago, he’d probably be whipping his dick out alongside everyone else or seeing if the pair on stage were up for a threesome later.

Something a little bit like guilt tugs at his insides as he turns away and slinks back to the bar, the whipcracks and moans fading behind him.

Jeremiah is busy chatting up a group of older-looking men, deftly preparing their drinks without missing a beat of their conversation. Maybe he should see if he’s up for something.

“You’re early tonight,” the bartender notes. “Shibari class?”

“Yep,” Rowan replies.

“You’ll love it.”

“Have you taken it before?”

The grin Jeremiah gives him is proud and devastatingly handsome. “I used to teach it.”

Rowan’s stunned into silence, which makes the other man laugh again.

“Anything to drink before you head out?”