And fuck, gorgeous is the perfect word, isn’t it? Rowan understands why he kept hearing it. He’s not hot, not handsome, not beautiful, not pretty. He’s a combination of all of those things in different, subtle ways. The intensely hot smolder in his eye, the handsome cut of his jaw, the beautiful curve of his cheekbones, the pretty fluttering of his eyelashes… it all adds up to something that Rowan likes far more than he should.

Just… gorgeous.

Throughout his life, especially during his wilder teenage phase, Rowan has been with nearly every type of guy under the sun. But Malcolm is different. It’s like he is the sun, or some shit. Like he’s what Rowan’s been gravitating toward his whole life but never managed to catch up to. Always circling, never getting a chance to meet.

But now he has a chance. To fuck the sun, or whatever.

He can feel his insides bubbling with molten desire, then freezing solid at the realization that he might not get picked, and liquefying all over again at the thought of wrapping his hands around that pretty throat and watching those fucking caramel-gold eyes roll back. Club rules be damned.

Before he can get even more lost in thoughts of all the things he wants to do to the man in front of him, he speaks.

“Aright, let’s get the boring but necessary shit over with,” Malcolm says.

His voice is a soothing baritone with a hint of gravelly rasp to it. And his accent sounds like he’s actually from Boston; Rowan knows from overhearing the other men talk that many of them come from out of state to be here, so it’s a pleasant surprise.

Malcolm continues, “First off, if you somehow aren’t aware, this is a gangbang, not an orgy. You wanna fuck someone else here besides me, get your own goddamn room.”

Rowan barely stifles a laugh, has to cover his mouth with his hand to hide his smile. He already likes this guy. Camilla’s words echo in his mind: Gorgeous, confident, incredible scene partner….

“Before I go over what’s on and off the table, my safewords will be the color system. If you’re not familiar with that, green is good to go, yellow is slow down or pause, and red is hard stop. Any questions on that?”

Malcolm looks around the room, and apparently seeing no objections, continues.

“Club rules require frequent negative STI tests. That bein’ said, if you’ve been with anyone unprotected since your last check-in, including oral, get the fuck out. This is a bareback scene, and even if you’ve got the best dick in Boston, I ain’t riskin’ anything.”

He looks pointedly at the crowd for a heated moment before three or four people exit, tails tucked between their legs.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Malcolm mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest, biceps bulging. “Anyone else?”

No one else leaves. Rowan’s glad he got his test results back yesterday.