Every hit is punctuated with a sharp “Hunh!” or “Ohh!” or “Fuck!” that rewires Rowan’s brain and makes him salivate. The sounds are nearly as hot as watching Mal’s plump ass jiggle beneath the force of his hand. He can’t help but knead the thick muscle every few hits, watching the redness turn to white with the perfect indents of his fingers.

By the fiftieth spank, Mal’s squirming in his lap. Pushing up and shrinking down, like he can’t decide whether the actual spank or the anticipation of the next blow feels better.

Rowan rains down smacks on Mal’s ass until each cheek and thigh burn to the touch and his skin is cherry red. Until there are tears streaming down Mal’s cheeks and precome dribbling down his cock. The latter drips onto Rowan’s bare thigh, and he’s struck with the urge to lap it up, to suck the tip of Mal’s cock into his mouth and taste him.

But he can’t, because Mal fucked someone else.

The petty, nosy part of Rowan wants to know who it was. A friend? An old scene partner? A Grindr hookup? Or maybe he picked up a stranger at a bar. He can’t exactly imagine Mal doing that when he’s got a top-tier membership here, but he has no clue. Fuck, was it even a man? He’d never have thought it might not be until tonight’s revelation with Camilla. And it doesn’t bother him, not in principle anyway. What bothers him is the not knowing. But he shoves his wandering thoughts aside, focusing back on the man in his lap.

With one final slap, he tugs Mal off of him, pushing back until he’s sitting on his heels, a ghost of a wince on his face from the undoubtedly sore area.

“Clean it up.”

“Clean… wh—”

“Me. Don’t be stupid.”

He shoves Mal’s face down to his own lap like a dog, his hot breath warming the precome on Rowan’s thigh. But it’s with little kitten licks that Mal laps up his own mess from Rowan’s leg, his tongue smooth and wet and making more of a mess than was even there to begin with.

“All of it, or I promise you, the next time my hand touches your ass, you won’t enjoy it.”

There’s a soft mewl followed by two more licks to the inside of his thigh that feel like liquid fire, and Rowan’s thigh is clean of every trace of precome.

“Good.” He drags Mal off by his hair, not satisfied with having him stop there. He rolls his tongue and spits loudly on his own thigh, the pearly white fluid a poor stand-in for what Rowan would rather see him lick. “Keep going.”

Mal’s eyes flick to Rowan’s, pupils blown, mouth slack. There’s a hesitation there that Rowan doesn’t like.

“Give me a color, Mal.”

His response is instant despite his raspy voice. “Green….”

“The fuck are you waiting for, then?”