There have to be at least forty people crammed into the room, and maybe more spilling out into the hallway. That means Rowan only has a roughly 25 percent chance of getting picked, and while he’s always been a bit of a gambler, a bit of a risk taker, those odds are still a little slim for his liking.

“And,” Malcolm starts, taking a deep breath and exhaling through his nose. “My last Dom moved outta state, so I’m lookin’ for a new one. Impress me tonight and we’ll talk if you’re interested.” His eyes sweep the crowd, landing on Rowan’s for a beat before moving on.

Rowan’s pulse quickens as excited whispers spread through the crowd. Although Malcolm didn’t specifically say the words contest or competition or tryouts, Rowan can’t help but feel that’s what this is. And he’s never wanted to win something so badly in his entire fuckin’ life.

Fuck. He hasn’t even seen this guy in action, he reminds himself. He’s purely relying on what others have told him of Malcolm’s skills in bed. For all he knows, he could be complete shit and not what Rowan’s into at all.

But even as he thinks it, his gut tells him that isn’t true. Something about the man is utterly magnetic, drawing Rowan in like a lost sailor to a siren promising dry land. He can only hope he doesn’t end up drowning chasing blindly after what he wants.

“Any other questions?” Malcolm asks, eyes sweeping around the room. “’Kay. I’m gonna come around, and if I see somethin’ I like, you’re in. Not just lookin’ for who has the best dick, but if you think it’s a selling point for ya, feel free to whip it out.”

Most of the people around Rowan scramble to undo their pants and either shove them down to mid-thigh or pull their dicks out straight through the zipper hole. Most start jerking off, and Rowan idly wonders if he should too. He knows he has a nice dick and that he’s firmly on the “above average” side of things, but something stops him. Call it his ego, but he feels like he doesn’t need to show off his dick to be chosen.

Despite Rowan being fairly close to the bed, Malcolm starts on the opposite side of the room closest to the door.

Rowan can barely hear what Malcolm is saying, but he watches him pick each person, not asking for names but rather giving them nicknames based on their physical appearance. Rowan sees each man picked circle around against the wall closest to the bed.

The lucky few.

First is a young white guy with light skin, a tall but lean frame, and blond curls. Malcolm dubs him Shirley Temple, which makes Rowan have to stifle another laugh, though he is curious why Malcolm didn’t ask for the guy’s name.

Next is a Hispanic man—Shortstop, though he’s actually the same height as Malcolm—with a medium complexion and black shoulder-length hair. A broad chest and thick legs make him look bigger than he is.