For the umpteenth time this morning, Rowan’s cheeks flame. But this time, he can feel the telltale pitter-patter of butterflies throwing a rave in his belly and a tingle all the way down to his fucking toes. He wishes he weren’t so transparent, but well… who the hell else would he have been talking about?

When he leaves, he tips her extra. Both for the advice and to make up for what Hank did years ago. Not that it means much now, but it makes him feel better.

THREE WEEKS have passed since Mal’s birthday. Since Rowan talked to Sheila. The crisp, cool September air is a welcome relief from the blistering heat outside and the heat inside Mal’s body that stays with him week after week, long after they’ve parted.

Rowan’s gonna tell him.

Ask him?

Tell him.

He needs to find the right time. The right words.

I think we should—

The past couple months, I’ve been feeling—

What if we—

When I’m around you, I feel—

I know you feel it, too—

I like you, I like you, I l—

He scribbles them down in his mind and erases them over and over with a firm shake of his head. So many “I” statements. His psychiatrist would be proud if Rowan weren’t too gut-wrenchingly embarrassed to say any of this shit out loud. One of his many character flaws is that he’s always been terrible at talking about his feelings. Maybe it’s his brain chemistry, or maybe it’s from growing up Southie, where sharing your weaknesses—real or perceived—was a sure way to get your ass kicked.

Maybe that’s why he’s always had such bad luck in relationships, and why he doesn’t want to fuck up this one.

This… arrangement.

He’s gonna tell him tonight. At the diner. Just needs to find the right words, the right time. When they’re walking home? Yeah. That way if it goes south, they both have a quick getaway.

The words will come to him when the time’s right, he’s sure of it. It’s gonna be great.

ROWAN’S GOT Mal trussed up on the bench, calves roped to his thighs, legs wide. Spread-eagled for Rowan like he’d been wanting to get him for months. Face down on the bench, arms outstretched, muscles taut.

It’s the most intense position they’ve done by far, and Rowan’s mind reels with the trust that Mal is showing him. The clicker in Mal’s hand has been silent save for the single click for “green” when Rowan’s asked for a check-in.

All he hears instead are moans. Sweet, guttural, broken moans that vibrate around the breathable ball gag in his mouth.

It’s a trade-off. One moan for every one of the beads Rowan pushes into Mal’s hole, two for every one he drags slowly back out.