Mal and Rowan both know that if Mal safewords—meringue for pause and apple for stop (green apple, Mal insists, not the red ones, because green apples are disgusting)—that Rowan will stop immediately and cradle Mal in his arms and kiss away any tears that may have spilled and tell him that he loves him to the moon and back.

So much love underneath it all.

TONIGHT FOR the first time, they visit the VoyEx corner. They’d talked about doing it for a while now but hadn’t yet worked up the courage to actually do it. But they finally decided on it and booked a slot on the stage—wanting to make sure that no one else claimed it first.

When they walk over, hand in hand, there’s already a crowd forming around the empty stage, Mal still drawing in gaggles of onlookers long after he’s stopped scening with anyone but Rowan.

“Jesus,” Rowan remarks under his breath.

Mal laughs. “You can say that again. Horny fuckers.”

“They see your name on the Events calendar and go fucking nuts.”

“Let ’em. Only one person I care about driving nuts anymore,” Mal says, squeezing Rowan’s hand tighter.

Rowan smiles and squeezes back.

They’d specifically requested a Saint Andrew’s cross for tonight, and the staff of the Menagerie did not disappoint. Smack in the center of the stage is a large, leather-padded, X-shaped black cross, cuffs already in place in each of the four corners. Mal sets his bag down and goes to work swapping out the cuffs for his own fabric-lined ones while Rowan lays out the lube and toys they’ve brought tonight—nipple clamps, a vibrator, a prostate massager, and a clear masturbator.

They’re going all-out tonight.

The crowd around them thickens, more and more men gathering around despite the fact that nothing interesting is happening right now. A couple of them have even started jerking off, completely unashamed. Rowan knows that’s the point of this whole area—to get off watching strangers getting off—but Christ. Save some for the good stuff.

One guy looks like he’s halfway to blowing already, leering greedily at Mal’s clothed ass as he switches the cuffs. An ugly coil of jealousy twists itself in Rowan’s gut, but he has to remind himself that Mal is his now, and that what they’ve got can’t be shaken by some middle-aged businessman with an average-at-best cock.

When everything is set up, Rowan runs a hand down Mal’s back, rubbing gently at the dip in his spine above his ass.

“You ready?” Rowan whispers to him.

“Always.”

“Good. Then strip.”

He raises his voice, aware of the crowd around them. They’re here to put on a show, after all.

Mal complies immediately, no fight in him at this point, only eagerness. He strips off his shirt first, pulls it over his head in a swift motion before he chucks it over to the supply table where his bag sits. His shoes and socks come next, kicked off in a somehow attractive, flawless manner that Mal always seems to be able to pull off. Finally he gets to his jeans, shucking them down without preamble, revealing what’s underneath.