He can easily see Mal finding it pleasurable. Getting off on the danger of it as much as the physical sensations. And all at once, Rowan feels his cock stir. He releases his neck, trails his hand down his body and over the hardening bulge in his briefs. It shouldn’t be so easy to rile him up, but God, even the thought of Mal gets him going like nothing else. As he loses the battle to not jerk off—twice in a row—he pictures what Mal’s face will look like when Rowan finally gets a hand around his neck.

ROWAN WANTS so badly to tell someone about Mal. About how he asked him to come over, but the harsh reality is that he can’t exactly do that without revealing that they’ve only been seeing each other at a BDSM club.

He thinks about telling Jay, but there are some things that family shouldn’t know, even if he’d known about Rowan’s illicit club days when he was younger.

He thinks about telling Addison, but he doesn’t think he’d live down the humiliation of admitting the same thing to her. And she doesn’t know about his past.

Hell, he even thinks about telling Aubrey, who’s as open about sex as Rowan himself is, but he’s really only mentioned Mal to her in passing as a friend, and he doesn’t want to get into the whole story.

Which is why he finds himself at the Menagerie on a Thursday night. He already knows that he’s not going to need to use one of his four monthly visits this Saturday—because he’ll be at Mal’s, his brain reminds him helpfully—so he doesn’t care about wasting it on seeking advice.

He’s never been here on a Thursday before, but the place is packed. As Rowan makes his way to the bar, he’s leered at constantly and groped no fewer than five times, some probably unintentional as he moves through the throng of people, but some definitely intentional.

“Hey, Jeremiah,” Rowan says, plopping down at the one empty seat at the bar.

Jeremiah looks up and beams that bright smile of his, throwing up a finger to signal one sec as he expertly mixes a cocktail.

Another bartender that Rowan’s never seen before comes over to take Rowan’s order, pours him a plain seltzer with cut-up lime wedges and sets it down on a napkin in front of him.

By the time he’s three sips into his drink, Jeremiah slides over to him and leans across the bar, half shouting over the din of the music and chatty patrons.

“How’s it going?” he asks.

“Good, you?”

“Busy as hell,” Jeremiah laughs. “But great. What brings you here on a Thursday?”

“Wanted to see if I could get your advice on something.”