Like he’s mentally frozen everyone else in the room, Rowan’s focus hones in on Malcolm’s face as he spreads the smaller man’s legs as wide as they’ll go on either side of Rowan’s own hips and clutches him around his waist. It’s not the best position for hard and fast fucking, but it’s perfect for hitting that sweet spot inside him that somehow everyone here has either completely missed or accidentally hit once or twice and never found again.

He tilts his hips down, pulls out, angles up a bit, and thrusts back in as hard as he can.

“Mmmmm-hm-hm-hmmm!” Malcolm cries out, loud despite his closed mouth.

It’s music to Rowan’s ears.

He sets a punishing pace and pumps into him, dragging Malcolm’s hips onto his cock for extra power on each thrust so he can wring as much pleasure out of the other man’s body as possible. Every thrust is punctuated with a “Hmm!” or an “Mmm!” and it’s fucking perfect. The best thing Rowan’s ever heard short of full-out moans, because he knows that with each muffled whimper, Malcolm is keeping Rowan’s spit locked inside.

He’s obeying.

And Rowan wants to reward him.

As good as he knows an endless assault on the prostate can be, he wants him to fully experience everything he has to offer. So he slides his hands under Malcolm’s low back and lifts his lower half off the bed, calves hooked over his shoulders and thighs pressed firmly to his chest.

He pulls out and fucks into him, hard, like everyone else should have been doing all goddamn night. More whimpers fill the air. It’s incredible how loud Malcolm can be, even with a closed mouth, even with dozens of other sounds competing for space in Rowan’s ears.

While the fucking is good, great even, Malcolm’s dick has been almost completely ignored since Rowan blew him.

“Touch yourself,” Rowan tells him.

The reaction is instant. Malcolm’s right hand shoots straight to his dick, gathering the steady stream of precome leaking onto his stomach. Rowan watches his fingers, mesmerized by the THUG tattooed on his knuckles. Notes that he’s only gripping with three fingers, his ring and pinkie finger simply resting against the shaft as he works himself over. A twist right at the tip. A looser grip on the downstroke.

He catalogs it all, hoping that he’ll get a chance to put that knowledge to use either later tonight or in the future.

Somewhere to the side of the bed, he hears an “I’m gonna come!” and snaps his head to see the blond Shirley Temple guy jerking off furiously.

“Get up here and come on him,” Rowan growls.

Because somehow, no one’s come anywhere except inside or on top of Malcolm’s ass yet. And Rowan wants to see him filthy.

The guy obeys, hustling onto the bed in time to shoot his load over Malcolm’s stomach and cock with a deep moan.