Malcolm groans when Tats pulls out, leaving Rowan inside him. No one else steps up to replace Tats, but The Rock look-alike kneels against Rowan’s side and feeds his cock to Malcolm like it’s a treat, and judging by the eager way he sucks it down, like he’s done every single time tonight, it might be. He works The Rock expertly, slurping around the head and using the one hand that’s not holding himself up to stroke his shaft in time with his head bobbing. Rowan knows exactly how that feels, and it’s a miracle that the man manages to last as long as he does.

“Gonna come,” The Rock grits out.

And Malcolm wraps his hand around the back of his thigh and pulls him forward, deepthroating him as The Rock’s hips stutter and he comes with a groan.

Malcolm licks the man’s cock clean, sucking on it until it starts to soften, and The Rock pulls away. Malcolm locks eyes with Rowan, makes a show of swallowing The Rock’s load, and for good measure, opens his mouth to let Rowan see there’s nothing left. Exactly like Rowan made him do earlier.

And look.

Rowan can share.

Rowan is good at sharing, because he’s the middle child of a family of six from a neighborhood where people took care of each other. But he hates it. Now that he has a taste of having his own things, he never wants to have to share anything ever again. And apparently that desire extends to Malcolm too. The entire night has been hot as fuck, but he doesn’t want to see him get other people off or see other people get him off. He wants to do it himself or make Malcolm do it himself under Rowan’s watchful gaze.

So he shoots up, pulls out, and coaxes Malcolm onto his knees. He pulls his back flush against his chest as he pushes back into him in one smooth stroke, marveling at the slight resistance he still somehow feels. He squeezes Malcolm’s pecs, feels the pounding of his heart reverberating through the taut muscle.

He stills when he’s fully seated, Malcolm groaning low and dipping his head forward as if it’s the first time a dick’s entered him tonight rather than the hundredth.

Rowan slides a hand up from his chest to his throat, skimming his hand along the long column of his neck until he’s cupping his jaw and leaning his head back nearly on Rowan’s shoulder. He doesn’t apply any pressure, keeping his touch featherlight. As much as he’d love to choke him properly, it’s against both Malcolm’s and the club’s rules, and he wouldn’t cross those lines for anything.