Page 115 of The Menagerie
“Pft. Won’t catch me running unless someone’s chasin’ me.”
“I like running,” Rowan replies, as if his hobbies need defending.
“Why does that not surprise me,” Mal deadpans.
“How do you wanna…?”
With a jerk of his head, Mal gestures to a blank wall off to the side of the room. Rowan leads the way, waiting for Mal to take his place against the wall as he switches his camera to portrait mode.
As he’s about to direct Mal how to pose, the other man half leans against the wall, one leg bent at the knee and foot pressed behind. It creates a tantalizing stretch between his legs, accentuating both the muscular limbs and the thick cock Rowan knows lies beneath the fabric.
Rowan almost forgets to tap the screen to focus on Mal rather than the wall behind him when he sees the sultry, half-lidded look Mal throws his way. He must tap the shutter button a dozen times in rapid succession, unable to take his eyes off the image on his screen to even see if the photos came out any good.
“Want the back too?” Mal asks, a knowing smirk on his face.
Busted.
“Yeah, if you’re cool with it.”
More like ifRowancan be cool with it. Christ.
Mal turns in place, this time standing with his legs shoulder width apart. Even with a tank top in the way, the muscles of his back are prominent beneath the ropes and doing alotfor Rowan, making his dick jump for the dozenth time today.
It must be some sort of spidey sense that makes Mal look back at Rowan as he’s about to take the next photo, butfuckif it doesn’t make for an incredible freeze frame. It’s slightly blurry with his movement, the strands of rope around his arms the only part completely in focus, but it looks almost artistic in its lack of deliberateness. It would look incredible in black and white.
And Rowan’s no photographer, but they lookgood. The kind of photos that would definitely get him banned from any social media site even if it weren’t firmly established that these aren’t going anywhere but Rowan’s own phone.
“You good, Liebowitz?”
Rowan wonders when Mal’s going to run out of nicknames for him. “Yeah, ’m good.”
“Send me those later.”
“I will,” he promises, walking back to their table.
“When you’re ready, you can start untying your partners,” Camilla calls to the room. “Be sure to go slowly and keep checking in throughout to make sure nothing goes numb or is painful. And of course, if you need the shears for any reason, use them.”
“You ready?” Rowan asks. “Or do you wanna stay in a bit longer?”
“Can take it off,” Mal replies. “Must be gettin’ close to eight.”
A quick check of his watch tells Rowan that they only have about fifteen minutes until then. He’s sure that if they needed it, Camilla would let them stay longer, but Rowan gets to work undoing the rig anyway.
Mal’s eyes are closed lightly as Rowan unties him. He’s never been tied himself, but Rowan can’t help wondering if it’s as satisfying having the binds taken off as it is to have them put on. While his fingers work, he watches Mal closely, not often able to drink in the sight of him outside of their scenes. It makes Rowan’s head spin a bit, knowing that this gorgeous person chosehimto share his body with. Even if Rowan’s wildest dreams don’t come true and Mal’s never anything more to him than a sex partner—and maybe even a friend, now—he still feels like Lady Luck is shining on him.
As each section of rope falls away, he rubs the pink skin left in its wake, stimulating the blood flow. He knows he didn’t tie anything tightly enough to constrict any major vessels, but he also knows that the delicate web of capillaries sitting below the skin is highly susceptible to pressure.
It’s almost clinical, Rowan thinks. He’s removed so many constricting objects from his patients’ skins at work that his body moves almost on autopilot. Hands gently tugging apart the knots one by one until the red rope gives way to flushed pink skin and soft black fabric.
Sure, there are no sirens or flashing lights or chaotic jostling from dodging traffic while riding in the back of an ambulance, but there’s the gentle scratching of the rope against Mal’s body, the glint in his eyes from the overhead lights, and the unpredictable rhythm of Rowan’s heart kicking his adrenaline into overdrive, and really it shouldn’t be all that different.
But it is. It feels likemorebecause of where they are and who they are to one another, and the pressure of being perfect almost makes a lump swell in Rowan’s throat. He swallows it, reminding himself that even if he fucks it up somehow, Mal’s stuck by him so far and hasn’t dumped him outside the club by his scruff like a wet dog. It sends a flicker of warmth through him, and he finishes untying the rest of the rig with ease.
Finally free, Mal flexes his fingers and stretches his arms across the front of his chest.
“You good?” Rowan asks.
“Yeah. Here, wind this one up,” Mal says, handing him one of the fifteen-foot strands of rope as he grabs the thirty.
