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brought Malcolm’s cloth-trapped cock close to Owen’s face. Malcolm reached for Owen’s mouth then, stopping him from taking that covered cock, and brushed Owen’s pursed lips with two fingers. Malcolm opened his fly and worked his trousers off his hips. Owen stole a glance at Malcolm’s package, tempted to push forward and tease him.
    Malcolm’s cock was a decent length, and thick, erect enough for his foreskin to have disappeared. Owen gave in to temptation, closed his eyes and stuck his tongue out, arching his neck until he made contact. A shudder went through Malcolm’s body, and he thrust his cock toward Owen’s waiting mouth and then jerked back.
    “Not fair,” he ground out, and then a length of cloth was wrapped around Owen’s eyes but not yanked tight.
    “I want to taste,” Owen said, and Malcolm’s exasperated grunt actually made him shiver. Malcolm’s frustration was . . . cute. Charming. Whatever. It put a hell of a charge under his skin.
    “I thought what you wanted was to be blindfolded,” Malcolm muttered, sliding down Owen’s body, his cock staying in contact the whole time. Owen didn’t have a lot of chest hair, but he wondered if what he did have was rasping along the underside of that wonderful cock. The crown had been broad, he thought, shuddering, wide enough to be uncomfortable in his mouth. Oh, yeah—what would that wide head do in his ass?
    “Whatever,” he said and grinned. But just as he was about to open his eyes, the cloth tightened over them, shutting off even the occasional stolen glimpse.
    “Well, no reason not to blindfold you. No way I know of—or would use—to disable your sense of taste.” Malcolm chuckled and aligned his body with Owen’s so their cocks lined up. He rolled his hips, pushing against Owen’s belly. “Handcuffs? Bondage tape? You could still try to blow me tied up.” The “try to” was a clear challenge.
    “Mmm . . .” Owen opened his eyes under the blindfold. “I can still tell the light is on,” he said experimentally. “Can we kill the lights?”
    “Who are you? Cecil B. De-bloody-Mille?”
    “It’s your fantasy, Owen. Have whatever you want, Owen,” he mimicked, hoping his British accent wasn’t too craptastic. “But the one thing I ask for . . .”
    “Imposes on me too!” Malcolm sounded young, and put out, and Owen kept his smile to himself.
    “Then we don’t have to do this,” he said, reaching for the blindfold.
    Malcolm’s hands clasped his wrists, probably harder than Malcolm had intended. “Don’t bloody move,” he snarled, and then got up—probably naked, cock bobbing, which was wonderful to imagine—and disappeared.
    The light coming through the fabric grid of the blindfold went away, and he was abruptly, completely immersed in black. His lips came up in a half smile, and he stretched, his jeans making a sliding sound on the smooth leather. He clasped his hands above his head and shuddered, alone and almost naked in a stranger’s dark.
    “No bondage tape,” he said thoughtfully, “but if you don’t mind, for a moment, I might pretend there is.”
    Malcolm’s hands touched his calves, then, and the grip became firmer, removing his socks. Then fingers slid up his legs and removed his boxers, baring him to the skin on the leather. “I can see just enough in the light from outside,” Malcolm whispered. “Stay still.” The couch cushion dipped when Malcolm shifted his weight, and seemed to be to his left. “Now, where will I touch you, and with what?” Voice low, seductive, betraying that Malcolm had found his stride again and was back to enjoying himself. Default smugness engaged.
    Owen jerked when he felt a gentle wet pressure around his cock, and the breath and swirl of tongue gave away what Malcolm was doing. The wet warm pressure intensified as Malcolm sucked him in, then pulled back and blew on the wetness he’d left behind. Then he moved away.
    The next thing that touched Owen was flat, hard, and