Stroke of Bad Luck — Bonus Chapter
Exclusive Bonus Content
by Jace Wilder
⚠️ This bonus chapter contains explicit sexual content and spoilers for Stroke of Bad Luck. Read the full novel first for maximum impact.
Course Record
An Exclusive Bonus Chapter — Stroke of Bad Luck
The spreadsheet had not accounted for this.
Day three of the vacation — the vacation I had planned with conditional formatting and Garamond font — and the schedule said “afternoon: explore local town, dinner reservation at 7.” The schedule did not say “afternoon: pin Callum Vey to a rented bed and make him forget the word thermostat.” That was an improvisation. My best one yet.
“We’re behind schedule,” Cal said. He was lying on his back, shirtless, the late afternoon light cutting across his chest in warm bands.
“The schedule is a living document. It adapts to conditions.”
“The conditions being that you refuse to put on pants.”
“The conditions being that you look like that and I have functioning eyes.”
“Come here,” he said.
“Closer.”
I rolled toward him. My mouth finding the spot below his ear that made his breathing change. I kissed it. Slowly.
“I’m more interesting than kelp.”
“That’s debatable.”
I bit his earlobe. Gently. Felt his hand grip the back of my neck — the spot, our spot.
I kissed down his throat. His collarbone. The freckle constellation I’d been mapping since a gym in Scottsdale. I kissed each one.
“Tell me what you want,” I said. His line. Borrowed. Returned.
“I want you to stop asking and start doing.”
His hips lifted when I pulled his shorts down, and the sound he made when I wrapped my hand around him was worth every minute of every spreadsheet I would ever make.
I took my time. I used my mouth on his hip bones. The inside of his thighs. The sensitive crease where his leg met his body, the place that made his hand fist in the sheets.
When I took him in my mouth, I did it the way he’d taught me everything — with attention. With patience. I’d gotten good at this. Not through technique — through watching.
I hollowed my cheeks. Took him deep. His hips jerked. His fingers tightened in my hair. Not pushing. Holding.
I pulled back before he could finish.
“Not yet.”
“Don’t chase it. Let it build.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
“Both. Simultaneously. Come here.”
He rolled me. One fluid motion — the athlete’s body, the strength that rehabilitation had rebuilt.
“My turn,” he said.
“Your plan had conditional formatting. Mine has better follow-through.”
He kissed me. Deep, commanding. His mouth moved to my neck. My chest. He scraped his teeth across my nipple and I arched off the bed and he held me down — one hand flat on my chest, firm, the hand that said stay.
He bypassed my cock entirely and kissed the inside of my thigh, then the spot behind my knee that I hadn’t known was erogenous until Cal’s mouth discovered it.
By the time his mouth found my cock I was beyond language. He was meticulous. Thorough. And when he slid a slicked finger inside me while his mouth continued its devastating work, my back bowed off the bed.
Two fingers. He found the angle — the specific, catastrophic angle — and held it.
“Cal — I need — I want—”
“Tell me.”
“Fuck me. Now. Please.”
“Since you asked so nicely.”
The prep was unhurried. Cal never rushed this. His fingers opening me while his mouth found mine, the kiss absorbing every sound I made.
When he entered me, we were face to face. My legs wrapped around his hips, his forehead against mine, our eyes open. Anyone could fuck with their eyes closed. Watching someone see you while you came apart — that required the kind of trust that took a season to build.
He moved slowly at first. Long, deep strokes. His good hand gripped my hip. His scarred hand braced beside my head in a position I’d learned to arrange for him — supported, sustainable, pain-free.
“Good?” he asked. Always asked.
“More.”
He gave me more. Faster. Deeper. His hand moved from my hip to my cock, wrapping around me, stroking in time with each thrust.
The dual sensation was annihilating. I was clawing at his back — nails digging in, leaving marks.
“You feel incredible. Every time.”
“Say my name.”
“Mads.”
“Again.”
“Mads.” Broken. Raw. The way he said it when the walls were down and the man underneath was visible and vulnerable and mine.
I came first. His hand tightened around me and his hips found the angle that destroyed me and I shattered with his name in my mouth and his cock inside me and his forehead against mine and our eyes — open, watching, seeing everything.
He followed. Three thrusts later. He came with my name on his lips and his body shuddering against mine.
It felt like everything. It felt like home.
We lay in the wrecked bed in the California light. His head on my chest. My hand in his hair.
“We missed the dinner reservation.”
“We missed it yesterday too.”
His finger traced Dax’s initials on my ribs — the small, permanent mark of a complicated love I was learning to hold without burning.
“What’s tomorrow on the spreadsheet?”
“Day four. It’s blank.”
“Why blank?”
“Because you taught me that the best shots are the ones you choose in the moment. And I wanted one day where we didn’t know what was coming and it was okay.”
“Course record,” he said. “For the most romantic thing you’ve ever said.”
He kissed my chest. His scarred wrist rested on my stomach where the scar pressed against my skin like a signature.
“The spreadsheet has thirteen more days.”
“I plan to miss a lot of dinner reservations.”
The ocean continued. The cottage held us. Home was not a structure. Home was the person in it.
Garamond, twelve-point, with conditional formatting and color-coded days. The font of a man who knew what his partner liked. The font of a life worth playing.