My Roommate’s Only Fan: Bonus Chapter

The First Draft
by Jace Wilder

🔞 This bonus chapter contains extremely explicit sexual content. It is intended for readers 18+ who have read My Roommate’s Only Fan. This scene is too hot for retail platforms and is hosted exclusively on our site.

⚠️ SPOILER WARNING: This chapter takes place after the events of My Roommate’s Only Fan. If you haven’t read the novel yet, start here.

Cas

The new curtains arrived on a Thursday.

Not black. Riven had vetoed black with the particular firmness of a man whose aesthetic opinions carried the weight of professional conviction. The replacement panels were a deep charcoal linen—translucent enough to let the factory-window light bleed through in soft, diffused columns, opaque enough to create a frame without sealing the room into the lightless vault the old setup had been. They were beautiful. They were also, according to the invoice, a hundred and forty dollars per panel, because Riven March did not believe in budget curtains when aesthetic integrity was on the line.

“They’re curtains,” I said.

“They’re the visual foundation of the entire studio. The curtains are the most important element in the room after the light source.”

“The most important element in the room is my body.”

“Your body is the subject. The curtains are the context. Without context, the subject is just a man standing in a room. With the right context, the subject is an experience.”

“An experience that costs six hundred dollars in window treatments.”

“Art has overhead.”

I loved him. I loved him in the specific, incandescent, sometimes-infuriating way that you love someone who can say “art has overhead” while standing on a ladder in a vintage tee that’s riding up to show a strip of dark skin above his waistband, and mean it with his whole chest.

We hung them together. Riven on the ladder—locs tied back with the leather cord, a pencil behind his ear, his forearms flexing every time he reached for the curtain rod. I handed him panels and hardware and tried not to stare at the way his shoulders moved under the thin cotton. Tried and failed. Had been trying and failing for the better part of a year now, and the failure had become its own kind of success—the daily, ongoing proof that I was allowed to want this man and he wanted me back and neither of us had to pretend otherwise.

When the last panel was hung, the room transformed. The old studio had been a vault—sealed, controlled, the visual equivalent of a locked diary. This was different. The afternoon light filtered through the charcoal linen in amber shafts that caught the brick walls, the drafting table, the ring light on its stand. The space felt less like a set and more like a room where two people actually lived and worked and made things together.

“First shoot in the new studio,” Riven said. He was still on the ladder, looking down at me with the expression that meant his design brain and his desire brain had synchronized and were producing results that were about to ruin my evening plans.

“Now?”

“Now.”

He climbed down. Set the camera on the tripod. Adjusted the framing with micro-precision—two degrees left, a quarter-inch tilt—the particular obsessiveness of a man who believed composition was a moral obligation. The ring light came on. The amber circle bloomed against the charcoal, warmer and softer than the old black had ever allowed.

“The rules,” he said. Designer voice. But his pupils were already dilated beyond what the ambient light justified.

“Masks on for content. Masks off for us. We film what we choose, keep what we choose, delete what we choose.”

“And?”

“And if either of us says stop, we stop.”

“Good.” He pressed record. The red light blinked on. “Then let’s see what these curtains can do.”

The shoot started professional. Masks on. Compression bands in place. The visual language of OnlyVale’s restructured brand—anonymous, curated, the boundary between public and private drawn with deliberate precision. Riven directed. I responded. The familiar choreography of two bodies in a frame.

The professional part lasted nine minutes.

I know because the camera’s timecode would later confirm it, and because nine minutes is approximately the duration of my self-control when Riven March uses the voice.

He said “turn toward me” in the low, specific register that bypassed every defense I’d built and landed directly in the part of my nervous system that controlled coherent thought, and I turned, and his hand was on my chest, and through the mask I could see his amber eyes tracking down my body with an intensity that had nothing to do with composition and everything to do with hunger.

“Take it off,” he said.

“The mask?”

“Everything.”

The camera was still recording. The red light blinked. I looked at it—the small mechanical eye that had been my audience for two years. Then I looked at Riven.

I reached behind my head. Untied the mask. Let it drop to the studio floor. Then the shirt—over my head, the compression band peeling off my tattoo sleeve with it. The joggers next, pushed down my hips, stepped out of. The boxers last—thumbs in the waistband, a slow push that I didn’t perform for the camera but didn’t hide from it either.

I stood in the ring light’s amber circle completely naked, completely unmasked, completely visible.

“Your turn,” I said.

Riven stripped with the unhurried confidence of a man who was comfortable in his skin and more interested in mine. His mask first. Then the shirt, pulled over his head in a single motion that made his abs contract and his locs fall loose. His jeans—unbuttoned, unzipped, pushed down lean runner’s thighs. His briefs. His body in the ring light was dark and carved and gleaming with the particular warmth of skin already flushed with want.

His cock was hard. Full and thick, angled toward his navel, the visual evidence that the professional detachment had been a costume and the man underneath had been thinking about this since he climbed down the ladder.

He crossed the room. Put his hands on my waist. Pulled me against him—chest to chest, stomach to stomach, his cock pressed against my hip, mine against his thigh—and the sound I made when our bodies connected was not a sound I had ever made on camera.

“On the floor,” he said against my mouth. “I want to see you against the new curtains.”

I lay down. The studio floor was covered by the rug we’d added during the renovation—dark, plush, thick enough to be comfortable for what I knew was coming. Above me, the charcoal curtains filtered the afternoon light into something golden and warm. Riven stood over me, backlit by the ring light, his body casting a shadow that covered mine like a second skin.

“You’re staring,” I said.

“I’m composing.”

“You’re staring at my cock and calling it composition.”

“Your cock is part of the composition. Everything in the frame is compositional.” He knelt between my legs. His hands landed on my thighs—warm, ink-stained, the long fingers spreading wide. “What do you want?”

“Everything. Same as always.”

“Be specific. I want to hear you say it.”

He knew I could. That was the thing—eight months ago, I couldn’t say the words without deflecting into humor. Now I could say them because he’d taught me that asking for what I wanted wasn’t weakness. It was the most honest thing a body could do.

“I want your mouth on me until I forget my own name. I want your fingers inside me until I’m begging. I want you to fuck me on this rug until the curtains need washing. And then I want to ride you until you lose the composure you’re so proud of.” I held his eyes. “And I want the camera to catch every second, and then I want us to delete all of it and keep the memory.”

Something broke behind his expression. The careful, patient, designer composure cracked like ice on a river, and what rushed through was heat—raw, undisguised, the kind of want that a man who controlled every frame had no frame for.

“Deal,” he said, and put his mouth on me.

He didn’t start where I expected.

He started at my hip—the bone, the ridge of muscle, the sensitive crease where thigh met torso. His tongue traced the line like he was following a seam in a fabric only he could see, and the tease was so deliberate, so maddeningly precise, that my hips lifted off the rug before I could stop them.

His hand pressed my hip back down. Firm. Held me there.

“Stay,” he said against my skin.

“I’m not a dog.”

“You’re not. Dogs are obedient.” His mouth moved to my inner thigh. The soft skin there, rarely touched, hypersensitive. He bit—not hard, but enough to make me gasp—and then soothed the bite with his tongue, a slow flat stroke that sent electricity from my thigh to my spine.

“Riven—”

“Patience.”

He worked my thighs for what felt like hours. Might have been minutes. Time had become irrelevant because his mouth was everywhere except where I needed it—the inside of my knee, the crease of my hip, the trail of hair below my navel—and my cock was rigid against my stomach, untouched, aching, leaking onto the flat muscle of my abs while he systematically dismantled my ability to form sentences.

His mouth found my balls. Warm, wet, his tongue tracing the seam, taking one gently into his mouth and applying a suction that made my vision white out at the edges. My hand flew to his head—fingers in his locs, gripping, not pushing, just holding on because the floor had tilted and he was the only fixed point.

“Please,” I said. The word cost nothing anymore. I’d learned that from him—that please wasn’t surrender. It was direction.

He took me in his mouth.

The first contact—his lips closing around the head, his tongue sweeping the underside, the hot wet pressure of him taking me deeper—was so intense after the extended tease that my back arched off the rug and a sound tore out of me that was closer to a shout than a moan.

He didn’t ease into it. He swallowed me—deep, deliberate, his throat opening to take me past the point of comfort into the territory of intention. His hands gripped my hips to hold me down because my body was trying to fuck his mouth and the restraint was its own kind of stimulation, the knowledge that he was controlling the pace and I was letting him.

The rhythm he found was devastating. Slow withdrawal—his lips tight, dragging, the suction pulling a groan from somewhere behind my sternum—then deep again, his nose brushing my pelvis, my cock touching the back of his throat. Over and over. Methodical. Patient. The same focus he brought to a wireframe, applied to the specific project of making me lose my mind.

“Your mouth—God, Riven, your mouth is—”

He hummed. The vibration traveled the full length of my cock and detonated at the base of my spine. I cried out—a high, broken sound that I would have been embarrassed about if embarrassment were available to me, which it was not, because embarrassment required cognitive function and I had none remaining.

His hand moved. From my hip to the space between my legs, his fingers slick—when had he reached for the lube? I hadn’t noticed, hadn’t registered anything beyond his mouth, and now his finger was tracing my rim with the patient, circular pressure that he’d learned made me open fastest.

“Yes,” I said. “Please. Yes.”

One finger. Slow, steady, sliding in while his mouth continued its rhythm on my cock. The dual sensation—full from the inside, enveloped from the outside—collapsed every remaining thought into a single, white-hot point of pleasure.

He added a second finger. Scissored gently. Found the angle—he always found the angle, knew it by memory now, could navigate my body with the precision of a man reading his own blueprints—and pressed.

I shouted. My hips drove upward, caught between his mouth and his hand, the stimulation so intense it bordered on overwhelming. He held me there—suspended between two kinds of penetration—and crooked his fingers against the spot that made me see stars.

“I’m going to come,” I gasped. “If you don’t stop I’m going to—”

He pulled his mouth off. His fingers stilled but stayed inside me, a warm, stretching presence that kept me at the edge without pushing me over.

“Not yet,” he said. His voice was wrecked—rough, lower than its usual register, the voice of a man whose composure had been eroded by the act of giving pleasure. His lips were swollen. His chin was wet. His cock was hard and dark between his thighs, untouched, and I watched a bead of precome slide down the shaft and wanted it in my mouth, on my tongue, inside me.

“Turn over,” he said.

I turned. Face down on the rug, my cock trapped between my stomach and the soft pile, my ass in the air because I knew what came next and my body was already positioning itself. Already asking.

He added a third finger. The stretch burned in the way that bordered on pleasure—the specific sensation of being opened by someone who understood the difference between pain and intensity and navigated the edge with practiced care.

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he said. His free hand stroked my spine—long, slow passes from the nape of my neck to the small of my back. The gentleness of the touch contrasted with the deliberate, thorough work his fingers were doing inside me, and the contrast was its own kind of foreplay. Tender and filthy at the same time. The Riven March signature.

“Fuck me,” I said. “I’m ready. Riven, please—”

“Are you asking or are you telling?”

“I’m begging. Is that specific enough for you?”

He laughed. Low, warm, the sound vibrating through his chest into his hand into my body. Then he withdrew his fingers—slowly, the emptiness immediate and aching—and I heard the condom wrapper, the slick sound of lube, the particular rustle of a man preparing to be inside another man with the same methodical care he brought to everything he built.

The head of his cock pressed against me. Not entering. Pressing. The specific, maddening pressure of almost-there.

“Look at me,” he said.

I turned my head. Caught his eyes over my shoulder. His amber gaze was molten—the composure gone, replaced by something fierce and focused and so full of want that the sight of it made my cock throb against the rug.

He pushed in.

The first inch punched the breath from both of us. He was thick—always thick, the initial stretch a brief blaze that my body processed and accepted and then demanded more of—and he gave me more. Inch by inch, steady, his hands gripping my hips, his breathing ragged and controlled in the way that meant he was fighting to maintain the pace when what he wanted was to bury himself in one stroke.

When he was fully seated—deep, so deep I could feel him in my stomach, the fullness enormous and perfect—he held still. I felt his thighs trembling against the backs of mine. Felt his cock pulse inside me, thick and hot and alive.

“Move,” I said. “Riven, move—”

He moved.

The first thrust was slow. Deep. A full withdrawal that left only the head inside, then a controlled slide back in that hit the angle and made me cry out into the rug. The second was the same—deliberate, patient, the rhythm of a man who intended to take his time and had the discipline to enforce it.

“Harder,” I managed. “I’m not going to break.”

“I know you’re not going to break.” Another slow, devastating thrust. “I’m going to make you beg.”

He made me beg. With his hands on my hips and his cock finding the same spot on every stroke and his voice—the voice, always the voice—murmuring things that were halfway between praise and pornography. “You feel incredible.” “You’re so tight.” “The sounds you make—do you know what they do to me?” “I think about this. All day. Walking around the incubator thinking about being inside you.”

I begged. Without shame, without performance, without the curated vocabulary of a man who’d spent two years editing his sounds for an audience. I said his name. I said please. I said harder and deeper and right there and don’t stop. And he gave me everything I asked for, adjusting the angle and the pace and the force with the specific, devastating responsiveness of a partner who had studied my body the way he studied compositions—systematically, attentively, with an intuition born from months of dedicated practice.

His hand left my hip. Wrapped around my cock—hard and leaking, trapped between my body and the rug—and stroked in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation was annihilating. Inside and outside. His cock and his hand. The steady, relentless rhythm that was building something in the base of my spine, a pressure coiling tighter with each stroke until the coil was white-hot and vibrating and I couldn’t—

“Come for me,” he said. Low. An instruction. The voice that dismantled every defense I’d ever built and left me standing naked in the wreckage.

I came.

The orgasm ripped through me with a force that bent my spine and tore a sound from my throat that I would have been ashamed of on camera and was not ashamed of here because here there was only him and the ring light and the new curtains and the specific, irreplaceable safety of being completely known by someone who stayed.

I felt it in waves—hot, rolling, each one pulling a contraction that gripped his cock inside me. I came on the rug, on his hand, the release so total that my arms gave out and I collapsed face-first into the pile and lay there shaking while the aftershocks ran through me like current through a wire.

He was still hard inside me. Still holding my hip with one hand. Still waiting—patient, present, his cock throbbing with the effort of not coming—because he hadn’t finished the agenda.

“Okay?” he asked. Breathless. The single syllable cost him visible effort.

“If you ask me that one more time, I’m going to frame a cross-stitch that says ‘I’m always okay when your dick is inside me’ and hang it in the living room.”

He laughed. Against my spine. The vibration traveled through his chest into my back and I felt it everywhere—in my bones, my teeth, the place where we were still joined.

“The living room?”

“Above the couch. Where guests can see it.”

“I’m vetoing the cross-stitch.”

“You can’t veto art.”

I rolled over. Pushed him onto his back. Straddled his hips.

From above, in the amber light filtered through six hundred dollars of charcoal linen, he was extraordinary. His dark skin gleaming with sweat. His locs spread beneath his head like something a Renaissance painter would have spent months trying to capture. His cock, wet with lube and rigid against his stomach, pointing straight up toward me like an invitation written in the body’s most honest language.

I reached back. Positioned him. And sank down in one motion—no pause, no gradual descent, just the full, overwhelming depth of him inside me again, the stretch sharper from this angle and exactly right.

His reaction was worth every dollar those curtains cost. His composure—the careful, measured, design-brain composure that had survived nine months of cohabitation and six months of sex and the complete demolition of every professional boundary either of us had ever built—shattered.

His back arched. His hands flew to my hips. A sound came out of him that I had been chasing since the first night he touched me in our kitchen—raw, full, the vocal evidence of a man who controlled every frame losing control of his own body.

“Cas—” My name. Broken in the middle. Said the way he said it during sex—like a word he’d just discovered and was learning to pronounce. “Jesus—you feel—”

“I know.” I rolled my hips. Slow, grinding circle. Felt him shift inside me, the head of his cock dragging against the spot that made my vision blur. “I know exactly how I feel. Show me how you feel.”

I rode him.

Not slow. Not tender. The tenderness had been the preparation, the asking, the careful opening. This was something else—urgent and joyful and fueled by the particular, incandescent energy of two people who had earned this. My hands on his chest. His hands on my hips. The rhythm building from deliberate to desperate, the sound of skin against skin filling the studio, echoing off the brick walls and the new curtains that were absolutely going to need washing after this.

“Look at me,” I said.

His eyes locked on mine. Amber in the ring light. Wide. Dark. The pupils blown so wide the color was barely visible—a thin ring of gold around the black, and in the center of the black, me. My reflection. My body rising and falling above his. The composition that no camera would ever capture because it existed only in the space between two people who had stopped performing for everyone else and started being real for each other.

“There you are,” I said. His words. The words he’d said to me on the studio floor the first time I took off the mask. Given back.

His hands tightened on my hips. His hips drove upward to meet my downstroke and the force of the connection—deep, hard, the angle perfect—punched a sound out of both of us simultaneously. I leaned forward. Braced my hands on his chest. Changed the angle so every thrust dragged his cock across the spot inside me that had already made me come once and was threatening to do it again.

“I want to hear you,” I said. “The real sounds. Not the ones you manage. Not the ones you compose. The ones you can’t control.”

He let go.

The sounds that poured out of him were extraordinary—unfiltered, graceless, the specific vocabulary of a body that had stopped curating its responses and was simply responding. Deep groans that vibrated through his chest under my palms. Sharp gasps when I clenched around him. My name, said in fragments, like a word being disassembled by pleasure. The raw, desperate, unmanageable music of Riven March losing the composure he’d built his identity on and discovering that the loss was the most beautiful thing he’d ever produced.

I rode him harder. My thighs burning, sweat tracking down my chest, my cock hard again between us—bouncing with each stroke, untouched, the arousal rebuilding from somewhere deep and primal that had nothing to do with friction and everything to do with the look on his face.

“I’m close,” he gasped. His hands bruised my hips. His jaw clenched. The tendons in his neck stood out like cables under his dark skin and his whole body was coiled, tensed, holding back the flood through sheer force of will because some part of him—the designer, the director, the man who controlled every frame—wanted to make it last.

“Don’t hold back,” I said. “Let me feel you.”

“Cas—I want you to—with me—”

“I’m there. I’m right there.” I wrapped my hand around myself. Stroked in time with the rhythm—fast, tight, the pleasure building exponentially, compounding with every thrust, every sound he made, every glimpse of his face—

“Now,” he said. “Please—now—”

We fell together.

His orgasm hit first—his hips driving upward one final time, his cock buried as deep as it could go, and I felt him come inside me. The pulse and heat and the full-body shudder that ran through him like a seismic event, his cry breaking against the ceiling, his hands pulling me down against him as if the distance of six inches was intolerable.

The feeling of him coming triggered mine. My body clenched around him and the second orgasm tore through me—smaller than the first but sharper, more focused, a white-hot point of pleasure that radiated outward from the place where we were joined. I came across his stomach, his chest, the hot stripes landing on his dark skin like evidence of something that couldn’t be curated or contained.

I collapsed. Against his chest. His arms around me. Both of us breathing in shattered fragments. His heart hammering against my cheek with the frantic, unmanageable rhythm of a body that had been taken past its limits and was trying to remember how to function.

We lay there. On the studio floor. In the amber light. The camera’s red recording light blinking silently at the ceiling, capturing a frame that held nothing but an empty rug and two discarded masks and the out-of-focus suggestion of two bodies tangled on the floor below the tripod’s sightline.

“We should shower,” I said, eventually. My voice was hoarse. My body was a collection of pleasant aches and cooling fluids and the specific, bone-deep satisfaction of a man who had been thoroughly, comprehensively fucked by someone who loved him.

“We should,” he agreed. Neither of us moved.

His hand was in my hair. The absent, repetitive stroke that had become his default resting state whenever any part of me was within arm’s reach. His heart rate was returning to normal. His breathing had stabilized. The post-sex version of Riven was my favorite version—softer, slower, the composure not yet reinstalled, the man underneath visible and warm and available in a way that the daytime version kept carefully bounded.

“How are the curtains?” I asked.

He turned his head. Assessed the charcoal panels with the critical eye of a designer evaluating a material’s performance under stress conditions.

“They’ll need washing.”

“Told you.”

“The color held well, though. The amber filtration is exactly what I designed for. Even with—” He gestured vaguely at the rug, at us, at the general aftermath. “—the compositional elements.”

“You’re calling our bodily fluids ‘compositional elements.’”

“Everything in the frame is compositional.”

“We’re not in the frame. We’re on the floor.”

“The floor is part of the frame.”

“I love you,” I said, because sometimes the only response to Riven March being Riven March was the truth, delivered without decoration.

“I love you too.” His fingers traced patterns on my scalp. “And art has overhead.”

Later, Riven reviewed the footage on his laptop while I lay in bed with my head on his thigh and a bag of frozen peas on my lower back because floor sex, while magnificent, had consequences that my thirty-one-year-old body cataloged and reported with increasing specificity.

“We’re deleting all of it,” he said.

“All of it?”

“All of it. Our faces are in every frame from minute nine onward. It’s completely unpublishable.” He scrolled through the timeline. I watched the miniature versions of us on the screen—small, silent, amber-lit figures doing things to each other that the internet would have paid considerable money to see and that were, by mutual and enthusiastic agreement, not for sale. “It’s also the best footage we’ve ever produced.”

“Shame.”

“Not a shame. The point.” He closed the laptop. Set it on the nightstand. His hand returned to my hair with the automatic certainty of a reflex that had become permanent. “The best content is the content that’s only for us. That’s not a business model. That’s a life.”

“That’s very romantic for a man who just charged me six hundred dollars for curtains that now need dry cleaning.”

“The curtains are an investment in the visual foundation of our shared creative space.”

“The curtains are on the floor covered in lube and come.”

“Art has overhead.”

I laughed. He laughed. The doubled sound filled the bedroom the way it filled every room we occupied together—warm, layered, the specific frequency that two voices produced when they’d been tuning to each other for long enough that the harmony was automatic.

The footage was deleted. Select all. Confirm. Gone. The pixels that had captured two unmasked men in a ring of amber light—kissing, touching, entering, breaking open, holding each other on the floor while the afternoon turned to evening—released back into the digital void from which they’d been briefly summoned.

The curtains were gathered. Folded. Set in the washing machine on the gentle cycle because Riven had opinions about fabric care the way he had opinions about everything—specifically, precisely, and with an intensity that suggested the fate of civilization hung in the balance.

The camera was powered down. The ring light switched off. The studio door left open—to the hallway, to the loft, to the life that continued beyond the frame.

And the memory—the specific, irreplaceable, unpublishable memory of two people who had stopped hiding and started living in the space between the question and the answer—stayed exactly where it belonged.

With us.

Home, not content.

Always.

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