🔥 The Honeymoon Suite 🔥

An Exclusive Bonus Chapter from Best Man, Again
by Jace Wilder

Thank You for Reading! 💙

You made it to the bonus content — which means you’ve survived the Napa hotel hallway, the outdoor shower in the Outer Banks, the bunk bed guardrail hand-hold, a desk covered in vendor contracts, a sketchbook full of napkin portraits, a six-week denial that fooled no one, a linen closet reorganized by thread count at 1 AM, a best man speech recited from memory, an artist in Converse who drew love letters on every available surface for eight years, a man who came untouched for the first time in his life, a dance-floor proposal to a Sinatra cover, and two hundred and forty-nine weddings’ worth of finally figuring it out.

Thank you for giving Caleb and Miles’s story a chance. This exclusive chapter is our gift to dedicated readers like you.

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The Honeymoon Suite

Miles’s POV — Immediately after the Epilogue

The honeymoon suite had a bathtub built for two.

I discovered this at midnight, three hours after our wedding reception ended, two hours after we’d stumbled into the boutique hotel Priya had booked as her gift—“because you’re not spending your wedding night in the same loft where you argue about thread counts”—and approximately forty-five minutes after the first round, which had happened against the suite door before we’d made it three feet into the room.

Caleb was asleep. Temporarily. He’d passed out in the wrecked king bed with one arm thrown over his face and the sheet pooled at his waist and his ring catching the moonlight from the open curtains, and I’d gotten up to use the bathroom and found the tub.

Freestanding. Clawfoot. Deep enough to submerge in, wide enough for two grown men if they were willing to negotiate the geometry. A shelf of hotel bath products—lavender salts, eucalyptus oil, something called “midnight rose elixir” that smelled expensive and improbable.

I ran the bath. Hot. Poured in the lavender salts because this was our wedding night and if there was ever a moment for lavender salts, this was it.

“Miles?”

His voice from the bedroom. Sleep-rough. The first-word-after-sex voice that was lower than his first-word-of-the-morning voice, which was already lower than his professional voice, and the descending scale of Caleb Torres’s vocal registers was something I’d been cataloguing with increasing obsession.

“In here.”

He appeared in the doorway. Naked. Hair wrecked from my hands. A bite mark on his collarbone from round one—the door round, the frantic, couldn’t-wait round where I’d lifted him against the wood and he’d wrapped his legs around me and we’d come in our wedding suits before either of us had managed to undo a single button.

He looked at the bath. Looked at me. Looked at the bath again.

“You ran a bath,” he said.

“I ran a bath.”

“On our wedding night.”

“On our wedding night.”

“That’s…” He searched for the word. His brain was still rebooting—post-sleep, post-orgasm, the dual restart that left him operating at approximately sixty percent cognitive capacity, which was still sharper than most people at a hundred. “…romantic.”

“I have my moments.”

He stepped into the bathroom. The tile was warm—heated floors, Priya had not skimped—and he crossed the space and stood in front of me and I looked at him in the soft light. My husband. The word still detonating in my chest every time I thought it. The silver at his temples. The dimples. The lean runner’s body that I’d mapped with my hands and my mouth across a dozen hotel rooms and one loft and was now mine—legally, permanently, the ring on his finger confirming it.

“Get in,” I said.

He got in. Sank into the hot water with a groan that was obscene in its relief—the sound of a man whose body had been through an eighteen-hour wedding day followed by vigorous sex against a door and who was now encountering hot water for the first time since morning. I climbed in behind him. The tub was generous but we were two adult men, one of whom was six-one with basketball shoulders, and the fit required his back against my chest and his legs between mine and his head tipped back against my shoulder.

We lay in the water. Steam rising. Lavender in the air. His body warm and loose against mine, my arms around his waist, the water lapping at our chests.

“I’m married,” he said to the ceiling.

“You are.”

“To you.”

“That’s how it works, yeah.”

“I planned two hundred and forty-nine weddings and I still wasn’t prepared for the part where it happens to you.” He turned his head. His mouth against my jaw. “The vows. Miles. What you said—the napkin, the rehearsal—I’m going to think about that every day for the rest of my life.”

“Good. That was the goal.”

“I abandoned my prepared remarks.”

“I noticed. Seventeen drafts, gone.”

“The unprepared version was better.”

“The unprepared version was perfect. You were perfect.” I pressed my mouth to his temple—the silver there, the strands I’d never capture in graphite. “You’ve always been perfect. You just didn’t have anyone telling you.”

He shifted in my arms. Turning, water sloshing, until he was facing me—straddling my thighs in the deep tub, his hands on my shoulders, his face close. Water dripping from his chest onto mine. His cock, soft from the earlier round, beginning to fill against my stomach as our bodies pressed together beneath the surface.

“Again?” I said.

“It’s our wedding night. There’s a legal minimum.”

“Is there a legal minimum?”

“I’m implementing one. Retroactive policy. Torres-Harper household statute.” His hips shifted—a slow, deliberate roll, his cock sliding against my stomach, hardening with each pass. “The statute requires a minimum of three.”

“We’ve had one.”

“Then we have obligations.”

He kissed me. Slow, deep, tasting like champagne and sleep and the clean warmth of the bathwater. His hands slid from my shoulders down my chest—underwater now, the sensation muffled and amplified simultaneously, his palms skating over my nipples, my ribs, my stomach. Lower. His fingers wrapped around my cock beneath the water—firm, sure, a grip that said I know exactly what I’m doing—and stroked.

I groaned into his mouth. The water added a layer of friction that was new—slick but not frictionless, the lavender salts making everything soft and slightly oily, and his hand on me felt different than it had on any surface in any room. Warmer. More enveloping. Like being touched inside a dream.

“I want this to be slow,” he said against my lips. “The door was fast. This one’s slow. I want to spend an hour in this tub with you.”

“An hour.”

“A Torres-Harper wedding night is not a sprint. It’s a marathon with a seventeen-page timeline.”

“Did you actually make a timeline for tonight?”

A pause. “…No.”

“Caleb.”

“I made a rough outline. It’s different.”

“You outlined our wedding night.”

“I outlined the logistics. Bath. Bed. Balcony if weather permits. I didn’t outline the specifics. The specifics are improvisational.”

I laughed—I couldn’t help it, this man, my husband, who’d made a logistics outline for our wedding night—and he swallowed the laugh with his mouth and the laugh dissolved into a moan as his hand tightened and his thumb found the spot below the head that short-circuited my higher brain function.

“The specifics,” I managed, “are very good.”

He worked me slowly. Underwater, his hand gliding, his wrist rotating on the upstroke, and the heat of the bath combined with the heat of his hand combined with the sight of him—flushed, wet-haired, his eyes dark in the candlelight from the vanity, his own cock hard and pressing against my stomach—was overwhelming in the best possible way.

“I want you inside me,” he said. “Here. In the water.”

“Logistics?”

“Manageable. I’ll ride you. The buoyancy helps.” He was already reaching for the edge of the tub—where I’d set the travel supplies, because I was a man who planned for deliverables, a fact he’d acknowledged on our first night together. Condom. Lube. The eternal essentials.

“Lube works in water?”

“Silicone-based. I researched this.” Of course he had. Caleb Torres did not enter a bathtub on his wedding night without conducting preliminary research on the compatibility of personal lubricants with aquatic environments.

He slicked his own fingers. Reached behind himself—his arm flexing, his face shifting from focused to flushed as he opened himself up in my lap, underwater, his free hand braced on my shoulder. I watched his expression change—the controlled precision of the first finger giving way to the softer, more vulnerable openness of the second, his lips parting, his eyes going half-lidded.

“Let me,” I said. I replaced his hand with mine beneath the water—reaching behind him, finding where he was slick and open, pressing two fingers inside. The water made everything warmer, softer, and the moan he released echoed off the tile walls of the bathroom in a way that made it sound like it was coming from everywhere.

“More,” he breathed. “I can take more.”

Three fingers. Curling. The spot that made his whole body jerk—and in the water, the jerk translated into a wave that sloshed over the edge of the tub and onto the heated tile floor and neither of us cared even slightly.

“Now,” he said. “Miles—now.”

I rolled the condom on underwater—an act that required more coordination than I’d anticipated and that Caleb watched with the critical eye of a man assessing a vendor’s performance. I added lube. Positioned myself.

He sank down onto me.

Slow. The water displaced around us as his body took me in—the heat and the tightness and the slick, enveloping pressure—and the sensation was different from every other time. Amplified. The warm water surrounding us both, the buoyancy taking some of his weight, his body lighter and more fluid on me. He seated himself fully and we both went still—breathing, adjusting, his forehead against mine, the water settling around our joined bodies.

“Husband,” he whispered.

“Husband,” I whispered back.

He moved.

The water moved with him—slow, rocking, the rhythm creating waves that lapped at the sides of the tub and over the edge. His hips rising and falling, his thighs working, my hands on his waist beneath the surface, guiding but not controlling. The visual was extraordinary—his torso rising from the water on each upstroke, wet skin gleaming, his cock breaking the surface, hard and flushed, before he sank back down and took me deep.

“God—Miles—” His head fell back. Throat exposed. The bite mark from earlier, dark against his wet skin. “You feel—in the water it’s—everything’s—”

“I know.” I thrust up to meet him—a rolling, fluid motion, the water making it smoother, the resistance adding a dimension that turned every stroke into something languid and devastating. “I feel it too.”

We found a rhythm. Not the urgent, headboard-banging rhythm of the loft or the Savannah hotel but something tidal—rising and falling, the water our collaborator, the warmth permeating everything. His hands gripped the edge of the tub behind my head, giving him leverage, and the angle shifted—deeper, sharper—and he cried out.

“There—right there—don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”

I didn’t stop. I gripped his hips and thrust up, hitting the spot on every stroke, and the water churned between us and the bathroom filled with the sounds—the slap of wet skin, the slosh of water, his voice saying my name in fragments and whole, my voice saying his.

He reached between us. Wrapped his hand around his cock—the head breaking the surface with each stroke, glistening—and stroked himself in time with my thrusts. Fast. Tight. His face was open and wrecked and beautiful, the mask of the event planner completely dissolved, nothing left but the man underneath—the one who gasped and begged and said please and came apart in my hands every time I asked him to.

“Together,” I said. “Like the ceremony. At the same time.”

“That’s—not logistically—”

“Forget logistics. Feel it. Come with me.”

He came. I came. The timing wasn’t perfect—he crested a second before me, his body clenching, the water surging, his cock pulsing in his fist—and the clench pulled me over the edge, my hips driving up one final time, buried deep, and we came together in a bathtub on our wedding night with water spilling over the edge and lavender steam curling around us and the rings on our fingers catching the light.

We stayed in the water until it went tepid. His back against my chest. My arms around his waist. The rings clicking softly together when our hands found each other beneath the surface.

“That’s two,” he murmured. Half-asleep.

“Two.”

“The statute requires three.”

“The bed. After we dry off.”

“And the balcony. If weather permits.”

I pressed my mouth against his wet hair and smiled against the silver threads I’d never capture in graphite and held my husband in a cooling bath in a honeymoon suite while the city slept outside and the rest of our life waited like an open door.

“Whatever you planned,” I said. “I’m in.”

“I didn’t plan this part. This part was improvisational.”

“Best improv of your career.”

“Best everything of my career.” He turned his head. Kissed my jaw. “Best everything, period.”

We got out. Dried off. Made it to the bed. And the statute was satisfied well before dawn, the logistics outline exceeded in every measurable dimension, and the morning found us tangled in hotel sheets with the rings touching between us and the lavender still clinging to our skin and the first day of married life beginning exactly the way the rest of them would: together.

~ The End ~

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