Good Boy Househusband

🔥 Bonus Chapter: “Version 3.5”

An exclusive scene by Jace Wilder — too hot for retailers

⚠️ Content Warning: This bonus chapter contains extremely explicit MM sexual content, praise kink, blindfold/sensory deprivation, edging, domestic D/s, graphic language, and scorching heat. Intended for readers 18+ only. Read the full novel first — this scene takes place between Chapter 25 and Chapter 26.

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Noah

The ring had been on my finger for approximately four hours, and I’d looked at it approximately four hundred times.

It caught the light differently depending on the angle — the matte titanium absorbing the afternoon sun, the rose gold inlay flashing warm when I turned my hand. I was lying in bed, holding my left hand up against the window, rotating my wrist slowly, watching the metal shift from dull silver to warm copper and back.

Adrian was beside me, propped on one elbow, watching me watch the ring with an expression that was somewhere between amused and devastated.

“You’re going to strain your wrist,” he said.

“I’m admiring my jewelry.”

“You’ve been admiring it for twenty minutes.”

“It’s a really good ring.” I turned my hand again. “You measured my finger while I was asleep, didn’t you.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You absolutely measured my finger. You probably used calipers. You probably have a spreadsheet.”

“The spreadsheet era is over.”

“The spreadsheet era is never over. You just relabeled the columns.” I dropped my hand to my chest. “Adrian.”

“Hmm?”

“We’re engaged.”

“We are.”

“I want to celebrate,” I said. “In a way that involves the list.”

I reached for the recipe notebook. Opened it to the back page. The list. Things I Want to Ask For. Most items checked off. Three remained.

I held it out. He took it. Read. I watched the composure shift through its familiar sequence: recognition, processing, hunger.

“All of them?” he said.

“It’s our engagement night. Go big or go home.”

“You are home.”

“Then go big.”

He set the notebook aside. Walked to the closet and pulled a tie from the rack. The charcoal silk. The one I’d tagged with: Board meetings. Important dinners. Occasions requiring maximum authority.

He stood over me. The tie draped between his hands.

“Close your eyes.”

I closed them.

The silk settled across my eyelids. Cool, smooth, carrying the faint scent of cedar and dry cleaning and Adrian. He wrapped it once around my head — snug but not tight, the pressure even.

“Can you see anything?”

“Nothing.”

“Good.” His mouth was close to my ear. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to touch you everywhere. I’m going to tell you what I see, what I feel, what you look like from where I’m standing. And you are not going to come until I tell you that you can.”

“Understood?” he asked.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Lie back.”

I lay back. The darkness behind the blindfold was total. His footsteps on the hardwood. The whisper of fabric. And then — his hand on my ankle.

I gasped. Not from the touch — from the surprise. His fingers wrapped around my ankle with a firm, proprietary grip.

“I’m starting at the bottom,” he said. “Working up. Every inch, Noah. I want to know you’re feeling every single one.”

His hand slid up my calf. Slowly — agonizingly slowly. His fingers mapped the muscle, the sensitive skin behind my knee. He lingered there — thumb tracing circles, his mouth pressing hot and open against the spot.

“These legs,” he murmured against my skin. “You stand in the kitchen on these legs for hours. I’ve watched them shake when you’re close. I’ve felt them lock around my waist.”

He moved up. Inner thigh. His mouth and fingers working in tandem. He bypassed my cock entirely — I felt the warmth of his breath pass over it without contact, and I whimpered.

“Not yet.” Calm. Controlled. The voice that dismantled me.

His mouth landed on my hip bone. Then my stomach. Then my ribs, each one kissed separately. My hands were fisted in the sheets, the ring pressing into my palm.

He found it. Took my left hand. Lifted it. I felt his lips press against the ring. Warm metal against warm mouth.

“Feel that?” His heart, under my palm. Fast — faster than his composure suggested. “That’s yours. This ring, my heartbeat, my body — yours. Permanently.”

He placed my hand on the pillow above my head. “Keep it there. I want to see the ring while I work.”

He kissed my chest. Both nipples — circling with his tongue, then the edge of his teeth, and I cried out. His hand wrapped around my cock. The contact — after the slow everywhere-but approach — was so intense my vision behind the blindfold went white.

He stroked. Slow. Root to tip. His thumb sweeping over the head. He brought me to the edge three times, stopping each time at the exact moment before the point of no return.

“Feel that?” he whispered, pressing the ring flat against my sternum. “That’s mine. You’re mine. This ring says so. And I’m going to make you come so hard you feel it in your teeth — but not yet. Not until I’ve touched every inch of you.”

By the third edge, I was begging. The blindfold wet with tears, my voice cracking on his name, my body shaking.

“Please, Daddy. Please. I’ve been good. I’m yours, please let me — I need to — please —”

He removed the blindfold. Light flooded in. His face above me — gray-green eyes, blazing.

“I want you to see me,” he said. “When you come. I want you to look at me and see who you chose.”

He took me in his hand again. Firm, fast, no more teasing. His other hand pressed my ring hand against his chest.

“Come for me,” he said. “My good boy. My fiancé. Come.”

I came so hard my body left the mattress. He held me through it. Kissed the ring on my trembling hand. Whispered against the metal: “Mine. Permanently.”

I lay in his arms and shook and laughed and cried. “Two more on the list,” I said, when I could speak.

“Give me ten minutes.”

“Five.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“I’m engaged. It’s the same thing.”

Adrian

Five minutes was generous. He was ready in three.

I stood in the closet. The shirt first — white, crisp. The trousers — charcoal, flat-front. The tie — navy silk with the pattern Noah had selected. I dressed with the deliberation of a man preparing for a scene written in a notebook months ago.

I stepped out. Noah was on the bed, still naked, still flushed, the ring on his finger. He saw me and went completely still.

“Oh,” he said softly. “Oh, that’s not fair.”

He reached for the suit jacket. Lifted it off the hook and held it open — the domestic gesture that was simultaneously service and devotion. I slid my arms in. He smoothed the shoulders. Ran his hands down my back. Adjusted the lapels with expert touch.

Then he took the jacket off my shoulders. Put it on himself.

The jacket was too big. The shoulders hung past his frame, the sleeves covered his hands, the hem hit mid-thigh. He was naked underneath — bare legs, bare chest visible in the V of the lapels, the ring flashing on the hand that emerged from the oversized sleeve.

“Item two,” he said. “I want to smell like you.”

My composure cracked.

“Kitchen,” he said.

We went to the kitchen. The marble counter. Our counter. The surface that held the weight of every meal and every fight and every reunion.

He turned. Leaned against the counter. My jacket on his shoulders, his body bare underneath, his feet on the cold hardwood. The under-cabinet lights painted him in warm gold — the freckles, the collarbones, the ring catching the light.

“Come here,” he said.

I went.

He hooked his fingers in my tie. Pulled me close. Kissed me deep and slow.

I lifted him onto the counter. He gasped at the cold marble — the same gasp from the apron night. Full circle. The same counter. The same bodies. Everything different.

“I love you,” he said, wrapping his legs around my waist. “On this Sunday. For no reason.”

“Four days running,” I said.

“You’re getting good at this.”

I prepped him on the counter. His back arched on the marble, his hands braced on the stone, the ring clicking against the surface with every shift — the sound that became a metronome. The physical evidence of permanence tapping against the place where our life together had begun.

When I entered him, his eyes were open. Fixed on mine. The expression in them was the one I’d been searching for since the night he’d walked into my apartment with a dead phone and a can of chickpeas — the look of a man who was exactly where he wanted to be, who had chosen this with full knowledge and full freedom.

We moved together. On the counter, in the golden light, my suit and his skin, the jacket sliding off one shoulder, his legs tight around me, the ring pressing into the back of my neck where his hand held on.

“Husband,” I said.

It slipped out. Premature, technically incorrect. But the word arrived fully formed and absolutely right.

His face crumpled. The beautiful, devastating crumple of a man hearing the word he didn’t know he needed.

“Say it again.”

“Husband.”

He clenched around me. His hand fisted in my hair.

“Again — Daddy — say it —”

“My husband. My good boy. My home.”

He came between us, inside the jacket, his voice breaking on a sound that was everything beyond words. The ring flashed on his hand in my hair and the counter was cold and his body was warm and the jacket smelled like both of us.

I followed. The word still on my lips — husband, husband — murmured into his neck as I shattered.

We stayed. On the counter. Breathing. His forehead against my shoulder.

“We’re not married yet,” he whispered.

“I’m practicing,” I said.

He laughed. On the counter, in my arms, in my jacket. The laugh echoed off the marble and the copper pots and the walls of the kitchen that had witnessed every version of us.

We cleaned up together. I washed. He dried. The choreography of our shared life.

He made the Post-it last. Two stick figures at a counter. One in an oversized jacket. One with a loosened tie. A tiny heart between them.

Checked off the list. All items. Final review: 10/10, would recommend.

P.S. — Your husband says goodnight.

We went to bed. Pretzel launched himself onto the mattress with the righteous indignation of a dog who had been neglected for three entire hours.

Adrian’s arm across my waist. My back against his chest. The ring on my finger, warm from body heat, catching the last of the moonlight.

“Goodnight, husband,” I murmured.

His arm tightened.

“Goodnight, good boy.”

Not because we had to.

Because every single version — 1.0, 2.0, 3.0, and all the unwritten versions still to come — led here. To this counter. To this bed. To this man. To this exact, chosen, permanent, irreversible, magnificent life.

Thank you for reading Good Boy Househusband.

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