Straight-Bait Roommate — Bonus Chapter

Sunday Morning — The Farmers Market
by Jace Wilder

An exclusive bonus scene — too hot for Amazon.
Set three months after the end of Straight-Bait Roommate.

Sunday Morning — The Farmers Market

Drew had a thing about peaches.

I’d learned this approximately three weeks into our relationship — the real relationship, the one with the label and the lease and the shelf in the closet marked BOTH — when he’d come home from the market on Ninth with a paper bag of white peaches and eaten two of them standing at the kitchen counter, juice running down his chin and his forearm, making sounds that should have required a content warning.

“These are obscene,” he’d said, licking his thumb, and I’d stood at my desk pretending to work and thought: You’re obscene. You are a six-foot-two obscenity standing in my kitchen with peach juice on your jaw and I am going to lose my mind.

Three months in, the peach thing had become a Sunday ritual. We went to the farmers market on Ninth — our market, the one where the vendor with the braids knew Drew by name now and always saved the best ones for him — and Drew bought peaches and I bought flowers and we walked home through the neighborhood with canvas bags bumping between us and our hands finding each other, fingers lacing, easy and automatic and still capable of making my chest ache with the specific, luminous pain of having something I’d wanted for nine years and still not being fully accustomed to the having of it.

This Sunday was warm. Late August. Drew was wearing a white t-shirt and joggers and carrying both bags because he always carried both bags, one hand holding mine, his bicep flexing with the casual, unremarkable strength that still made me want to bite it.

“You always get the cheese.”

“Because you always want the cheese.” He squeezed my hand. Lifted it to his mouth and kissed my knuckles — casual, in public, on a sidewalk, in daylight — and my heart did the thing it still did every time he touched me where people could see.

We got home. Sunlight poured through the kitchen window and hit the counter in a wide golden stripe. I put the flowers in a vase. Drew started unpacking groceries. Then he pulled out the peaches.

He selected one, turned it in his hand, and bit into it. The juice ran down his chin immediately.

“God,” he said, eyes closing. That groan. The one that short-circuited my nervous system. “These are even better than last week.”

He was standing in the stripe of sunlight, white t-shirt glowing, peach in hand, juice on his chin. I crossed the kitchen in three steps.

I kissed the juice off his chin. Not a peck. An open-mouthed press, my tongue tracing the line of sweetness from his jaw to the corner of his mouth, tasting peach and skin and Drew.

“You had juice,” I murmured against his mouth.

“You could have handed me a napkin.”

“Take another bite.”

He bit the peach. Slower this time. Deliberate. His eyes on mine, the juice spilling fresh over his lower lip. A performance. Drew Callahan, performing for me — because he knew what it did to me and he was, as promised, embarrassingly enthusiastic about every aspect of being mine.

My mouth was on his throat, chasing the juice. He tasted like peach and salt and warm skin.

“Counter,” I said. “Lift me onto the counter.”

The peach hit the floor. Both his hands went under my thighs and he lifted — one smooth motion — and I was on the counter with my legs around his waist and his mouth on mine and the kiss was sticky and sweet and tasted like everything I’d ever wanted.

Shirts came off. His mouth dropped to my chest, following my tattoo with his tongue. “You’re sticky,” he said against my skin. “You literally licked it off my face. You started this.” “And I’m going to finish it.”

I palmed him through his joggers. Thick and straining. He groaned — that groan, the one that sounded like peaches and prayer. “I know, baby.” The baby was deployed strategically. This was a moment of maximum impact.

He kissed down my stomach, mouthing me through cotton, then pulled my boxers down and wrapped his hand around me and stroked. “You’re so beautiful like this. Sunlight on you. In our kitchen.”

He lowered his head and took me in his mouth. Three months of real practice and Drew Callahan had become devastatingly good at this. It took thirty seconds to lose the ability to form words.

I pulled him up. Freed his cock from his joggers. “Want you inside me. Right here. The counter. Now.”

“The lube’s in the—”

“Kitchen drawer. Behind the takeout menus.”

“You put lube in the kitchen drawer?”

“I put lube in every room. We’ve had sex in every room. I’m a planner.”

He laughed into my mouth. Then he reached into the drawer and the laughter stopped.

He prepped me on the counter with the patient precision of a man who treated my body with the same meticulous care he brought to electrical systems. “Ready?”

“Since approximately 2017.”

He pushed inside me and my vision went white. The angle was deeper on the counter, hitting me in a place that made my whole body light up. He fucked me on the kitchen counter in the Sunday morning sunlight, his hand around my cock, and it was filthy and beautiful and domestic and sacred all at once.

“Come for me, baby,” Drew said against my ear, and the baby — from his mouth, in that wrecked voice, with him inside me — detonated me.

He came three thrusts later, buried deep, my name in his mouth like it was the only word he knew.

We stayed like that. Connected. Breathing. The sunlight had shifted. The peach on the floor was starting to brown.

“I think we traumatized the cheese.”

We laughed together, naked and sticky on a kitchen counter on a Sunday morning, and the laughter turned into kissing and the kissing turned into holding.

Later — clean, dressed, rehydrated — we sat on the couch with coffee and the remaining peaches and I watched him and thought: I loved you for nine years without ever believing I’d get to keep you. And now we’re eating peaches on a Sunday in our apartment and the waiting is over.

“You have juice on your chin again.”

“You gonna do something about it?”

I leaned over. Licked the juice off his jaw. Slow. Deliberate.

“Yeah,” I said against his skin. “I’m gonna do something about it.”

His coffee went cold. The peaches went uneaten. Some Sundays were like that.

The best ones, actually.

Thanks for reading! If you loved Drew and Wes’s story, please leave a review — it helps more than you know.

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