The Dom Next Door — Bonus Chapter

🔥 The Other Side of the Wall

A bonus scene set six months after the events of The Dom Next Door.
This chapter is too explicit for Amazon and is available exclusively here.

The Other Side of the Wall

Evan

The sledgehammer was heavier than I expected.

I stood in my old apartment — 7B, the unit I still technically rented but hadn’t slept in for three months — holding eight pounds of steel-headed destruction and staring at the wall. Our wall. The wall where I’d sat with my back against the plaster and heard a voice that rearranged my DNA. The wall where Victor had pressed his palm from the other side and felt my warmth through the insulation. The wall that had been a barrier and then a membrane and then a door and then, once we’d stopped pretending we lived in separate apartments, an inconvenience.

Today, it was coming down.

Victor had handled the logistics — of course he had. Structural engineer’s assessment (non-load-bearing, confirmed). Landlord’s approval (purchased, technically, since Victor had bought both units from the building owner six weeks ago with the casual efficiency of a man who solved problems by removing them from the equation). Contractor scheduled for Monday to handle the framing, the electrical, the drywall finishing.

But the first swing was ours.

“You’re overthinking it,” Victor said from behind me.

He was leaning against the doorframe of 7B — the door that had been propped open for months, the threshold I’d crossed barefoot hundreds of times. Jeans, white T-shirt, bare feet. Arms crossed. The fraction-smile.

“I’m having a moment,” I said.

“You’re having a moment with a sledgehammer. That’s a different category.”

I looked at the wall. Touched it with my free hand — palm flat against the off-white paint, the same gesture we’d both made a thousand times from opposite sides. The plaster was cool. Familiar. The texture of everything we’d been.

“This wall is where I fell in love with you,” I said.

“This wall is where I fell in love with you too.” He pushed off the doorframe. Walked toward me. Stopped behind me — chest to my back, his chin on my shoulder, his hands covering mine on the sledgehammer’s handle. “And now we don’t need it anymore.”

We swung together. His body behind mine, his arms guiding the arc, the weight of both of us behind the impact. The sledgehammer hit the wall and the plaster cracked — a spiderweb of fracture lines radiating from the point of contact — and a chunk fell inward, and through the gap I could see Victor’s bedroom. Our bedroom. The bed where I’d been taken apart and put back together and taught what I was and shown what he was and where we’d cried and come and held each other through the long quiet hours when the city slept and we didn’t.

Dust in the air. Plaster on the floor. And through the hole — light from the other side.

“Again,” Victor said against my ear.

We swung again. And again. The hole widened — two feet, three feet, the wall surrendering in chunks and dust. The insulation came out in pink handfuls. The lath behind it splintered under the hammer. And with each swing, the two apartments that had been separated since the building was built opened to each other like a body opening to a touch it had been waiting for.

By the time we stopped, the opening was large enough to step through. Rough-edged, dusty, the framing exposed like bones under skin. Not finished. Not pretty. But open.

I set down the sledgehammer. Stepped through the hole. Stood in Victor’s bedroom — our bedroom — and turned to face him through the gap that used to be a wall.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi.”

“I can see you.”

“You’ve always been able to see me.”

“Not like this.” I gestured at the opening — the literal, physical, structural absence of the thing that had separated us. “No wall. No plaster. No barrier. Just — you.”

He stepped through. Stood in front of me. Plaster dust in his hair, on his shirt, on the forearms I’d worshipped with my mouth. His eyes — gray-green, warm, looking at me the way they always looked at me: like I was the answer to a question he’d spent his whole life asking.

“Just me,” he confirmed.

I kissed him. Tasted dust and cedar and the warmth underneath. His hands found my waist — pulling, pressing, the grip that my body interpreted as home before my brain could form the word.

“We should christen it,” I said against his mouth.

“The hole in the wall?”

“The apartment. Both apartments. Every room. The wall is gone, Victor. We have twice the square footage now. That’s a lot of surfaces.”

His eyes darkened. The shift I knew — the shift from Victor to Victor, from the man to the dom, from the person who held me to the person who held me down.

“Every room,” he repeated.

“Every room. Every surface. I want to come in every room of this apartment before the contractor arrives on Monday.”

“That’s—” He counted, his eyes moving through the space, the tactical assessment of a man who treated logistics as foreplay. “—nine rooms. Two kitchens, two bathrooms, two bedrooms, two living rooms, and whatever we’re calling this hallway.”

“Ten. You forgot the hole.”

“The hole isn’t a room.”

“The hole is where the wall was. The wall is where we started. The hole gets christened first.”

He looked at me. The fraction-smile became the full smile — rare, devastating, the expression that cracked through his composure not through failure but through joy.

“On your knees,” he said. “In the hole. Facing my side.”

I knelt. The plaster dust was gritty under my knees. The rough edges of the opening framed me — jagged drywall on either side, the exposed framing above, the debris below. I knelt in the exact center of where the wall had been, straddling the line between his apartment and mine, and looked up at him.

He stood over me. Unbuttoned his jeans. Pushed them down with the efficient, deliberate motion that still — six months in, hundreds of sessions in, a thousand orgasms in — made my mouth water and my pulse spike and my body go to the specific frequency that only his proximity could tune.

His cock was hard. Already. From the demolition or the kissing or the sight of me on my knees in the wreckage of the barrier between us — I didn’t know which and it didn’t matter. He was hard and I was kneeling and the wall was gone and the city was bright outside the windows of both apartments simultaneously, and I opened my mouth and took him in.

He groaned. The sound echoed through both spaces — no wall to absorb it, no plaster to filter it, nothing between his voice and the air but the open architecture of two apartments merging into one. I heard the sound the way I’d always wanted to hear it: unfiltered. Complete. Every harmonic, every register, every layer of the voice that had reached me through six inches of barrier and now reached me through none.

“Fuck.” His hand in my hair. Tight. Directive. The grip I craved, the pressure that told my nervous system to stop thinking and start feeling. “Evan — your mouth —”

I worked him with everything I’d learned. Everything he’d taught me and everything I’d discovered on my own — the twist at the base that made his hips thrust, the flat tongue on the underside that made his breathing fracture, the deep-throat swallow that pulled sounds from him that the old wall would have transmitted to my side as a muffled vibration and that I now heard in full resolution, uncompressed, devastating.

He pulled me off. Not because he wanted me to stop — because he wanted more. I could read it in his eyes, in the set of his jaw, in the specific tension of his hand in my hair that said I need to be inside you and I need it now.

“Bedroom,” he said. “Mine.”

“Ours.”

“Ours.“

He pulled me through the hole. Not around — through. Through the opening we’d made together, stepping over the debris, the demolished boundary crunching under our feet as we crossed from one space into the other with nothing between us for the first time since the building existed.

He pushed me onto the bed. Stripped me — shirt, jeans, boxers, everything gone in seconds, his hands operating with the practiced urgency of someone who’d mapped this body enough times that the removal of clothing had become a reflex rather than a process. I was naked. Wearing nothing but the chain — the silver links warm against my throat, catching the afternoon light.

He looked at me the way he always looked: like a man seeing something extraordinary and refusing to pretend it was ordinary. Then he stripped himself — shirt over his head, jeans kicked aside — and climbed over me, and the weight of him settled on my body like a sentence that had finally found its period.

“This is room one,” he said. His mouth on my neck, on the chain, his tongue tracing the silver links that lay against my pulse. “Nine to go.”

“Ten,” I corrected. “The hole counts.”

“The hole was your mouth, not a room.”

“My mouth is a room. You’ve been inside it.”

He bit my shoulder. Hard. The pain-pleasure of it sent a bolt from my skin to my cock, and I arched into him, and the collision of our bodies was the collision of everything we were — the dom and the sub, the controlled and the surrendered, the man who held and the man who was held, merged now the way the apartments were merging, the distinction between them a matter of history rather than architecture.

He fucked me on the bed. Our bed. With the hole in the wall gaping beside us like a wound that was actually a door, and the light from both apartments flooding in, and his voice in my ear saying mine, mine, mine with each thrust — not the careful measured rhythm of our early sessions but the raw driving need of a man who had torn down a wall with his bare hands (and a sledgehammer) and was now claiming every inch of the newly open space with his body.

I came screaming. No wall to absorb it. No plaster to muffle the sound. Just his name — Victor — ripped from my throat at a volume that the entire seventh floor probably heard and that I did not for one second regret because the wall was gone and the sound was free and I was his and he was mine and the scream was the sound of both things being true simultaneously.

He came inside me thirty seconds later. His forehead against my shoulder, his body shuddering, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks that I’d wear for a week and touch in the shower and smile about every time.

“One,” he said against my skin.

“One,” I agreed.

“Nine to go.”

“You’re going to need water.”

“I’m going to need a paramedic.”

I laughed. He laughed. Both of us laughing in the wreckage of a wall and the beginning of a home, naked and tangled and covered in plaster dust and each other, and the laughter echoed through both apartments — through the open space, through the absence of the barrier, through the new architecture of a life that no longer had a wall in it.

We made it to six rooms by midnight. The bedroom (ours). My old kitchen counter (ambitious and slightly unsanitary). Victor’s shower (logistically challenging, deeply satisfying). The leather chair in Victor’s living room (a callback that made me cry, because the chair was where I’d worshipped him and where he’d first let me see the man underneath the dom). My old bedroom floor (for the symmetry — the same floor where I’d come untouched from his voice through the wall, now with his actual body instead of his ghost). And the hole itself — me braced against the rough edge of the opening, Victor behind me, both of us straddling the line between the two spaces, his hand on my throat and my chain swinging with every thrust and the city visible through both sets of windows simultaneously.

By the seventh attempt, my body called a union meeting and declined further participation. We collapsed on Victor’s couch — our couch — with the throw blanket and two glasses of water and the specific exhaustion of two people who’d tried to christen an entire apartment in twelve hours and had fallen three rooms short.

“We have all day tomorrow,” I said.

“We have the rest of our lives.”

I looked at the hole in the wall. The opening that used to be a barrier. Through it, I could see my old desk — still against the wall, still in the position where I’d first heard his voice. I’d keep it there. Even after the renovation, even after the contractors finished the framing and the electricians ran the new wiring and the drywall guys smoothed the opening into a proper archway — I’d keep the desk. Because the desk was where I’d sat when my life changed. Where I’d leaned against the plaster and heard a sound that my body recognized before my mind knew what it was.

Victor pulled me against his chest. The throw blanket — my blanket, the first thing he’d bought for me, the artifact of a care he’d stopped pretending was anything other than love — settled over both of us.

“Evan.”

“Mm.”

“The wall is gone.”

“I know. I was there. I helped.”

“I mean — between us. Every wall. The plaster. The composure. The frameworks and the rules and the structures I built to keep people at a distance that felt safe.” His arm tightened around me. “All of it. Gone.”

I pressed my face into his chest. Felt his heartbeat — not through a wall, not filtered through plaster. Directly. His skin against my ear, his pulse against my cheek, the rhythm of him as close as physics allowed.

“Good,” I said.

He made the sound. The small, involuntary one. The one he made every time I said good to him — his own word, reflected back, carrying a different weight from below. Not praise. Recognition. You’re good. You’re good at this. You’re good for me.

He held me. I held him. The apartment — singular now, no wall, no barrier, no separation — settled around us like a body finding its resting position. The city hummed outside. The plaster dust was still in the air, catching the light from both sets of windows.

Home.

Not two apartments. Not two lives adjacent. One home. One space. One bed. One man who spoke and one who listened and the sound that traveled between them, unfiltered and complete, the way it was always meant to.

Thank you for reading this bonus chapter. If you haven’t read the full novel yet: