Stepbrother Switch — Bonus Chapter

Exclusive Bonus Content
by Jace Wilder

🔥 The Christening

An exclusive scene set after the epilogue — too hot for Amazon.

The studio smelled like fresh lumber and linseed oil and the particular brand of chaos that happened when Mason Reid decided a space needed one more shelf.

I stood in the doorway and watched him work. Shirtless — because of course shirtless, because it was November and the wood stove was running and Mason’s relationship with shirts had always been adversarial.

“That shelf is crooked,” I said from the doorway.

Mason didn’t turn around. “It’s level.”

“It’s level, Tyler.”

I crossed the room. Put my hand on his bare hip. He tensed. Then released.

“Was that your excuse to come out here and put your hand on me?”

“I don’t need an excuse.”

“No. You don’t.”

He kissed me. The drill still in his hand, the November light through the north windows turning everything silver. A slow kiss. A homecoming kiss. Then not slow.

His free hand went to the back of my neck. That grip. Five months and it still lit me up like a circuit closing.

“We haven’t christened the studio yet,” I said against his mouth.

“That’s your architectural justification?”

“Structurally sound reasoning.”

He laughed. Into my mouth, vibrating against my lips. The best sound in my life.

He lifted me. Set me on the drafting table — the one he’d built me from reclaimed oak. The one with joinery so precise it was a love letter in wood.

“Every time,” he said, looking at me. “You look like this and I can’t—”

“Can’t what?”

“Think. Function. Remember what I was building.”

“You were building a shelf.”

“I don’t care about the shelf.”

He stripped me efficiently — practiced, fluent, the ease of a man who’d undressed this body a hundred times. I returned the favor. Naked in the studio, in the silver November light, the wood stove crackling in the corner.

“How do you want it?” he asked. Low. That voice.

“Start with your mouth. End inside me. The middle is up to you.”

He worked down my body with a thoroughness that was pornographic in its patience. He took my cock in his mouth and I forgot what lumber was.

He brought me to the edge. Held me there. Then pulled off. “Middle. My call.”

He flipped me. Face-down on the drafting table, his hand between my shoulder blades — firm, grounding, stay.

His slicked fingers found me. Two fingers. The stretch, the curl, the devastating accuracy with which he found my prostate.

“Mason — please —”

“Tell me what you want.”

“Fuck me. On this table you built me. Fuck me until I can’t draw a straight line.”

He entered me in one slow, devastating thrust. The fullness, his hands gripping my hips, his chest against my back. He moved. Deep and hard and rhythmic, the pace of a man who built things — steady, powerful, each stroke placed with intention. The table didn’t move. Mason-built. It held.

“I want to flip,” I said.

He paused. Understood. Pulled out.

“Sit,” I said. Nodding at the drafting chair.

Mason sat. I climbed into his lap. Straddled him. Sank down. We both made sounds that the studio walls absorbed and held.

I rode him. In my chair, in my studio, in the building we’d made together. Our foreheads pressed together.

“Tyler —” His voice cracking. “Tyler, I’m —”

“Together,” I said. His word. Our word.

He wrapped his hand around my cock. Three strokes. I came. My body clenching around him pulled him over immediately, and he came inside me with his face pressed to my chest and my name in his mouth.

“Good christening,” he said.

“The shelf is still level.”

He laughed. That laugh. I kissed the dimple.

“I love you,” I said.

“I love you,” he said back. Easy now.

“You’ll build me another one.”

“Yeah.” He pulled me closer. “I will.”

The light changed. The stove crackled. We held on.

Always.

Loved Mason and Tyler? The full novel is available now.

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