Tied to the Trainer — Bonus Chapter

Extra Credit
by Jace Wilder

This bonus chapter takes place three months after the events of Tied to the Trainer. Contains explicit content too hot for Amazon. For the full experience, read the novel first.

Extra Credit

Three Months Later — Mason POV

The gym was dark when I let myself in.

Not empty-dark. Intentionally dark. The overhead fluorescents were off, the secondary amber spots were on, and someone had set up candles — actual candles, in small glass holders — along the base of the squat rack and the weight bench and the windowsill, turning Cross Training into something that looked less like a gym and more like a very specific kind of church.

Evan was standing in the center of the floor in joggers and nothing else. Barefoot. Bare-chested. The tattoo sleeve catching candlelight, the geometric lines shifting and glowing with each small movement. His arms were crossed. His expression was the granite — controlled, focused, the face of a man who was about to run a session.

Except the clipboard on the bench next to him didn’t have a program on it. It had a single line, written in his precise block letters:

Your session. Your rules. One hour.

“What is this?”

“Your three-month anniversary present.”

“We have a three-month anniversary?”

“We do now.” He uncrossed his arms. Let them hang at his sides — deliberately open, no barrier, no defense. “You’ve been training with me for five months total. Three months as — us. You’ve earned a session where you call the shots.”

“You’re giving me control. You. Evan Cross. The man who programs his grocery trips.”

“Tonight you’re the trainer. Whatever you want. However you want it.”

I looked at him in the candlelight. The man who expressed love through structure and was now offering me the structure itself — handing over the clipboard, the authority, the control that defined him — because he trusted me enough to let go.

I picked up the clipboard. Turned it over. Wrote one word on the back.

Strip.

I held it up. He read it. His jaw tightened — not with resistance but with the effort of a man suppressing his natural instinct to take charge. His fingers went to his waistband.

“Slower,” I said.

His eyes snapped to mine. The grey-green was already darkening, pupils expanding, and I could see the exact moment the dynamic clicked into place — the moment he stopped being the coach and became the athlete. The one who follows instructions.

He pushed the joggers down. Slowly. Letting the fabric drag over his hips, his thighs. No underwear. He’d planned this — he’d known what I’d ask for and come prepared to give it without a single barrier. He stepped out of them. Stood there. Naked, candlelit, waiting.

His cock was already half-hard. Just from the stripping. Just from being told slower in a voice he recognized as his own — the low, commanding register I’d learned from him. His body was responding the way mine always had: involuntarily, completely.

“Walk to the squat rack. Face away from me. Hands on the bar.”

He walked. I watched his back — the lats tapering from wide shoulders to a tight waist, the muscles shifting with each step, the hard curve of his ass that I’d stared at during every squat spot for five months and was now allowed to stare at openly.

He gripped the bar overhead. The position was obscene — arms extended, back arched, every muscle engaged and visible, his cock hanging heavy between his thighs, fully hard now from the walk and the waiting.

I crossed the floor behind him. Let him hear each footstep. Let the anticipation build the way he’d built it for me a hundred times.

I put my hand on the back of his neck.

The grip — our grip. My hand where his had been so many times. My fingers wrapping around the side of his throat, my palm cupping the base of his skull.

Evan shuddered. A full-body tremor that rolled downward through his spine, his hips, his thighs. His hands tightened on the bar. A sound came out of him — low, involuntary — a noise I’d never heard from him in this context because he’d always been the one making me make those sounds.

“Feel that?” My mouth was close to his ear. “That’s what it feels like. Every time. Every single time you put your hand there, my whole body does what yours just did.”

“Mason—”

“Did I say you could talk?”

His mouth closed. His knuckles whitened on the bar.

“Hands on the bar. Don’t let go. You hold until I say stop.”

I kissed the back of his neck. Then lower — between his shoulder blades, down the groove of his spine. I tasted salt. He was sweating already, the thin sheen of anticipation, and the taste of his skin was the taste of every session.

My hands moved down his ribs, around to his stomach. I pressed in — the same brace cue he’d given me a thousand times, palm flat, testing the engagement. His stomach tightened. The rest of him softened.

I sank to my knees behind him.

Evan made a sound. Guttural. Broken. The sound of a man whose mental model of the universe had just been rearranged — because Evan Cross was not knelt for, and yet here I was, on my knees behind him on the gym floor, my mouth at the small of his back.

I kissed the base of his spine. The dimples above his ass. The curve of each cheek. I ran my tongue along the crease where his thigh met his glute, and the noise he made was loud enough to echo off the concrete walls.

“Quiet,” I said. Because I could. Because for once, I was in charge.

I reached around him. Took him in my hand. He was fully hard, thick and hot against my palm. I stroked him from behind, slow, my fist tight, my thumb sweeping over the head on each upstroke to collect the moisture gathering there.

“Fuck.” His hips twitched forward into my grip. I let him — let him thrust into my hand while I knelt behind him, my other hand flat against his stomach, feeling every contraction, every involuntary roll of his hips.

“You like being told you’re doing well?” I said. Stroking. Slow. The same devastating tempo he used on me. “You like hearing you’re good?”

“Yes.” Stripped bare. No granite, no composure. Just yes.

“Then earn it.”

I let go. He groaned — loud, agonized, his hips chasing my hand into empty air. For a moment I thought he was going to break position. Turn around. Take over.

He didn’t. He gripped the bar. Breathed. Held.

The discipline held. Even now — with his cock throbbing and every instinct screaming at him to take charge. He held because I’d told him to, and he trusted me more than he trusted his own impulse.

“Turn around.”

He turned. His face was wrecked — flushed, eyes black, lips parted. His cock stood rigid against his stomach, flushed dark, a bead of pre-come trailing from the tip.

“On the bench. On your back.”

He lay down on our bench. I stood over him. “Hands above your head. Grip the bar. Don’t let go.”

His hands found the barbell in the rack. The same bar I’d gripped while he took me apart.

“Good,” I said, and watched him melt.

I stripped. Stood over him naked and let him look. His eyes moved over my body — the body he’d built — and the look on his face was pride and want and wonder.

I climbed over him. Straddled his hips. His cock pressed against my ass and we both inhaled.

Then I slid down. Kissed his throat. His collarbone. His nipple — flat of my tongue, then teeth, and the sound he made broke into a moan. Down his sternum, each ridge of his abs, the V-line at his hip.

I took him in my mouth. Not slow this time. Deep. The full length of him, throat opening, taking him with the determination of a man who’d been coached in exactly this act by the man receiving it. I used everything he’d taught me — tongue flat on the upstroke, suction deep on the downstroke, my hand twisting at the base in counterpoint. The rhythm that read his body and kept him right at the edge without letting him tip.

His hips rolled upward. I let him fuck my mouth with shallow thrusts while my hand worked the base. He was louder than I’d ever heard him, raw sounds echoing off the ceiling, more broken with each stroke.

I brought him to the edge. Felt the tightening in his thighs, the hitch in his rhythm, the specific pitch that meant close.

And I stopped.

The noise he made was between a snarl and a sob. His cock was rigid, slick, twitching. The barbell rattled in its hooks.

“Mason — fuck — please—”

“Please what?” I said. His exact words from three months ago. “Tell me what you want.”

“Your mouth — anything — please, Mason, please—”

Evan Cross. Begging. The word please extracted surgically from the most disciplined man alive, while his hands gripped a barbell and the man who’d once been his laziest client held all the power.

“That’s the first time,” I said, “you’ve asked for anything without a framework attached.”

His eyes went glassy. Wet. The shimmer of overwhelm — of being known so precisely that the knowing itself was intimacy more devastating than touch.

I reached for the lube beside the bench. Slicked my fingers. His eyes widened — not with alarm. With anticipation so intense it looked like pain.

“I’m going to fuck you,” I said. The trainer’s voice. “If you want me to.”

One heartbeat. Two.

“Yes.” Barely a whisper. “I want you to.”

In every encounter we’d had — every wall, every bench, every floor — Evan had been inside me. The dynamic was set from the beginning. This was different. This was me reaching between his legs with slicked fingers and the sound he made when I pressed the first one inside was a low, shattered, disbelieving moan that came from the center of his chest and didn’t stop.

He was tight. I went slow. One finger, shallow, circling.

“Breathe,” I said. His word. His cue. “Push against me. Don’t clench.”

He breathed. Pushed. His body opened, fraction by fraction, and the trust in the surrender — the sheer, enormous trust of a man who controlled everything choosing to let go — made my eyes burn.

A second finger. He gasped. His back arched off the bench. When I found his prostate, his entire body jackknifed. “Fuck, Mason, there—” His cock pulsed against his stomach and for a moment I thought he’d come from my fingers alone.

I slowed. Held the pressure. Let him ride the wave without cresting.

“Good,” I said. “So good, Evan. You’re doing so well.”

The praise during this — during the most vulnerable thing he’d ever let anyone do to his body — broke something open. His face crumpled. Not crying. Something beyond it — the dissolution of a man who had spent thirty-five years being the controlled one and was being held for the first time in a way he couldn’t program.

I pulled my fingers out. Rolled on a condom. Positioned between his legs — his legs, which he opened without being asked, thighs falling apart on the bench.

“Look at me,” I said.

He looked. Grey-green eyes, blown black, wet at the corners.

I pressed in. Slow. So slow the room stopped. His body resisted, then opened, then pulled me in — a yielding so complete it felt like falling. His mouth dropped open. No sound. Just the raw, silent overwhelm of being filled for the first time by someone he loved.

“Move,” he whispered. “Move.“

I moved. Slow at first. Reading him — the same focused attention he’d given my body for five months. I found the angle that made his jaw clench and a sound come out of him so raw it echoed. Held that angle. Built the rhythm.

His hands found the barbell again — not because I told him to, but because he needed something to hold while the rest of his world liquefied. The rack shook with every thrust. His body met mine — hips rolling upward, legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me deeper.

“Don’t stop,” he said. Voice shredded. “Please don’t stop.”

I fucked him steady and deep and watched the last thread of Evan Cross’s composure snap. He let go — of the discipline, the structure, the need to control. He was just a man, shaking, loud, saying my name like it was the last word in a language he was forgetting. His cock was trapped between our bodies, the friction of my stomach against him with each thrust driving him toward the edge I’d pulled him from twice.

“Come for me,” I said. His words. The exact words. “I want to hear you. Come for me, Evan.”

He came. His back bowed off the bench, his legs tightened around my waist, his hands pulled the barbell so hard the rack legs lifted off the floor. He came between our bodies in hot, pulsing waves, and the sound was my name — Mason Mason Mason — broken and breathless, the sound of a man who’d found the one thing his programs couldn’t contain.

The contraction of his body around me dragged me over. I came inside him with a force that blanked my vision, my hips driving deep, my forehead dropping to his chest, my hands finding his face while we both shook apart.

We lay on the bench. Tangled. Wrecked. His arms around me with a force that would leave bruises, and I didn’t care, because the bruises were evidence and the evidence was love.

“So,” I said into his chest. “How was my coaching?”

“Your form needs work.”

I laughed. He tightened his arms.

“But your effort,” he said, quieter, “was exceptional.”

The word. Our word. Spoken in the amber dark of a gym built for discipline by a man rebuilt for love.

“I love you,” I said. “Even when you program the grocery trips.”

“I love you too. Even when you leave cereal bowls in the bathroom.”

“That was one time.”

“It was four times.”

“You’re counting?”

“I’m always counting.”

“Same time tomorrow?” I said.

“Five-thirty.”

“I’ll be early.”

His arm tightened. His mouth found my hair. The candles flickered. The gym held us.

“I know you will,” he said.

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

Back to Tied to the Trainer

Never Miss a Release

Get new release alerts, exclusive bonus content, and reader-only giveaways.