Five-Star Anonymous — Bonus Chapter

An exclusive scene by Jace Wilder

This bonus chapter takes place three months after the events of Five-Star Anonymous. It contains explicit sexual content that was too hot for retailers. Spoilers ahead.

Room Service

The Halcyon has been open for three months when August installs a lock on the Celestial Suite that responds only to his master key and the brass key he gave me in New York.

“It’s for quality-control purposes,” he says when Genny raises an eyebrow.

“Quality control,” she repeats.

“The suite requires periodic overnight testing to ensure guest-facing systems maintain performance standards.”

“With your boyfriend.”

“The testing methodology is not your concern.”

She’s not wrong. But August is also not wrong — the suite does require periodic testing, and the testing does involve overnight stays, and the stays do produce data that informs operational improvements. The data is just not the kind that appears in a punch-list report.

I’ve been in the Celestial Suite since nine. I brought wine — a Barolo that the sommelier downstairs recommended with the particular raised-eyebrow energy of a staff member who knows exactly why the GM’s boyfriend is ordering an expensive bottle to be delivered to the suite the GM has secretly relocked. I’m wearing the hotel-provided robe. Nothing else.

The brass key turns in the lock at 10:47. He appears in the bedroom doorway. Shirtsleeves. Tie loosened. The reading glasses pushed up into his hair. Those dark, steady eyes performing their rapid assessment: guest present, guest horizontal, guest wearing the hotel-provided robe and nothing underneath it.

“You started without me.”

“I started the wine. The rest requires your participation.”

“Are you going to ask about the HVAC maintenance schedule, or can I take my clothes off?”

“Tell me about the HVAC maintenance schedule.”

I hold the sip of Barolo long enough that a drop escapes my mouth and runs down my chin, my throat, into the hollow between my collarbones where the gold chain catches it. I don’t wipe it. August watches the drop travel down my skin with the focused intensity of a man evaluating a structural failure that requires immediate personal intervention.

He crosses the room. His hands find the collar of my robe and he parts the terry cloth and lowers his mouth to the hollow of my throat where the wine left its trail, and the first contact of his tongue on my skin sends a current through me. He licks the path the drop traveled. Up from the collarbone. Along my throat. Across my jaw.

He pulls the tie free. Drops it on the floor. The man who folds everything drops his tie on the walnut floor without a glance. Three months ago, this man folded everything. Now the drop is a signal — I’m done being professional. I’m here for you and nothing else.

His hands find the belt of my robe. The terry cloth parts. “You’re already hard,” he observes. “I’ve been lying in your best suite wearing nothing but a robe and thinking about you for an hour.” “You sound like a review.” “Force of habit. Rate me.”

He kneels on the bed. Straddles my hips — fully clothed, his shirt against my bare chest. The imbalance is power and the power is negotiable and the negotiation is the point. He kisses me deep and slow, then his mouth follows his hands down my body with focused, comprehensive attention. He takes me in his mouth with three months of practice behind it — learning the specific architecture of my pleasure, what makes me grip the sheets, what makes me say his name in the register that tells him he’s found the angle that dissolves my capacity for language.

“The tub,” I say. His eyes brighten. We strip each other and climb in, the water rising around us until the warmth is total. I straddle him and roll my hips and our cocks press together between our bodies beneath the water.

“I want to fuck you in this tub.” “The logistics are—” “I’ve considered the logistics. The water provides buoyancy. The marble provides support. And I’ve been thinking about this for three weeks, so the logistics have been extensively reviewed.”

I work him open in the water — warmer, slipperier, the boundaries blurred. He opens for me with the practiced trust of three months. I sink into him slowly and the water moves around us, displaced by the joining. The sensation — tight heat and warm water and the slide of wet skin — is unlike anything a bed can produce.

I move. The water resists each thrust, adding pressure that makes every stroke feel deliberate. His nails dig into my shoulders. He whispers things that are simultaneously filthy and architectural — and once, memorably, “the water displacement is extraordinary.”

I wrap my hand around him under the water. He comes. His body clenches around me and I follow seconds later, pressing deep, the orgasm rolling through us both in the warm marble cradle of the best bathroom in the Halcyon.

“How would you rate the water displacement?” “Not applicable.” “The experience?” “Not applicable. The best things can’t be scored.”

We dry off. Move to the bed. “Again,” he says. “Give me ten minutes.” “I’ll give you five.” His mouth finds my hip. My stomach. Lower. “Actually, I’ll give you three.” He gives me two.

He climbs on top of me — August riding me with his hands on my chest and his head tipped back and the painted stars above him. This controlled, formal, exacting man moving above me with his eyes open and his mouth shaping sounds he would never make in any other context. He reaches behind himself, takes me in his hand, positions me, and sinks down with a controlled descent that lets him feel every inch.

“Touch me,” he gasps. “Talk to me.”

“You’re magnificent. You’re the most beautiful thing in this building and this building contains a hand-painted sky. I love you. I love the way you look right now. Come for me, August. Let me see you.”

He comes. Looking down at me. Eyes open. Just joy — pure, unfiltered, unreserved. I follow. His name in my mouth, his heartbeat under my hand, the painted stars above us.

“The testing was satisfactory.” “Satisfactory?” “Exceeds all operational benchmarks.” “If you publish a review of sex with me, I will revoke your key.” “You can’t revoke a brass key. That’s the whole point of brass keys.”

“Not applicable,” he murmurs against my hair. “Every night with you. Not applicable.”

Five stars. No deductions. No checkout.

Permanent.

Never Miss a Release

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