His Ex-Husband's Brother Bonus Chapter by Jace Wilder

Bonus Chapter: The Tunnel

His Ex-Husband’s Brother — Exclusive Bonus
by Jace Wilder

⚠️ Spoiler Warning: This bonus chapter takes place three months after the events of His Ex-Husband’s Brother. Read the full novel first for maximum impact.

This scene is TOO HOT for retailers — an exclusive reward for readers who want more of Micah and Dorian after the final page.

Bonus Chapter: The Tunnel

Micah

Three months after the festival.

The tunnel is finished.

Not the construction — that wrapped six weeks ago. The cellar is temperature-controlled, the fermentation crocks are in place, the wine racks line the west wall, and the private passage between Salt & Juniper and the Breakwater apartment has two doors, two keys, and a tasting table I built from reclaimed harbor timber because some things need to be made by the person who will use them.

No — the tunnel is finished in the other sense. The sense of complete. The sense of a space that has been imagined and designed and built and is now, finally, being used for its intended purpose.

Which tonight, apparently, is me.

It starts with a text. One word, from Dorian, at 10:47 PM while I’m doing final breakdown after service:

Tunnel.

I look at the screen. Look at the kitchen. Look at Remy, who is racking the last sheet pan and who catches my expression and says, without turning around: “Go. I’ve got this.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. Your whole face just changed frequency. Go.”

“My face does not change freq—”

“Chef. Go. Before I start describing the sound you just made, which was somewhere between a hum and a whimper, and which I will hold over you for the rest of my professional career if you don’t leave this kitchen in the next ten seconds.”

I go.

The tunnel entrance is through the cellar stairs at the back of my kitchen. Down the concrete steps, past the walk-in, through the steel door. The temperature drops — from kitchen heat to the constant fifty-five degrees of the underground passage. The air smells like fermentation and stone and the old, mineral scent of a passage that’s been here since the 1890s.

The tasting room is lit. A single overhead fixture, warm-toned, casting a circle of amber light over the table I built. Two chairs. A bottle of wine — the Portuguese red that Nolan brought last month. Two glasses already poured.

Dorian is leaning against the wine rack, arms crossed, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans and nothing on his feet. His hair is pushed back. His reading glasses are on top of his head — the detail that still destroys me three months in. The brass tide watch catches the light at his wrist.

He looks up when I enter. Those eyes. Pale blue in the amber light, going warm at the edges when they land on me.

“What’s the occasion?” I ask.

“The crocks need checking.”

“The crocks are fine. I checked them this morning.”

“Then I need checking.”

I cross the room. He uncrosses his arms. “Hi,” I say. “Hi.”

His hand finds my jaw. The gesture that started everything. His thumb on my cheekbone. I close my eyes the way I always close my eyes when he touches me there.

He kisses me. Slow. The tunnel kiss. His tongue traces my lower lip. I open for him. His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, the grip firm, proprietary, sending a current down my spine that I feel in the soles of my feet.

My hands go under his T-shirt, onto the warm skin of his stomach, the muscles clenching under my palms. I push the shirt up. He breaks the kiss long enough to let me strip it over his head. The scar beneath his right collarbone. I press my mouth to it. The greeting. The ritual.

I push him backward against the tasting table. The table I built. He sits on the edge. The wood creaks once — a settling sound, the noise of a structure accepting a load it was designed to bear.

I step between his thighs. The height differential reversed — I’m looking down at Dorian Rourke for once.

“On your back,” I say.

His pupils expand. He leans back — elbows first, then flat, his broad back against the timber, legs hanging off the edge, arms at his sides. The table holds.

I climb up. Straddle him. My knees on either side of his hips, the wood solid beneath me, his body warm between my thighs. I plant my hands on his chest and roll my hips — a slow, deliberate grind against the thick ridge of his cock through denim. His hands fly to my hips. His jaw tightens. A rough exhale that condenses in the cold cellar air.

“I don’t care about the crocks,” he says, voice strained. “I care about you being thirty feet underground with me and no one knowing where either of us is.”

“Remy knows.”

“Remy always knows.”

“Remy is a menace and I’m giving him a raise.”

I pull off my chef coat. My T-shirt follows. The cold hits my skin — fifty-five degrees against a body that’s been running at kitchen temperature for twelve hours. Goosebumps race down my arms. Dorian sits up in one fluid motion and wraps around me — arms across my back, chest against chest, his mouth on my neck. The heat of him is immediate and engulfing.

His mouth on my neck. Open, hot, the scrape of his beard, his tongue tracing from my ear to my collarbone. His teeth find the spot just below my jaw. The sound I make fills the cellar, bounces off stone, returns amplified. Every sound is bigger down here. The stone remembers. The stone holds everything.

I push him back down. Flat on the table. His arms go above his head — he knows. Three months of choreography. His fingers curl around the edge of the table for something to grip.

I kiss down his chest. His stomach, muscles clenching under my lips. The trail of dark hair leading me downward.

I open his jeans. Pull them down, boxers and all. He’s hard — thick, flushed dark, the head slick. I wrap my hand around him and stroke once, base to tip, thumb sweeping through the wet at the crown. His head drops back against the timber. The sound he makes fills the cellar wall to wall.

“I built this table,” I say. My hand moving slowly.

“You built this table.”

“I sanded every surface. Oiled every joint. Sealed it with food-grade finish so it could hold whatever we wanted to put on it.”

“And what do you want to put on it?”

“You.”

I slide down. My knees find the packed-earth floor. Cold, slightly damp. He’s laid out on the table I built, arms extended, fingers white-knuckled on the timber edge — the most beautiful thing I’ve ever plated.

I drag my tongue up the underside of his cock from base to tip. His entire body shudders. His thighs tense against my shoulders. My name breaks apart in his mouth.

I take the head between my lips. My tongue circling the ridge, finding the spot on the underside that makes his hips lift, applying pressure with focused, attentive precision. The tunnel changes the acoustics. Every groan is deeper. Every gasp sharper. His name reverberating through the passage. Down here, the stone is too thick for sound to escape. Down here, he doesn’t muffle himself. The real sounds. The sounds the bedroom has never heard because even in private, twenty-four years of discipline censors them.

Not down here. Down here, the stone holds everything, and the everything is extraordinary.

I take him deeper. The stretch of my lips around the shaft, the specific jaw adjustment I’ve learned, the ache of accommodation that sends its own electric signal to my cock. I hollow my cheeks, pull back slowly with maximum suction, then sink down again. The rhythm deliberate and punishing and unhurried because we have nowhere to be and no one to hear us and the only clock that matters is how long I can keep him on the edge.

His thighs are trembling against my shoulders. The wood creaks under the pressure of his grip — regular, rhythmic, a percussion section accompanying the wet, obscene sounds of my mouth on his cock.

I pull off. He groans — the sound of a man losing something he wasn’t finished with. “Don’t stop—”

“I’m not stopping. I’m escalating.”

I stand. Strip my jeans off. Roll the condom onto him while he watches from the table, chest heaving. Slick him thoroughly. Then I reach behind myself — two fingers, quick, efficient, because I prepped in the shower before service. A third finger. My eyes close. The sensation registers on my face and Dorian makes a sound below me that is pure, undisguised hunger.

“Micah. Let me—”

“Watch.”

I hold his gaze. Work myself open with one hand while the other braces on his chest. His cock strains against the condom. His hands leave the table edge, reaching for my hips. I let them. His fingers close around my hip bones — possessive, immediate.

I position myself over him. The first moment of contact — slick, hot, the blunt pressure seeking entrance. We both inhale.

I sink down.

Slowly. An inch. Two. The stretch is always a recalibration — my body remembering the size of him, adjusting, accommodating. Three months has not made the first moment routine. Three months has made it richer. I take him to the hilt. Sit fully, his hips against my thighs, our bodies connected at the deepest possible point.

He’s watching me from the table. Pale eyes liquid in the amber light. The expression of a man who is inside the person he loves and cannot believe this is his life.

I ride him.

Slow at first. A rolling motion that keeps him deep and changes the angle with each rotation. The table creaks beneath us — a rhythmic groan, the timber flexing under our combined weight and movement. A bed gives. A bed absorbs. This table resists. Every thrust pushes back, and the pushback adds a force I feel in my molars.

His praise starts. “You built this.” His hands tighten on my hips. His voice rough, fractured by the rhythm. “You built this table and this room and this life and you put me in the center of it and I am the luckiest man who has ever been laid out on a piece of furniture.”

I laugh. The sound mixes with a moan — humor and pleasure together, the thing I’ve learned with Dorian that I never knew before. Sex with this man is funny and devastating and tender and filthy, and the capacity to hold all four simultaneously is a skill I didn’t know I needed.

“Less poetry,” I say, accelerating hard, the slap of skin against skin filling the cellar. “More hands.”

His hand wraps around my cock. Confident, practiced, stroking in time with my rhythm — the synchronization so precise it feels autonomic.

I brace both hands on his chest. Ride him harder. The angle sharpening, each descent driving him against the spot that’s been building pressure since I sat down. He’s losing words. The composure gone. Replaced by fragments. Syllables. The raw output of a man whose higher functions have been overwhelmed.

“Micah, you feel—god—you—”

“Tell me.”

“Everything. You feel like everything.”

“Now,” I say. “Dorian. Now.”

He strokes faster. His hips drive up into me, meeting my descent. I come first — the orgasm ripping through me, chest, spine, the backs of my knees, his name torn out of me in a sound the tunnel amplifies until it fills the passage end to end.

He follows. Three seconds later. His hands clamping on my hips hard enough to bruise. His back arching off the table. My name said once, said completely, filling the space my sound just vacated.

The echoes overlap. His name. My name. The sounds the stone has absorbed and the stone will keep.

I’m collapsed forward on his chest. His arms wrap around me. My face in his neck. Both breathing hard. The table beneath us creaking softly as it resettles.

“The table held,” he says.

“I built it.”

“You built everything.”

We dress slowly. He pulls his T-shirt on inside-out. Doesn’t notice. I don’t tell him. I like when he wears things wrong. It’s the only context in which Dorian Rourke is careless, and the carelessness is a privilege I’ve earned.

We carry the untouched wine upstairs. Drink it in bed. The Portuguese red is excellent — deep and heavy and tasting of a country neither of us has visited and both of us will, eventually, because Nolan invited us and the invitation was awkward and genuine and real.

He lies on his back. I lie on my side, head on his shoulder, wine glass balanced on his chest because his chest is broad enough to serve as a table, which I have told him, and which he has accepted with quiet tolerance.

“The crocks are fine,” I say.

“I know the crocks are fine.”

“Then why did you text me?”

He takes the wine glass off his chest. Pulls me closer. “Because you built a table in a tunnel between our buildings. And I wanted to be on it.”

I close my eyes. His heartbeat against my temple. His hand in my hair. The tunnel beneath us holding our fermentation projects and our privacy and the echo of the sounds we made, absorbed into the stone, permanent, the way everything between us has become permanent.

The crocks are fine.

We are better.

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