Good Girl, Bad Tenant — Bonus Chapter

An exclusive bonus scene by Aurora North

This bonus scene takes place after the epilogue. Eliza and Roxy have been living together for six months. Contains explicit sexual content. Spoilers for the main book.

The House Rules

Roxy

I found the list on the kitchen counter at eight o’clock on a Friday evening, tucked under the salt shaker like a note from a roommate about dirty dishes.

Except my roommate was my girlfriend, and the note was not about dishes.

It was written in Eliza’s handwriting—neat, slightly slanted, blue ink on lined paper. The same paper she’d used for the letter she’d slid under my door six months ago, the one that had put me on the floor in my underwear at eight thirty in the morning, the one I kept in a shoebox under my drafting table and would deny owning under oath.

This one was shorter. It read:

HOUSE RULES — FRIDAY EVENING

1. Come upstairs at 9 PM.

2. Wear the black thing. You know which one.

3. Do not bring your phone.

4. The safeword is still coral.

5. Everything after the bedroom door is mine.

I stood in the kitchen holding the list, and my heart rate went from resting to sprinting in the time it took to read five sentences.

The black thing. I knew which one. A lace bodysuit I’d bought on impulse—sheer, strappy, the kind of garment that existed purely to be removed by someone else.

She’d found it while putting away laundry—my laundry, in my drawer, the drawer she’d cleared for me—and she’d filed it away in that meticulous, cataloguing brain of hers and decided to deploy it tonight.

I took a shower. Put on the bodysuit—black lace against brown skin, the straps crossing my shoulders in a way that made my tattoos look intentional, like the ink and the lace were part of the same design. I looked in the mirror and thought: she’s going to destroy me tonight.

I wanted to be destroyed.

At nine o’clock, I left my phone on the drafting table. I walked upstairs barefoot, each step on the cool stairwell floor a countdown. Our stairwell. The one she’d painted with me. The one she’d told me she loved me in. The one she’d pressed me against and made me come while the building listened.

The living room was dark. She’d lit candles. Real ones—because Eliza Hart, who had a fire extinguisher in every room and had once given me a PowerPoint presentation about candle placement, had committed an aesthetic fire hazard for me. I was in love.

Eliza was standing at the foot of the bed in a white button-down shirt, unbuttoned to the third button, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Dark slacks. Bare feet. Hair down. She looked devastating.

“Close the door,” she said.

“Rule five,” she said. “Everything after the bedroom door is mine. That means you don’t speak unless I ask you a question. You don’t touch me unless I tell you to. And you don’t come until I say.”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, Eliza.”

She traced the lace strap from my shoulder down to my breast. My nipple hardened under her touch, visible through the sheer fabric. “I’ve been thinking about this all day. Sitting at my desk at the library, helping a child find a book about dinosaurs, and thinking about what I was going to do to you.”

She cupped me through the fabric—firm, possessive. “Already wet. You’ve been wet since you found the list.”

She rubbed in a slow, deliberate circle—the lace creating maddening friction. My hips rocked forward and she pulled her hand away. “I said don’t move.”

“You said don’t touch. You didn’t say don’t move.”

“Fair point.” She unhooked the bodysuit and lowered her mouth to my breast—hot, wet, her tongue circling before she sucked with a pressure that made my spine arch.

She sank to her knees. Peeled the bodysuit down. Naked now. Her, still fully dressed.

She put her mouth between my legs and I saw stars. Precise and relentless—she knew my body the way she knew her filing system. She edged me three times. By the third denial I was shaking, trembling from head to foot, tears leaking from my eyes.

She walked me backward to the bed. Pushed three fingers inside me. Pinned my wrists above my head. Leaned down and spoke against my ear.

“You’ve been so good. So patient. My beautiful, brave, good girl.”

“Come for me. Now.”

I came so hard I screamed. She held me through every wave—wrists pinned, fingers moving, mouth on my neck—until I collapsed, boneless and crying and laughing and shaking.

“Your turn,” I said.

“This was about you.”

“Eliza Hart, if you don’t let me take those pants off in the next ten seconds, I’m reorganizing the spice rack by cuisine and you’ll never find the cumin again.”

She laughed. The real laugh. “Fine. But I’m keeping the shirt on.”

She didn’t keep the shirt on.

I made her come twice—the first one fast and sharp, the second one slow and deep—and between them she said “I can’t believe you threatened me with the spice rack” and I said “I will always threaten you with the spice rack” and we were laughing, tangled and naked and glowing.

“I have a confession,” she said. “I updated my planner. Friday nights. Blocked off permanently. The entry says ‘House Rules.'”

“You put our sex life in your planner. What color?”

“Red.”

I kissed her. Long and slow and tasting like everything we’d built—paint and coffee and morning light and Friday nights and a building that held us, old and steady and full of love so loud that even the walls had stopped complaining.

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