Bonus Chapter: Closing Costs
A Bed, Bath & Bi-Curious Bonus Scene
by Jace Wilder
⚠️ This bonus chapter takes place after the events of Bed, Bath & Bi-Curious and contains spoilers. It also contains explicit sexual content significantly hotter than the main novel. Two parts, two rooms, zero restraint. Reader discretion — and privacy — advised.
The fixer-upper smelled like fresh paint and possibility and the specific chemical optimism of a house that had been cleaned by two men who disagreed about cleaning products the way they disagreed about everything — passionately, precisely, and with results that were better for the argument.
We’d closed at two. Signed the papers in a title office in Seneca Falls with a notary who recognized us from the livestream and very professionally did not mention it. Joint ownership. Both names. Equal shares in a 1940 Cape Cod with a rescued ceiling medallion, a kitchen from the ninth circle of hell, and a bedroom with flawless ceilings and the best light either of us had ever seen.
Our house.
The words still felt new. Not fragile — new the way a freshly set foundation is new. Solid. Cured. Ready to bear weight.
Solon was in the kitchen.
Of course Solon was in the kitchen. He’d been in the kitchen since we’d arrived, standing in the center of the room with his arms crossed and his jaw set and the particular expression of a man who was looking at laminate countertops from 1987 and experiencing them as a personal affront.
“The drop ceiling has to go tonight,” he said.
“It’s ten p.m.”
“The drop ceiling has to go tonight, Keir.”
“We haven’t even brought in the mattress.”
“The mattress can wait. The drop ceiling is an act of architectural violence that I have been tolerating for six weeks of contract negotiations and I refuse to sleep in this house while it exists.”
I leaned against the doorframe — not the Bellwether House doorframe, not the one where we’d kissed for the first time, but our doorframe, in our house, and the lean felt different. Proprietary. Settled.
“If I take down the drop ceiling,” I said, “you have to help me carry the mattress upstairs.”
“That’s a reasonable exchange.”
“And then we christen the bedroom.”
His eyes cut to mine. The amber going dark. The composure opening. Like a door he’d installed a handle on specifically so I could reach it.
“Define christen,” he said.
“I’m going to fuck you in our bed in our house and you’re going to be as loud as you want because there is no crew next door and no camera in the hallway and nobody on earth who gets to hear what you sound like except me.”
His hands, crossed over his chest, slowly uncrossed. His fingers went to his watch. Unclasped it. Set it on the terrible laminate counter.
“Get the pry bar,” he said.
The drop ceiling came down in twenty-two minutes.
I stood on a ladder and Solon stood on a chair and we pulled ceiling tiles and aluminum grid and fluorescent fixtures and forty years of accumulated dust, and behind it all — exactly as promised — the original plaster ceiling with its modest medallion, intact, untouched, as though it had been waiting patiently behind the ugly for someone who cared enough to look.
Solon stood on his chair and looked up at the medallion and I watched the expression cross his face — the one that said this was worth saving — and then he looked at me, and my heart hammered.
“Mattress,” he said.
We carried the mattress upstairs. King-size. Memory foam. We put it on the bedroom floor. The windows were uncovered. October moonlight painted the hardwood and the mattress with silver light.
Solon stood on one side. I stood on the other. Just a mattress and moonlight and two men in a house they owned.
“I want to undress you in our house,” I said. “Slowly. Without a schedule or an alarm. I want to take my time because we have time. We have all the time.”
“Then take your time,” he said.
I unbuttoned his shirt. One button at a time. Each button revealed more of him — the dark skin, the lean muscle, the topography I’d mapped with my hands and my mouth and my absolute, devoted attention.
I knelt. Unbuckled his belt. Drew it through the loops slowly. Unbuttoned his trousers. Slid them down.
I pressed my mouth to his hip. Mouthed him through the cotton. Traced the shape of his cock with my lips, feeling it thicken under the contact, the fabric going damp where the head pressed.
I hooked my fingers in the waistband. Pulled. Slow. Watched his cock spring free — thick, dark, flushed, curving toward his stomach.
“In our house,” I said, “I want you to be loud. I want to hear everything you’ve been controlling for two months because there was always someone who might hear. Tonight there’s nobody. Just me.”
I took him in my mouth. Deep. Confident. His hand clenched in my hair and his hips jerked forward and the first sound escaped — a groan, full-throated, resonant, bouncing off the bare plaster walls.
His hips were moving in small, involuntary thrusts. I matched them. I hummed around him. The vibration traveled through his cock and he thrust deeper and I swallowed around the head and he said my name in a voice I’d never heard. The voice of a man who had no audience, no performance, no walls.
I pulled off. “I want to be inside you. Now. In our bed.”
“Then stop talking and get up here.”
I stripped. We fell onto the mattress. Kissed deep, thorough, without the clock-consciousness that had governed every encounter before this house.
“I want to be on top,” he murmured against my mouth. “I want to ride you.”
“Fuck yes.”
He prepped himself. I watched — propped on my elbows, my cock hard against my stomach, watching Solon work himself open on his own fingers. His breath caught when he found the angle. I had to grip the base of my cock to keep from finishing before he touched me.
He rolled the condom on me. Added lube. Straddled me. Knees on either side of my hips. His hands on my chest. His cock hard between us, pressing against my stomach.
He lowered himself. Slowly. Inch by inch. I felt him open around me — the tight, consuming heat, the gradual accommodation. His face was a study in controlled surrender — the jaw clenching, the breath stuttering, the eyes locked on mine.
“I need — all of it.”
He sank down. Fully. The sensation was — I lost language. There was only heat and pressure and the overwhelming intimacy of being inside someone who was looking down at me like I was the foundation he’d built his life on.
He rode me. The rhythm building from tentative to confident to devastating, his body rising and falling on my cock, his cock bouncing between our stomachs, the sounds growing louder and less controlled.
“You feel—” He was breathless. The polished sentences were gone. “So deep. I can feel you everywhere.”
“I love this. I love you.” His hand wrapped around his own cock, stroking fast, and the sight — Solon above me, riding me, jerking himself, his lean body glistening in the moonlight, his head thrown back — was the single most erotic image of my life.
“Come for me,” I said. “I want to feel it.”
He came with his back arched and a sound that was half scream and half prayer. His body clenched around me and I thrust up into him and came with a force that went through me like a current through a completed circuit.
He collapsed onto my chest. “Welcome home,” he said.
I laughed against his hair.
“The acoustics in this room are exceptional,” he added. “The bare walls create a natural reverb that amplified certain vocalizations to a degree that I found architecturally significant.”
“You came so hard you screamed and now you’re writing a technical paper about it.”
“I vocalized at elevated volume.”
“You screamed my name and it echoed off the plaster ceiling you rescued forty minutes ago.”
His mouth pressed against my shoulder. The curve of a smile.
“Good,” he said. “That was the intention.”
Part Two: The Counter
I woke at seven to the sound of Solon measuring something.
I lay on the mattress — our mattress, on the hardwood floor, in the room that still smelled like sex and fresh paint — and listened. He was in the kitchen.
I pulled on sweatpants. Nothing else. Walked downstairs barefoot.
He was standing at the counter. The terrible laminate counter, 1987, institutional beige. He was wearing boxer briefs and nothing else, measuring the counter depth with his precision tape while drinking coffee.
“The counter depth is twenty-five and a quarter inches, which is nonstandard and suggests the original cabinets were replaced with ill-fitting stock units in the late eighties.”
“You got out of bed at three in the morning to measure the kitchen counter.”
“The counter was incorrect. I needed to confirm the degree of incorrectness.”
I crossed the kitchen. Pressed my bare chest against his bare back and wrapped my arms around his waist.
“I believe we had an agreement about this counter.”
“The agreement was contingent on a drop cloth.”
“I reject the drop-cloth amendment. We’re demolishing it next week. Nothing we do to this counter can make it worse.” I slid my hand from his waist to his stomach. Down. “Think of it as a farewell. One last memorable experience before the sledgehammer.”
He set down the mug. Set down the tape measure. Turned in my arms.
“If we’re doing this, I have conditions. I want you on the counter.”
“Me?”
“You. On the counter. I want to stand between your legs and take you apart in this terrible kitchen while the coffee gets cold and the morning light comes through the window that you were right about.”
“You just admitted I was right about the window.”
He kissed me. The kiss tasted like coffee and the specific sweetness of Solon Price first thing in the morning. “Counter,” he said against my mouth.
I boosted myself up. The laminate was cold against my bare thighs. Solon stepped between my legs. His mouth on my neck, my collarbone. I wrapped my legs around his waist.
“You’re warm,” he said. “The first night at Bellwether, I could feel your body heat through the pillow wall.”
“The pillow wall was the best failed project of my career.”
“I lay there listening to you breathe and I thought: I am going to spend the rest of my life building walls that fail to keep this man out.”
He hooked his fingers in my sweatpants. Pulled them down. Stripped me bare.
I sat naked on the kitchen counter at seven in the morning with the sun coming through the window and Solon Price kneeling on the linoleum between my legs.
“I love you,” he said. Conversationally. The way you say it when it’s a fact rather than a declaration.
“I love you too. Now put your mouth on me before the coffee gets any colder.”
He took me in his mouth. Meticulous. Devastating. The flat of his tongue pressed hard against the underside made my hands slam down on the counter. The slow, measured rhythm drove me wild.
He hummed. The vibration traveled through my cock and I bucked forward, my hand finding his hair. He took me deeper. Swallowed. I said his name in a voice that belonged to the version of me that only existed in this man’s presence.
He pulled off. Slick lips. Dark eyes.
“Turn around. Hands on the counter. Facing the window. I want to fuck you in the morning light in our kitchen while you look at the view through the window you were right about.”
I turned around. Braced my hands on the counter.
His finger found me. Slid in slowly. He added a second. Worked me with methodical patience — reading my responses, finding the spot that made my arms shake and my forehead drop to the counter.
“You’re so responsive,” he murmured. His mouth against my shoulder blade. “Every time I touch you, your whole body answers.”
“If you don’t get inside me in the next thirty seconds, my architecture is going to collapse.”
He laughed. Then I felt him push inside me. Slow. Careful. He bottomed out. His hips pressed against my ass. His mouth found the back of my neck.
“Move,” I said.
The kitchen filled with the sound of us. Skin against skin. The rhythmic creak of the cabinet below. The morning light poured through the window. I could see our reflection in the glass — domestic and obscene and perfect.
“Harder,” I said. “Sol, harder.”
He gripped my hips tighter. Changed the angle. Each thrust hit the spot that made my vision blur and sounds leave my mouth that I would never have made in a building with witnesses.
“Touch yourself,” he said. “I want to feel you come while I’m inside you.”
I wrapped my hand around my cock. Stroked fast, matching his rhythm. The dual sensation built toward something enormous.
“I’m close.”
“I know. I can feel it. Your whole body tightens and you make this low sound, like a structure finding its load—”
“If you’re narrating my orgasm like a building assessment—”
I came. Hard. Against the laminate counter we were demolishing next week. My body clenched around his cock and he thrust twice more and followed me, his face buried in my neck.
We stood there. Bent over the counter. Breathing.
“I concede the window,” he said.
“The window placement. You were right. The morning light from this position is exceptional.”
“The sightline from this position is our backyard.”
“Exactly. The light was illuminating—”
“My ass?”
“Your shoulders. But also your ass. Both were architecturally significant.”
I started laughing. On the counter. With his cock still inside me and the morning coffee stone-cold and the worst kitchen in the Finger Lakes bearing witness to the best morning of my life.
He laughed too. Into my neck. The real laugh. The one without crown molding.
We cleaned up. Reheated the coffee. Stood in our terrible kitchen with the rescued ceiling medallion above us.
“The medallion stays,” he said.
“Obviously.”
“The window stays. Based on a comprehensive site analysis conducted this morning.” He met my eyes. “The light at this angle, at this time of morning, is irreplaceable.”
“The light or the view?”
“Both.” He touched my face. “The window stays. The kitchen gets demolished. Everything else — we build together.”
I kissed him. In our kitchen. In the morning light.
The coffee went cold again. Neither of us minded.
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