Suite Fourteen

A Best Man, Best Man Bonus Chapter
by Jace Wilder

An exclusive scene set six months after the epilogue. Too hot for Amazon. You’re welcome.

⚠️ Content Warning: This bonus chapter contains extremely explicit MM sexual content including shower sex, praise kink reversal, and wall sex. Intended for readers 18+ who have read the full novel.

Suite Fourteen

Ryan

The lobby of Miramar Cove smelled exactly the same.

Frangipani and salt. Terra-cotta tiles under my feet. Ceiling fans turning their lazy circles above the rattan furniture, and the ocean visible through the back wall that was really just an elegant absence of wall. Everything identical to the day I’d walked in eighteen months ago with a suitcase and a garment bag and twelve drafts of a speech and absolutely no idea that my life was about to detonate.

Luca didn’t know we were here.

He thought we were flying to Miami for a gallery opening—one of his photographer friends, a show he’d been talking about for weeks. I’d let him think that. I’d booked the flights under the pretense of the gallery, packed our bags while he was in the shower, and driven to the airport with the calm, organized efficiency of a man executing a covert operation.

The reveal happened at the gate. He’d looked at the departure board, looked at me, looked at the board again.

“San Juan,” he’d said. Flat. Processing.

“San Juan.”

“Ryan.”

“Happy six-month engagementiversary.”

“That’s not a word.”

“It is now.”

His face had done the thing—the dissolving, the opening, the specific expression of a man who’d spent his life being everyone’s temporary and was still, eighteen months in, surprised every time I proved I was permanent. He’d kissed me at the gate, in front of a hundred travelers, without checking who was watching.

Now we were standing in the lobby. And on the counter in front of us, a key card.

Suite fourteen.

“You didn’t,” Luca said.

“I did. Same room. Same bed. Same architecturally aggressive shower.” I picked up the key. “I’m not spilling anything on you this time. Not in the lobby, anyway.”

His eyes darkened. The specific darkening I’d learned to read over eighteen months—the shift from charming to hungry, from public Luca to private Luca, from the man who smiled at everyone to the man who looked at me like I was the only person in any room.

“Upstairs,” he said. “Now.”

The room was the same. Exactly the same—white walls, dark wood, the ceiling fan, the balcony doors open to the ocean. The bed, enormous, dressed in crisp white linen. The bathroom with its glass walls and its total commitment to the philosophy that privacy was overrated.

But we were different.

The last time I’d stood in this room, I’d been a man building pillow walls and changing in the bathroom and lying awake terrified of the wanting that lived in my body like a secret I couldn’t tell. I’d been “fine.” I’d been performing. I’d been Ryan Carter: Normal Straight Reliable, and the cracks hadn’t started yet.

Now I was a man with a ring on my finger and a fiancé beside me and the complete, unshakable knowledge of who I was and what I wanted.

What I wanted was standing by the nightstand, reading the napkin I’d arranged with the resort before we arrived.

Welcome back. The pillow wall won’t be necessary. — R

Luca set the napkin down. His hand was shaking. Not from fear—from the specific, overwhelmed tremor of a man whose love language was being spoken fluently by someone who’d learned it from scratch.

“You left a napkin,” he said. His voice was rough.

“I learned from the best.”

He turned to me. The golden light from the balcony was doing what Puerto Rican light always did to Luca Moreno—catching the gold chain, illuminating the laugh lines, turning his skin warm and his eyes dark.

“Last time we stood here,” he said, “you were holding index cards and panicking about a speech.”

“Last time we stood here, I didn’t know I was allowed to want you.”

“And now?”

I crossed the room. Put my hands on his face—the gesture that was ours, the cupped jaw, the thumbs on cheekbones, the touch that said I see you.

“Now I’m going to take you into that shower and do every single thing I spent the first three nights imagining while I lay on my side of the pillow wall pretending I wasn’t hard.”

His breath caught. “Every single thing?”

“I had a lot of nights and a very active imagination.”

“Ryan Carter.” His mouth was an inch from mine. “Who knew the anxious golden boy had it in him?”

“You did. From the lobby.”

I kissed him. Not gentle. Not tentative. The kiss of a man who’d spent eighteen months learning exactly how to take apart the person he loved and was about to deploy every tool in the arsenal.

I walked him backward toward the glass-walled bathroom. The shower with no door. The transparent walls. The architectural commitment to exposure that had terrified the closeted version of me and that the current version intended to use as a feature, not a bug.

I undressed him on the way. His shirt—unbuttoned, always one button too far—pulled open, pushed off his shoulders, dropped on the tile. His shorts, his boxers, his shoes kicked aside. Each piece removed deliberately, my mouth following my hands, kissing each inch of revealed skin while he braced himself against the glass wall and made sounds that echoed off the tile.

“The shower,” I said. “Get in.”

He got in. I watched him—naked, hard, the water hitting his shoulders and streaming down his body, the tattoo sleeve dark against wet skin, the gold chain pooling at his collarbone.

I stripped. Stepped into the water. The heat hit me—the water, his body, the specific temperature of two people in a glass box with eighteen months of history and zero remaining barriers.

I pinned him against the tile. Hands above his head, my fingers circling his wrists, pressing them to the cool surface. His eyes went wide—then dark.

“You spend your whole life holding everyone else together,” I murmured against his throat, the water streaming between us. “Every wedding. Every family. Every person who needs you. And you never let anyone hold you.”

“Ryan—”

“I’m holding you now. And you’re going to let me.”

I dropped to my knees.

The tile was hard. The water poured over both of us. I looked up at him through the steam and took him in my mouth, and the sound he made—echoing off the glass, off the tile, filling the room with the raw, unfiltered noise of a man who’d been the caretaker his whole life and was being taken care of—was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard.

I was good at this now. Eighteen months of practice and genuine, voracious desire had made me skilled. I knew the rhythm that made his knees buckle. The pressure that made his fists clench. The exact moment to pull off and look up at him and say the words he’d taught me.

“You’re so good for me. Let go, Luca. I’ve got you.”

His head fell back against the tile. His hands sank into my hair. His hips rolled, and I let him—let him fuck my mouth with the slow, desperate urgency of a man who was drowning in the reversal, in hearing his own words in my voice, in the devastation of being worshipped by the person he’d taught to worship.

I didn’t let him finish. Not yet. I pulled off and stood, and turned him around.

Face against the glass.

The shower wall was transparent. Beyond it, the main room—the bed, the balcony, the ocean. Luca’s face pressed to the glass. His hands spread against the surface, palms flat, steam prints forming and dissolving. His body arched, wet, open, waiting.

The exposure metaphor made literal. Nothing between him and the world but a pane of glass and the man standing behind him.

“Do you remember the first morning?” I said, my mouth at his ear. “I woke up on your pillow. I’d demolished the wall in my sleep and all I could smell was you and I lay there for five minutes, just breathing you in, and I didn’t let myself have more than five minutes because I was so fucking terrified.”

“I remember.” His voice was wrecked. “I was awake. I felt you there. I didn’t move.”

“I know. You gave me those five minutes and you didn’t ask for anything and you didn’t push and you let me have it at my own pace.” I reached for the small bottle I’d stashed on the shower shelf. “So here’s what I owe you. Eighteen months of mornings. Every one.”

I prepped him against the glass. Slowly, thoroughly—one finger, then two, the water and the lube making everything slick and easy. His forehead pressed to the glass, his breath fogging the surface, his moans bouncing off the tile.

“Ryan—please—”

“Say it again.”

“Please.”

The man who never asked. The man who handled everything. The man who’d spent thirty-two years being the one who gave—saying please with his face against a glass wall and his body open and his voice cracked down the middle.

I entered him. Slowly. The angle was different—standing, against the wall, gravity and water and the smooth glass adding dimensions that the bed didn’t have. He braced his hands and I pressed deep and the sound we both made was swallowed by the steam.

“Good boy,” I whispered.

Luca’s entire body clenched. His hands pressed hard against the glass. The words—his words, the words he’d invented for me, the words that had unlocked my body and my identity and my entire life—directed back at him, in my voice, from a position of authority I’d fully, irreversibly grown into.

“Oh fuck—” His voice broke. His hips pushed back against mine, taking me deeper, and I braced one hand on the glass beside his head and the other on his hip and I fucked him against the wall with the steady, thorough, devastating focus I brought to everything I cared about.

“You taught me this,” I said, each word punctuated by a thrust. “You taught me that being seen is brave. That letting go is strong. That saying please isn’t weakness.” I pressed deeper. His moan was a sound I’d carry for the rest of my life. “Now let me show you what you look like when you take your own advice. Let go, Luca. I’ve got you. You’re my good boy and I’ve got you.”

He came untouched.

The mirror of our first time—the same devastating, full-body, praise-triggered orgasm, his cock pulsing against the glass wall, his body clenching around me in rhythmic waves, his mouth open in a cry that echoed off every surface. The teacher undone by his own lesson. The caretaker cared for. The man who’d spent eighteen months saying good boy to someone else hearing it said to him and shattering.

I followed him over. Buried deep, my face against the wet skin of his back, his name in my mouth, the water pouring over both of us as the pleasure crested and broke and left us shaking against the glass.

We ended up on the bed. Wet, wrecked, laughing—because we laughed during sex now, because comfort and humor and desire had fused into something that didn’t separate.

“The glass shower,” Luca managed, face-down in the pillow. “Eighteen months of anticipation.”

“Worth the wait?”

“I left handprints on the glass. Literal handprints. Like a crime scene.”

“I’ll tip housekeeping.”

He rolled onto his back. Looked at me with the expression I’d been collecting for eighteen months—tender and fierce and amused and devastated all at once.

“Come here,” he murmured.

I went. Settled over him. Kissed him—slow, deep, the taste of salt and water and the specific chemistry of two people who’d been through everything and had chosen, every day, to keep choosing.

Round two was slower. Face-to-face, Luca on top, riding me with the unhurried rhythm of a man who had nowhere to be and nothing to prove. We talked while we moved—not dirty talk, not commands, just words. The call-and-response we’d built from nothing:

“You’re everything.”

“So are you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“Good boy.”

“Good boy.”

We came together. The simultaneous, shattering kind—the kind that happens when two people have synced so completely that their bodies share a clock. I held his hips and he held my face and we looked at each other the whole time, because that was the rule we’d made in this room eighteen months ago and had never broken.

Keep your eyes on mine.

Always.

Later. The balcony. Same chairs. Same view. Same ocean, same stars.

We were tangled together in one chair—Luca in my lap, both wrapped in a sheet, his engagement ring catching the moonlight. His head was on my shoulder. My arms were around his waist. The air smelled like salt and frangipani and the ghost of the shower and us.

I pulled out one more napkin. I’d written it on the plane, in the tiny handwriting that was becoming my version of his tradition.

The best thing that ever happened to me in a hotel lobby was getting covered in mojito by a man in a linen shirt. I’d do it again every day for the rest of my life. — R

Luca read it. Quiet. His thumb traced the words the way he traced his tattoo, the way he traced the lines of my face in the dark.

“You’ve done so well,” he said.

The words that had started it all. The words that meant you came out, you chose yourself, you let someone love you, you stopped performing.

“So have you,” I said.

The words that meant you stayed, you let yourself need someone, you stopped running before anyone could ask you to.

The ocean breathed. The stars burned. The ring on his finger caught the light one more time.

And I thought—sitting in the room where I’d become myself, holding the man who’d made it possible, with a napkin in his hand and a future in ours:

Lo que es tuyo, vendrá.

What is yours will come to you.

It came. In a lobby. Covered in mojito. And I was never letting go.

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