Bonus Chapter: The First Tuesday

An exclusive bonus scene from Bi the Time We Check Out
by Jace Wilder

⚠️ Spoiler Warning: This bonus chapter takes place three weeks after the events of Bi the Time We Check Out. Read the full novel first for maximum impact. This scene contains extremely explicit sexual content.

The First Tuesday

Three weeks after Chicago.

The coffee was cold.

Not warm-trending-cool, not drinkable-if-you-hurried. Cold. Room temperature. The kind of cold that happens when a man makes coffee at 6:15 AM, sets it on the counter, gets distracted by the sound of someone else’s shower running in his bathroom, and stands in his kitchen for twenty-two minutes listening to the water and thinking about what’s under it.

Nate’s shower. In my bathroom. On a Tuesday morning.

He’d stayed over for the fourth consecutive night, which meant we’d passed through the polite fiction of “I’ll just crash here since it’s late” and entered the uncharted territory of a man who had a toothbrush in my holder and opinions about my shampoo. His camera bag was on the hall table. His running shoes were at the back door. The Rutgers t-shirt I’d stolen and then he’d stolen back was draped over the bedroom chair.

My house smelled like him. Cedar and coffee and the specific warmth of a body that had been sleeping against mine for eight hours. The pillow on his side of the bed—his side, because we had sides now, because two men sharing a bed develop territorial protocols as naturally as breathing—still held the impression of his head. I’d pressed my face into it before getting up. Inhaled. Stood in my own bedroom smelling my boyfriend’s pillow like a man who had lost all dignity and found something better in its place.

The shower turned off. I heard the curtain slide. The rustle of a towel. The particular silence of a man standing naked in a bathroom that wasn’t his and was becoming his and would, if I had anything to say about it, be his permanently.

I listened to him move. The cabinet opening—my deodorant, which he’d started using because he’d run out of his own and then never switched back. The faucet. The electric razor. The soft thud of his palm against the counter as he leaned in to examine his jaw in the mirror. I knew his morning sounds the way I knew his breathing patterns and his coffee order and the specific pitch of the moan he made when I hit the right angle inside him. Intimacy measured in accumulated data.

He walked into the kitchen in my sweatpants and nothing else.

The sweatpants sat low on his hips. Dangerously low. The drawstring was untied, the waistband riding on the jut of his hip bones, the fabric loose enough that every step shifted them another fraction of an inch toward a view I had become intimately familiar with over three weeks of enthusiastic research. His chest was bare—the dark hair that I’d mapped with my mouth, the stretch marks on his hip that he no longer hid from me, the line of muscle along his obliques that I wanted to trace with my tongue every time I saw it.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning.”

“Is that coffee?”

“It was. Twenty minutes ago.”

“What happened twenty minutes ago?”

“You turned the shower on and I stopped functioning.”

Nate leaned against the doorframe. Crossed his arms. The motion made his biceps flex and the sweatpants slip another quarter inch and I tracked the movement with the focused attention of a man who had spent his entire professional career noticing details and was now applying that skill to the topography of his boyfriend’s hip bones.

“You stopped functioning,” he repeated.

“I stood here and listened to you shower and thought about you being wet and naked twelve feet from my kitchen and I forgot how coffee works.”

“Grant Holloway. The most competent man in hospitality. Defeated by a shower.”

“Defeated by you.”

His expression shifted. The humor thinning. Something hotter surfacing beneath—the particular look he got when the banter crossed the line from playful to loaded, when the air between us changed density and the distance between our bodies became a problem that needed solving.

“The kids aren’t here,” he said.

“Owen’s at school. Left at seven.”

“And you’ve been standing in this kitchen for twenty minutes thinking about me in the shower.”

“Twenty-two minutes.”

“What specifically were you thinking about?”

I set the cold coffee down. Crossed the kitchen. Stood in front of him—close, inside his space, the way he’d always stood inside mine before either of us knew what the proximity meant. I could feel the heat radiating off his shower-warm skin. Could smell my own soap on him, my deodorant, the particular combination of his chemistry and mine that had become the scent of our shared life.

“I was thinking about your mouth,” I said. “And your hands. And the sound you make when I’m inside you—that broken sound, the one that tells me you’re close. And the way you said my name last night when I had three fingers in you and my mouth on your cock and you came so hard you pulled my hair out.”

Nate’s pupils dilated. I watched it happen—the black swallowing the brown, his body responding to my words before his mind finished processing them.

“You’re getting very good at talking dirty,” he said. His voice wasn’t steady.

“I had an excellent teacher.”

“I taught you to ask for praise during sex. The filth is all you.”

I put my hand on his hip. The bare one—skin against skin, my thumb finding the groove above his hip bone, pressing into the warm muscle. The sweatpants shifted under my palm. I could feel that he wasn’t wearing anything underneath them. The knowledge sent a bolt of heat through me so intense my fingers tightened involuntarily.

“I was also thinking,” I said, moving my thumb in slow circles on his hip, “about something you said to me in a hotel room eight days into a blizzard.”

“I said a lot of things in that hotel room. Most of them with my mouth full.”

“You said you didn’t want a perfect night. You wanted a Tuesday morning when the coffee’s cold and I kiss you anyway.”

Nate’s breath caught. The bravado flickered—underneath it, the real Nate, the one who needed to be chosen, who needed to know that the desire that had burned between us in a luxury suite would survive the transition to a suburban kitchen with a dripping faucet and a toaster that only worked on one side.

“This is a Tuesday morning,” I said. “The coffee is cold. And I am going to kiss you now.”

Nate kissed me first. Because Nate always kissed me first when I gave him the opening—not because he was impatient but because waiting was something he’d done for twelve years and he was finished with it.

His mouth hit mine and the cold coffee hit the floor. The mug tipped off the counter—my elbow, his hand, the combined impact of two bodies colliding against a kitchen surface—and shattered on the tile. Brown liquid spreading. Ceramic shards scattering. Neither of us looked down.

His hands were in my hair. My hands were on his hips—both hips now, fingers hooked inside the waistband of my sweatpants, pulling him flush against me. His mouth was hot and tasted like my toothpaste because he’d used mine and the domesticity of that—tasting yourself on someone else’s tongue, knowing he’d stood at your sink and used your toothpaste and looked at his reflection in your mirror—was more erotic than anything that had happened in the Halcyon Grand.

“Here,” Nate said against my mouth. “Right here. The kitchen.”

“The kitchen.”

“This is the Tuesday, Grant. This is what I asked for. Give it to me.”

I lifted him onto the counter.

One motion. Hands under his thighs, his legs wrapping around my waist, his ass landing on the granite with a sound that was half impact and half laughter because we were doing this, we were actually doing this, in my kitchen at 6:37 on a Tuesday morning with broken ceramic on the floor and the morning light coming through the window over the sink.

I stood between his spread thighs and kissed him until we were both breathing through our noses and making sounds into each other’s mouths. His hands pulled at my shirt. I stripped it over my head. His palms found my chest—flat, spread, the way he always touched me, like he was reading braille, like my body contained information he valued.

“These need to go,” I said, tugging the sweatpants. He lifted his hips off the counter. I pulled them down and off and dropped them on the floor beside the coffee puddle. Nate was naked on my kitchen counter. Hard. Flushed. His cock curving up against his stomach, the head slick, and the sight of him—all of him, offered without reservation in the place where I lived my ordinary life—made my mouth water.

I dropped to my knees.

The tile was cold. Hard. There were ceramic shards somewhere nearby and I didn’t care. Grant Holloway, who noticed every detail, who assessed every risk, who would normally have swept the floor before kneeling on it, did not care about the floor. He cared about the man sitting on his counter. He cared about the cock in front of his face.

“Grant—the floor—there’s broken—”

“I’ll survive.”

I wrapped my hand around the base of his cock and licked a long, slow stripe from root to tip. Nate’s head fell back against the upper cabinet with a thunk that was going to leave a mark on the wood and neither of us was going to care about that either.

I took him in. Slow. Savoring the weight of him on my tongue, the taste—salt, soap, the musky warmth that was uniquely Nate. Three weeks of practice had turned the clumsy uncertainty of our first time into something confident, something skilled, something that made Nate grip the edge of the counter with white-knuckled hands and say my name in a voice that echoed off the tile and the stainless steel.

I worked him with my mouth and my hand. Long, deliberate strokes—tongue flat against the underside, lips tight around the ridge, a twist of my wrist at the base that I’d learned made his thighs clamp against my shoulders. I hollowed my cheeks and took him deep, relaxing my throat, breathing through my nose, and the groan he made vibrated through his body and into mine.

“Fuck—Grant—your mouth—you have no idea—”

I pulled off long enough to say, “Tell me.” Because I’d learned that too. That Nate needed to narrate. That the words were part of his pleasure, the verbal feedback loop that kept us connected, and that hearing him describe what I was doing to him made me harder than any physical touch.

“You’re on your knees on your kitchen floor,” Nate said, breathless, his hand finding my hair, fingers threading through, holding without pushing. “You’re on your knees and you’re sucking my cock and you look—god, Grant, you look like this is exactly where you want to be.”

“It is.” I licked the head. Slow circle. Watched his stomach muscles contract. “It is exactly where I want to be.”

I took him deep again. Set a rhythm—steady, relentless, the focused attention of a man who treated his partner’s pleasure as a project worthy of his full capability. My free hand slid between his thighs, behind his balls, pressing against the smooth skin, and Nate’s hips jerked off the counter.

“I’m close—Grant—if you don’t stop I’m going to—”

I pulled off. Stood up. Kissed him—open-mouthed, letting him taste himself on my tongue. His hand found my cock through my sweatpants—hard, straining, a wet spot darkening the fabric—and he squeezed and I groaned into his mouth.

“I want you to fuck me,” I said. “Here. On this counter. Right now.”

Nate pulled back. Looked at me. “On the counter.”

“On the counter. Against the counter. On the floor. I don’t care about the location. I care about you being inside me in this kitchen on this Tuesday because this is what I promised you and I am a man who keeps his promises.”

“You’re an engineer at heart.”

“I’m a man who wants your cock inside him. The engineering is secondary.”

Nate’s eyes went black. “Lube.”

“Bedroom. Top drawer. Eleven seconds.”

I made it in nine. Returned to find Nate standing by the counter—not sitting anymore, standing, naked, his cock rigid against his stomach, his body lit by the morning light through the kitchen window. He looked like something I would have photographed if I had his skill. Something I would have framed and hung and looked at every day.

Instead, I kissed him. Handed him the lube and a condom. Turned around.

I braced my hands on the counter. The granite was cool under my palms—the same surface where I’d chopped vegetables a thousand times, where Owen had eaten cereal, where I’d rested my elbows during late-night conversations with Meredith about whether the marriage was working. The surface that held the history of my old life, now holding the weight of my new one.

Nate’s hands were on my hips. He pulled my sweatpants down—slow, deliberate, pressing his mouth against each inch of skin as it was revealed. The small of my back. The curve of my ass. The backs of my thighs. He kissed his way down my body with the devoted attention of a man worshipping at a surface he’d been denied for twelve years.

“I love this,” he murmured against my skin. “I love that you ask for this now. That you don’t hesitate. That the man who couldn’t say the word ‘bisexual’ three weeks ago is standing in his kitchen asking me to fuck him.”

“Less commentary. More preparation.”

He laughed against my spine. Then his slicked fingers found me and the laughter stopped.

One finger. Slow, circling, easing in. My forehead dropped to the counter. The granite was cool against my skin and the contrast—cold surface, hot hand—made my nerve endings light up. Nate worked me open with the patient thoroughness he brought to everything that mattered. Slow circles. Gentle pressure. The gradual stretch that had frightened me in Chicago and now felt like homecoming.

Two fingers. He curled them—searching, finding, the precise angle that made my vision spark and my hands slam flat against the granite and a sound tear out of me that was not quiet and was not contained and would have been audible to anyone standing on my front porch.

“There?” he asked. Knowing the answer. Asking anyway because he liked hearing me say it.

“There. God—right there—don’t stop—”

He didn’t stop. He added a third finger and worked me until my legs were shaking and my cock was dripping onto the tile floor and the sounds coming out of me were sounds I’d never made before Chicago and now made regularly, without shame, because Nate had taught me that need was not weakness and asking was not begging and the noises I made when his fingers were inside me were the most honest sounds I’d ever produced.

“Ready?” he asked.

“I was ready ten minutes ago. I was ready when you walked into this kitchen. I was ready when I heard the shower turn on. Please, Nate. Now.”

I heard the condom wrapper tear. The slick sound of lube. His hand on my hip, steadying. The blunt pressure of him against me—hot, thick, insistent.

He pushed in.

One long, slow, devastating stroke. The stretch. The fullness. The specific, irreplaceable sensation of Nate Alvarez inside my body in the kitchen where I’d lived my entire adult life. I dropped my head between my braced arms and breathed and felt him bottom out and go still.

“Okay?”

“More than okay. Move. Please move.”

He moved.

Not gently. Not the careful, tender rhythm of our first time. This was a Tuesday morning and the school bus had left twenty minutes ago and we were two men with finite time and infinite want and the urgency of real life made the sex urgent too. He gripped my hips—hard enough to leave marks, the kind I’d find later in the shower and press my fingers against to feel the echo of him—and drove into me with a rhythm that was fast and deep and relentless.

The counter dug into my palms. The kitchen filled with sounds—skin against skin, his breathing, mine, the wet impact of his hips against my ass, the creak of the cabinet where my weight pressed, the low continuous moan that was coming from my throat and that I was not attempting to control because there was no one to hear it except the man behind me and he wanted to hear it.

“Tell me I’m good,” I said.

Not ashamed. Not hesitant. Not the desperate whisper of a man discovering his need for the first time. The clear, steady request of a man who had learned what he needed and trusted his partner to provide it. As natural as asking him to pass the salt. As fundamental as breathing.

Nate’s hand slid from my hip to my cock. Wrapped around me—slick with lube, firm, the grip perfectly calibrated because he’d spent three weeks learning exactly how I liked to be held. He stroked in time with his thrusts—each forward motion driving him deep inside me while his hand pulled me toward the edge.

“You’re so good,” Nate said. His voice was wrecked—rough, breathless, the voice of a man whose composure had been dismantled by the body clenching around him. “You’re perfect, Grant. Look at you. Taking me in your kitchen on a Tuesday morning. Braced against the counter you built with your own hands. Making those sounds. Wanting this. Wanting me.”

The praise hit me the way it always hit me—a full-body response, a cascade of heat and relief and surrender, the sealed chamber inside me cracking open and flooding with warmth. My back arched. My cock pulsed in his hand. The edge rushed toward me.

“This is what I wanted,” Nate said. Thrusting harder. Stroking faster. His mouth against my shoulder blade, his breath hot on my skin. “This is what I meant when I said I didn’t want a ballroom. Every day. Every surface. Every ordinary moment made extraordinary because you’re in it. Because you chose me. Because you stayed.”

I came.

Hard. The orgasm detonated from the base of my spine and ripped through every nerve ending in my body. I came across the counter—my counter, my granite, my kitchen—with a cry that contained his name and nothing else, my body clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that I felt from my core to my fingertips. My hand slammed flat against the granite. My vision went white. My knees buckled and Nate caught me—one arm around my waist, holding me up, holding me together, holding me while the orgasm tore through me like a storm through a city that had been waiting for the weather to break.

Nate followed. Three strokes later—I felt him swell inside me, felt the stutter in his rhythm, felt his hips drive forward one final time. He buried himself and shook. His forehead pressed between my shoulder blades. His arm tightened around my waist. His voice broke on the words he’d said a hundred times and would say a thousand more.

“I love you. I love you. I love you.”

We stood there for a long time.

Connected. Breathing. His chest against my back, rising and falling. His arm around my waist. His cock softening inside me, the intimacy of the connection persisting beyond the urgency, the two of us unwilling to separate because separation was something we’d done enough of for one lifetime.

Eventually, Nate pulled out. Gently. Disposed of the condom in the kitchen trash because we were adults who lived here and the kitchen trash was where things went. He pressed a kiss to my shoulder blade—the same spot where his forehead had been, the spot that was becoming a landmark on the map of my body, a place that belonged to him.

I turned around. Leaned against the counter. Looked at him.

Naked in my kitchen. Hair wrecked from my hands. His body flushed from sex and his eyes soft with the particular tenderness that surfaced after orgasm, when all his defenses were down and the real Nate was visible. The one who loved too hard and hid it behind jokes. The one who needed to be chosen.

My floor. My kitchen. My man.

We showered together. I washed his hair because I could. Because I wanted to. Because the first time Nate had washed my hair in a hotel shower in Chicago, something inside me had broken open and the thing that poured out was a need to be cared for that I’d been suppressing for forty-three years, and now the need flowed in both directions—his hands in my hair, my hands in his, the simple act of washing someone clean as an expression of something too big for words.

He leaned into my hands. Closed his eyes. Let the water run over both of us.

“Nobody takes care of me like you do,” he said quietly.

“I’m going to keep doing it. Every Tuesday. Every day in between.”

We dried off. Got dressed. I made new coffee—fresh, hot, in two mugs that weren’t broken. He sat at my kitchen table with his laptop and started editing photos. I sat across from him with my coffee and the comfortable silence of two people who had stopped needing to fill the air with noise because the silence between them was already full.

At some point, his foot found mine under the table. Hooked around my ankle. Stayed there.

I looked at him over my coffee. Nate Alvarez, sitting at my kitchen table in a borrowed t-shirt, editing photos, his glasses sliding down his nose, his foot wrapped around my ankle like an anchor. The morning light through the window caught the silver in his beard. The coffee steamed between us.

“Grant?”

“Yeah?”

“This is better than the ballroom.”

I smiled. The real smile. The one that only existed because of him.

“Yeah,” I said. “It is.”

His foot tightened around my ankle. I reached across the table and took his hand.

Tuesday morning. Cold coffee remade. Ceramic swept up. The counter wiped clean of everything except the memory of what had happened on it, which would surface every time I chopped vegetables or signed permission slips or stood at that counter doing the ordinary things that ordinary life required.

Every Tuesday for the rest of my life, I’d stand at that counter and remember.

And every Tuesday, the man responsible would be right here. At my table. In my kitchen. In my life.

Not a hotel memory.

A home.

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