Bi the Way, I’m Your Best Man — Bonus Chapter
The Final Fitting — by Jace Wilder
This bonus chapter takes place six months after the epilogue. Cam and Miles have returned to Castellano & Sons — the tailor shop on Federal Hill where a suit fitting once made them both stop breathing — to be measured for their own wedding suits. Marco has retired. His granddaughter runs the shop now. And the fitting room has a lock.
Content warning: This scene is significantly more explicit than the main novel. Graphic sexual content, suit kink, mirror sex, penetrative sex, praise kink, and two men who have finally earned the right to ruin a fitting room.
The Final Fitting
MILES
Marco Castellano’s granddaughter was named Sofia, and she had her grandfather’s eye for drape and her own generation’s tolerance for bullshit, which was zero.
“Two grooms,” she said, circling us with a measuring tape and the appraising expression of a woman who had been fitting suits since she could hold a pin. “Same wedding. You want to match or complement?”
“Complement,” I said, at the same time Cam said, “Whatever Miles wants.”
Sofia looked between us. “I see who runs things. Follow me.”
The shop hadn’t changed. Same leather chairs by the window. Same espresso machine hissing in the back. Same bolts of Italian wool arranged by weight and weave on mahogany shelves that Marco had built with his own hands forty years ago. The air smelled like cedar and steam and the particular, leathery dignity of a space that had been dressing men for half a century.
The fitting room was in the back — a private alcove with a three-panel mirror, a raised platform, and a solid oak door with a brass lock that turned with a satisfying click. I noticed the lock immediately, because I noticed everything about spaces, and also because the last time Cameron Reed had stood on a fitting platform while I adjusted his lapels, my hands had trembled against his chest and neither of us had been allowed to do anything about it.
We were allowed now. We were getting married in three months. The ring on my left hand — the rough-draft silver, worn smooth by six months of dishwashing and event-building and reaching for the man beside me — caught the light every time I moved.
“Cam first,” Sofia said. She’d pulled three options: a midnight navy three-piece in a Loro Piana Super 150s, a charcoal windowpane that I vetoed on sight, and a deep slate blue with a subtle tonal herringbone that made my breath catch when she draped it across the fitting table. The wool had a hand like butter — dense, fluid, the kind of fabric that remembered the body it was shaped around.
“That one,” I said.
“He hasn’t tried it on.”
“That one.”
He disappeared behind the screen. I sat in one of Marco’s leather chairs and pretended to examine pocket-square swatches while listening to the sounds of Cameron Reed undressing six feet away. The clink of his belt buckle. The whisper of denim sliding down his legs. The soft, private exhale he made when he pulled his shirt over his head — a sound I’d been hearing in peripheral awareness for two decades and could now listen to without the internal monologue that used to accompany it: stop cataloging, stop wanting, stop imagining what he looks like right now.
I didn’t need to imagine anymore. I knew what he looked like. I’d spent six months memorizing the topography of his body with my hands and my mouth and the focused, obsessive attention of a man who had waited fifteen years for permission and intended to use every second of it.
I still wanted to look. Knowing didn’t diminish the wanting. If anything, it sharpened it.
Cam stepped out from behind the screen.
The slate blue was a revelation. The jacket followed his shoulders like a second skin — broad, athletic, the shoulders I’d gripped and bitten and pressed my face into in the dark — and tapered to a waist that the trousers continued in a clean, devastating line. The waistcoat sat flat against his stomach, the buttons drawing the eye down the center of his chest in a vertical line that functioned as an arrow pointing toward things the suit was designed to conceal and was spectacularly failing to conceal.
He looked like a groom. He looked like my groom.
“Sofia,” I said. My voice was steady. My pulse was not. “Can you give us fifteen minutes? I need to check the fit.”
Sofia looked at me. Looked at the lock. Looked at Cam, whose ears had gone red. “Fifteen minutes,” she said. “I will be in the front of the shop. I will be playing music. Loudly.” She paused. “If you wrinkle the Loro Piana, I will end you both. Grandfather’s ghost will assist.”
She closed the door.
I stood. Crossed the fitting room. Turned the lock. The brass clicked into place with a sound that traveled directly from my fingers to the base of my spine.
Cam was watching me in the mirror. Three versions of him — left profile, front, right profile — each one flushed and breathing faster than the wool justified.
“You locked the door,” he said.
“I locked the door.”
“We’re in a tailor shop.”
“We’re in a tailor shop with a locked door and fifteen minutes and a man in a ten-thousand-dollar suit who is looking at me like he wants me to take it off.”
“I don’t want you to take it off.” His voice dropped. The rough register, the one that existed only in private. “I want you to leave it on.”
The sentence hit me like a match strike.
I stepped onto the platform behind him. Settled my hands on his shoulders — the gesture from the first fitting, a lifetime ago. The same hands. The same shoulders. Everything else different.
I ran my palms down his arms, slowly, following the sleeve’s line to his wrists. In the center panel, his reflection watched mine — dark hands against slate wool, the contrast vivid. I traced back up. Across his shoulders. Down the center of his back.
“The shoulder seam is perfect,” I said. The planner voice — controlled, precise. My hands settled on his waist. Pressed. I felt his stomach contract beneath the waistcoat. “The waist suppression is excellent.”
“Miles.” Half warning, half plea. “You’re not checking the fit.”
“I’m checking how the suit responds to pressure.” I slid my hands around his waist to his stomach. Flattened my palms against the waistcoat buttons. “The fabric has beautiful recovery. Very responsive to… stimulus.”
I pressed my body against his back. Full contact — my chest to his shoulder blades, my hips to his ass, my mouth to the nape of his neck where the collar met warm skin. He made a sound that started in his chest and vibrated through my entire body.
“Watch,” I said, against his neck. “I want you to watch everything I do to you.”
My right hand stayed on his stomach. My left drifted lower — over the waistcoat’s hem, across the flat of his belt, down to where the trousers sat on his hips. I cupped him through the wool. He was hard — had been hard since I’d locked the door, the Loro Piana’s slim cut doing nothing to disguise the rigid length of him straining against the fabric.
I unbuckled his belt. The metal clinked in the quiet room. I opened the trousers carefully and slid them down just far enough. His briefs were stretched obscenely over his erection, and I traced the outline with one finger — base to tip, light, teasing — and watched his face in the mirror contort.
“Miles — please —”
“Please what? Be specific. I’m a planner. I need details.”
“Touch me. Properly. Stop teasing and put your hand on me.”
I freed him from the briefs. Wrapped my hand around him bare — hot, hard, the skin velvet-soft and the flesh beneath unyielding. I stroked him slowly, the way I’d learned he liked — a tight grip on the upstroke, a twist at the crown, my thumb swiping across the head where he was already slick. In the mirror, I watched my hand move on him — dark fingers wrapped around flushed skin — and Cam watched too, his eyes fixed on our reflection with hypnotized intensity.
“You are wearing a ten-thousand-dollar suit,” I said, my mouth against his ear, “and you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in it. And in three months, I am going to stand beside you in a matching one, and we are going to promise each other forever, and everyone in the room will be looking at us, and none of them will know what I’m going to do to you the second we’re alone.”
“Tell me.” His voice was shredded. His hips were moving — short, desperate thrusts into my fist. “Tell me what you’re going to do.”
I told him. In detail. In the planner voice — specific, precise, organized by sequence — I described exactly what I intended to do to him on their wedding night, and the contrast between the clinical delivery and the filthy content made his knees buckle.
“I need to be inside you,” he gasped. “Right now. Right here.”
The request detonated something low in my stomach. I released him and reached into my jacket pocket.
He stared. “You brought —”
“I am a wedding planner, Cameron. I plan for contingencies.”
“You planned to have sex in a fitting room.”
“I planned for the possibility that a locked door and a ten-thousand-dollar suit might create conditions in which sex became the optimal outcome. I was right.”
He turned. The movement was fast — athlete’s reflexes, the six-foot-three coiled-spring burst that always made me want to climb him. He lifted me off the platform by my hips, set me on the padded bench along the wall, and kissed me with the desperate, ungoverned hunger of a man who had been told he had eleven minutes and intended to use every one.
His hands on my belt. My trousers. He stripped me with efficient urgency, and within thirty seconds I was bare from the waist down, sitting on a bench in a tailor shop in my dress shirt and socks, and Cam was kneeling between my legs rolling on the condom with an expression that was three parts desire and one part I cannot believe we are doing this.
The prep was fast — we’d learned each other well enough to know the shortcuts, the angles, the exact pressure I needed. Two fingers, then three, working me open with focused attention, his other hand braced on my thigh, his eyes on my face reading every shift. I gasped when he found the spot, the sound bouncing off the walls, and he covered my mouth with his free hand.
“Sofia said she’d play music,” he murmured. “She did not say how loud.”
“Then you’d better give me something to bite.”
He positioned himself. And pushed in.
The first thrust was slow — always slow with Cam, because he was big enough that slow was a kindness and patient enough that the kindness was genuine — and I felt every inch, the stretch and the fullness and the deep, intimate pressure of his body entering mine. My legs wrapped around his waist, the fabric of his trousers rough against my bare thighs, and the contrast — him fully dressed in a wedding suit, me half-naked on a fitting bench — was so obscene and so perfect that I nearly came from the image alone.
“Move,” I said. “We have ten minutes and I am not wasting them.”
He moved. Not gentle. Not the tenderness of a Sunday morning. This was urgent and tight and driven by the compressed desperation of two men having sex in a semipublic space with a time limit. He thrust into me hard enough to push the bench against the wall, and I grabbed his shoulders — the Loro Piana, sorry Sofia — and held on, and every stroke hit deep and precise, and the sounds I was making into the wool of his jacket shoulder were not sounds that belonged in a tailor shop.
“The mirror,” he gasped. “Look.”
I turned my head. The three-panel mirror reflected us from the side — his body driving into mine, my legs around his waist, his suit jacket bunching under my fingers, my back arching off the bench. The image was filthy and gorgeous and I watched it with the professional eye of a man who had staged two hundred and forty-seven events and had never produced anything as beautiful as the sight of Cameron Reed fucking him in a suit.
His rhythm was faltering — hips stuttering, the telltale loss of coordination that meant he was close. I pulled him deeper. Clenched around him deliberately, and the sound he made — a strangled, bitten-off moan — was worth every wrinkle in the Loro Piana.
“You are going to come inside me while wearing your wedding suit,” I said, “and I am going to watch it happen in that mirror, and neither of us is ever going to look at these suits the same way again.”
I reached between us. Wrapped my hand around myself and stroked — fast, urgent, matching his rhythm — and the dual sensation, his cock inside me and my hand on myself and the mirror showing all of it in relentless, three-paneled detail, built to a peak so sharp I barely had time to press my face into his shoulder before I came.
The orgasm tore through me in waves — my body clenching around him, my hand tightening, my mouth open against his shoulder. The clench pulled Cam over the edge. He came with a thrust that pinned me to the bench and a groan buried in my neck, his arms locked around my back, his hips shuddering through the release. I felt him pulse inside me — deep, rhythmic — and I held him through it, my legs tight around his waist, my hands in his hair, my mouth pressed against his temple.
We stayed. Breathing. The bench was hard beneath me. The fitting room smelled like cedar and sex and expensive wool.
“Sofia,” Cam said, after a long silence, “is going to murder us.”
“Sofia is going to murder you. I’m the one with the pocket-square contract. I’m untouchable.”
“You are extremely touchable. That’s the problem.”
We cleaned up with the efficiency of two men who had exactly four minutes and strong motivation. The suit — miraculously — had survived. The Loro Piana was creased at the shoulders where I’d gripped it but not torn, not stained. The waistcoat needed re-buttoning. I did it — my fingers working up his chest the way they had at the very first fitting, each button sliding home with practiced precision. I straightened the collar. Smoothed the lapels.
Sofia knocked at fourteen minutes and forty-five seconds. She surveyed the room, looked at the faintly smudged mirror, at Cam’s hair, at the small mark on my neck my collar didn’t quite cover.
“The Loro Piana survived,” she said. “You are both extraordinarily lucky.” She picked up her measuring tape. “Grandfather would have charged you double and told your mothers.”
“Your grandfather would have understood,” Cam said.
“My grandfather would have locked you in here for two hours and sent you an invoice for emotional damages.” She pointed at me. “Your turn. On the platform.”
I stepped onto the platform. Cam sat in the leather chair. And for the next thirty minutes, he watched me get fitted for a wedding suit with the focused, heavy-lidded intensity of a man who was already thinking about what was going to happen the minute we got home.
Three months. One wedding. Two suits that fit like they were made for us. The rough draft was over. The final version was coming.
And the fitting room at Castellano & Sons was, absolutely, going to need a better lock.
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