🔥 Cool Down Lap 🔥

An Exclusive Bonus Chapter from Coach’s Prize
by Jace Wilder

Set on the wedding night. After the trailhead ceremony, after the meatloaf, after the geese.
Alternating POV.

Thank You for Reading! 💙

You made it to the bonus content — which means you’ve survived the inside-out shirt, the hip correction that started everything, the baseline 5K, “that’s my boy” on the track, the tailgate Gatorade, the truck cab at seven-thirty AM, the gym floor mirrors, the massage table (four edges, no mercy), the truck bed under the stars, the shin splints that almost broke them, a taper violation punished on a weight bench, a sign that said GOOD BOY ONE MORE MILE, a parking lot confession at full volume, a frozen lake at midnight, a marathon in 4:22:16, a medal that said MARATHON PARTNER ∞, a dog named Tempo who threw up on Marco’s shoes twice, and a wedding on a trail where two men promised to keep showing up.

You’ve watched Riley learn that showing up is enough and Travis learn that letting someone in isn’t the same as falling apart. Thank you for giving them your time. This exclusive chapter is our gift to dedicated readers like you.

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⚠️ Content Warning: This bonus chapter contains extremely explicit MM sexual content including bondage (rope restraints), blindfolding, role reversal (Travis bottoms for the first time), extended praise kink at maximum intensity, body worship, edging, D/s dynamic reversal, emotional vulnerability during intimacy, and graphic descriptions of arousal and orgasm. Set on the wedding night — Riley and Travis at the lake house. Significantly more explicit than the main book. Intended for readers 18+ only. This content was deemed too explicit for retail platforms.

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✨ Cool Down Lap ✨

RILEY

The lake house was ours for the weekend.

Not rented this time — bought. Travis had closed on it in August, three weeks before the marathon, with the quiet, methodical decisiveness of a man who saw a property with a dock and a hayloft and a view of the lake where he’d jumped naked into thirty-four-degree water because a twenty-six-year-old had asked him to, and decided it was a sound investment. The paperwork was in both our names. The mortgage was split fifty-fifty. The realtor had cried at the closing, which Travis attributed to commission-related emotion and I attributed to the fact that she’d watched us look at the dock and simultaneously blush.

Now it was our wedding night. October. The ceremony had been that afternoon — the lake trail, fifty yards from the spot where Travis had first said there’s potential here. Marco had officiated, using notes he’d written on the back of a training plan because he said it was “thematically appropriate.” Pete had walked Travis down the trail. Jess had walked me. Ellie had carried the rings on a cushion so thoroughly bedazzled that it weighed approximately six pounds and caught the October light like a disco ball. Tempo had eaten a meatloaf slider during the vows, and Deb had wept through the entire reception while serving the most aggressive buffet Cedar Lake had ever witnessed.

Now the guests were gone. The trail was quiet. The lake house was warm and lit with the string lights Travis had installed along the back porch — the same string lights I’d hung on our porch at Birch Lane a year ago, replicated here because some things deserved to exist in more than one place.

Travis was in the bedroom. I could hear him moving — the creak of floorboards, the soft thud of shoes being removed, the particular sounds of a man who’d worn a suit for six hours and was ready to stop being formal. He’d looked devastating in the suit. Charcoal gray, fitted, no tie — the top button undone, the collar open, the forearms (always the forearms) exposed when he’d rolled his sleeves during the reception because Travis Kane could not physically exist in full-length sleeves for more than ninety minutes.

I stood in the living room and took a breath. Checked the bag I’d packed separately from our overnight bags — the one I’d hidden in the truck’s back seat, the one Travis hadn’t seen. Inside: soft rope. A silk blindfold. Massage oil — the warming kind, from the gym. And nothing else, because the rest of what I needed was in my voice and my hands and the fourteen months of learning exactly how to take this man apart.

I picked up the bag. Walked to the bedroom.

Travis was standing at the window, looking at the lake. Shirtless now — the suit jacket and shirt draped over the chair, his back to me, the broad planes of his shoulders and the scar on his left knee and the track pants he’d changed into because Travis Kane’s formal-to-casual transition time was approximately forty-five seconds. The silver in his hair caught the lamplight. The muscles along his spine shifted as he breathed.

“Hey, husband,” I said.

He turned. The word landed — I watched it hit, the slight softening of his jaw, the warmth that flooded his eyes. Husband. New. Still settling. A word that would take weeks to feel normal and years to feel ordinary and would never, I suspected, stop making his face do that.

“Hey.” His eyes dropped to the bag. “What’s that?”

“Wedding present.” I set it on the bed. Unzipped it. Let him see.

The rope. The blindfold. The oil.

His expression shifted. Not surprise — recognition. The look of a man who’d been expecting something and was seeing the specific shape of it for the first time. His eyes moved from the rope to the blindfold to my face, and the question was there without being asked.

“Tonight,” I said, “you don’t coach. You don’t direct. You don’t set the pace or call the reps or decide when I’m ready.” I picked up the rope. Soft, braided, the kind that left minimal marks — I’d researched extensively, because I was a man who prepared for important events with the same thoroughness Travis brought to training plans. “Tonight, you trust me the way I’ve trusted you for fourteen months. You let me hold you. You let me lead. And you let me show you what you look like when someone else is running the session.”

His breathing changed. Faster. Shallower. The chest-breathing pattern he’d spent months coaching out of me, appearing in him for the first time.

“You want to tie me up,” he said. Flat. Processing.

“I want to tie you up, blindfold you, and take you apart so slowly you forget your own name. And then I want to be inside you while I put you back together.” I stepped closer. Put my hand on his chest — the anchor point, our anchor point, the gesture that meant I’m here, this is real, nothing bad is going to happen. “Is that something you want?”

He was quiet for four heartbeats. I counted them under my palm.

“Yes,” he said. “That’s something I want.”

“What’s your word?”

“Taper.”

I smiled. “Lie down.”

TRAVIS

I lay down.

On my back. On the bed that was ours — the lake house bed, king-size, the sheets I’d picked and the comforter he’d picked and the compromise that was the foundation of everything we’d built. I lay there and looked up at my husband — my husband, the word still detonating in my chest every time I thought it — and watched him pick up the rope with hands that were steady and sure and completely, terrifyingly competent.

He’d learned this. Somewhere, in the weeks or months leading up to tonight, he’d learned how to handle rope. The realization hit me as I watched him create a loop — a bowline, clean, the kind of knot that tightened under load without cutting circulation. He’d studied. Practiced. Prepared with the same obsessive diligence that he brought to training, the same meticulous attention to detail that I’d spent fourteen months cultivating in him and that was now, on our wedding night, being deployed in a context I hadn’t anticipated.

“Arms above your head,” he said. “Hold the headboard.”

My hands found the slats. He looped the rope through them — two turns, secured with the bowline, leaving enough slack that I could shift without straining but not enough to free myself without deliberate effort. The rope was soft against my wrists. Warm. The pressure was even, distributed, the mark of someone who’d done their homework.

“Too tight?” he asked.

“No.”

“Can you feel your fingers?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He picked up the blindfold. Held it between us. “This is the hard part. For you.”

He was right. The rope was manageable — physical restraint, I could rationalize, could frame as a sensation exercise, could coach myself through. But the blindfold was different. The blindfold meant I couldn’t watch. Couldn’t assess. Couldn’t read his face or his body or the room. Couldn’t do the thing I’d built my entire identity around — seeing. Observing. Cataloguing. Maintaining awareness so that nothing caught me off guard.

The blindfold meant trusting someone else to see for me.

“If it’s too much —” he started.

“Put it on.”

He placed the silk over my eyes. The world went dark. Warm, soft dark — the silk was smooth against my face, the elastic gentle, and the absence of visual input was immediately, profoundly disorienting. My other senses surged — the creak of the bed as Riley’s weight shifted, the sound of his breathing (slightly faster than normal, which meant he was as affected by this as I was), the smell of the massage oil being opened, warm and eucalyptus-sweet, the same oil from the gym.

“I can’t see you,” I said. Obvious. But the words mattered — the admission, the vulnerability of stating the deficit out loud.

“You don’t need to see me.” His voice was close. Above me. The coaching voice — my coaching voice, learned and internalized and now being used on me with the same steady authority I’d used on him since day one. “You need to feel me. That’s the whole session.”

His hands, slick with oil, touched my chest. The warmth spread — the heating formula activating, the sensation amplified tenfold by the blindfold. Every nerve ending in my skin was firing, recalibrated by the absence of sight into a sensitivity that turned his palms into events. He spread the oil across my pecs, my shoulders, my arms — the arms that were stretched above my head, secured to the headboard, vulnerable in a way I’d never allowed them to be.

“Fourteen months ago,” Riley said, his hands moving down my ribs, my stomach, the oil warming everything it touched, “you put your hands on my hips in a garage gym and changed the axis of my world. You corrected my posture. You told me I had potential. And then you spent fourteen months showing me what that potential looked like — on the track, in the gym, in bed, in life.”

His hands reached my waistband. Paused. The absence of movement was its own kind of torment — my body arching toward the contact, straining against the rope, the anticipation worse than any edge he’d ever put me through because I couldn’t see what was coming.

“Tonight I show you yours.”

He pulled my track pants down. Slow, deliberate, his knuckles grazing my hips, my thighs. The cold air hit me and then his warm, oil-slick hand wrapped around me and I groaned — loud, uncontrolled, the sound of a man who couldn’t modulate because he couldn’t see and couldn’t brace and couldn’t do any of the things he normally did to maintain composure.

“There he is,” Riley murmured. “There’s the sound. The one you hide. The one you keep behind the coaching voice and the steady eyes and the sixty-beats-per-minute control. That sound is mine, Travis. I earned it. And tonight I’m going to hear it until you can’t make any other.”

RILEY

I took my time.

Not because I was teasing — although there was that — but because this was the first time I’d seen Travis fully surrendered. Hands bound, eyes covered, his body laid out on our bed like an offering, every muscle twitching at every touch because he couldn’t anticipate, couldn’t prepare, couldn’t do any of the things that made Travis Travis — the vigilance, the assessment, the constant readiness. All of it stripped away by silk and rope and the specific, devastating trust of a man who’d spent forty years in control and was choosing, tonight, to hand the clipboard to someone else.

I worshipped him. There’s no other word for what I did on that bed for the next thirty minutes. I put my mouth on every part of him — his neck, the tendon I’d discovered made him shudder. His collarbone, where the bone jutted and the skin was thin. His chest — I spent time there, my tongue tracing the definition that came from twenty years of discipline, the body he maintained not out of vanity but out of the same structural commitment he brought to everything. His nipples, which he’d once told me “didn’t do anything” and which I’d since proven, through extensive empirical research, did quite a lot.

His stomach. The scar on his knee — I kissed it, long and soft, and felt his whole body go still above me. The scar that had ended one life and started another. The scar that had made him a coach, which had made him mine.

“You’re beautiful,” I said against his skin. Every surface, every mark, every line. “You’re beautiful and I’m going to tell you that every day for the rest of your life until you believe it the way I believe it when you say it to me.”

His wrists strained against the rope. Not trying to escape — reaching. The reflexive, involuntary reach of a man who wanted to touch and couldn’t, who wanted to hold and was being held instead.

“Riley.” My name in his mouth, rough and open. “Please.”

I slicked my fingers. Positioned myself between his legs, which he opened without being asked — the trust implicit, the body yielding in a way that I knew, from fourteen months on the other side of this dynamic, was the hardest and most beautiful thing a person could do.

I worked him open the way he’d worked me open the first time — on the dock, under the stars. Patient. Gradual. Reading his body the way he read mine, tracking the tension and the release, the sounds that meant more and the sounds that meant wait. One finger. Then two. The warming oil making everything slick and heated, his body responding with a slow, escalating openness that made my chest ache with the privilege of it.

“Talk to me,” he said. Blindfolded, bound, his voice stripped of every defense. “I need — I need your voice.”

Of course he did. The same way I needed his. The voice was the bridge — the thing that connected the physical to the emotional, the thing that turned sex into intimacy, the thing that had been the foundation of everything we were since the first time he’d said good boy on a track at dawn.

“You coached me into being brave,” I said. My fingers curving, finding the angle, and his body arched off the bed with a cry that the rope caught and held. “Every morning at five forty-five. Every interval. Every wall. You stood on the other side and said push through and I pushed through and the thing on the other side was always, always better than the thing I was afraid of.”

I withdrew my fingers. He whimpered — the sound that existed on the other side of his composure, the one he’d hidden for forty years, the one that was mine.

“Now let me show you what brave looks like.”

I rolled the condom on. Positioned myself. His legs wrapped around me — the loose, open hold from our first bedroom night, the hold that meant I trust you completely.

I pressed in.

Slow. Slower than the dock, slower than any time before, because this was new for both of us in a way that transcended the physical. This was our wedding night. This was the first time with the ring on his finger and the word husband in the air and the legal, permanent, irreversible promise that he was mine and I was his and neither of us was going anywhere.

He took me. Inch by inch, his body yielding, his breath coming in short bursts through parted lips, his wrists pulling at the rope not to escape but to anchor — needing something to hold because the sensation was too much and too good and too new for a body that had spent forty years on the other side of this equation.

When I was fully inside him, I stopped. Held. Let the connection settle the way he’d taught me — the pause at the bottom of the rep, the moment where the muscle was under maximum tension and the hold was the hardest part.

“Breathe,” I said. His cue. My voice.

He breathed. Diaphragmatic. Belly expansion. The technique he’d drilled into me for fourteen months, deployed now in the context that needed it most.

“Good,” I said. “Good. You’re doing so well. You feel incredible. You feel like — God, Travis, you feel like coming home.”

I moved.

The pace was everything we were. Slow, steady, the marathon pace — the sustainable effort that could be held indefinitely, the rhythm that wasn’t about the finish but about the miles. Each stroke full-length, deep, the angle adjusted until I found the spot that made him cry out behind the blindfold and strain against the ropes and say my name like a man who’d lost every word except that one.

“You are the steadiest person I’ve ever known,” I said, moving inside him, the words coming from the same place the running came from — deep, unforced, the truth that existed below thought. “And steady is not small. Steady is the bravest thing. Steady is showing up every morning when nobody asked you to. Steady is holding the door open for twenty years and then — when someone finally asked you to close it — slamming it shut so hard the whole town heard.”

He was crying. I could see the tears escaping below the blindfold, tracking down his temples into his hair, and his body was moving with mine in the rhythm we’d built over fourteen months of running side by side — matched, synchronized, the two-person cadence that was ours and only ours.

“I love you,” I said. “I love the clipboard and the whistle and the five-forty-five alarm and the terrible coffee you drank for two years because replacing the maker felt like giving up. I love that you circled my name on the whiteboard in week one and never erased it. I love that you carried me across a parking lot when my shin broke and you jumped into a frozen lake because I asked you to and you yelled in a parking lot because I made you and you bought a massage table and pretended it was for rehab.”

I was close. He was close — I could feel it in the way his body was tightening around me, the rhythmic clench that built and built, his cock hard and leaking between us, untouched.

“And I love,” I said, bending close, my mouth at his ear, “that you let me tie you to a bed on your wedding night and see the version of you that nobody else has ever seen. The version that shakes. The version that cries. The version that says please in a voice that could bring the whole lake house down.”

“Riley —” Broken. Barely there. “I’m — I can’t hold —”

“Then don’t hold. Don’t hold anything. Not tonight. Tonight you let go of every wall and every weight and every piece of composure you’ve carried for forty years, and you let me catch you.” I thrust deep. Held. Put my mouth against the blindfold, against his closed eyes, against the tears. “Good boy. My good boy. My husband. Let go.“

He came untouched.

The fourth time. The pattern that had become proof of something beyond physiology — proof that his body trusted my voice the way a runner trusted their coach, completely, cellularly, in the place below conscious thought where the body knew things the mind hadn’t caught up to. He came between us, pulsing against my stomach, his cry muffled by the blindfold and the tears and the rope straining at his wrists, and I felt every pulse from the inside and followed him over — one thrust, two, and the orgasm took me with a force that was physical and emotional and spiritual and every word I didn’t have for the thing that happened when two people gave each other everything and found that everything was enough.

TRAVIS

He untied me first. The knots releasing easily — the bowline, designed to free under load, a choice that told me everything about how carefully he’d planned this. Then the blindfold, lifted gently, and the light returned — soft, warm, the lamp casting the room in amber, and Riley’s face above mine.

He was crying too. Of course he was. He was a man who cried at finish lines and on tailgates and during sex and at the slightest provocation from the people he loved, and I’d spent fourteen months trying to be annoyed by it and failing completely because his tears were the most honest thing I’d ever seen.

“Hi,” he said. Wet. Smiling.

“Hi.” My voice was wrecked. Not the gravel — something beyond the gravel, something that existed on the other side of composure where the voice was just air and vibration and the raw material of a man who’d been unmade and was waiting to be rebuilt.

He pulled me against his chest. My head on his shoulder. His arms around me — strong, sure, the arms I’d built with pull-up progressions and push-up circuits, holding me now with the same steady authority I’d used to hold him through every breakdown and every breakthrough and every mile of the life we’d run together.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

I thought about it. The way he’d want me to — honestly, without the reflexive I’m fine that had been my default for four decades.

“Open,” I said. “Terrified. Held.”

“All three at once?”

“All three at once.”

“That’s exactly right.” He pressed his lips to my hair. “That’s exactly how it’s supposed to feel.”

We lay there. In the lake house, in the bed that was ours, in the life that was ours, on the first night of the marriage that was ours. The lake was dark and still outside the window. The string lights glowed on the porch. Somewhere in Cedar Lake, Deb was washing meatloaf pans and Marco was telling David the story of the ceremony for the third time and Pete was in his cabin in Vermont with a beer and the quiet satisfaction of a man whose life’s work had just walked down a trail in a charcoal suit and said I do to a twenty-seven-year-old with a dented water bottle and the brightest eyes he’d ever seen.

And Tempo was asleep at the foot of the bed. Snoring. Because some things were constant.

“Riley.”

“Mm.”

“Good coach.”

He laughed. Into my hair. The sound I’d been collecting since day one, the sound that meant I’d reached the part of him that nobody else got to see. “Good boy.”

“Good husband.“

“Good husband,” he agreed. “Now go to sleep. We have a long run at six.”

“It’s our wedding night.”

“And tomorrow is a long-run Sunday. The marriage doesn’t change the training plan.”

“The rigid adherence to meal rotation extends to the training schedule on our honeymoon?“

“Consistency is the foundation of all —”

“If you finish that sentence on our wedding night, I’m filing for annulment.”

“Five forty-five. Don’t be late.”

“I have literally never been late.”

“I know.” He pulled me tighter. His voice going soft, going private, going to the place where the words lived that only existed between us. “You’ve always shown up. From the very first day. That’s the thing about you, Riley. You always show up.”

“That’s because you’re worth showing up for.”

Silence. The good kind. The kind that didn’t need filling because it was already full.

“Goodnight, husband.”

The lamp went off. The lake house went dark. The dog snored. The lake held the stars.

And two men slept — tangled, held, home — in the first night of the rest of their lives.

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With love,
Jace Wilder