🔥 The Summer Game 🔥

An Exclusive Bonus Chapter from Good Boy

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You made it to the bonus content — which means you’ve survived the blown play call, the midnight rink, the film room wall, the marinara on the backsplash, the terrible apartment bed, a one-armed Cup lift, and a man who said stay with me on the ice while the confetti fell. You’ve watched Sasha learn to hold his lane and Dom learn to be held. Thank you for giving Sasha and Dom 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 oral sex, penetrative anal sex, rimming, praise kink at maximum intensity, barn/hayloft setting, outdoor elements, possessive dirty talk, D/s dynamic, body worship, edging, multiple orgasms, and emotional intensity. Set three weeks after the epilogue — Sasha and Dom’s first full summer at the Alberta ranch. Intended for readers 18+ only. This content was deemed too explicit for retail platforms.

The Summer Game

Set in mid-July. Three weeks after the epilogue.
Alternating POV.

SASHA

The horse was judging me.

I was certain of this. The horse — a fifteen-hand quarter horse mare named Dolly who had, according to Dom, “the best temperament on the property” — was standing in the paddock with her head turned forty-five degrees and one eye fixed on me with an expression of calm, comprehensive disapproval. The expression said: I have been ridden by competent humans for twelve years and you are not one of them.

“She doesn’t like me,” I said.

“She doesn’t know you yet. Put your hand out. Palm flat.”

Dom was leaning against the paddock fence in a faded work shirt with the sleeves rolled past his forearms and a straw hat that I’d been making fun of for three weeks and that I was beginning to admit, in the privacy of my own mind, was devastatingly attractive. The ranch had changed him — or rather, the ranch had revealed the version of him that Boston had been covering. He was tanned. Looser in the shoulders. The lines around his eyes were deeper from squinting into Alberta sunshine instead of arena lights, and the silver at his temples had gone whiter in the sun, and the overall effect was of a man who’d been returned to his natural habitat and was, for the first time in Sasha’s experience, relaxed.

Relaxed Dom was lethal. Relaxed Dom wore faded denim and no shoes in the house and smiled — actually smiled, the full expression, multiple times per day — and cooked breakfast shirtless and said things like “the fence in the north pasture needs mending” in the same low, authoritative register that he used to say “get on your knees” and my body couldn’t tell the difference.

I put my hand out. Palm flat. Dolly investigated it with the warm, velvety inspection of a twelve-hundred-pound animal who was reserving judgment.

“She’s deciding,” Dom said.

“Deciding what?”

“Whether you’re worth the effort.”

“That’s rude.”

“That’s horses. They’re honest.”

Dolly lipped my palm once. Snorted. Then pressed her forehead into my chest with the casual, proprietary weight of an animal that had completed its assessment and decided to keep me.

“She likes you,” Dom said. The almost-smile — which was no longer an almost-smile, which was a real smile, occurring with a frequency that would have alarmed anyone who’d known him in Boston. “She never does that.”

“I’m very likable.”

“You’re very loud. Horses usually don’t like loud.”

“Maybe she appreciates the energy.”

“Maybe she recognizes a fellow creature who doesn’t know when to stand still.”

I scratched behind Dolly’s ears and looked at Dom across the paddock fence and felt the July sunshine on my shoulders and the horse’s warm breath against my chest and thought: this is my life now. A ranch in Alberta with a retired hockey captain who wears a straw hat and teaches me things in a voice that makes my blood go south. This is actually my life.

“Teach me to ride,” I said.

Dom pushed off the fence. Walked to the tack room — the small building adjacent to the barn where the saddles and bridles hung on pegs and the air smelled like leather and oil and the specific, warm musk of horse equipment. He emerged carrying a saddle over his left arm — the right arm was functional now, eighty-five percent and climbing, but the left was still the load-bearing arm, the one that did the heavy work — and a bridle over his shoulder.

“We’ll start with basics,” he said. “Saddling, mounting, walking. Nothing fancy.”

“I don’t do nothing fancy. I’m constitutionally incapable of nothing fancy.”

“Which is exactly why we’re starting with basics.”

He saddled Dolly with the quick, practiced efficiency of a man who’d been doing this since childhood. Every motion was precise — the blanket smoothed flat, the saddle placed without jarring the horse’s back, the girth tightened in stages. He talked while he worked, the voice low and instructional, the same cadence he’d used in the film room and the practice facility and the bedroom.

“The girth goes here — two fingers’ width behind the elbow. Tight enough to hold the saddle, loose enough that she can breathe. You’ll check it twice before you mount and once more after ten minutes of riding, because the horse exhales when you first tighten it and the girth loosens.”

“You’re coaching me.”

“I’m teaching you.”

“Those are the same thing.”

“Not on a ranch they’re not.” He turned to me. Held the bridle out. “Your turn. Bridle her.”

I took the bridle. Looked at the horse. Looked at the tangle of leather and metal in my hands. Looked back at Dom.

“I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“I know.” He moved behind me. Close — his chest against my back, his arms coming around me to guide my hands on the bridle. The position was identical to the rink at midnight: his body behind mine, his hands on mine, his voice at my ear. “Left hand holds the headstall. Right hand guides the bit. Approach from the left side — always the left.”

His hands positioned mine on the leather. The grip was firm and instructional and his mouth was four inches from my ear and the Alberta sun was warm on my face and his body against my back was warmer and my cock was getting interested in the riding lesson in a way that Dolly would probably find inappropriate.

“Thumb in the corner of her mouth,” Dom said. “Gentle pressure. She’ll open.”

“Dom.”

“What.”

“You cannot say gentle pressure, she’ll open while standing behind me like that and expect me to focus on the horse.”

His chest vibrated against my back. The laugh — the silent one, the vibration, the one I felt rather than heard. “Focus on the horse.”

“I’m focusing on your voice and your hands and the fact that you’re doing the rink thing again.”

“What rink thing?”

“The thing where you teach me something by standing behind me and putting your hands on mine and speaking in the voice that turns my brain off.”

“I’m teaching you to bridle a horse.”

“You’re seducing me in a paddock. There’s a difference.”

Dom’s hands stilled on mine. His mouth — which had been at my ear, clinical, instructional — moved to the side of my neck. Not a kiss. A press. His lips against the tendon, warm and deliberate, and I felt the bridle slip in my fingers because all of my blood had left my hands for other destinations.

“Bridle the horse,” he murmured against my neck. “And then we’ll discuss what happens in the barn.”

I bridled the horse in approximately four seconds. It was the fastest equestrian maneuver in the history of Alberta ranching.

DOM

The riding lesson lasted thirty minutes.

Sasha was a natural. This should not have surprised me — the kid was a professional athlete with elite body control and spatial awareness and the kind of instinctive physical intelligence that transferred across disciplines. Within ten minutes he had the seat. Within twenty he had the walk. Within thirty he was posting the trot with a fluidity that my father, who’d taught me to ride, would have acknowledged with a single, approving nod.

I watched from the fence. The straw hat shading my eyes, my arms folded on the top rail, my body doing the thing it always did when Sasha performed well: cataloging the performance with professional attention and personal desire simultaneously, the two responses so intertwined that separating them was no longer possible or necessary.

He was beautiful on the horse. The lean body moving with Dolly’s rhythm, his hips loose, his hands light on the reins. He was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt that was damp with sweat and clinging to the architecture of his chest and back in a way that was not technically provocative and was, in actual fact, the most provocative thing I’d seen in weeks.

“How am I doing?” he called from across the paddock.

“Your heels are up. Push them down. Weight in the stirrups.”

He adjusted. Immediately, correctly, the body responding to the instruction the way his body had always responded to my instructions — instantly, completely, with the specific neural efficiency of a person whose operating system was hardwired to receive and execute.

“Better,” I said.

Even from forty feet away, I could see the effect. The word landing, the shoulders softening, the small, involuntary parting of his lips. Six months together and the mechanism was unchanged — better hit him the same way it had hit him on the first day of practice, the same circuit completing, the same current running through the same wire. The only difference was that now the current didn’t end at his chest. It traveled lower. I could see that too — the shift in his seat, the adjustment of his hips in the saddle, the subtle, telling change in his posture that meant the word had arrived at its secondary destination.

“Bring her in,” I said. “Lesson’s over.”

“Already?”

“Bring. Her. In.”

He heard the tone. The register shift — from instructor to something else, the low frequency that his body recognized before his brain did. He brought Dolly to the fence. Dismounted with the clumsy, endearing lack of grace of a man who’d been sitting on a horse for thirty minutes and whose legs hadn’t fully recovered their land-based function. I took the reins. Unsaddled. Turned Dolly into the pasture.

“Barn,” I said.

Sasha looked at me. The dark eyes, bright in the July sun, holding the expression I’d been watching develop since the paddock — the gradual, building heat, the awareness that the lesson had been foreplay and the foreplay was over and whatever came next was not going to involve horses.

“Yes, sir,” Sasha said.

He’d never called me sir. Not once, in six months. The word was new. The word was ranch — borrowed from the setting, from the context, from the vocabulary of a place where sir meant something different than it meant in a locker room. Here, on this land, sir was the word you used for the man who owned the property and ran the operation and knew the work and taught you how to do it. Sir was respect. Sir was authority. Sir was the sound of a twenty-one-year-old who’d found a new word for the old feeling and had deployed it with the precision of a man who knew exactly what it would do.

What it did was short-circuit my entire nervous system.

I walked to the barn. Sasha followed. The barn was cool and dim after the July sun — the thick walls holding the morning’s chill, the air smelling of hay and leather and the sweet, warm scent of horses. The stalls were empty — Dolly and the two geldings out in the pasture, the barn to ourselves. The hayloft above was full — summer hay, freshly cut, baled and stacked by Dom and the neighbor’s kid the week before. The golden bales visible through the loft’s open edge, catching the light that came through the high windows.

“Up,” I said, pointing to the ladder.

Sasha looked at the ladder. Looked at the hayloft. Looked at me.

“You’re serious.”

“Climb.”

He climbed. I followed. The hayloft was exactly what I’d remembered from a hundred summers in this barn — warm, private, the hay bales creating a natural enclosed space that smelled like summer and tasted like dust and felt like the most hidden room in the world. Light came through the gaps in the wall boards in narrow, golden stripes that fell across the hay like bars of sunlight on water.

Sasha stood in the middle of the loft. His white T-shirt was translucent with sweat, the lean body visible through it — the muscle, the line of his spine, the dark hair at the nape of his neck. He was breathing hard from the climb. His eyes were dark and wide and the expression on his face was the one I thought of as the Ready position — weight even, shoulders back, chin lifted. The posture of a man who’d been told to stand and was standing and was offering the standing as a gift.

“Take off your shirt,” I said.

He pulled it over his head. Dropped it on the hay. His torso was tanned — three weeks of Alberta summer had darkened his skin from the Boston winter-pale to a warm bronze that made the definition of his muscles sharper, the lines of his body more pronounced. He looked like someone who’d been working outdoors. He looked like someone who belonged here.

“Come here,” I said.

He came. I put my hand on the back of his neck — the grip, the anchor, the five-point contact that had started everything in a hotel room in Detroit and that had become, over six months, the physical signature of our relationship. The touch that said I see you, I have you, you’re mine.

Sasha’s eyes closed. His body went pliant. The specific, instantaneous softening that my hand on his neck always produced — the nervous system recognizing the signal and responding with total surrender. Six months and the response was unchanged. Six months and the mechanism was as precise as the first time. Some things didn’t habituate. Some circuits stayed live.

“You were good on the horse,” I said. “A natural. Your seat was correct within five minutes and your hands were soft and your body listened to the animal the same way it listens to me — immediately, completely, without resistance.”

A tremor through his body. The praise landing.

“And when you called me sir—” I tightened the grip. His chin tipped up, throat exposed. “—I decided this lesson was moving to the advanced curriculum.”

“What’s the advanced curriculum?”

“Get on your knees and I’ll show you.”

Sasha sank. The hay was soft under his knees — golden, fragrant, the summer bales providing a cushion that the kitchen tile in Brookline never had. He knelt between my legs and looked up at me with the expression that had been the catalyst for everything: the tell me I did it right face. The face that was also the I trust you face and the I’m yours face and the whatever you want, the answer is yes face.

I unbuckled my belt. One-handed — the left, the practiced hand, the logistics automated by months of one-armed living. I freed myself from the jeans and the boxers and Sasha’s mouth was there before I could give the instruction, his lips parting, his tongue finding the head with the immediate, desperate enthusiasm of a man who’d been waiting for this since the paddock and was done waiting.

“Slow,” I said. My hand in his hair. Not guiding — anchoring. “We have all day.”

Sasha slowed. He took me into his mouth with the measured, thorough attention that I’d been teaching him since the first time — the technique refined over months of practice, the amateur urgency of the early days replaced by something more devastating: skill. He knew my body now. Knew the spots, the pressures, the specific combination of tongue and suction that made my vision blur. He deployed them with the same tactical intelligence he brought to the ice — reading the play, making the adjustment, finding the angle.

The barn was quiet around us. The distant sound of cattle. The creak of old wood in the wind. The wet, rhythmic sound of Sasha’s mouth on me, obscene and beautiful in the golden light that fell through the wall boards in stripes across his bare back.

“Look at you,” I said. My voice was low — the register that I knew traveled through his body like a current, the frequency his nervous system was tuned to. “On your knees in my barn. In the place where I grew up. This mouth — this mouth that talks too much and too loud and fills every room it enters — this mouth is perfect when it’s on me. Do you know that? Do you know what you look like right now?”

Sasha moaned around me. The vibration was electric.

“You look like you belong here. Not in Boston. Not on the ice. Here. On this ranch, in this barn, on your knees in the hay with my cock in your mouth and the sun coming through the boards. You look like something I dreamed about for thirty years without knowing I was dreaming it.”

He took me deeper. His throat relaxed — the skill he’d developed, the ability to accommodate me fully that he was so quietly, fiercely proud of — and the sensation of hitting the back of his throat, the tight, wet, consuming heat of it, made my hand tighten in his hair involuntarily.

“Enough,” I said. Pulled him off. He resisted — his mouth chasing me, the reluctance of a man being separated from something he wanted — and I gripped his jaw and tipped his face up.

His lips were swollen. Red. Wet. His eyes were nearly black, the pupils so wide the brown was gone. His chest was heaving. He looked absolutely, comprehensively wrecked, and I hadn’t touched him below the neck.

“Jeans off,” I said. “Lie back on the hay.”

SASHA

The hay was softer than I expected.

Not soft like a mattress — soft like something alive, something that had been growing in a field a week ago and still held the warmth of the Alberta sun in its fibers. I lay back on the loose hay between the stacked bales and felt the stalks prick my bare skin — my back, my shoulders, the backs of my thighs — and the tiny, scattered points of sensation made my whole body hypersensitive, every nerve ending awake and attentive.

Dom stood above me. Still fully dressed — jeans, the work shirt with the rolled sleeves, the boots. The asymmetry was deliberate. I knew it was deliberate because I knew him — knew that the contrast of his clothed body against my naked one was a power move, a visual statement that said I’m in charge here that my body recognized and responded to with a full-system activation that left me hard and aching and desperate for whatever came next.

He looked at me. Took his time. Let his eyes move from my face down my body — my chest, my stomach, my cock lying thick and flushed against my belly, my legs, my feet — with the slow, appreciative thoroughness of a man surveying territory he owned.

“Spread your legs,” he said.

I spread them. The hay scratched my inner thighs. The exposure — naked, legs open, in a barn, in daylight, in the golden stripes of light that fell across my body like hands — was more intense than any hotel room or locker room or kitchen counter. This was different. This was outside. Outside the house, outside the urban insulation that had contained our relationship for months. Here the walls were barn boards and the ceiling was rafters and the light was actual sunlight and there was nothing between us and the open Alberta sky except a roof that let the wind through.

Dom knelt between my legs. The hay compressed under his weight. He pulled a small bottle from his back pocket — because Dominic Calder was a man who planned ahead, a man who’d watched me bridle that horse and known exactly where the day was going — and set it beside my hip.

Then he did something he’d never done before.

He bent down, gripped my thighs, lifted my hips — the right arm functional enough now for this, the strength returning — and put his mouth on me. Not on my cock. Lower. His tongue found the place where nobody’s mouth had ever been, the place I’d read about and fantasized about and never asked for because asking for it felt like a vulnerability beyond the vulnerabilities I’d already offered.

The sound I made was not human.

It bounced off the rafters and came back changed — lower, wilder, the acoustic of the barn turning my cry into something that sounded like it belonged in this space, in this ancient, animal place where the sounds of bodies had echoed for a hundred years. Dom’s tongue was hot and wet and thorough, and the sensation was — I had no reference for the sensation. It was beyond anything. It was the discovery of a new continent in a body I thought I’d already fully explored.

“Oh my — fuck — Dom — what are you—”

He didn’t answer because his mouth was occupied. His tongue worked in slow, deliberate circles, and each circle sent a pulse of pleasure so acute it was almost painful through my core, and my hands were in the hay and my back was arching off the bales and my legs were shaking in his grip and I was making sounds that I would have been embarrassed by if I’d been capable of embarrassment, but I was not capable of anything except feeling what his mouth was doing.

“You taste like summer,” he said, pulling back for one breath, one devastating sentence. “Like the hay and the sun and everything I want.” Then his mouth returned and my vision went white.

He worked me open with his tongue first — the patience, always the patience, the slow and thorough preparation that was his signature, his love language, the way he said I care about your body and I will not rush it. By the time his fingers joined his mouth — one, slicked, pressing in while his tongue continued its devastating circuit — I was so open and so desperate that the finger met no resistance. I took it like breathing.

“Good,” he murmured against my skin. “So responsive. You’re trembling, Sasha. Can you feel it? Your whole body is shaking for me.”

“Please — I need—”

“I know what you need.” Two fingers now. The stretch — familiar, welcome, the body remembering its favorite shape. “You need me inside you. You need my voice in your ear. You need me to tell you what you are while I’m buried in you. And I’m going to give you all of it. But first—” He pressed his fingers deeper. Found the spot. My body arched like a drawn bow. “—first, I want to hear you say it.”

“Say what?”

“What you called me in the paddock.”

My brain — operating at approximately five percent capacity — searched for the reference. The paddock. The horse. The bridle. The moment his mouth had found my neck and my body had responded with a word I’d never used before, a word that had come from somewhere deep and instinctive and true.

“Sir,” I breathed.

Dom’s fingers stilled inside me. His whole body went rigid — the word hitting him with the same force it had hit him in the paddock, the circuit completing, the current running. I saw his cock strain against his jeans, the fabric tented, the evidence of what the word did to him visible and unequivocal.

“Again,” he said.

“Please, sir.”

He withdrew his fingers. Unbuttoned his jeans with a speed that I’d never seen from a man whose defining characteristic was patience. The condom was in the lube bottle’s pocket — because of course it was, because Dominic Calder packed for contingencies the way generals packed for campaigns. He rolled it on, slicked himself, positioned himself between my legs.

“Look at me,” he said.

I looked. The gray eyes, lit by the golden barn light. The strong jaw. The silver temples. The face of the man who’d rebuilt me from the inside out and whom I’d rebuilt in return, the mutual architecture of two people who’d found in each other the thing they’d been missing.

He pushed in.

The stretch was different here — everything was different here, the setting changing the sensation the way a concert hall changed the music. The hay under my back, pricking my skin. The barn air on my chest, warm and sweet. The light falling across our bodies in golden stripes. And Dom above me, inside me, his weight settling over me with the familiar, beloved pressure of a body I knew better than my own.

“God,” he breathed. “Every time. Every time feels like—”

“I know. I feel it too.”

He began to move.

Not the careful, measured pace of the bedroom. Not the frantic urgency of the locker room. Something between. Something that matched the setting — the long, rolling rhythm of a man who was on his own land, in his own barn, with no schedule and no audience and no reason to be anything other than exactly what he was. The strokes were deep and unhurried, each one a full-length statement, each one hitting the place inside me that turned the world to light.

“You are the most extraordinary thing that has ever happened on this ranch,” Dom said, his voice carrying through the barn, echoing off the rafters, the acoustics turning his words into something that sounded like a declaration made to the land itself. “This ranch has seen a hundred years of work and weather and life and death, and none of it — none of it — compares to the sound you make when I’m inside you.”

The pace increased. His hips driving harder, deeper, the controlled intensity building toward something that I could feel gathering in us both — the shared frequency, the synchronized pulse that characterized our best moments, the two-body system operating as one.

He reached between us. Wrapped his hand around my cock — both hands working, both arms functional, the right one weaker but present, and the significance of that — both hands on me, the repaired body performing its most important function — made my eyes burn.

“I want you to come for me,” Dom said. His voice was raw. Unmanaged. The version underneath — the one that cracked and shook and was imperfect and was his. “In this barn. On this ranch. In the place where I grew up and the place where we’re going to grow old. I want you to come saying my name so the rafters hear it and the hay remembers it and this barn knows, from this day forward, that it belongs to us.”

“Dom — sir — I’m—”

“Good boy.” The words left his mouth and entered my bloodstream and detonated. “Come. Now. Good boy.”

I came with his name in my mouth and the hay against my back and the light falling across our bodies in golden stripes and the sound of my voice bouncing off the rafters of a barn in Alberta that had been standing for a hundred years and that was now, by the authority of two bodies and two voices and a love that had started with a blown play call in a locker room in Boston, ours.

Dom followed. The groan buried in my neck, his hips driving deep, his body shuddering above mine with the release that I felt inside me — the pulse, the heat, the involuntary tightening of his arms around me that said I have you, I love you, I’m never letting go.

We lay in the hay. Tangled, sweaty, wrecked. The barn was quiet around us — the creak of the wood, the distant cattle, the wind through the gaps in the boards. The summer light fell across our bodies in long, golden bars, and the hay smelled like fields and sunshine and the specific, irreplaceable scent of a place that was home.

“Dom,” I said, after a while.

“Yeah.”

“I have hay in places that hay should not be.”

“That’s the barn experience.”

“The barn experience involves agricultural materials in my—”

“Yes.”

“Is this why ranch people are so tough? Because they have hay in their—”

“Sasha.”

“I’m just saying. This is information I needed before the hayloft decision was made.”

“Would it have changed the decision?”

“Absolutely not. But I would have worn more strategic underwear.”

Dom laughed. The full laugh — not the silent vibration, not the almost-sound, but the actual, out-loud, chest-shaking laugh of a man who was lying in a hayloft with straw in his hair and his jeans around his thighs and the person he loved complaining about agricultural discomfort. The laugh echoed off the rafters and mixed with the barn sounds and the wind sounds and the distant, peaceful sounds of the ranch, and it was the best thing I’d ever heard. Better than the crowd at the Garden. Better than the horn after a goal. Better than any sound in any arena in any city.

Because this sound was just for me. This sound happened in a barn in Alberta on a Tuesday afternoon in July, and nobody else would ever hear it, and the privacy of it — the smallness and the specific and the ours of it — was worth more than any public moment could ever be.

“I love you,” I said. Because it was true and because I could and because I’d learned, from a man who’d spent thirty-two years not saying the true thing, that saying it was always better than not saying it.

“I love you,” he said. “Good boy.”

“Good boy yourself.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“It works however we want it to work. That’s the deal.”

He pulled me closer. Both arms — both arms, fully functional now, the right one stronger every day. He held me in the hay in the barn on the ranch where he’d grown up, and the sun moved through the gaps in the boards, and Packer barked once from the yard, and somewhere on the highway a truck changed gears, and the world was enormous and quiet and ours.

“Stay with me,” Dom said.

“Always,” I said. “That was always the answer.”

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Jace Wilder