His Best Friend’s Dad — Bonus Chapter

This bonus chapter takes place two weeks after the epilogue. Noah and Daniel’s first night with the door open.

Jace Wilder | MM Romance | 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ Inferno Heat

Open Door

Daniel

The door was open.

Not cracked, not ajar, not the careful two-inch gap we’d been negotiating for weeks while Ethan adjusted to the new architecture of his family. Open. All the way. The hallway visible from the bed, the upstairs bathroom light casting a pale stripe across the floor, the ordinary domestic geography of a house that had, for the first time since June, stopped holding its breath.

Ethan had left that morning. Two weeks since the conversation at the kitchen table, two weeks of the careful, incremental process of rebuilding trust—awkward dinners, stilted conversations, the occasional flash of his old easy grin that appeared and disappeared like sun through clouds. He’d been trying. We’d all been trying. And this morning, he’d stood in the kitchen with his keys in his hand and said, “I’m going to Lily’s for the weekend. Don’t wait up.” Then he’d looked at Noah, who was at the counter with his coffee, and something had shifted in his expression—not warm, not yet, but no longer hostile. Resigned, maybe. Approaching acceptance.

“Take care of my dad,” Ethan had said. The same words he’d used in June, when Noah had first arrived, when everything had been innocent and uncomplicated. The repetition was deliberate. I’d heard it. Noah had heard it.

A peace offering. Small. Significant.

Noah had smiled—careful, grateful—and said, “Always.”

Now it was nine PM and the house was ours—not stolen, not secret, not borrowed against the risk of discovery. Ours. With the door open, because there was nobody to hide from.

Noah was in the bathroom brushing his teeth. I could hear the water running, the familiar rhythm of his evening routine that I’d memorized the way I memorized building specifications—automatically, thoroughly, because the data mattered. Two minutes of brushing. Thirty seconds of flossing. Face wash, then moisturizer, because Noah was twenty-two and already more disciplined about skincare than I’d been at any age.

He appeared in the doorway. My doorway. Our doorway—because the guest room across the hall had been quietly, officially, converted into an office two days ago. His clothes were in my closet now. His books on my nightstand. His toothbrush next to mine in the holder, and the sight of those two toothbrushes side by side had done something to my chest that I was still processing.

He was wearing boxers and nothing else. Lean, tan from a summer spent in my backyard. The mark on his hip—the one I’d been refreshing biweekly since the kitchen counter—was a faded bruise, yellow at the edges. His curls were damp at the temples from washing his face. He leaned against the doorframe the way he had the first time, the night everything had changed—shoulder against the wood, body angled into the room, eyes on mine.

But the expression was different now. No uncertainty. No testing. No is this okay? in the tilt of his head. He looked at me the way you look at something that’s yours—with ownership, with comfort, with the settled confidence of a person who knows they’re wanted.

“The door’s open,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“We don’t have to close it.”

“No.”

He crossed the room. Climbed onto the bed—our bed—and straddled my lap, knees on either side of my hips, hands on my shoulders. The weight of him settled against me with the easy familiarity of someone who’d done this a hundred times, and the comfort of it—the dailiness—was as erotic as anything we’d ever done in the dark.

“I want to be loud,” he said.

The words went through me like a current. All summer—every night, every encounter, every gasped breath and bitten-off moan—we’d been quiet. We’d had to be. The secrecy had been its own aphrodisiac, but it had also been a cage: my hand over his mouth, his face buried in my neck, the constant calibration of volume against risk. I’d never heard him at full volume. I’d heard him muffled, restrained, biting down on his own hand or my shoulder. I’d never heard him let go.

“Then be loud,” I said.

I pulled him down and kissed him. Deep, unhurried, the kind of kiss that was a conversation—his mouth telling me what he wanted, mine telling him I was going to give it to him. His hips rocked against me, a slow, deliberate grind, and his hands slid from my shoulders to my chest to my stomach, fingers tracing the trail of hair below my navel with an attention that made my cock twitch.

“Lie back,” he murmured against my mouth.

I raised an eyebrow. Noah giving orders was a new development—the confidence he’d been building all summer finally expressing itself in the bedroom, the submissive streak still present but balanced now by the certainty that he was wanted. That he had power here too.

“Lie back,” he said again, firmer. His hand pressed flat against my chest. “Let me.”

I lay back.

He took his time. Kissed down my chest—mouth open, tongue tracing the lines of muscle, teeth grazing my nipple hard enough to make my hips jerk. He grinned against my skin. “Sensitive?”

“You know I am.”

“I know you are.” He bit again. Harder. I groaned—loud, full-throated, unconstrained—and the sound echoed off the bedroom walls and into the open hallway, and neither of us flinched.

He moved lower. Mouth on my ribs, my stomach, the crease of my hip. His hands pushed my sweatpants down and I lifted my hips and he pulled them off and tossed them and I was bare beneath him and his mouth was hovering above my cock and his breath was hot and his eyes were looking up at me with an expression that was equal parts devotion and intent.

“I want to hear you,” he said. “The whole time. No holding back.”

He took me in his mouth.

Not tentatively—Noah had learned me over the summer with the same meticulous attention I’d given to learning him, mapping every response, cataloging every reaction. He knew the rhythm I liked. Knew the pressure. Knew the exact point where his tongue needed to press and the exact speed that turned my breathing from controlled to ragged. He deployed all of it simultaneously, and the pleasure was so immediate and so intense that the sound I made was something between a groan and a shout, bouncing off the walls, filling the room.

He hummed around me. The vibration traveled up my spine. My hand found his hair—automatic, the grip he craved—and I held on and watched him and let myself be loud in the way he’d asked. Every groan, every gasp, every utterance of his name that I’d spent months biting back. The freedom of it was overwhelming. My voice in the open room, uncaged, and Noah responding to every sound with increased enthusiasm, his hands on my thighs, his mouth devastating.

“Noah—fuck—you’re so good at this—”

He pulled off. Lips swollen, eyes glazed, his hand still wrapped around me. “Say that again.”

“You’re so good. You’re—Christ, Noah, you have no idea—”

“Tell me.”

He wanted the praise the way I wanted his sounds—openly, fully, without the whisper-filter that had compressed everything into secret. “You’re perfect,” I said. “Your mouth. Your hands. The way you look at me when you—” He took me deep again and I lost the sentence to a groan that came from somewhere behind my ribs.

He brought me to the edge twice. Each time he read the signals—my thighs tightening, my hand fisting in his hair, the change in my breathing—and eased off, kissing my hip, the inside of my thigh, letting the wave recede before building it again. The edging was deliberate, learned, a technique I’d used on him turned back on me with devastating effectiveness.

“When did you get this good at this?” I panted.

“I had a good teacher.” He kissed the tip of my cock. Grinned up at me. “Also, I’m a fast learner.”

“Get up here.”

He crawled up my body. I grabbed him and rolled us—him beneath me, his back on the mattress, my weight settling over him. The familiar configuration, the one that had defined us all summer: Daniel on top, Noah underneath, the power dynamic that we’d negotiated in the dark now playing out in the open, in a room with the door open and no reason to be quiet.

I stripped his boxers off. He was hard—flushed, leaking against his stomach—and when I wrapped my hand around him he arched off the bed and moaned. Loud. The moan filled the room, traveled down the hallway, existed in the open air of our house without apology.

“There you are,” I murmured. “I’ve wanted to hear that all summer.”

“Then make me do it again.”

I prepared him with my fingers. Slow, thorough—but this time without the urgency of a ticking clock, without the background frequency of risk. Just attention. Just care. Just the sustained focus of a man who knew exactly what this body needed and had all night to provide it.

When I pushed inside him, the sound he made was the sound I’d been chasing since June.

Full. Open. Unrestrained. A cry that started in his chest and expanded outward, filling the bedroom, the hallway, the empty house—the sound of a person being given exactly what they wanted without a single thing standing in the way. No hand over his mouth. No pillow muffling the edges. Just Noah, beneath me, around me, crying out with the pure, undiluted honesty of a man who was finally, completely free.

“Daniel—” My name at full volume, broken and radiant. “Oh God—fuck—”

“Let me hear you.” I thrust deep. Held. Watched his face contort with pleasure, his back arching, his hands grabbing fistfuls of sheet. “Every sound. I want them all.”

He gave me everything. Every moan he’d bitten back in July. Every cry he’d muffled into my shoulder in August. Every gasped iteration of my name that had been compressed into whispers and swallowed before it fully formed. He gave me the full, unfiltered catalog of his pleasure, and the sound of it—the sheer volume of his need—drove me deeper, harder, faster.

I set a pace that was punishing and precise. Each thrust angled to hit the spot that made his voice crack, each withdrawal slow enough to make him beg. He was loud—God, he was so loud—moaning and crying and saying my name and saying please and more and harder and every word landed in my blood like a lit match.

“Good boy.” I said it at full volume for the first time. Not whispered into his ear, not murmured against his skin. Spoken. Declared. The words filling the room the same way his sounds did—open, proud, belonging to the light.

His whole body convulsed. His cock pulsed against his stomach and I wrapped my hand around him and stroked in time with my thrusts and his voice shattered into something beyond words—a raw, sustained cry that resonated through the house, through the open door, through the hallway that had once been a barrier and was now just a hallway.

“Come for me,” I said. “Loud. Let the whole house hear it.”

He came screaming. Not a metaphor—actually, genuinely screaming, my name torn from his throat at a volume that would have been catastrophic in July and was now simply true. His body clenched around me and his cock pulsed in my hand and the orgasm ripped through him in visible waves, his back arching off the bed, his hands clawing the sheets, his face a portrait of ecstasy so complete it looked like something a person could drown in.

I followed. The sound of him—the freedom of him—pushed me over an edge I hadn’t known existed. I came with his name on my lips, spoken not whispered, groaned not swallowed, and the orgasm was the deepest I’d ever felt—not because of the physical mechanics but because of the absence of restraint. Nothing held back. Nothing hidden. Every sensation and every sound existing in the open air.

After.

We lay tangled in sheets that were ruined, breathing hard, slicked with sweat. The room was warm and quiet. The hallway was dark and peaceful. The door was open.

Noah was draped across my chest, his favorite position, his face in the curve of my neck. I could feel his heartbeat against my ribs—fast, slowing. My hand was in his hair, moving in the absent rhythm that had become our primary language for I’m here. I love you. Stay.

“Daniel,” he murmured.

“Yeah.”

“The door’s still open.”

I looked at it. The bedroom door, wide open, the hallway visible, the bathroom light casting its pale stripe across the floor. An open door in a house where every door had been closed for months. An ordinary domestic detail that meant everything.

“Yeah,” I said. “It is.”

“We should keep it that way.”

I tightened my arm around him. Kissed his temple. Felt the weight of him, warm and real and permanent, against my chest.

“Always,” I said.

We fell asleep with the door open. In the morning, the sun came in through the hallway window and crossed the floor and found us tangled together, unhidden, and the light touched both of us equally, and it was warm.

Thank you for reading Noah and Daniel’s story. If you loved it, please consider leaving a review — it means the world.

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