The Elevator Incident

A My Boss Says Good Boy Bonus Chapter
by Jace Wilder

⚠️ Spoiler Warning: This bonus scene takes place six months after the events of the novel. Read the book first!

This bonus scene takes place approximately six months after the events of the novel, during Mateo and Lucian’s established relationship. It contains extremely explicit sexual content and should be read after finishing the book.

The thing about the private elevator at Vale House was that it took exactly thirty-one seconds to travel from the lobby to the fortieth floor.

I knew this because I had timed it. Hundreds of times. During eighteen months as Lucian’s executive assistant, the elevator ride had been the only interval in my day when nobody could reach me — no calls, no emails, no crises requiring immediate triage. Thirty-one seconds of vertical solitude.

I had never used them for what I was about to use them for.

It was June 14th. A Wednesday. I had just finished a client presentation at the Bellwether Chelsea — Cruz Hospitality Strategy’s first major independent pitch. They’d signed the retainer on the spot.

Lucian was waiting at the private elevator. Suit jacket off. Sleeves rolled. The silver at his temples catching the lobby light.

“Good meeting?” he asked.

“They signed. All four properties. Retainer starts Monday.”

“Elevator,” he said.

We stepped inside. The doors closed. Lucian pressed the emergency stop.

The elevator jolted once and went still. A security camera that Lucian had disabled with a casual reach and a toggle I hadn’t even known existed.

“Camera’s off,” he said.

“We are not doing this in an elevator.”

“We are absolutely doing this in an elevator.”

He kissed me. Hard. The kiss of a man who had spent six months learning that he could want me without managing me and was currently deploying that knowledge against the inside of my mouth with a thoroughness that made my knees buckle.

I grabbed the handrail. His body pressed against mine — the full length of him, six-three to my five-nine, pinned between stainless steel and the broad, warm wall of his chest.

“Color,” he murmured against my mouth.

“Green. Insanely, inadvisably green.”

His hands worked my belt. Fast — none of the deliberate slowness of the townhouse. This was a man who had approximately four minutes before building security investigated, and who intended to use every second with the same strategic precision he applied to acquisition timelines.

His hand wrapped around me and I was already hard — had been since the emergency stop, since the camera toggle, since the devastating information that Lucian Vale had a secret switch in his own elevator and had been waiting for the right moment to use it.

“You’re dripping,” he said. “Already.”

“You stopped an elevator and turned off a camera. My body drew reasonable conclusions.”

He stroked me — fast, slick, his grip tight and sure. “This building has been the site of every significant moment in our relationship. The office where I said it the first time. The desk where you sat. The conference room where I failed you. The penthouse where I didn’t.” His thumb swept over the head of my cock. “I wanted to add the elevator to the list.”

“Consider it — fuck — added.”

I reached for him. Found him hard through his trousers. I opened his belt with one hand, the other gripping the handrail, because my legs were no longer functioning as independent structural elements.

He was hot in my hand. Hard, leaking, the pulse of his heartbeat against my palm. I stroked him in counterpoint to his rhythm on me — fast, tight, the synchronized urgency of two men who understood that the clock was running.

“I’m proud of you,” he said. His forehead against mine. “Not because I need to praise you. Because you deserve to hear it from someone who knows what it cost.”

“If you make me come in a Vale House elevator, I am going to have feelings about corporate infrastructure for the rest of my life.”

“Good.” He twisted his wrist. I saw stars. “I want you to think of me every time the doors close.”

“Come for me,” he said. “Quietly.”

“Quietly is not — oh God — quietly is not my specialty and you know that—”

“Then bite my shoulder.”

I came biting his shoulder through the white cotton of his dress shirt, my cock pulsing across his fingers, my body arching against the elevator wall, his voice in my ear saying good boy, good boy, you’re so good with the specific warmth that no longer detonated my nervous system but settled into it like sunlight into warm stone.

I stroked him through my aftershocks — faster now, tighter, watching his face. His composure held for approximately four more seconds before it broke.

He came across my hand and the stainless steel wall of a private elevator in a building his grandfather had built in 1962, and the sound he made was my name.

We stood there. Breathing. His forehead against mine.

“We have approximately ninety seconds before security calls,” he said.

“You planned this.”

“I calculated contingencies. Planning implies premeditation.”

“Lucian. You disabled a security camera. That’s premeditation by any legal definition.”

He produced a handkerchief — because of course he carried a handkerchief — and cleaned my hand, then his, then made a valiant attempt at the elevator wall before determining that stainless steel was more forgiving than reputation.

By the time the doors opened on the fortieth floor, we were standing three feet apart. Professional distance. Neutral expressions.

Evan was at his desk. “Good evening, Mr. Vale. Mr. Cruz.”

“Evening, Evan,” Lucian said, without breaking stride.

“Hi, Evan,” I said, clutching Lucian’s jacket like a shield.

We made it to his office. The door closed. We looked at each other. I started laughing first. He followed — the full, rare, uncontrolled laugh that sounded like the joyful demolition of composure in service of something more important than dignity.

“I can never ride that elevator again. You have ruined vertical transportation for me.”

“I’ve accounted for it.” He pulled me toward him by the belt loop. Kissed me softer now. “I’ve accounted for everything.”

We left the building separately. Met at the restaurant. Sat across from each other at a table for two and ate pasta and drank wine and discussed his quarterly projections and my client onboarding and the specific, ordinary, extraordinary details of two lives being lived together.

Under the table, his foot rested against mine.

Above the table, his expression was neutral.

Between the two, everything that mattered.

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