My Straight Roommate — Bonus Chapter

The New Couch
by Jace Wilder

An exclusive bonus scene — too hot for Amazon.

Set three weeks after the end of My Straight Roommate.

The couch arrived on a Saturday.

Not from a store — from the sidewalk on Bergen Street, three blocks east, propped against a fire hydrant with a cardboard sign that said FREE. It was a deep-seated sectional, charcoal gray, structurally sound, and approximately twice the size of the one they’d destroyed.

“We’re not taking a couch off the street,” Noah said from four feet away, his arms crossed, his expression the specific blend of judgment and resignation that Ethan had learned meant Noah was going to lose this argument and knew it.

“It’s in perfect condition.”

“It was on a sidewalk.”

“In Brooklyn. This is how furniture distribution works here. We talked about this.”

“You talked. I objected. You carried it down four flights by yourself while I was on a client call.”

“And now it’s here.” Ethan patted the cushion. He was sitting on it already. “Come sit. Tell me it’s not the most comfortable thing you’ve ever sat on.”

Noah sat. The cushion swallowed him. His body sank into the fabric and his shoulder settled against Ethan’s.

“Okay,” Noah said. “It’s comfortable.”

“It’s incredible.”

“It’s a sidewalk couch.”

“It’s our sidewalk couch.” Ethan’s arm went around Noah’s shoulders. “And we need to christen it.”

Noah turned his head. “It’s 2 PM.”

“I’m aware of the time.”

“The windows are open.”

“Close them.”

“We christened the last couch. We christened the kitchen counter. We christened the shower, the hallway wall, and your desk chair in a way that voided the warranty. This couch is a member of our household now.”

“Close the windows,” Noah said. “And lock the door.”

Ethan was off the couch in one second. Windows closed in four. Door locked in six. He turned back and Noah was still sitting there — one arm along the back, the picture of relaxed authority, watching Ethan scramble with dark amusement.

“Come here,” Noah said.

Ethan came. Stood in front of the couch, looking down at his boyfriend.

Noah reached up. Hooked his fingers in Ethan’s waistband. Pulled.

Ethan went down onto the couch, onto Noah, straddling his lap. Noah’s hands were on Ethan’s hips and his mouth was on Ethan’s throat and his teeth found the tendon and bit.

Ethan groaned. Tipped his head back. Noah’s mouth worked down his neck — tongue, teeth, lips, the coordinated assault of a man who knew exactly which buttons to push.

“Shirt off,” Noah said against his collarbone.

Ethan pulled his shirt over his head. Noah’s hands were on his chest before the fabric hit the floor. His thumbs found Ethan’s nipples. Circled. Ethan’s hips rolled involuntarily, grinding down into Noah’s lap.

He pulled Noah’s t-shirt off — his own shirt, technically, the stolen gray one — and dropped it. Noah’s chest in the afternoon light. The tattoo. The lean muscle. The brown skin.

He lowered his mouth to Noah’s shoulder where the tattoo started. Traced the pattern with his tongue.

“The first time,” Ethan said between kisses. “On the old couch. The part where I got on my knees. Nobody asked me to.”

Ethan slid off Noah’s lap. Onto the floor. Between Noah’s legs.

The same position. The same deliberate, unprompted surrender. But this time he was grinning.

“We’re christening this thing right.” His hands went to Noah’s belt. Opened it. Pulled the zipper down slowly — tooth by tooth.

Noah lifted his hips. Ethan pulled his jeans and boxers down together. Noah’s cock was hard, the head flushed, a bead of precome catching the light.

“Hi,” Ethan said, looking up.

Noah laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.”

Ethan took him in his mouth. Three months of practice had turned the clumsy first attempt into something devastating. He knew the flat of his tongue beneath the head made Noah’s thighs clench. He knew the twist of his wrist on the upstroke shattered Noah’s breath. He knew that taking him all the way — deep, throat relaxed — made Noah grip his hair with desperate reverence.

He did all of it. Unhurried. The precision of devotion.

“Ethan — I need to fuck you.”

He stripped. Naked in the living room in October sunlight. Noah was naked now too, reaching into the side table drawer.

“You put lube in the living room furniture,” Ethan observed.

“Forward planning.” Noah slicked his fingers. “Come here.”

Ethan straddled his lap again. Face to face. Noah’s slicked fingers found him and Ethan’s breath caught. Noah worked him open with patient thoroughness — two fingers, slow and deep, finding the angle that turned thought to static.

“You’re good?” Noah murmured. His fingers curled. Ethan’s vision sparked.

“So good. I need you.”

Noah withdrew. Rolled on the condom. Slicked himself.

Ethan positioned. Sank down.

The sound they both made was home. The fullness of Noah inside him simultaneously overwhelming and exactly right.

“I love this couch,” Ethan said, very seriously, with another man’s cock buried inside him.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I love this couch and I love you and I love this apartment—” He rolled his hips. Slow. The angle drove Noah deep. The joke dissolved into a moan that ended in Noah’s mouth.

Noah gripped his hips. Set the rhythm — slow, deep rolls. Ethan rose and fell, thighs working, hands on Noah’s shoulders for leverage. The friction inside him was devastating.

“You feel incredible,” Noah said. “Every time. Even better.”

“Practice.” Ethan gasped as Noah thrust up. “Lots of practice.”

They found a rhythm that was fast without being frantic. Noah’s mouth on Ethan’s chest. Ethan’s hands in Noah’s hair. The wet sound of their bodies, the creak of the couch springs, the thud of the frame against the wall.

“The neighbors are going to complain,” Noah managed.

“Let them.” Ethan rode him harder. “Let the whole building hear. I don’t care.”

“You really don’t anymore, do you?”

“No. Not about any of it. Not about who hears or who knows. All I care about is you. Us. On our stupid sidewalk couch.”

Noah’s hand found his cock. Wrapped around him. Stroked in counterpoint — tight, sure, calloused. The dual sensation broke something open.

“I’m close,” Ethan said. “Noah — I’m so close—”

“Come for me.” Noah’s voice was low. Commanding. Tender. “Let me see you.”

Ethan came. His body seized, the orgasm tearing through him, his cock pulsing in Noah’s hand, spilling across Noah’s chest, and the sounds he made were loud and uncontained.

Noah followed. Three more thrusts — hard, deep — and then he was coming with Ethan’s name on his lips.

They collapsed together. The couch held them.

“This couch is perfect,” Ethan murmured into Noah’s hair.

“It’s a sidewalk couch.”

“It’s our sidewalk couch.”

“It smells like industrial cleaner.”

“It smells like us now.”

Noah laughed against his chest. Soft. Full. The laugh of a man who was happy — genuinely, structurally, load-bearingly happy.

“We should probably clean up,” Noah said.

“In a minute. Let me just have this.” Ethan held tighter. Pressed his face into Noah’s neck. Breathed him in.

Noah’s hand found the back of Ethan’s neck. His thumb traced a slow circle on Ethan’s hairline — the gesture that had started everything, returned to its origin.

“You have it,” Noah said quietly. “You have all of it. For as long as you want.”

“How does forever sound?”

“Like something a man says when he’s sitting naked on a street couch with come on his stomach.”

“Is that a yes?”

“That’s a yes, Ethan. That’s always been a yes.”

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