The New Apartment

A Bonus Chapter from Straight in the Sheets
by Milo Hart

Set two weeks after the epilogue. Evan and Marco have just moved into their first real apartment together — the one from the spreadsheet. The bookshelves are merged. The dog is named. And the second the last box hits the floor…

⚠️ Content Warning: This bonus chapter contains extremely explicit MM sexual content including graphic oral sex, penetrative sex, edging, praise kink, and sex in multiple rooms of a new apartment. This content exceeds what is permitted on Amazon. Readers 18+ only.

The last box hit the floor at 4:47 PM on a Saturday, and Marco said, “That’s it. That’s every box. We’re done.”

Evan stood in the middle of their new living room — their living room, with both names on the lease and a bay window that looked out on a street lined with maples — and surveyed the wreckage. Boxes everywhere. The blue couch from the old place, wedged against the far wall at an angle that suggested it had won a fight with the doorframe. The merged bookshelves, still empty, waiting to be filled. A kitchen with actual counter space. A bedroom with a door that latched.

No pull-out couch. No thin walls. No trumpet player in 1A.

And at the center of the chaos, Marco — in sweatpants and a tank top, brown skin sheened with moving-day sweat, curls plastered to his forehead, the compass rose tattoo dark on his forearm as he wiped his face with the hem of his shirt, flashing a strip of stomach that Evan’s eyes tracked with the devoted focus of a man who had spent four months learning that body and still hadn’t gotten tired of looking.

“We should unpack,” Evan said.

“We should.”

“The kitchen stuff alone is going to take—”

“Hours,” Marco agreed.

They looked at each other across the room. Between them, the boxes. The daylight. The wide-open space of a new apartment that no one had lived in yet, that had no memories yet, that was waiting — clean and empty and full of potential — to become theirs.

“Or,” Evan said.

“Or,” Marco said.

“We could christen the apartment.”

Marco’s eyes went dark. That specific shade of dark — pupils expanding, the brown irises shrinking to a ring — that Evan had learned to read as fluently as his own handwriting. The shade that meant want.

“Which room?” Marco asked.

Evan looked at the kitchen. The living room. The hallway that led to the bedroom and the bathroom and the closet that was big enough for both their wardrobes with room to spare.

“All of them,” he said.

They started in the kitchen because that’s where they were standing, and because Evan had spent four months watching Marco cook in a kitchen that was too small for two people and had fantasized approximately three hundred times about bending him over a counter that actually had enough space.

This counter had enough space.

Evan crossed the room in three steps, grabbed Marco by the waist, and lifted him onto the counter. Marco’s legs fell open on instinct — bracketing Evan’s hips, pulling him in — and they were kissing before Marco’s ass fully settled on the granite.

“You’ve been planning this,” Marco said against his mouth.

“I’ve been planning this since I saw the Zillow listing. There’s a spreadsheet tab for christening order.”

“There is not a spreadsheet tab for—”

“Kitchen first. Counter height is optimal.”

“You measured the counter height?“

“I’m a project manager, Marco. I optimize.”

Marco laughed into the kiss and Evan swallowed the sound and deepened it — tongue sliding against Marco’s, hands gripping his thighs, pulling their hips together. Through two layers of sweatpants, they were both already hard.

Evan pulled Marco’s tank top over his head. Kissed his throat, his collarbone, the flat of his chest. Licked a stripe across one nipple and felt Marco’s thighs clamp around his waist.

“Pants off,” Evan said.

“On the kitchen counter? We’re going to eat here.”

“We’re going to eat here after I make you come on it. Pants off.”

Marco lifted his hips. Evan pulled his sweatpants and boxers down in one motion and Marco’s cock sprang free — hard, flushed, familiar and devastating. Evan wrapped his hand around him and stroked once, slow, base to tip, and Marco’s head tipped back and his palms pressed flat on the granite behind him and a moan fell out of his mouth that echoed off the bare kitchen walls.

“Acoustics are better here,” Evan said. “I knew they would be. Higher ceilings.”

“If you say one more thing about the apartment’s specs while your hand is on my cock—”

Evan dropped to his knees on the kitchen tile.

The counter height was optimal. Marco perched on the edge, legs over Evan’s shoulders, and Evan took him in deep — the confident, practiced motion of a man who’d started this journey fumbling and gagging and had become, through dedication and an enthusiast’s commitment to craft, genuinely skilled at sucking cock.

Marco’s hand found his hair. Not pushing — never pushing — just holding, fingers threaded through sandy strands, gripping when Evan’s tongue did something clever and releasing when he needed to breathe. The sounds Marco made filled the empty kitchen — groans and gasps and Evan’s name spoken in that wrecked, reverent tone that still made Evan’s spine light up every single time.

“Ev — I’m close — if you don’t stop—”

Evan pulled off. Wiped his mouth. Looked up at Marco — flushed, panting, cock slick and straining — and said: “Kitchen’s done. Living room next.”

“You absolute monster—”

The living room christening happened on the blue couch, because the blue couch had earned it.

Marco shoved Evan down onto the velvet cushions and straddled his lap, naked from the kitchen, and kissed him with the focused intensity of a man who’d been edged on a counter and was not interested in patience.

“Good acoustics,” Marco said, grinning, and stroked them both in a rhythm that was deliberately, maddeningly slow.

“Marco — please — I need—”

“You. Inside me. Now.”

Marco pushed in and Evan shouted — the sound reverberating off the bare walls and the bay window and the high ceiling, filling the empty apartment with the proof of what they were to each other. Marco fucked him deep and steady, the blue couch creaking under them.

Evan came with Marco’s name on his lips, untouched, his back arching off the velvet, and Marco followed three strokes later with a cry that rattled the windows.

“Living room done,” Evan said to the ceiling.

“The closet?“

“Thematically relevant. The bisexual who came out of the closet has sex in one. It’s poetic.”

“I love you,” Marco said. “You insane, spreadsheet-making, counter-measuring, closet-christening disaster of a man. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Evan pulled him down. Kissed him. “Now get up. The bedroom has a king bed and I have plans.”

The bedroom was the main event.

“This is our bed,” Marco said. “In our apartment. With our names on the lease.” He rolled onto his side and looked at Evan with those dark, devastating eyes. “Christen it properly.”

He started at Marco’s mouth — kissing him slow, deep. He kissed down Marco’s throat, across his collarbone, pausing at the compass rose to press his lips against the ink the way he always did — their private ritual, their shorthand for tenderness.

“Ev—” Marco’s voice was wrecked. “I want you inside me. On this bed. First time in our bed — I want it to be you.”

When Evan pushed inside, they both went still. Not from shock. They went still because of what it meant. This bed. This room. This apartment they’d chosen together. Permanent. Chosen. Theirs.

“My boyfriend,” Evan said, because the word still worked, still hit, still made Marco’s body clench around him. “In our bed. In our home.”

“Yours,” Marco gasped. “I’m yours, Ev — I’ve been yours since—”

“Since the dorm room. I know. I’m sorry it took me eleven years.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just — harder —”

Marco came first — shaking, shouting. Evan followed seconds later, buried deep, Marco’s name on his lips.

They collapsed on the bare mattress. Sweaty, sticky, laughing.

“Bedroom done,” Evan said.

Marco curled into Evan’s side. Head on his chest. Hand over his heart. The compass rose against Evan’s ribs, warm and familiar.

“Hey, Ev,” Marco murmured.

“Yeah?”

“Welcome home.”

He was home. He was staying.

Thank you for reading! If you loved Evan and Marco’s story, please leave a review — it means the world.

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