Clause Eleven
A Straight Roommate Clause Bonus Chapter
by Jace Wilder
This bonus chapter takes place after the events of Straight Roommate Clause. It contains explicit sexual content intended for readers 18+. If you haven’t read the novel yet, this scene contains major spoilers.
Clause Eleven
Nico’s POV
The legal pad was Liam’s idea.
We’d been in the new apartment for six weeks—boxes unpacked, mugs matched, every room thoroughly christened at least twice—when I came home from a late shift at the bar and found him sitting at the kitchen table with a yellow legal pad, a blue pen, and the specific expression he wore when he was about to do something that would ruin me.
“What’s that?” I dropped my keys on the counter and leaned against the doorframe, already suspicious. Good things and terrible things both started with Liam at a table with paper.
“An addendum.” He didn’t look up. “The original clause had nine terms. The new one has five. I feel like we’re missing something.”
“We voided the clause. We’re clause-free. We’re a clause-less household.”
“This isn’t a clause.” He set the pen down. Turned the legal pad toward me. “This is an invitation.”
I walked to the table. Read what he’d written.
Clause Eleven: On the occasion of a six-week anniversary (or any Tuesday), either party may request a scene in which the other party is required to follow instructions without questioning them. Safe word applies. Aftercare mandatory. The requesting party will be addressed as Sir for the duration. Dress code: nothing.
My mouth went dry. My cock went hard. Both responses happened simultaneously, which was becoming a recurring theme in my life with Liam Hart.
“Sir,” I said.
“If you’re comfortable with it.”
“You want me to call you Sir while you—”
“While I do whatever I want with you. Yes.” He leaned back in his chair. Crossed his arms. The tattoo flexed on his forearm—the goddamn botanical tattoo that had started this entire thing. “Unless you’d rather negotiate.”
“I’m not negotiating. I’m invoking. Right now. Clause eleven invoked.”
“You can’t invoke it. I wrote it. I invoke it.”
“Then invoke it.”
He stood up. Walked around the table. Stood in front of me—close, deliberate, the measured approach of a man who knew exactly what he was about to do and was savoring the anticipation.
“Clause eleven,” he said. “Invoked.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The effect of those two words on his face was nuclear. His composure cracked—his eyes going dark and his jaw tightening and his whole body shifting into a posture I’d only seen hints of before: dominant, focused, hungry in a way that was no longer being managed.
“Clothes off,” he said. “Now.”
I stripped. T-shirt over my head, jeans unbuttoned and kicked off, boxer briefs gone in one motion. I stood naked in our kitchen—our kitchen, with its matching mugs and its pour-over setup and the pineapple magnet on the fridge—and let him look.
“Bedroom,” he said. “On the bed. On your back. Hands above your head.”
I went. He followed. I lay down on our bed and raised my arms above my head, gripping the headboard because I needed something to hold onto and his instructions hadn’t included touching him.
He undressed himself slowly. Deliberately. Shirt first, revealing the lean chest and the tattoo I’d traced with my tongue a hundred times. Joggers. Briefs. He stood beside the bed, naked and hard, and looked down at me with an expression that combined clinical assessment with raw, undiluted want.
“Here’s how this works,” he said. “I’m going to touch you everywhere. I’m going to use my hands and my mouth and I’m going to take my time. You don’t move your hands from that headboard until I tell you. You don’t come until I tell you. And every time I ask you a question, you answer honestly. Full honesty. Clause three, original terms.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He started at my wrists. Kissed the inside of each one—where the pulse lived, where the skin was thin enough that he could feel my heartbeat against his lips. Then down my forearms. My biceps, my shoulders, the hollow of my throat where a moan was already building.
“Question,” he said against my collarbone. “When did you know this wasn’t an experiment?”
“The massage.” My voice was already wrecked. “When you traced my scar and I got hard and you told me it was normal. And I knew it wasn’t normal. It was you.”
“Good boy.”
The words hit me like a drug—instant, systemic, the praise response flooding through my nervous system and making my cock twitch against my stomach and my fingers tighten on the headboard. He knew exactly what those words did. He’d mapped the neural pathway months ago and he played it like an instrument.
His mouth moved down my chest. Tongue flat against my sternum, then detouring to each nipple—circling, sucking, the edge of his teeth making me arch off the bed and swallow a groan.
“Hands stay,” he murmured.
My hands stayed. My body screamed.
He kissed down the center line of my stomach, reaching my hips and detouring—kissing the cut of each hip bone, everywhere except where I needed him, circling the target with maddening patience.
“Question,” he said, his breath hot against my inner thigh. “What was the hardest part of coming out to Mateo?”
“Saying I’m in love with a man out loud. Not because of him. Because saying it made it permanent. Made it real.”
“And was it? Real?”
“The realest thing in my life.”
“Good boy.” He lowered his mouth and took me in.
My spine curved off the mattress. The sound I made was primal—raw and loud and completely involuntary, pulled from somewhere below thought by the wet heat of his mouth and the suction and the way his tongue worked the underside with a precision that was clinical and devastating.
He was slow. Excruciating. Deep, then shallow, then deep again, his hand controlling the base while his mouth did things that made my vision blur. I was leaking, throbbing, every muscle drawn tight, and he read my body the way he read everything—completely, with total attention—and pulled off right as I approached the edge.
“Not yet,” he said.
“Sir. Please. I need—”
“I know what you need.” He reached for the lube. “Turn over.”
I turned. Face in the pillow, hips up, hands still gripping the headboard. I felt him behind me—the heat of his body, and then his finger, slick and warm, pressing in with a pressure that was both promise and torment.
“Question,” he said, finding the spot immediately because he’d memorized my body. “What’s the best thing about being mine?”
“I don’t have to perform. With you, I don’t have to be anything except exactly what I am. And you still want me.”
His forehead pressed against my spine. “You’re everything,” he whispered against my back.
Two fingers now. Stretching, curling, hitting the spot with each stroke. My hips were rocking back into his hand, desperate for more, and when he added a third finger I bit the pillow and groaned his name.
He withdrew. I heard the condom wrapper. Felt him line up.
“Hands,” he said.
“Sir?”
“You can let go now.”
I released the headboard. He reached forward, took both my hands, interlocked our fingers, and pinned them to the mattress beside my head—our hands joined, our bodies aligned, his chest against my back, his mouth at my ear.
“I love you,” he said, and pushed inside me.
Full. Deep. The overwhelming fullness of being entered by someone who knew my body better than I did—who knew exactly where to angle, exactly how deep, exactly the pace that turned me from a functioning human being into a trembling, moaning, incoherent mess.
He moved. Slow at first, each thrust deliberate, his fingers tightening around mine every time he bottomed out. His mouth was at my ear, narrating—telling me how I felt around him, how I sounded, how my body responded, a running commentary of praise and desire that fed directly into the wiring he’d installed months ago.
“You’re so good for me. Taking everything I give you. You have no idea how beautiful you look right now.”
I was past language. Past thought. The sounds I was making were loud and unashamed and exactly what he’d taught me to be—honest. Present. Unperformed.
He increased his pace. Harder now, the sound of skin against skin filling the bedroom of our apartment—the apartment with no guest room, the apartment with matched mugs and a voided clause and a life we’d built from scratch.
“Come for me,” he said. Not a request. A command. “Now, Nico. Let go.”
I came so hard my vision whited out. The orgasm detonated from the inside—pulsing untouched against the sheets while my back arched and a cry tore out of me that was his name and a curse and something wordless from the place where language dissolved into pure sensation.
He followed me over. I felt the stutter, the surge, the broken sound of my name against the back of my neck—and his hands clenched around mine and his body drove deep one final time and held there, shaking, spent, undone.
We collapsed. His weight on me—heavy, grounding, real.
“So,” I said, when I could form words again. “Clause eleven.”
“We should make it a standing appointment.”
“Every Tuesday?”
“Every Tuesday and any time I feel like it.”
“That’s not what the clause says.”
“I’ll amend it.” He kissed my spine. My shoulder blade. The scar. “I’ll amend it every day if I have to.”
I turned over. Pulled him on top of me. Kissed his mouth—slow, deep, the kiss of a man who was never going to get tired of being allowed to do this.
“I love you,” I said.
“I love you too.” He smiled against my mouth. “Now stay still. Aftercare is mandatory. Clause three.”
“Which version?”
“The version that includes me washing your hair and bringing you water and telling you you’re the best thing that ever happened to me until you fall asleep.”
“That version isn’t written down.”
“Some things don’t need a document,” he said. “Some things just need a man who stays.”
He stayed.
He always stayed.
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