Straight Roommate, Bent Rules — Bonus Chapter

An exclusive bonus scene by Jace Wilder

⚠️ Content Warning: This bonus chapter contains explicit sexual content (graphic MM scenes), strong language, and is intended for readers 18+. This scene takes place after the events of Straight Roommate, Bent Rules.

Christening the New Place

A bonus scene — Dylan & Miles

The last box hit the floor of the new apartment with a thud that echoed off bare walls.

“That’s it,” Dylan said, straightening up and pressing both hands into his lower back. His t-shirt rode up, exposing the strip of tanned skin above his jeans and the edge of the tattoo that curved along his hip — the vine of thorns Miles had traced with his tongue so many times he could draw it from memory.

Miles stood in the middle of the living room — their living room — surrounded by a landscape of cardboard and packing tape. The afternoon light poured through the tall windows, catching the dust motes and making the empty space glow warm and golden.

Two bedrooms. An actual dining area. A kitchen with counter space that didn’t require choosing between the toaster and the coffee maker.

“We have a hallway,” Miles said, still slightly dazed. “An actual hallway. With a closet.”

Dylan grinned, pulling his hair free of the elastic and shaking it loose around his shoulders. “You’ve said that four times since we signed the lease.”

“Because it’s a hallway, Dylan. With a closet.”

“You’re so fucking cute when you get horny for storage space.” Dylan stepped over a box labeled MILES — KITCHEN (ORGANIZED BY FUNCTION) and caught Miles around the waist, pulling him close. His hands settled on Miles’s hips with the easy possessiveness that still made Miles’s stomach flip, even five months in.

“I’m not horny for storage space.”

“Babe. You literally moaned when you saw the linen closet.”

“It has built-in shelving.”

Dylan laughed, low and warm, his breath ghosting across Miles’s neck. “Tell you what. You can organize every shelf in this place however you want. Label everything. Color-code shit. I will not move a single thing.”

“You say that now—”

“But first,” Dylan murmured, and his mouth found the spot behind Miles’s ear that short-circuited every rational thought Miles had ever owned, “we christen it.”

The kiss started lazy. Dylan’s mouth was warm and unhurried, his tongue tracing Miles’s lower lip before sliding inside, tasting like the iced coffee they’d grabbed between loads. His hands slid under Miles’s shirt, palms flat against his back, pulling him in until their hips pressed together.

Miles felt the shift — the moment Dylan went from casual affection to intent. His grip tightened, fingers digging into Miles’s waist, and the kiss turned deeper, slower, deliberate.

“Which room first?” Miles asked against his mouth.

Dylan’s eyes were dark when he pulled back, hazel nearly swallowed by pupil. “All of them.”

“We have movers coming back with the couch in two hours—”

“Then we’d better be efficient.” Dylan’s grin was filthy. “Start in the kitchen. Work our way through.”

He was already walking Miles backward, guiding him with hands on his hips through the maze of boxes until Miles’s back hit the new kitchen counter — actual granite, not the chipped laminate of the old place.

“Up,” Dylan said, and Miles hoisted himself onto the counter without argument, spreading his knees so Dylan could step between them.

The height put them face to face. Dylan cupped Miles’s jaw with both hands and kissed him like he was trying to memorize the taste — tongue stroking deep, teeth catching his lower lip. Miles wrapped his legs around Dylan’s waist and pulled him closer, feeling him already hard through his jeans.

“Fuck,” Miles breathed. “We literally just carried boxes up three flights of stairs. How are you—”

“Have you seen you?” Dylan’s hands were already working Miles’s belt open. “Sweaty, bossing me around about which box goes where, those fucking forearms when you were carrying the bookshelf—” He got the belt free and popped the button of Miles’s jeans. “I’ve been hard since the second trip.”

He pulled Miles’s jeans and boxer briefs down in one smooth motion, Miles lifting his hips off the counter to help. The granite was cool against his bare skin, and he hissed at the contrast.

“Cold?”

“Little bit.”

“I’ll fix that.” Dylan dropped to his knees on the kitchen floor — their kitchen floor, in their apartment that they’d chosen together — and pressed his mouth to the inside of Miles’s thigh.

Miles’s head fell back against the upper cabinet. Dylan’s mouth was hot and wet, trailing kisses up the sensitive skin of his inner thigh while his hands gripped Miles’s hips, thumbs rubbing slow circles on the jut of bone.

“Dylan—”

“Patience.” Dylan bit down gently on the crease where thigh met hip, and Miles’s whole body jerked. “We’re christening this kitchen properly. That means I’m taking my time.”

He didn’t take his time. Or rather, he did, but it felt like barely a breath before Dylan’s mouth was on his cock, lips wrapping around the head and sucking with the kind of focused intensity that made Miles see white.

Dylan had gotten so good at this. Five months of enthusiastic practice, of figuring out exactly what made Miles lose his mind — and what made Miles lose his mind was Dylan’s tongue doing that slow, flat stroke up the underside of his shaft, pausing at the ridge below the head to press and flick while his hand worked the base.

“God — fuck — right there—”

Dylan hummed around him, the vibration sending sparks up Miles’s spine. He took him deeper, relaxing his throat the way Miles had taught him, and Miles had to grip the edge of the counter to keep from sliding off it entirely.

He looked down. Dylan on his knees, hair falling around his face, cheeks hollowed, one hand wrapped around the base of Miles’s cock and the other palming himself through his jeans. His eyes were closed, dark lashes fanned against his cheekbones, and he was making those small, hungry sounds that meant he was getting off on this as much as Miles was.

“You look incredible,” Miles said, because he couldn’t not say it. “You look so fucking good with my cock in your mouth.”

Dylan’s eyes opened, and the look he gave Miles — dark, heated, proud — made Miles’s stomach tighten.

Dylan pulled off with a slick pop, lips red and swollen, a string of spit connecting his mouth to Miles’s cock. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Miles threaded his fingers through Dylan’s hair, gripping gently. “Don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” Dylan licked his lips and took him back in, deeper this time, and Miles felt the tight flutter of his throat when he swallowed around him.

Miles’s thighs were shaking. The kitchen was full of late-afternoon sun and the sounds of Dylan sucking his cock — wet, obscene sounds that bounced off the bare walls of their empty apartment. His fingers tightened in Dylan’s hair, hips rocking forward in small, involuntary thrusts that Dylan matched, letting Miles fuck his mouth at a slow, steady pace.

“Close,” Miles warned, voice strained. “Dyl, I’m close—”

Dylan pulled back and stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips were swollen and slick, his eyes glazed, and the tent in his jeans looked painful.

“Not yet. We’ve got a whole apartment to get through.” He leaned in and kissed Miles, wet and filthy, letting him taste himself. “Bedroom next.”

Miles slid off the counter on shaky legs, jeans still around his ankles. He kicked them free and stripped his shirt over his head, leaving everything in a pile on the kitchen floor. Dylan watched him with that focused, hungry expression — the one that still sent a thrill through Miles every single time.

“Move,” Miles said, and walked naked down their hallway — their hallway — toward the master bedroom.

Behind him, he heard Dylan’s belt clink and the rustle of clothes hitting the floor. By the time Miles reached the bedroom doorway, Dylan caught up with him and pressed him face-first against the door frame, his bare chest against Miles’s back, cock hard and hot against Miles’s ass.

“This hallway,” Dylan said, mouth on Miles’s ear. “I’m going to fuck you in this hallway someday.”

“Noted.” Miles was breathless, arching back into the press of Dylan’s body. “Bedroom first.”

They didn’t have the bed set up. The mattress was propped against the wall and the frame pieces were scattered in a box somewhere. Dylan pulled the mattress down flat with one arm — it hit the floor with a soft whump — and pushed Miles onto it.

The mattress was bare, no sheets, just the cool quilted fabric against Miles’s back when Dylan crawled over him and settled between his legs. Skin on skin, the full length of Dylan’s body pressed against his — lean muscle, warm skin, the scratch of his chest hair against Miles’s smoother torso.

“Hi,” Dylan said softly, grinning down at him.

“Hi.”

“We live here.”

Miles smiled, a real one, unguarded in a way he only let himself be with Dylan. “We live here.”

Dylan kissed him — tender this time, slow and sweet, his hand cradling Miles’s face. Then his hips rolled, their cocks sliding together, and sweet turned to urgent in the space of a breath.

“Where’s the—”

“Side pocket of my backpack,” Miles said. “Gray bag. Front room.”

Dylan stared at him. “You packed lube in your go bag?”

“I packed lube, condoms, toothbrushes, and the phone chargers. First-night essentials.”

“God, I love you.” Dylan kissed him hard and fast, then scrambled off the mattress, and Miles heard him rummaging through the front room, swearing when he tripped over a box.

He was back in under a minute, lube and a condom in hand, and Miles had used the time to stretch out on the mattress, one arm behind his head, legs spread.

Dylan stopped in the doorway and just looked at him.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he said, voice rough.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Lying there looking like that. In our bedroom. In our apartment.” Dylan crossed the room and dropped to his knees at the edge of the mattress. “You know what that does to me.”

“Tell me.”

Dylan uncapped the lube, slicking his fingers. “Makes me want to take you apart. Slowly.” He pressed one finger inside Miles, who exhaled hard through his nose and tilted his hips up. “Makes me want to hear every sound you make echoing off these walls.”

He worked Miles open with the patient, thorough attention he’d developed over months — one finger, then two, crooking them to find the spot that made Miles’s back arch off the mattress and his hands fist in nothing because there were no sheets to grab.

“Fuck — there — Dylan—”

“I know.” Dylan’s voice was low, rough with want. He added a third finger, stretching slowly, and bent to mouth at Miles’s hip, his cock, his inner thigh — anywhere he could reach while his fingers worked.

Miles was making sounds he couldn’t control — bitten-off moans, sharp gasps, Dylan’s name on every other breath. The empty apartment amplified everything, their voices bouncing off bare walls and hardwood floors.

“Ready?” Dylan asked, pulling his fingers free.

“Five minutes ago.”

Dylan rolled the condom on and slicked himself, then hooked Miles’s legs over his shoulders and lined up. The first press of his cock against Miles’s entrance made them both freeze — that suspended moment of contact, the promise of it.

Then Dylan pushed in, slow and steady, and Miles felt his whole body open up around him.

“Oh fuck,” Dylan breathed, dropping his forehead to Miles’s shoulder once he bottomed out. “Fuck, Miles. You feel—”

“Move.” Miles dug his heels into Dylan’s back. “Move, move, please—”

Dylan moved. He set a rhythm that was slow at first — long, deep strokes that dragged against Miles’s prostate with devastating precision. Miles clung to his shoulders, nails raking down his back, gasping into the curve of his neck.

“Harder.”

Dylan’s hands gripped Miles’s thighs, pushing them wider, and he snapped his hips forward with the kind of controlled force that Miles craved — not rough enough to hurt, just hard enough to feel it everywhere, to feel owned.

“Like that?” Dylan’s voice was wrecked, barely more than a rasp.

“Just like — fuck — just like that—”

The sound of skin against skin filled the empty room. Dylan shifted his angle, pressed Miles’s knees toward his chest, and drove in deep — hitting the spot that made Miles’s vision blur and his cock leak against his stomach.

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” Dylan said, watching Miles’s face. “Taking me. Making those sounds. This is mine. You’re mine.”

“Yes—” Miles was beyond language, beyond anything but the feeling of Dylan inside him, around him, the weight and heat and motion of the person he loved most in the world. “Yours. I’m—”

Dylan kissed him, swallowing whatever Miles was trying to say, and his hand wrapped around Miles’s cock — stroking in time with his thrusts, thumb swiping over the slick head.

Miles came first, with a shout that echoed off every wall in the apartment. His body locked up, clenching hard around Dylan, come pulsing over Dylan’s fist and his own stomach in thick ropes.

“Fuck — Miles —” Dylan buried himself deep, hips stuttering, and Miles felt him come — the full-body shudder, the sharp inhale, the way his arms trembled before he collapsed.

They lay tangled on the bare mattress, sticky and panting, afternoon light striping across their bodies.

“One down,” Dylan said eventually, face pressed into Miles’s neck.

“Hmm?”

“One room christened. We’ve still got the second bedroom, the bathroom, the hallway, and the living room.”

Miles laughed, a genuine, uncomplicated sound. “The movers are coming in an hour and a half.”

“We’ll be quick.”

“You just said you wanted to take me apart slowly.”

Dylan propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at Miles with an expression that was equal parts tenderness and mischief. “Slowly is for the bedroom. The bathroom is going to be fast and filthy, because I’m going to bend you over the sink and watch us in the mirror.”

Miles felt his spent cock twitch with interest, and Dylan noticed, grinning wide.

“Oh yeah,” Dylan said, pressing a kiss to the center of Miles’s chest. “This apartment was an excellent investment.”

They made it through the bathroom (Dylan made good on his promise, and the mirror fogged from their body heat before any hot water was involved), and were halfway through a lazy round on the living room floor when the buzzer sounded.

“Movers,” Miles said, breathless, from where he was straddling Dylan’s lap.

“Ignore it.”

“They have our couch.”

Dylan’s head thunked back against the floor. “I hate furniture.”

Miles climbed off him, grabbed his jeans from the kitchen floor, and buzzed the movers in while Dylan scrambled to find his boxers.

They spent the next forty minutes directing a couch, a dining table, and a bookshelf into position while pretending they hadn’t just fucked on most of the available surfaces. Miles was fairly certain the movers knew — his hair was wrecked and there was a bite mark visible above Dylan’s collar — but they were professional enough not to comment.

When the door finally closed behind them, Dylan flopped onto the new couch and held out his arms.

“Come here.”

Miles settled against him, back to Dylan’s chest, Dylan’s arms wrapping around him from behind. The apartment was still a disaster of boxes and bubble wrap, but the couch was comfortable, the light was going gold through the windows, and Dylan was humming something under his breath — a melody Miles recognized as the song from the show. The one Dylan had written for him.

“Hey, Miles?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for bending your rules.”

Miles turned his head to look at him. Dylan’s face was soft in a way he only let it be when they were alone — no bravado, no charm, just honesty.

“They were bad rules,” Miles said.

“They were your rules.” Dylan kissed his temple. “And you let me wreck every single one. That’s — I don’t take that lightly.”

Miles shifted until he was facing Dylan, straddling his lap on the couch, arms draped over his shoulders. “You didn’t wreck them. You made better ones.” He kissed him, soft and lingering. “You made us.”

Dylan’s arms tightened around him. “I’m going to get sappy if you keep talking like that.”

“You wrote me a song and called me your boyfriend in front of two hundred people. You passed sappy a long time ago.”

“Fair.” Dylan’s hands slid down to Miles’s hips, grip going proprietary. “So. We didn’t finish christening the living room.”

“The movers interrupted.”

“Movers are gone.”

“We don’t have sheets on the bed yet.”

“We’re on the couch.”

Miles looked at the man beneath him — messy hair, stupid grin, tattoos and callused fingers and a heart bigger than he’d ever let anyone see before Miles. The man who’d blown into his neat little life and made it spectacularly, gloriously messy.

“The couch,” Miles agreed, and pulled his shirt off.

Dylan’s grin widened. “God, I love our apartment.”

Miles kissed him quiet and set about breaking in their new couch properly.

They christened the second bedroom the next morning — and the hallway that Tuesday.

The linen closet, to Miles’s enduring embarrassment, happened on a Thursday afternoon when Dylan caught him organizing bath towels by color and told him he’d never been more attracted to another human being.

The label maker survived it, barely.

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