Day Twelve
A Two Divorces and a Dare Bonus Chapter
by Jace Wilder
⚠️ This bonus chapter takes place during Chapter 10 of Two Divorces and a Dare and contains EXTREMELY EXPLICIT content — graphic MM sex, anal, oral, rimming, praise kink, possessive dynamics, and switching. This scene is too explicit for retailers and is hosted exclusively on our site. Spoilers ahead. Intended for readers 18+.
Day Twelve — The Lake Cabin
The water was still dripping from Dom’s hair when he pinned Rafe against the cabin door.
Not the bed. The door. The rough pine surface against Rafe’s bare back, the cold metal of the handle pressing into his hip, and Dom’s body — massive, damp, radiating heat that the lake hadn’t managed to cool — covering his entirely. The size difference was stark naked and vertical. Dom’s chest at Rafe’s eye level. Dom’s hands on the door frame above Rafe’s head, caging him in. The yellow dock light through the window throwing long shadows across the floorboards and across the muscles in Dom’s arms.
“We didn’t finish,” Dom said.
“We came twice each. That constitutes finishing by most reasonable metrics.”
“I have unreasonable metrics.”
Rafe’s laugh turned into a gasp when Dom’s mouth found his throat. Not the gentle exploration of their early encounters. Not the careful, negotiated, dare-sanctioned contact of men still learning how to touch each other. This was twelve days of accumulated desire compressed into a single point of contact — Dom’s teeth on the tendon, his tongue flat against the pulse point, his lips closing over the skin and sucking hard enough to bruise.
“You’re going to mark me,” Rafe said.
“That’s the idea.”
Dom’s hands left the doorframe and found Rafe’s wrists — gathered them both, pinned them above his head against the pine door with one hand. One hand. The span of Dom’s palm covering both of Rafe’s wrists with room to spare, his fingers closing around the bones with a grip that communicated absolute capability and absolute restraint. He could hold Rafe here all night. He chose to hold him gently. The distinction was the hottest thing Rafe had ever experienced.
Rafe’s cock was already hard again. Pressed between their stomachs, the head slick against Dom’s abs, his body apparently operating on a schedule independent of the refractory reality of men in their forties. Twelve days ago he couldn’t have imagined getting hard three times in one night. Twelve days ago he hadn’t known what Dominic Mercer’s hands felt like on his body.
“Three times in one night,” Rafe breathed. “At our age, this qualifies as a medical event.”
“Then we’ll die here.” Dom’s free hand traced down Rafe’s body — over his chest, pausing to roll a nipple between his thumb and forefinger until Rafe hissed, down his ribs, over the slight softness at his waist. His fingers wrapped around Rafe’s cock with a grip that was past tentative, past exploratory, and had arrived somewhere in the vicinity of ownership. The calloused palm. The thick fingers. The precise pressure that Dom had learned over twelve days and now deployed with the focused efficiency of a man who had mastered a tool and intended to use it until it was no longer functional.
He stroked. Slowly. Root to tip, his thumb sweeping the head on every upstroke, collecting the slick that was leaking steadily now and spreading it down the shaft. His grip tightened at the base, loosened at the top — the specific technique Rafe had taught him in the apartment bedroom, the one that made Rafe’s knees buckle.
“I want to try something,” Dom said against Rafe’s ear. “Tell me if you don’t like it.”
“I have liked everything you’ve done to me for twelve days. I sincerely doubt you’re going to find the exception tonight.”
Dom released Rafe’s wrists. Released his cock. Dropped to his knees.
The sight of Dominic Mercer on his knees — this massive, broad, gray-haired man, kneeling on the cabin floor with lake water still glistening on his shoulders and his blue-gray eyes looking up from between Rafe’s thighs — rearranged something fundamental in Rafe’s understanding of what he found beautiful.
“I want to make you come with just my mouth,” Dom said. “No hands. Just this.”
“I’ve been thinking about it since the apartment. What you taste like. What you sound like when I swallow you. What happens if I don’t stop.”
Rafe’s head hit the pine. His hands stayed raised above him. Voluntarily. Holding a position not because someone was enforcing it but because the architecture of the moment required it.
Dom took him into his mouth. Not tentatively. He took Rafe in one slow, continuous motion — lips stretching around the girth, tongue pressed flat against the underside, jaw opening wider as he took more, past the midpoint, into his throat. His eyes watered. His hands tightened on Rafe’s hips. He gagged once — a reflexive spasm that he overrode through sheer stubbornness — and then he was there. Full depth. His nose pressed against Rafe’s stomach, his chin against Rafe’s balls, the entirety of Rafe’s cock buried in the tight, devastating heat of Dominic Mercer’s throat.
Rafe made a sound he’d never made before. Something between a moan and a sob, wrenched from deep in his chest. His hands left the door and found Dom’s hair and gripped and his hips bucked forward and Dom took it. All of it. Every involuntary thrust, every desperate grip, every sound that poured from Rafe’s mouth as Dom worked him with a devotion that was less technique than worship.
Dom pulled back. Slowly. The drag of his lips, the suction, the way his tongue worked the underside — each inch a deliberate act. He pulled off completely. Looked up at Rafe with swollen, wet lips and streaming eyes and absolute determination.
“Again,” Rafe gasped.
Dom took him again. Deeper. Faster. He’d found a rhythm — not mechanical but instinctive, reading every sound, adjusting in real time. When Rafe’s thighs shook, he slowed. When Rafe’s breath came in sharp bursts, he pressed deeper. When Rafe’s fingers tightened in his hair, he sucked harder and the sound Rafe made in response was a raw, guttural vocalization that bounced off the cabin walls.
Dom pulled off. Stroked Rafe with his hand — once, twice, keeping him on the edge. His other hand moved from Rafe’s hip to his thigh, pushing it wider, and then lower, fingers trailing behind Rafe’s balls to the sensitive skin of his perineum, pressing, and Rafe’s hips bucked so hard he nearly came off the door.
“Turn around,” Dom said.
“What?”
“Turn around. Hands on the door.”
Rafe turned. Pressed his palms flat against the pine. His forehead against the wood. His back arched, his ass presented, the position raw and exposed.
Dom’s hands gripped his cheeks. Spread them. And then Dom’s mouth was on him — not on his cock, not on his thigh, but on him, tongue flat and wet and hot against his hole, and Rafe’s entire body seized.
“Fuck — Dom — oh my God — ”
Dom didn’t respond. His mouth was occupied. He licked — long, slow, deliberate strokes, the flat of his tongue dragging from Rafe’s perineum to his tailbone and back, and each pass made Rafe’s legs shake harder. He pointed his tongue. Pressed against the center. The tight muscle resisted and then yielded and Dom’s tongue pushed inside and Rafe shouted — actually shouted, the sound tearing from his throat, his fingers scraping against the door, his hips pushing back against Dom’s face.
This was new. They hadn’t done this. In twelve days of escalating intimacy they’d used hands and mouths and fingers and cocks, but this — Dom on his knees behind Rafe, tongue working inside him, hands spreading him open, the absolute surrender of a man who had spent his life being useful and was now applying that ethic to the most intimate act of service Rafe could imagine — this was new.
Dom ate him out with the same focused, meticulous precision he brought to a restoration project. He mapped the responses. Tongue flat — Rafe’s breathing accelerated. Tongue pointed and pressing — Rafe’s legs shook. Tongue circling the rim — Rafe’s hands fisted against the door. Tongue pushing inside while his thumb pressed against the perineum — Rafe made a sound that wasn’t language anymore.
“I can’t — I’m going to — Dom, if you don’t stop — ”
Dom didn’t stop. He reached between Rafe’s legs and wrapped his hand around Rafe’s cock and stroked — fast, tight, in rhythm with his tongue — and Rafe came so hard his vision went black. The orgasm ripped through him from the inside out, his cock pulsing in Dom’s fist, his body clenching around Dom’s tongue, his voice breaking into fragments that echoed off the cabin walls.
He slid down the door. Legs gone. He ended up on the floor with his back against the pine and Dom kneeling between his legs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking at Rafe with equal parts pride and hunger.
“Where,” Rafe said, when his vocal cords reconnected, “did you learn to do that?”
“I didn’t learn it. I wanted to do it. So I did it.”
“Twelve days ago you’d never kissed a man. Now you’re — ”
“Now I’m paying attention to what makes you come the hardest.” Dom’s voice was calm. Matter-of-fact. The voice of a man stating an engineering principle. “The answer, based on available data, is my tongue inside you. I’ll make a note.”
Rafe laughed. Helpless, wrecked. He grabbed Dom’s face with both hands and kissed him — tasting himself on Dom’s mouth, tasting the lake, tasting desire and absolute commitment.
“Your turn,” Rafe said against his lips. “Get on the bed.”
Dom lay on his back. Arms above his head. The lamp casting amber light across his body — the broad chest, the gray hair, the thick stomach, the scars. His cock was rigid against his stomach, flushed dark, leaking steadily. He’d been hard since he dropped to his knees and hadn’t been touched.
Rafe climbed over him. Straddled his thighs. Looked down at the man beneath him and felt the full scope of what they’d built in twelve days.
“Tell me what you need,” Rafe said.
“You.”
“More specific.”
“I want you inside me.” Dom’s voice was wrecked. “On my back. Like this. Where I can see your face.”
“You’re incredible,” Rafe said. “Do you know that? The fact that you just said that — out loud, looking at me — is the hottest thing that’s happened in this cabin. And I say that as a man who was just bent over a door.”
Dom’s ears went red. The blush that Rafe had weaponized and adored.
Rafe opened him with his fingers. Slowly. Two fingers, slicked, working him with patient thoroughness. Dom’s hands gripped the headboard — the pine frame creaking under his grip — and his back arched and his legs spread wider and the sounds he made filled the cabin.
“You’re so good,” Rafe murmured. He curled his fingers. Found the spot. Dom’s entire body jolted. “The way you open for me. The way your body responds. Nothing about you is too much.”
He added a third finger. Dom’s breathing fragmented — short, sharp bursts, the control failing, the involuntary sounds escaping.
“Don’t hold them in,” Rafe said. “I want every sound. Don’t swallow them for me.”
Dom stopped swallowing them. The sounds that poured out were raw and broken — groans and gasps and fragments of Rafe’s name and wordless articulations of pleasure. His body moved with Rafe’s fingers — hips rolling, thighs trembling, the massive frame reduced to a shaking, wanting, surrendering thing.
“Now,” Dom said. “Rafe — now. Please.”
Rafe positioned himself. Pressed in. Slowly. Inch by inch. The tight heat surrounding him, the muscle yielding by increments, the visceral intimacy of being inside someone who had spent forty-eight years keeping the world at arm’s length.
Dom’s hands left the headboard. Found Rafe’s hips. Held — the way Dom held everything he valued. Firmly. Carefully.
“Move,” Dom said. “For God’s sake, Rafe, move.”
Rafe moved. Deep, slow strokes. Each one pressing against the place inside Dom that made his back arch and his vision blur. He watched everything — the way Dom’s chest heaved, the way his stomach muscles clenched and released, the way his cock bounced against his stomach with every thrust, the way his eyes tried to close and then opened because he wanted to watch Rafe the way Rafe was watching him.
“You feel incredible,” Rafe said. His own voice fracturing. “The way you take me — tight and hot and — fuck, Dom, you’re perfect.”
Dom’s hand found the back of Rafe’s neck. Pulled him down. Kissed him while Rafe fucked him — sloppy, graceless, desperate. They breathed each other’s air and moved together with a rhythm that was past performance and into something deeper.
“I’m close,” Dom gasped. “I’m going to — without — I don’t need — ”
“Let go. I’ve got you. I always have you.”
Dom came untouched. The orgasm bowed his spine off the mattress, his cock pulsing between their bodies, thick ropes across his stomach and chest, his voice breaking on Rafe’s name. His body clenched around Rafe — rhythmic, involuntary, devastating — and Rafe lasted exactly three strokes before his own orgasm tore through him, burying himself deep, coming inside Dom with a cry that was half-laugh and half-sob.
They lay in the wreckage. The cabin. The quilt. The pine headboard with fresh grip marks.
Rafe’s face was pressed into the curve of Dom’s neck. Dom’s arm was around him. Their legs were intertwined. Their skin was sticky with sweat and lake water and each other.
Dom’s hand moved to his phone on the nightstand. Rafe heard the faint tap of a screen.
“What are you doing?” Rafe murmured.
“Deleting something.”
“Deleting what?”
Dom set the phone down. Pulled Rafe closer. Pressed his mouth to the top of Rafe’s head.
“The countdown,” he said.
“The thirty-day countdown?”
“I don’t need it anymore.”
Rafe lifted his head. In the yellow light, Dom’s face was open in a way Rafe had never seen — unguarded, unstructured, the blueprint abandoned, the building standing on its own.
“When did you know?” Rafe whispered.
“Tonight. On the dock. When I looked at you in the moonlight and the word in my head wasn’t friend.”
“What was the word?”
Dom kissed him. Slow. Thorough. With the particular, devastating patience of a man who built things to last and was now building the most important thing he’d ever attempted — not a table, not a house, not a bar, but a kiss that communicated everything he wasn’t ready to say with his voice.
He didn’t say the word. Not yet. But Rafe felt it in the kiss — in the way Dom held his face like it was the most important surface his hands had ever touched.
Eighteen more days on the clock.
Dom had already stopped counting.
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