Bonus Chapter: Weight Rating
The Cabin Comes First by Jace Wilder
This bonus chapter takes place after the epilogue. Contains spoilers and explicit MM content.
The porch swing was rated for eight hundred pounds.
I knew this because I’d installed it. I’d selected the hardware — galvanized steel eye bolts, rated for dynamic load, the kind you used when you expected the thing you were hanging to move. I’d measured the ceiling joists, found the solid ones, drilled through with a spade bit, and bolted the chains with washers wide enough to distribute the stress across the grain.
Drew knew the weight rating because Drew knew every number associated with the cabin. Square footage, property tax, kilowatt-hours, thread count of the sheets, the exact price of Milo’s orthopedic bed. Numbers were how Drew organized the world, and the world, in Drew’s hands, was a very well-organized place.
I did not expect the weight rating to become relevant on a Tuesday evening in September.
He was on the swing when I came up the trail from the shoreline. Late afternoon, the light doing its amber thing. He had his laptop balanced on his knees and his reading glasses on, wearing my flannel — the green one, the one he’d claimed six months ago and never returned. The flannel was unbuttoned. Underneath it, nothing. Just his chest, the fair skin that had finally stopped burning and settled into a light tan, the auburn trail of hair below his navel. Bare feet on the porch rail. Hair still damp from an afternoon swim.
He closed the laptop. Set it on the porch rail with his glasses and his legal pad. The flannel slipped off one shoulder.
“Milo. Go inside.”
The dog sighed. Rose with arthritic dignity. Padded through the screen door with the resignation of an animal who recognized the signs.
“The swing is rated for eight hundred pounds,” Drew said.
“I know. I installed it.”
“We weigh approximately three hundred and ninety combined. That leaves a significant margin. Enough margin for dynamic load.”
“Counselor. Are you propositioning me on our porch swing using engineering terminology?”
“I’m assessing the structural capacity of a recreational installation. Whether that assessment leads to practical testing is a matter of mutual consent and adequate lubrication.”
“You’re a menace.”
“I’m your menace. There’s a distinction.”
I pulled him onto my lap. The swing rocked with the shift — his weight settling onto my thighs, his legs swinging over mine, the chains singing. He straddled me with his knees on either side of my hips, the flannel falling open. His chest. The lean muscle that a year of cabin life had layered onto his body. The freckles the sun had put across his collarbones.
He was hard. I could feel it through his pants — the thick, insistent press against my stomach. He shifted his hips and the friction made us both exhale.
“Four hours,” he said. “I’ve been sitting on this swing for four hours thinking about your cock. About how it feels inside me. About the stretch when you push in and my brain stops producing thoughts and all that’s left is you.”
I kissed him. Hard. Because Drew using his professional diction to describe wanting my cock was the single most effective aphrodisiac in the known universe.
The swing moved. When I pulled him closer, the forward arc pressed his cock against my stomach and his gasp went into my mouth. The rhythm was already building something we hadn’t started yet.
I slid both hands under the flannel. My thumbs found his nipples and pressed and his spine arched — sharp, involuntary. His hands were on my chest immediately — flat, hungry. He bit my shoulder. Not gently. The sharp pain shot through my body and landed in my cock and I groaned loud enough to echo.
My hands went to his waistband. Unbuttoned. Unzipped. I wrapped my hand around him and he was hard and hot and already wet at the tip, his cock pulsing against my palm. I stroked him slow, my thumb sweeping the head on each upstroke, spreading the slick, pressing into the slit. His hips jerked forward with the swing’s momentum, driving himself into my fist, and the sound he made scattered the starlings from the birch tree.
“Your mouth. I want your mouth on me.”
I lifted him. He stood on the swing — legs trembling, chains swaying, hands gripping the chain links above my head for balance. I pulled his pants and boxers down in one motion and his cock sprang free, hard and flushed and curving slightly toward his stomach, a bead of precome catching the amber light.
“Beck, if you don’t put your mouth on me in the next three seconds, I am going to file a formal complaint.”
I took him in.
The sound he made was raw — a shout that echoed off the porch ceiling. His hand flew to my hair, fingers tangling in the length I’d let grow because he liked having something to hold onto when his composure abandoned him.
I worked him with my tongue, my lips, my hand around the base. The swing moved beneath us and the physics were obscene. Each forward arc pushed him deeper into my mouth — a slow, inevitable slide that changed the angle and the depth. His hips moved with it, small thrusts that the swing amplified, and I relaxed my throat and let the momentum do what it wanted.
I hollowed my cheeks and sucked hard on the upswing and his knees buckled. I gripped his ass with both hands and held him there — my mouth around him, my tongue pressing the thick vein on the underside, the swing rocking us both in a rhythm that was patient and relentless and driving him out of his mind.
I pulled off. Licked a stripe from base to tip. Took the head back in and swirled my tongue while my hand stroked the shaft, and his voice came apart — half words and half worship, my name mixed with profanity mixed with helpless, gasping praise.
“I’m close — and if you don’t stop I’m going to come in your mouth and I want —”
I pulled off. Looked up. His face was wrecked — flushed, eyes glassy, lips swollen. His cock was wet and dark and straining.
“You. Inside me. Right here. Right now.”
He sat back down in my lap. He unbuckled my belt, freed me, wrapped his hand around my cock and stroked — hard, no preamble — and I groaned into his neck.
I slicked my fingers. Reached behind him. One finger in and he exhaled — a long, shuddering release. He was tight and hot and his body gripped me with a hunger that matched his voice.
“More.”
Two fingers. I curled them and found the spot that made his whole body jolt — his hips rocking back against my hand, taking my fingers deeper. The swing moved with us, the oscillation turning the prep into something rhythmic and filthy.
“Another.”
Three. He was stretched and slick and making sounds that belonged in a confession — low, continuous moans that broke into sharper cries each time I crooked my fingers against his prostate. His cock was hard against my stomach, leaking steadily.
“Now. I’m ready. I need you.”
I rolled the condom on. He positioned himself. Sank down.
The sound was mutual — a groan from both of us. He took me in slowly, inch by inch, his face a catalog of sensation — eyes squeezed shut, mouth open. The swing groaned. The chains sang. And then he was fully seated, every inch of me inside him.
He moved. He lifted using his thighs and the swing’s momentum, rising until only the head was inside him, and then gravity and the forward arc drove him back down — hard, deep. His head fell back. The shout carried across the porch and into the trees and over the lake.
He rode me. Used the swing’s momentum like a tool — because Drew used everything as a tool, including his own body, including mine. His thighs flexed as he rose, his hands gripped my shoulders as he fell, and each downstroke was deeper and harder because the swing was amplifying everything.
I gripped his hips and thrust up to meet him on the downswing. The collision made us both cry out. Every downstroke hit deep enough that I felt it in my spine, in my chest, in the places where physical pleasure became something emotional.
“You feel incredible,” I said. “The way your body takes me — the way you look when you’re full of me — open and desperate and so fucking beautiful I can’t —”
“Don’t stop talking.” He was moving faster, the rhythm losing its precision and becoming pure need.
“You’re so tight. Every time you come down I can feel you clench around me and it’s — God, Drew —”
He kissed me to taste the words. The kiss was messy, open-mouthed, both of us panting while the swing creaked and the chains held and eight hundred pounds of rated capacity earned every dollar.
I wrapped my hand around his cock. Stroked in time with his downstrokes. His rhythm stuttered and his nails dug into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
“I love you.” The words fell out of him mid-act, unplanned and undeniable. “I love you, I love you, Beck, I’m —”
He came. Hard. His body clenched around me, his cock pulsing in my hand, come striping my chest and stomach. His face — eyes open, locked on mine, watching me watch him while he fell apart. My name repeated like a litany while his body shook and the swing rocked.
The clench of his orgasm pulled me over. I thrust up hard, deep, holding his hips down as I came inside him with a shout. My vision whited. I came with my face buried in his neck, breathing him in — sweat and lake water and cedar and the man I was going to love for the rest of my life.
The swing settled. Slow, diminishing arcs. His head on my shoulder. We breathed together.
“The structural integrity held,” Drew murmured.
“Never in doubt.”
“I’m absolutely writing a case study. Dynamic Load Testing of Residential Leisure Hardware: A Bilateral Study.”
The outdoor shower was warm from the afternoon sun. I pressed him against the cedar wall. His eyes wide, his cock beginning to stir again.
“Already?” he said.
“You’re wet and naked and leaning against a wall. I have a physiological response to this scenario.”
I dropped to my knees. Took him into my mouth while the water poured over both of us, hot and relentless. I sucked him hard and fast and sloppy, the shower turning everything wet and slick, his hands braced against the wall, his hips thrusting into my mouth with an urgency that said four hours of wanting hadn’t been fully discharged on the swing.
He came again. Faster this time, his body still sensitized, his orgasm hitting in waves that made his knees buckle. I swallowed everything. Stood up and kissed him and his taste in my mouth made him groan.
He reached for me. His hand wrapped around my cock and stroked with devastating efficiency — a man who’d memorized every response my body produced and was deploying that knowledge without mercy. I came against his hip with my face in his neck and the shower running over us, and the orgasm was quiet this time — the specific satisfaction of being emptied by someone who knew exactly what to take.
We made coffee. The loon mug and the fisherman mug. Sat in the rocking chairs and watched the stars come out. All of them. Every one.
Milo appeared at the screen door. Determined that the porch was safe for civilian occupation. Assumed his position on the orthopedic bed and sighed.
“The cabin comes first,” Drew said.
“The cabin comes first.”
He reached over and took my hand. The grip I knew — firm, certain, permanent.
We stayed until the coffee went cold and the stars blurred and the only sound was the lake and the dog and the quiet, steady breathing of two men who had learned that home was not a place you bought. It was someone who asked you to stay.
Never Miss a Release
Get new release alerts, exclusive bonus content, and reader-only giveaways.