Content Note
Adults only. This is fictional workplace erotica intended for readers 18+. Contains sexual tension, power dynamics, and explicit themes in future installments.
Reminder! This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of my imagination or are used in a made-up way. Any likeness to real people, living or dead, or actual events is totally coincidental.

© 2013 - 2026 adrian272727

Anatolia Vale

The morning after, we wake to the sound of hard rain battering against the bedroom window. We murmur sweet nothings after we exchange brief kisses, slowly easing ourselves back to the world of the living. I can’t speak for Cassian, but I had the most peaceful dreams, the remains of which keep my body glued to the warm sheets and my head pressed to the soft pillow. Just a few more minutes…

Cassian is the first to stir. He removes his arm from under me, then whispers he’s going to brew coffee. He says he’ll give me some time to wake up, and he’ll bring me a mug when it’s ready.

My back feels cold. He held me the entire night and through the morning.

Was it the right decision? To invite him over last night?

The memory of us pressed against the door flits through my mind, moans, skin against skin, my wet curls sticking to my neck, and I can barely get a breath as nerves pulses through my body. I press the palm of my hand over my pussy.

I groan. Something like a humming sensation passes over my body. My hand under the sheets, I slip my fingers inside my panties and play with my clit.

The bedroom door creaks open, and the coffee’s nutty aroma fills the room.

I freeze.

I should stop. I draw in air between my teeth as I get more excited. I need more.

Cassian places the steaming mug down on the bedside table atop the ceramic coaster. He kneels on the hardwood floor, meeting me at eye level. He places a kiss on my forehead.

I don’t know what makes me do it, but I bring my fingers to his lips.

“Suck,” I command.

He moistens his lips with his tongue, then takes my hand, and I don’t pull away as I watch him draw my fingers into his mouth.

He sucks on them one at a time, and I pant against the pleasurable shivers running through me, making me melt into him.

A strained gasp escapes me. He removes my fingers, and I stare at his mouth.

He stands, rising from the floor.

Then, plants a kiss on my parted lips—surprising me.

“Join me in the shower, after you finish your coffee.” He gives me a sly wink, then pulls off his white t-shirt, exposing his bare chest. After last night, I’ve seen all of him.

I can’t help but admire his lean muscular build. The bedside lamp casts a warm light against his light-tan complexion, softening the harsher contours of his broad shoulders and toned pecs. And although he has defined upper abs, he also has softer lower ones. Yesterday, after some evening wine, Cassian admitted he rowed competitively through college but was forced to quit after back surgery left him in physical rehab for months. But he still has incredibly strong back muscles; they remind me of an oak tree’s thick roots. I love knowing he could save me, that he has the strength to pick me up and put me over his shoulder. But we can also eat ice cream together without him lecturing about some stupid diet. Or worse, casually mentioning a gym workout “to burn off the calories”.

Ugh. I’ve had enough of those kinds of men in my life. I want peace. Clarity. Security. I want a man who can take care of me, while also respecting my space. A man who can bring me coffee in the morning without making me guilty, that I’m not doing enough for him, or whatever.

Cassian trusts me. Even with the funeral coming up, he still trusts me. Even though, I haven’t told him everything-everything. Yet. I just want to keep things how they are now.

Please don’t run away. Please, Cassian. I’m not some wounded woman still grieving her dead lover; I hated my ex. But Preston and I struggled with similar demons. We were both fentanyl users. It was only after I found him that I finally got the courage to get clean. I didn’t answer the phone when he called that night, and regardless of if were broken up already, I still feel guilty, like I’m responsible for his death.

I can hear the shower running, but just barely over the rain drops pelting the glass. It’s still pouring outside.

After shower sex, I’ll tell him everything. And then, I can hold onto that memory in case he leaves. Does that make me a bad person?

I’m scared that this funeral is asking too much of him, that this will be the only story of us.

I’m scared because I know, deep down, that this feeling won’t go away unless he knows the full story. I owe it to him, even if he does decide to leave.

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After Hours: Part 5