🔥 Sunday Morning 🔥

Thank You for Reading! 💙

You made it to the bonus content — which means you’ve survived the glass walls, the eighteen-inch gap, the desk that will never be just a desk, the conference room on thirty-eight, the hotel suite, the toothbrush, the peonies, and a man who said I love you three times in a kitchen because once wasn’t enough and twice wasn’t real and three was the number where the architecture finally held.

⚠️ CONTENT WARNING: This bonus chapter contains extremely explicit MM content including: extended morning sex, praise kink, body worship, rimming, multiple positions, possessive language, emotional vulnerability, and Adrian Cross learning to make breakfast. For mature readers only.

Sunday Morning

Adrian’s POV — The morning after the dinner at Lilia

The light is different on Sundays.

Not the quality — the city doesn’t change its wattage based on the day of the week. The angle is the same, the warmth is the same, the way it falls across the bed through the south-facing windows and turns the white sheets into something luminous is exactly the same as every other morning I’ve spent in this apartment. But my relationship to the light has changed, because my relationship to the mornings has changed, because my relationship to the man lying in my bed has changed, and the change makes the light feel like it’s arriving for the first time.

Liam is on his stomach. Face turned toward me, one arm tucked under the pillow, the sheet riding low across his lower back, exposing the long canvas of his spine and the dimples above his ass that I bit last night and plan to bite again. His hair is catastrophic. His breathing is slow. His mouth is slightly open, and the sight of him — asleep, unguarded, occupying my bed with the casual permanence of a man who has stopped asking permission to stay because the permission has been given in every language I know — makes my chest do the thing it does now. The expanding thing. The thing that used to be constriction and is now something else.

Love. The word I said three times in the kitchen. The word that gets easier every time I use it, like a muscle I didn’t know I had, atrophied from thirty-eight years of disuse, now firing with the desperate, joyful energy of a system coming back online.

I don’t wake him with words. I wake him with my mouth.

I start at the base of his neck. A press of lips against the knob of his C7 vertebra — the one that becomes visible when he lowers his head, the one I have kissed in offices and hotel rooms and the particular darkness of 3 AM, but never like this. Never in sunlight. Never with the leisure of a man who has nowhere to be and no one to hide from and an entire Sunday stretching ahead like a country he’s never visited.

He stirs. A small sound — not awake, not asleep, the liminal murmur of a body being called back from wherever it goes at night. I continue down. Kissing each vertebra. Counting them with my lips the way a man might count rosary beads, each one a prayer in the religion I’m building from scratch.

His shoulder blades. The flat planes of muscle that shift under my mouth when he breathes. The sensitive skin between his ribs, where my tongue draws a line that makes him arch into the mattress with a sound that is almost a word and almost my name.

Lower. The small of his back, where the sheet is draped across him like an invitation. I push the sheet down. He’s naked underneath — we slept naked, which is new, which is a Sunday morning innovation, which is the kind of casual intimacy that used to terrify me and now feels as natural as the light through the window.

I kiss the dimples above his ass. Both of them. Pressing my mouth into the shallow indentations with a devotion that is not proportional to their anatomical significance but is entirely proportional to their effect on my cardiovascular system.

“Adrian.” His voice is muffled by the pillow, thick with sleep. “What time is it?”

“Early.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“It was true yesterday too.”

My hands spread across his lower back. Thumbs tracing the groove of his spine. I feel him wake up in stages — first the breathing changes, then the muscles engage, then the particular tension that means his body has registered what my mouth is doing and has responded accordingly. He shifts his hips against the mattress. Subtle. The instinctive motion of a man whose cock is hardening against the sheets.

I pull the sheet off entirely. He is laid out below me — the full length of him, golden in the Sunday light, every line and curve and plane available. The sight makes me hard instantly, my cock thickening against his thigh where I’m kneeling beside him.

“Roll over,” I say.

He does. Slowly. Onto his back. His cock stands hard against his stomach, the head flushed dark, already glistening. His eyes are half-lidded and green and looking at me with the expression I now recognize as his Sunday face — the face that is softer than his weekday face, the face that hasn’t been sharpened yet by coffee or professionalism.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“I’m looking.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Staring is what I did before I was allowed to touch. Looking is what I do now that I don’t have to stop.”

His expression shifts. The Sunday softness deepening into something warmer, something that says you just said the most romantic thing you’ve ever said and you didn’t even know you were doing it.

I lower my head and take him in my mouth.

No preamble. No teasing. Sunday morning oral is not about strategy — it is about generosity, about the particular pleasure of giving pleasure to someone you love when the only thing required is warmth and attention and the unhurried devotion of a mouth that has all the time in the world.

He moans. The Sunday moan. Low, sleep-roughened, a sound that vibrates through the morning air and settles into the walls of my apartment like something they were designed to hold. I work him slowly — long, deep strokes that take my time, that treat his body as the extraordinary thing it is rather than the problem to be solved it was when I was still filing desire under manageable.

His hand finds my hair. Not gripping — resting. The Sunday touch. His fingers threading through the strands with the idle, affectionate motion of a man who is being pleasured and wants to touch the person doing it, not to direct but to connect.

I pull off. He protests — a whine, Sunday-small, Sunday-honest — and I kiss my way back up his body. Stomach. Chest. The hollow of his throat where his pulse is tapping faster now.

“I’m going to make you breakfast,” I say.

His eyebrows lift. “You can’t cook.”

“I’m going to learn.”

“Adrian. You are currently between my legs with my cock wet from your mouth. This is not the time to discuss culinary ambitions.”

“I’m multitasking.”

He laughs. The Sunday laugh. The one that cracks his face open and makes the room brighter than the light already makes it. I catch the laugh with my mouth — kiss him mid-sound, swallowing the joy, tasting it.

He wraps his legs around me. Pulls me down. Our cocks align between our bodies and the friction — sleep-warm, slick with precome, the lazy, unhurried slide of skin against skin — makes us both groan into each other’s mouths.

“Inside me,” he says against my lips. “Please.”

I reach for the nightstand. Condom. Lube. The Sunday supplies, which are simply the everyday supplies, which are permanently stocked because this is what our mornings look like now and the permanence is the miracle.

I prep him with the care that has become my signature. One finger, slicked, gentle. His body opens around me with the easy responsiveness of a man whose body knows mine, whose muscles remember my touch, whose trust is not performed but structural. Two fingers. He sighs — the Sunday sigh, a sound of satisfaction and anticipation and the particular contentment of being attended to by someone who has made attending a form of devotion.

“Adrian.” His hand on my jaw. Tilting my face up. His eyes on mine. “I love you.”

“I love you,” I say back. And the saying is a Sunday thing now too — a part of the morning, like the light and the coffee and the catastrophic hair. The words have joined the routine, and the joining has not made them smaller. It has made the routine sacred.

I enter him slowly. Face to face. His legs around my waist, his arms around my neck, the full-body embrace of a man who does not want distance between any part of us. The stretch takes him and he breathes through it and the breathing is a sound I feel in my chest because our chests are pressed together and his breath is my breath and the closeness is not a position but a state of being.

I move. Sunday-slow. The pace of a man who has nowhere to be except here, inside this person, in this bed, in this light. Each thrust is complete — full, deep, the kind that makes him gasp and press his forehead against mine and whisper things I keep. Things like there and yes and God, Adrian and don’t stop and right there and I love you again, said mid-thrust, said because the pleasure is making him honest and the honesty is making me shatter.

We build slowly. The pace increases by degrees — the natural acceleration of two bodies approaching their limit together. His hips meet mine. His hands grip my shoulders. The bed moves, and the sound it makes is domestic and obscene and perfect.

He comes first. Between our bodies, my hand wrapped around him, stroking in time with my thrusts. The orgasm moves through him in a wave I can feel — in his body clenching around me, in his voice breaking on my name, in his face turning into the particular configuration that I have seen a dozen times and will never, for as long as I live, get used to.

I follow. Inside him. The word in my mouth again — love — spoken as I come, as my body empties, as the last wall falls and the last lock opens and the man I am in this bed, in this light, on this Sunday morning, is the man I will be from now on.

Not the man from Ridge Street. Not the man who took different elevators. Not the man who wrote rules on a notepad and sealed them in his pocket and broke them within twelve hours.

The man who buys peonies. Who owns a blue toothbrush that is not his. Who says I love you in the kitchen and the bedroom and the space between, where life actually happens.

The man who is going to make breakfast.

Badly.

With enthusiasm.

Thank you for reading The Boss Wants Me After Hours. If you loved Adrian and Liam, leave a review — it helps more than you know.