After Hours at Her Place — Exclusive Bonus Chapter

by Isla Wilde

⚠️ Spoiler Warning: This bonus chapter takes place six months after the events of After Hours at Her Place. Read the full novel first for maximum impact.

This scene contains explicit sexual content intended for readers 18+.

The Stockroom — Six Months Later

The SoHo pop-up was long gone.

The space had been leased to a French candle company in November, and by December, the exposed-brick walls that had held both our product lines smelled like fig and sandalwood instead of bergamot and warm amber. I’d driven past it once on the way to a meeting and felt nothing more than a pleasant nostalgia for a room that had changed my life.

But when Danielle texted me at 4 PM on a Thursday in March and said Come to Greene Street. Bring nothing. Ask no questions, I was in a cab within twelve minutes.

I found her standing outside the building. Black coat, hair down, heels that added three inches she didn’t need. She was holding a key—not the brass one to her apartment, which lived on my keyring between my car fob and the miniature serum bottle Jordan had given me as a joke. A different key. Commercial.

“What is this?” I asked.

“The property company gave me twenty-four hours to photograph the space for our partnership press kit. Something about the original location adding editorial value.”

“And I may have mentioned that the photographs would take all evening. And that we should not be disturbed.”

“You booked the pop-up,” I said.

“I reserved the pop-up. For photography purposes.”

“Did you bring a camera?”

“I brought my phone. Which has a camera. Which I have no intention of using.”

She unlocked the door. I followed her inside.

The stockroom door was in the back. Closed. Unchanged.

“You didn’t,” I said.

“I absolutely did.”

She walked to the stockroom. Opened it. The room was the same—metal shelving, fluorescent light, industrial tile. Except that someone had placed a thick blanket on the floor, two pillows against the shelving, a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket on the bottom shelf, and a second blanket folded at the edge. The cream-colored one from her apartment.

“You styled the stockroom,” I said.

“I improved it. The original version had a concrete floor and no champagne.”

“All our clauses are terrible.”

“They’re the only ones that work.”

I kissed her.

“You conceded,” she murmured against my mouth.

“I conceded nothing. I made a strategic investment in getting your clothes off faster.”

“That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Shut up and take off the coat.”

She was wearing a black silk dress underneath the coat. The high-necked kind. And underneath that—a matching black lace set with a garter belt. No stockings attached. The most uselessly decorative garment choice I’d ever seen on a woman and also the hottest.

“A garter belt,” I said. “To a stockroom.”

“The occasion is the anniversary of the best bad decision I ever made. The garter belt is festive.”

I unclasped her bra. Ran my palms over her breasts. Her nipples hardened under my thumbs and she made the sound—the unfiltered one, the one I’d unlocked in her apartment and had been collecting ever since.

I took her nipple between my lips. Sucked gently, then harder, then bit down. She gasped and arched into my mouth.

“Down,” I said.

“Are you giving me orders in a stockroom?”

“I’m giving you orders in our stockroom. Different thing.”

She lowered herself onto the blanket. I knelt between her thighs and pulled her underwear down slowly, navigating the garter straps, dragging my fingertips along her inner thighs.

She was wet. The slick shine visible on her inner thighs—the evidence of a woman who’d been planning this since 4 PM.

“How long have you been like this?” I asked.

“I was wet when I had the idea. The text was just the logistics.”

“Please,” she said. The word cost her something. It always did. Danielle Price said please the way she said I love you—rarely, deliberately, only when she meant it.

“There it is.”

I put my mouth on her.

She was swollen under my tongue. I started with the flat of my tongue—long, slow strokes from her entrance to her clit. She moaned—a sound that bounced off the metal shelving and filled the stockroom with devastating acoustics.

I slid two fingers inside her. Curled forward. Found the spot. Pressed it while my tongue maintained its slow assault on her clit. She shattered.

“Fuck—right there—don’t stop—”

I added a third finger. Fucked her slowly with three fingers while my mouth worked her clit. Her hands gripped my hair. Her thighs trembled against my shoulders. Her hips rolled with a rhythm that was primal and uncontrolled.

“Em—” Broken. Beautiful. “Em, I’m going to—”

“Let go, Danielle.”

She let go. The orgasm hit her in waves—long, full-body contractions around my fingers. She came with her back arched and my name on her lips.

I kissed the garter strap, which had survived with impressive structural integrity.

“The garter belt was a good decision.”

“I told you. Festive.”

The night isn’t over yet…