The Escort Upstairs — Bonus Chapter

Visiting Hours — The First Morning
by Jace Wilder

An exclusive extended scene set the morning after the book launch. Too hot for Amazon. Just hot enough for you.

Visiting Hours

Nico POV

I woke up to sunlight and the smell of burnt coffee and the specific, warm weight of Evan Torres draped across my chest like a human blanket who’d lost the ability to respect personal space sometime around month two and had never recovered it.

His face was buried in the hollow of my neck. His glasses were on the nightstand — both pairs, mine and his, side by side. Panel was wedged between our ankles, purring with the mechanical intensity of a small engine.

No alarms. No booking calendar. No client texts. Just Sunday. The first Sunday of the rest of my life, and the man I loved was drooling on my collarbone.

“You’re staring,” Evan mumbled. He lifted his head, squinted without glasses. “Hi.”

“Hi. You’re here. In this bed. With no booking tonight. Or tomorrow. Or ever.” I traced his jaw. “Permanently. No checkout time.”

I kissed him. Because he was talking about making me breakfast like it was a form of love, and he was right. The kiss started soft. Then his hips shifted against mine and the softness evaporated.

I was hard. He was hard. We’d been sleeping skin-to-skin and our bodies had been having a conversation our conscious minds were only now catching up to.

“I want you,” I said. “Right now. No schedule, no clock. Just us.”

“Then have me.” Our words. Our code.

I flipped him. Settled between his thighs, ground down — slow, purposeful, our cocks aligned and sliding together with the slick heat of precome and morning sweat. I pinned his wrists loosely above his head. He arched into me, throat exposed, and the sound he made — that broken, hitched whimper that had rewired my brain on a kitchen counter — filled the room.

“I used to hear you make sounds like this through the ceiling,” I murmured against his throat. “Before we met. I’d lie awake thinking about what your face looked like when you made them.”

I slid down his body. His cock was right there — flushed, hard, slick. I took him in my mouth. Deep. No teasing. He shouted, hand flying to my hair. I worked him the way he liked — not the professional technique. The Evan way. Sloppy, hungry, consuming. His taste flooded my senses — salt and skin and warmth.

“Nico — fuck — your mouth —”

I pulled off before he could finish. “Because I want to be inside you when you come. We have all morning. All day. No clock. No checkout.”

“Better hours,” he whispered.

I prepped him slowly. Luxuriously. One finger while I kissed his neck, two while I sucked bruises into his collarbone, three while I whispered every filthy, tender thing I wanted to do to him over this infinite morning.

“I want to fuck you on every surface of this apartment. The bed first. Then the shower. Then the kitchen counter — because we started there, and I want to come back to it.”

“The neighbors can hear everything. Thin walls.”

“Then let them hear what it sounds like when it’s real.”

I pushed into him and the sound we both made could have been heard three floors down. I set a rhythm that was lazy and devastating. Long, slow strokes. For the first time in my life, time wasn’t billable. Time was just time — infinite, unmetered, ours.

“Look at me.” Our phrase. Our constant.

He looked. Brown and gold and swimming. Beautiful. Wrecked. Mine.

“I love you,” I said. For the first time with no subtext, no professional calendar casting a shadow. “I’m staying. This is my life now. You and this apartment and the cat and the succulent and every morning for the rest of whatever this is.”

“I spent eight years having sex with beautiful strangers for money, and not once did any of it feel like this. You ruined me for performance. You made me real.”

He pulled me down, kissed me desperate and uncoordinated. Our rhythm went ragged. The headboard made the noise and the apartment was full of us.

I reached between us. Stroked fast, tight. “Come for me. Because we’re here and it’s Sunday and nobody’s paying for this and nobody ever will again.”

He came with my name in his mouth and my cock inside him — seismic, devastating, the full-throated shout of a man who’d decided the thin walls could have this one. I followed him over — sudden, total, trembling, so full of love it felt like a physical condition.

“You said every surface,” Evan murmured afterward. “The counter specifically.”

“Shower first,” he said. The artist’s look was back. “Then counter. Then I’m drawing you.”

We showered together — which took longer than separately because hands kept finding hips and mouths kept finding necks. Then the counter. I bent him over it — the same counter where dessert boxes used to sit. His palms flat on the granite, back arched, my chest to his spine. He came with his face pressed against his forearm. I came thirty seconds later, the watch ticking against the counter — tick, tick, tick — counting better hours.

Afterward, he drew me. On the couch, in the Sunday light, Panel on my chest. When he turned the tablet toward me, it wasn’t Lex. It was me. Soft, tired, real. Happy in the way that happy looks when it’s not performing.

“This one goes in the folder. The private one. Just for us.”

“I love it. I love you.”

“I love you too. Now. About that breakfast.”

“You’re going to burn it.”

“Almost certainly.”

“I can’t wait.”

He kissed my temple. Went to the kitchen. And the apartment filled with the sounds of a man making breakfast badly and a cat supervising from the counter and a building settling into another ordinary, extraordinary morning.

Better hours. The best.

Thank you for reading! If you loved Nico and Evan’s story, please consider leaving a review — it helps more than you know.

Never Miss a Release

Get new release alerts, exclusive bonus content, and reader-only giveaways.