After Hours with the Boss

I'd been working at Sterling & Associates for three years before Daniel Hayes became my boss. He transferred in from the London office to head our department—tall, sharp-featured, with steel-gray eyes that seemed to see right through you, and the kind of British accent that made even mundane quarterly reports sound important. At forty-two, he was ten years my senior, and he carried himself with the kind of quiet confidence that came from years of closing deals worth millions.

He was also openly gay, which was refreshing in the conservative world of corporate finance. And he was exactly my type, which was decidedly less refreshing.

The first time we met, he'd called me into his corner office on the forty-second floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city, and his desk was positioned to command both the room and the skyline beyond. Everything about the space spoke of power, control, precision. He'd stood when I entered—old-fashioned manners, I'd learn, were very much his style—and shook my hand with a grip that was firm without being aggressive.

"Michael Bennett," he'd said, not a question. "I've been reviewing your work on the Hastings account. Impressive."

Those two words had sent an absurd thrill through me. I was thirty-two years old, a senior analyst with a stellar track record, and I'd felt like a schoolboy praised by his teacher. It should have been my first warning sign.

For six months, I maintained perfect professionalism. I attended meetings where I absolutely did not notice the way his suit jacket stretched across his shoulders when he reached to write on the whiteboard. I delivered reports where I absolutely did not let my eyes linger on his hands as he turned pages—long fingers, elegant, with a silver ring on his right hand that he'd spin when he was thinking. I worked late when needed, traveled for client meetings, and absolutely did not replay his rare words of praise on repeat in my mind like some kind of pathetic soundtrack.

I was a model employee. A model of repressed desire, maybe, but a model nonetheless.

But God, it was torture. The stolen glances across conference rooms during presentations. The brush of his hand against mine when we both reached for the same document. The way he'd lean over my desk to look at my computer screen, close enough that I could smell his cologne—something expensive and understated, with notes of sandalwood and citrus. The casual "well done, Michael" that made my name sound like something precious.

I told myself it was one-sided. He was my boss. He was professional. The fact that he happened to be gay and devastatingly attractive was irrelevant. I was projecting, seeing what I wanted to see in his occasional lingering looks, the way his eyes would track me when I moved around the office.

Then there was the incident at the company dinner three months into his tenure. A major client had just signed, and Daniel had taken the team out to celebrate at an upscale steakhouse downtown. Wine had flowed freely, and I'd found myself seated next to him at the end of the table. Our thighs had pressed together in the crowded booth, and neither of us had moved away.

"You did excellent work on this one, Michael," he'd said quietly, leaning close so I could hear him over the noise of the restaurant. His breath had ghosted across my ear, raising goosebumps on my neck. "I know Martinez took credit in the presentation, but I know it was your analysis that sealed the deal."

"Just doing my job," I'd managed to say, hyperaware of every point where our bodies touched.

"You're very good at your job." His hand had landed on my knee under the table, just for a moment, fingers pressing through the fabric of my trousers. Then it was gone, and he was turning to respond to someone else's comment, leaving me breathless and confused.

After that, the tension became unbearable. Every interaction felt charged. Every meeting was an exercise in restraint. I'd catch him watching me, and when our eyes met, there was something there—heat, want, frustration. But he never crossed the line. He was the consummate professional, always proper, always appropriate.

It was driving me insane.

The night everything changed started like any other late evening at the office. We had a major pitch the next morning—the kind that could make or break the quarter, a potential thirty-million-dollar account that would put us ahead of our rivals. The presentation had to be perfect. The entire team had stayed until eight, but by nine, most had drifted home to their families, their lives outside these glass and steel walls. By ten, it was just Daniel and me, the glow of computer screens, and the distant hum of the cleaning crew several floors down.

I'd loosened my tie and rolled up my sleeves, my jacket draped over my chair. My eyes burned from staring at financial projections, and I'd lost count of how many coffees I'd consumed. I was deep in a spreadsheet when I sensed rather than heard him in my doorway.

"Bennett," Daniel said, and I looked up to find him leaning against the frame. He'd shed his jacket too, and loosened his tie, and rolled up his sleeves to reveal surprisingly muscular forearms dusted with dark hair. His usually perfectly combed hair was slightly disheveled, as though he'd been running his hands through it. He looked... human. Accessible. Dangerously attractive.

"Have you eaten?" he asked.

"Not since lunch," I admitted, realizing suddenly that my stomach was growling.

"Neither have I. I've ordered Thai. Should be here in twenty minutes. Join me in my office when it arrives?"

It wasn't unusual—we'd shared working dinners before, always professional, always focused on the task at hand. But something about the way he said it tonight, something about the weight of his gaze and the late hour and the empty office, made my pulse quicken.

"Sure," I said, proud that my voice came out steady.

When the food arrived, I gathered my notes and headed to his corner office. The city sprawled below us, all glittering lights and distant traffic, alive and pulsing even at this hour. Daniel had set up the food on his small conference table and was pouring wine—actual wine, from a bottle of very expensive-looking Merlot that he apparently kept in his credenza for occasions like this.

"Merlot okay?" he asked, holding up a glass.

"Perfect."

We ate and worked, going over the pitch one more time, refining arguments and anticipating objections. The wine relaxed us both, smoothing the edges of the professional distance we usually maintained. Soon the conversation drifted from work to other things. His time in London, the culture shock of moving to New York. My disastrous attempt at learning to golf to fit in with the partners. The shared experience of being gay in an industry that wasn't always welcoming, the careful calculations about what to reveal and what to keep private.

"Can I ask you something personal?" Daniel said, refilling my glass. We were on our second bottle now, though neither of us was drunk—just pleasantly warm, guards lowered.

"Within reason," I said, curious.

He smiled at that, a rare full smile that transformed his usually stern face into something boyish and appealing. "Are you seeing anyone?"

The question caught me completely off guard. We'd never discussed our personal lives beyond the most superficial details. I knew he wasn't married, that he lived alone in a condo in Chelsea, that he ran marathons and collected first editions of detective novels. But we'd never talked about relationships, about dating, about anything that might acknowledge we were both single gay men who worked in close proximity.

"No," I said carefully, setting down my wine glass. "Not for a while. You?"

"No." He swirled his wine, not meeting my eyes. "Hard to maintain relationships when you work hours like ours. Never seem to have time for the apps, for dates, for the whole exhausting dance of it all."

"I know what you mean."

"Can I tell you something, Bennett?" His voice had dropped lower, more intimate.

"Michael," I said, emboldened by wine and late hour and the way he was looking at me. "If we're having a personal conversation, you should probably call me Michael."

"Michael." He said it like he was trying it on for size, like he'd been wanting to say it this way for a long time. "I've been trying very hard to be professional with you."

My heart started pounding so hard I was certain he could hear it across the table. "And?"

"And I'm finding it increasingly difficult." Now he did meet my eyes, and the heat there made my breath catch in my throat. "I'm your boss. There are policies, ethical considerations, power dynamics to consider. All of which I've been using to talk myself out of doing what I want to do."

I could barely breathe. "What do you want to do?"

He set down his wine glass with careful precision and stood, moving around the table with predatory grace until he was standing directly in front of me. I had to tilt my head back to look up at him, and the position put me at a disadvantage that sent a thrill straight through me.

"I want to kiss you," he said, his voice rough. "I've wanted to kiss you for months. Since that first meeting, if I'm being honest. Every time you walk into a room, every time you present to clients with that brilliant mind of yours, every time you bite your lip when you're concentrating on a problem. But only if that's something you want too. And only if you understand that whatever you decide, right now, it won't affect your position here. I'm not that kind of man. If you want to leave, we'll finish this pitch tomorrow and never speak of this again."

"I know you're not that kind of man," I said, standing up, putting us face to face, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. "And I want it too. God, I've wanted it too. I thought I was going crazy, imagining things that weren't there."

"You weren't imagining anything," he said, and then he was kissing me.

He kissed me like a man who'd been holding back for a long time and had finally let go. His hands came up to cup my face, angling my head to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine with confident skill. He tasted like wine and something spicier, and he kissed with an intensity that made my knees weak and my hands clutch at his shoulders for balance.

When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against mine. "We should probably discuss this," he murmured against my mouth. "Set ground rules, talk about how to navigate this professionally, what it means—"

"Later," I said, pulling him back to me. "We can discuss it later."

He groaned, and the sound went straight to my core, pooling heat low in my belly. "You're going to be trouble, aren't you?"

"Is that a problem?"

"Not even slightly."

He walked me backward until I hit his massive mahogany desk, then lifted me onto it easily, his hands gripping my thighs. Papers scattered—tomorrow's pitch, carefully organized documents—and neither of us cared. He stepped between my legs, and I wrapped them around his waist, pulling him closer, grinding against him and feeling his hardness against mine.

His mouth moved to my neck, sucking and biting in ways that were definitely going to leave marks I'd have to hide tomorrow. I didn't care. I tangled my fingers in his hair—softer than I'd imagined, and I'd imagined it a lot—and held on as he kissed his way down to my collar bone.

"I've thought about this," he said between kisses, his accent thicker with arousal. "You, on my desk, looking exactly like this. Flushed and wanting and mine."

"Glad I could fulfill the fantasy," I managed to say, then gasped as he bit down on my pulse point.

He laughed, low and warm, and started working on my buttons. His movements were efficient but reverent—Daniel Hayes did nothing by halves—and soon my shirt was open, pushed off my shoulders, his mouth trailing down my chest. He paused at my nipples, circling each with his tongue, then biting gently, making me arch and moan.

I returned the favor, eager to finally see what was under those perfectly tailored Savile Row suits I'd been fantasizing about. The reality exceeded expectations: a runner's body, lean and strong, with a light dusting of dark hair on his chest that trailed down in a line into his trousers. A small tattoo on his ribs—Latin, I'd ask about it later—and a scar on his shoulder. Every detail was something new to learn, to memorize, to explore.

"God, you're gorgeous," I breathed, running my hands over him, mapping muscle and warm skin.

"Look who's talking." His hands went to my belt, fingers working the buckle with practiced ease. "May I?"

The fact that he was asking, that even in this moment he was checking for consent, made me want him even more. "Please. God, please."

He undid my belt and trousers with practiced ease, pushing them down along with my briefs, freeing my erection with a satisfied sound. "I've imagined this too," he said, wrapping one elegant hand around me and stroking slowly, his thumb swiping across the tip. "Exactly how you'd look, how you'd feel, what sounds you'd make."

"What else have you imagined?" I asked, barely able to form words as he stroked me with maddening precision.

Instead of answering, he dropped to his knees.

The sight alone—Daniel Hayes, my proper British boss, kneeling between my legs on his expensive office carpet, looking up at me with dark eyes full of want—was almost enough to undo me. Then his mouth was on me, and I had to grip the edge of the desk to stay grounded, to keep from floating away on the wave of pleasure.

He was skilled, clearly experienced, reading my reactions and adjusting accordingly. When I got too close, he'd slow down, drawing it out, making me desperate. When I begged—actually begged, pride abandoned—he took pity and increased the pace, taking me deeper, swallowing around me in a way that made stars burst behind my eyes.

"I'm going to—" I warned, trying to pull back, but he held me firm.

He didn't pull away. He took me over the edge, swallowing everything, and didn't stop until I was shaking and oversensitive and boneless against his desk.

"That was..." I couldn't find words, couldn't form coherent thoughts beyond the aftershocks still coursing through me.

"I've been wanting to do that for six months." He stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a gesture that was somehow both crude and elegant. "Worth the wait."

"Your turn," I said, sliding off the desk on shaky legs and reaching for his trousers.

He caught my hands, stilling them. "You don't have to—"

"I want to. Let me." I looked up at him, seeing the control starting to slip, seeing the want he was barely holding back. "Please, Daniel. Let me make you feel good."

He groaned and released my hands. "When you ask like that, how can I refuse?"

I slid onto my knees, reversing our positions, the expensive carpet plush beneath me. He watched me with dark eyes as I undid his belt, popped the button, lowered the zipper. I took my time, wanting to savor this, wanting to draw it out the way he had for me. When I finally freed his cock—impressive, flushed, already leaking at the tip—I looked up to meet his eyes before taking him in my mouth.

The groan that tore from his throat was the most gratifying sound I'd ever heard. I took my time, wanting to make it good for him, wanting to hear more of those sounds. I'd been dreaming about this for six months too, after all, imagining what he'd taste like, how he'd feel, what it would be like to reduce this controlled, powerful man to desperate need.

Every lick, every suck, every time I took him deep and swallowed around him—it was the fulfillment of a hundred fantasies. His hands tangled in my hair, not forcing but guiding, and I loved the weight of them, the evidence of his control slipping.

"Michael," he groaned, my name a prayer and a warning. "I'm close—"

I didn't pull away, just looked up at him and took him deeper, wanting all of him, wanting this intimacy, this trust. He came with a groan that echoed off the glass walls, his hands fisted in my hair, his hips jerking. I swallowed every drop, gentle as he softened, then released him with a final kiss to his hip.

After, we sat on his leather couch, disheveled and satisfied. He'd pulled me against his side, one arm around my shoulders, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt this content, this perfectly right in my skin. The city glittered below us, oblivious to the line we'd just crossed, the risk we'd just taken.

"So," he said eventually, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my shoulder. "We should probably talk now."

"Probably," I agreed, though I was comfortable enough that I could have stayed like this forever.

"I want to see you again. Outside of work. Properly. Dinner, dates, the whole thing." He tilted my chin up to look at him. "This wasn't just pent-up desire or a moment of weakness. I meant what I said—I've wanted this, wanted you, for months. I want to know if this could be something real."

"I'd like that," I said, my heart swelling with something that felt dangerously like hope. "I want that too."

"We'll need to be discreet, at least until we figure out what this is," he continued, ever practical. "HR would have opinions about our... situation. The power dynamics, the potential for conflict of interest. We'd need to be careful."

"Agreed. I don't want to jeopardize either of our careers."

"And Michael?" He kissed me softly—so different from the hungry kisses of earlier, but just as meaningful, just as affecting. "This wasn't a one-time thing. Not for me. I want you to know that. I'm not the type for casual encounters, especially not with people who work for me. This... you... it means something."

"It wasn't for me either," I said, kissing him back. "I don't do this. I don't sleep with my boss, I don't take risks like this. But you... you're different. This is different."

"Good. Then we'll figure out the rest. Together."

And we did. We dated secretly for three months, stolen dinners at restaurants far from the office, weekends at his apartment where we could be ourselves without worrying about who might see. We were careful, discreet, professional at work. No one suspected a thing.

When a position opened up in the mergers and acquisitions department—a lateral move, not a demotion, but it would remove the direct reporting relationship—I applied. I got it on my own merit, went through the same rigorous interview process as everyone else. Daniel recused himself from the decision entirely. But we both knew it was necessary, the right thing to do.

Once I was in my new position, we were able to be more open about it. Started having lunch together, arriving at company events together, not hiding the fact that we spent our weekends together. The gossip mill churned for a while, but it died down when it became clear we were serious, that this wasn't a scandal but a relationship.

These days, we don't have to sneak around anymore. We moved in together last year to his place—our place now—a beautiful condo with floor-to-ceiling windows that remind me of his office. He still stays late sometimes, working on deals, chasing down clients. But now I'm the one waiting for him at home, dinner ready, a glass of wine poured.

Sometimes, though, I'll stop by with dinner on those late nights, when the office has emptied out and it's just him and the city lights. And sometimes, when I set the takeout containers on that same conference table, when he looks at me with those same heated eyes, when he asks "lock the door?"—well.

Some habits are worth keeping. Some fantasies are worth revisiting. And some risks, taken in the right moment with the right person, are worth everything.