Show Me How to Kiss You (Naughty After Hours, Book 12)
Preorder Now for release on 3/26/26
He shouldn’t want her.
She refuses to want him.
But some temptations don’t take no for an answer.
Summer Gentry rebuilt her life from the ground up—raising two daughters, building a career, and locking her heart behind walls no man will ever breach again. She doesn’t do messy. She doesn’t do reckless. And she definitely doesn’t do workplace complications.
Then Knox Turner walks into her office.
All lean muscle. Wicked smile. Dangerous eyes that linger just a second too long.
He’s confident. Controlled. Off-limits.
And from their very first charged glance, the tension between them is undeniable.
The night Knox accidentally overhears Summer in the middle of a very intimate phone call she never meant anyone to hear, he discovers the woman she keeps hidden—the one with secret fantasies and a hunger she’s denied for far too long.
Now those late-night whispers are meant for him.
His voice is low. Commanding. Addictive.
And with every private call, he tempts her closer to the edge.
But fantasy is safe in the dark. Real life isn’t.
Because if their secret ever comes to light, they could lose everything—her hard-won stability, his reputation, and the fragile trust growing between them.
And this time, walking away might break them both.
Show Me How to Kiss You is a steamy, slow-burn forbidden office romance featuring a strong single mom, a confident alpha hero, secret late-night tension, and explicit open-door scenes with explosive chemistry and a guaranteed HEA.
Perfect for readers who love:
✔ Steamy workplace romance
✔ Single mom heroines
✔ Forbidden attraction
✔ Slow-burn tension with payoff
✔ Grown-up characters with real-world stakes
For more about the characters you’ll meet in Show Me How to Kiss You, be sure to check out the crossover series Love After Hours!
Preorder Now for 3/26/26 Release!
What Readers Are Saying about Naughty After Hours:
Excerpt!
This excerpt contains explicit sexual content
Show Me How to Kiss You
© 2026 Jasmine Haynes
Chapter One
“I can’t right now, Paul. I’m at work.” Summer Gentry tapped an earbud to turn up the volume on Paul’s soft voice.
“It’s ten o’clock on a perfect May night. We should be having sex under the stars,” he said.
Paul wasn’t her boyfriend. She wouldn’t even call him a lover. They were… friends with benefits. Love didn’t have anything to do with it.
“Why are you working so late?” he wanted to know.
“Because it’s Friday and month-end, and I’ve only had this job for three months, as you well know.”
Summer looked around her nicely appointed office. It wasn’t huge—not like an exec’s office—but big enough for a small conference table as well as two chairs on the opposite side of her desk. Plus bookshelves and filing cabinets because even in the digital age, she still had to file hard copies. This job at West Coast Manufacturing had been one more step up the corporate ladder for her, though she’d known nothing about the company’s product, thin film coatings, until she’d applied for the position.
“You’re a customer service manager, Summer. You should have grunts doing all the heavy lifting at month-end.”
Summer sighed. “I need to be completely solid on the month-end process.” Her whole team had worked late—they always did at month-end. But the clerks in the shipping department had everything entered and updated by six o’clock, and all the invoices had been generated by seven. And that was as long as she’d been prepared to hold her employees at work on a Friday night.
“You’re too much of a perfectionist,” Paul complained. They’d worked together for three years at a previous company.
She huffed out a laugh. “And you should complain about that?”
Paul had actually been her boss. Now they were… friends. That job had ended three years ago, and they’d started dating after she’d moved on to another company. And after her divorce. The dating thing—the relationship thing—hadn’t worked out. But the sex between them had. Now they were each other’s booty call.
Relationships didn’t mesh well with Summer’s career goals. She’d planned to be a VP by now, but at forty-five, her career trajectory was way behind. She’d had her two girls when she was twenty-five and twenty-seven, and she’d chosen to be a stay-at-home mom until Cara was fourteen and Fallon was twelve. Okay, not exactly chosen. Everett, her ex, had pushed and pushed until she’d finally agreed. Still, she was glad to have had those years with her daughters.
But just as she’d thought, when she returned to the workforce, men failed to understand the skills a mother learned, time management, organization, even employee relations. While she should have been at least a director or higher at her age, she was still a manager.
Summer had to admit, though, that she was a perfectionist, and she wanted this job to go well.
Paul was laughing. “I admire your dedication. I just don’t like when it interferes with my sex life.”
She laughed with him. “Well, excuse me.” They could only manage an in-person get-together every couple of months, if that. They both lived busy lives, and she was even busier now, learning the ropes at West Coast. The girls were in university, Fallon having started her freshman year at Cal Poly last fall, where Cara also attended, now a junior. Her daughters were close, and Summer felt good they had each other’s backs down in San Luis Obispo, a good three hours or more from her home in Silicon Valley.
“All right,” Paul said, mischief in his voice. “Then tell me one of your stories so I can get off.”
She laughed, clapping a hand over her mouth because the sound was too loud in the empty office area outside her door. She was the only one left. Holt Montgomery and Ruby Williams had gone hours ago. The CEO and his secretary Ruby—who was also his wife—always left together. If Holt had a meeting, Ruby stayed late to attend him. The other VPs were gone too. Spence Benedict, her boss, in Marketing had a newborn he had to get home to. While they were all dedicated to West Coast, they had lives too.
Unlike Summer, whose work was her only life right now.
But it was ten o’clock on a Friday night, and the admin building was as quiet as a mouse. The invoicing clerks had long since stopped inputting, the quality guys had long since stopped qualifying; the shipping guys had long since stopped shipping. Even the coating machines in manufacturing, located in another building, would now be still.
A little phone sex might be just the ticket. It would take the edge off for Paul, and for her. She’d be halfway there, ready to finish things on her own when she got home. A hot little orgasm, even solo, would send her off to dreamland.
“All right,” she said. “What story do you want tonight?”
She could have gotten up to close her office door, but it wasn’t as if she would do any touching now—she was just talking. Besides, there was no one out there to overhear.
“Tell me a club story. You’re so good at the club stories.”
She laughed, throaty and sexy. Paul always said she had a good phone voice. “Okay, and it’s not just any club. It’s a sex club. We’re dressed to the nines. You’ve got on a gorgeous tux, and I’m wearing a short, flirty red dress. The hem flares out, and as I get out of the car, I flash you—because what’s the point in wearing panties to the club?”
“And I find out in the car just how ready you are,” Paul added. She was the storyteller, but he liked to add his own little touches, pun intended.
“We head to the bar,” she went on. “It’s always nice to start out there, relax, check out the scene, because stuff starts happening up in that bar. We order a couple of drinks.”
“What do you see?”
That’s what this was all about—the things Summer would describe in exquisite detail for Paul. And it wasn’t a description of the bar he cared about.
“Look at those two couples over there.” She pointed even if Paul couldn’t see. “They’re not just playing strip poker, they’re playing sex poker. We can see anything and everything here at the club. One of the women cries out and slaps her cards down.” Summer slapped her hand on her desk for a sound effect. “She’s in extremely good shape, very attractive.”
“Deliciously big tits a man can suck on.”
Paul had always liked Summer’s breasts. She was what her mother had called buxom, with a curvy figure she exercised into submission, especially now that she was forty-five and easily put on weight if she didn’t watch it. Thank goodness she enjoyed exercising.
Even while she was thinking, she continued Paul’s story. “The buxom blonde jumps up, and one of the men at the table pushes back. Right there, while we’re watching—and everyone in the bar can watch—she drops to her knees between his spread legs and unzips him. He reaches out to squeeze those luscious breasts in his palms.”
Paul’s breath came faster now and he added, “She’s wearing an almost see-through lace bra and her nipples are hard.” He liked to add the things he needed for his fantasy if she hadn’t already mentioned them.
“She unzips him and takes his cock out. And you and I just stare because he’s huge. Then she goes down on him. Maybe he’s her husband, maybe not, but she devours him until he tangles his fingers in her hair and sets the rhythm he likes, closing his eyes, head falling back, a low growl rumbling out. Just when he starts to quiver, the rest of the group chatter, ‘Don’t let him come yet—we’ve got all night. Make him wait.’ And the woman backs off. Much to our chagrin.”
Paul groaned and spoke for the teased man, “‘Shit, I could come later too. I can go more than once.’ And one of the other women laughs, and says, ‘Yeah, right.’”
Summer chuckled. “That must be his wife. And they keep playing, another round, another shriek as one of the women loses—or maybe she’s winning.”
“What does she have to do?” Oh, Paul was anxious, the rhythmic catch in his breath telling Summer that he was stroking his cock to the sound of her voice and the workings of her dirty mind.
“She gets down on her knees too, this time right in front of the woman who was sucking cock. She gently pushes up the naughty little cocktail dress the woman’s wearing and spreads her legs. Then she goes at her, licking, slipping her fingers inside her.”
This time Paul didn’t add anything—there was only a long, low groan. Her story was really getting to him. Paul loved woman-on-woman talk.
“She’s moaning and writhing on the chair. Then the guy who didn’t get to come calls out, ‘Hey, don’t let her come—the night’s just starting.’ And the woman manages to say, ‘But I can come as many times as I want, sweetheart.’”
“Oh, yeah, let her come.” Paul’s words now came harsh and gravelly.
And Summer, her voice low, seductive, knew just what he wanted. “She quivers and quakes, and then she comes with a loud cry, turning all the heads that weren’t already looking at her. The other woman gets up, dusting off her hands as if she’s just performed an enormous feat. She licks her lips, tasting her friend all over again.”
Paul groaned loudly. She thought about playing another hand with the wife-swapping couples, maybe making one of the men sucked cock, but this was Paul’s fantasy right now, not hers. Although she was wet, her nipples hard, and if she weren’t at work, she’d touch herself. But that would have to wait. She still had a few more tasks to complete before she could leave, so she moved the story along. “And now I turn to you. What do you want to see next? Do you want to watch me screw another man for you, my dear sweet husband?”
This was one of Paul’s favorite fantasies, letting another man take his woman.
“Yeah, you want to do some handsome guy tonight, darling?”
Now it could become her fantasy too. “I want that one.” She pointed again, as if they were really in a club and she could actually see the man she wanted. “He’s tall, with dark hair cut businessman-short—” Because she preferred short hair. “—clean-shaven—” Because she didn’t like scruffiness. “—and he has eyes the color of dark maple syrup.”
She pictured the man, knew him, though not very well. She would never date a work colleague; that could get too messy when it ended. Someone like Paul worked for her, someone who could say, Yeah, let’s screw the relationship and just have sex—really good sex.
But there was no reason she couldn’t fantasize about that very handsome man.
“I signal him with just my eyes, and that’s the only invitation needed. Then I grab your hand and take you to my favorite room—the cocktail room.” She didn’t need to describe it for Paul since they’d used this fantasy before in various forms. “And that gorgeous, hunky VP type follows us because he’s caught my scent. He just knows my husband likes to watch. I find an empty sofa in the cocktail room and do the Sharon Stone thing—crossing and re-crossing my legs so he can see how ready I am. What do you think he’s going to do with my flirty little red dress? Just flip it up and fuck me?” She gave the word extra emphasis.
Paul growled, a ferocious, feral sound. “Let him fuck you good.”
She gave Paul what he wanted. Maybe tonight, alone in her bed, she’d create her own story about her fantasy man, but for now she said, “And that gorgeous man comes down between my legs and says, ‘Do you need to know my name?’ And I say, ‘No real names. Let’s just call you… Knox.’” It sounded like a made-up name on the spur of the moment, and Paul would never guess she actually knew the man. And Summer wanted to imagine him.
She felt all the moisture pull low. Oh yes, this would be a really good fantasy. “You watch raptly as he unzips—he doesn’t even unbuckle, just pulls his cock out, and it’s huge and thick. You watch, all gaga, as he frees it. He’s long and thick, just the way we both like it.”
Paul didn’t fantasize about guy-on-guy sex, but when they imagined another man taking her, he always wanted it to be a big cock, probably because he was on the smaller side. She could hear him breathing fast, harsh. He was close; it wouldn’t take much more.
“Knox is so hard. And I’m so wet.” She hissed the word on a long breath. “Then he plunges deep.” She skipped the condom part—this was fantasy. “He’s so big… and I’m so full. He moves slowly, rubbing me inside, almost all the way out again so you can see every inch except his crown still inside me. You’re salivating because you love watching your wife get fucked by another man.”
She could almost hear the beat of Paul’s fist around his cock. “He takes me with slow, short strokes that turn me mindless. It’s as if he knows exactly how I like it. It doesn’t take any time before I’m quivering from head to toe, and I forget all about you, because there’s just this gorgeous man and his big cock inside me.”
She heard her own voice growing more fervent; the tale was getting to her. “I’m almost there, a hard pulse inside me. Then it hits like a lightning bolt, straight to my center. I scream because it’s so good, so intense. He slams home the moment he feels me come, taking me hard, so hard I can’t stop coming. It goes on and on. It’s so good, so fucking good.”
Paul grunted, growled, the low rumble of his orgasm rising in his throat.
She wanted to come too—God, how badly she wanted to—but she’d never do that here at work. She wouldn’t even go to the bathroom. Work was work, and if it hadn’t been so late on a Friday night, she wouldn’t even be talking to Paul. But she loved the slow burn of sexual heat filling her up. Tonight she’d do the fantasy her way, and it would be so good.
Paul’s breathing returned to near normal. “You’re fucking amazing.”
She laughed. “Yes, I am totally amazing.”
“Okay, that exhausted me. I gotta go to bed.” Paul was an early riser; he’d be at the gym by six, even on a Saturday morning. “You’re the best, sweetheart.”
“Nighty-night,” she said sweetly, ending the call.
Her body was buzzing. She had only a few more things to check before she could leave. And God, how badly she needed to get home. Her blood was pumping hard, and she was as wet as she’d told Paul in her fantasy for him.
So she turned back to the computer screen—it had gone dark while she talked to Paul—and tapped in her security code.
The sudden knock on her open office door made her jump, her heart shooting into her throat.
And Knox Turner stood on her threshold.
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