Exposed on the Rooftop

I pinned Hanna’s wrists to the rooftop lounge floor, her underwear shoved aside, my jeans shoved down just enough, and drove into her in one hard thrust, no warm-up, no mercy, both of us gasping at the same second like we’d been punched. The concrete bit into her shoulder blades and I felt it too, through her — the scrape of grit under her skin every time I slammed forward and the floor refused to give an inch. Her wrists strained under my hands, tendons standing up, pulse hammering against my palms. I pressed down harder, weight braced through my knees so I could keep both her wrists caged without crushing her, and she arched into it like the restriction was the point.

Sweat slicked the space between us instantly. The night air was cool but our skin wasn’t — we were already burning, already stuck together at the chest, at the hips, her breath punching out ragged against my collarbone. City lights washed orange and white across her face, and somewhere down on the street a car horn blared, voices laughed too loud, footsteps clicked on pavement thirty floors below like nothing up here existed. That was the whole point. Nobody knew. Anybody could.

“You feel so fucking tight,” I said, dragging back and slamming in again, watching her mouth fall open with no sound coming out for a second before the moan finally tore loose. “So slick and hot. Squeezing me like you don’t want me to pull out.”

She didn’t answer with words. Her hips bucked up hard, meeting me stroke for stroke, her whole body straining against the pin on her wrists like she wanted them free just so she could claw at my back. I held tighter instead, knees planted wide on the concrete to keep my own balance while my hands stayed locked around her wrists. Ground my hips into her at the bottom of every thrust so she felt all of me, not just the friction. The wet sound between her legs got louder, filthy, unmistakable even over the noise drifting up from the street, and that sound alone nearly undid me right there on the concrete.

“Someone’s gonna hear that,” I said against her jaw, breath ragged. “Gonna hear exactly what you sound like taking my cock.”

She made a noise low in her throat, not a word, just need, and rolled her hips up harder like she wanted the risk, wanted to be heard. Her heels dug into the concrete on either side of me, her tailbone scraping raw against the ground with every drive of my hips, and I didn’t slow down for it. Neither did she.

I broke first — let go of her wrists, pulled out of her fast, both of us groaning at the sudden emptiness, and hauled her up off the concrete by the hips before either of our bodies could catch up to what was happening. She stumbled forward against me, skin sliding against sweat-damp skin, and I walked her the four steps to the couch with my hand fisted in her hair, guiding, not asking.

I bent her over the arm of it. Her palms hit the cushion, knees found the edge, ass tilted up into the cool night air while I stood behind her for one long second doing nothing but looking — at the wet mess between her thighs catching the light, at her back arched and waiting, empty and exposed with the whole skyline behind her like a backdrop for exactly this. She pushed back toward me, impatient, and I gripped her hip hard enough to still her.

“Not yet,” I said. “Stay there.”

Then I drove back into her in one motion, no warning, and she cried out loud enough that a voice on the street below actually paused mid-laugh. I didn’t stop. The couch cushion gave under her knees, softer than the concrete but the angle was different now, deeper, and I felt her cunt grip me tighter from this position, tighter than the floor, snug and burning around every inch.

“Perfect,” I growled, hips slamming into her ass hard enough to rock the whole couch frame. “This cunt was built to take me like this. So wet. So goddamn ready every single time.”

She pushed back to meet me, and this time words came out — broken, half-formed. “God — right there — don’t stop —” Her fingers dug into the cushion, knuckles white, and I felt the shake starting low in her thighs already, felt her getting close just from the couch-edge angle alone.

But I wasn’t done moving her. I gripped her waist and pulled her upright without pulling out, her back arching to stay impaled on me as she rose, the drag of it dragging a strangled sound out of both of us at once — the shift in angle as she straightened, my cock sliding deeper for half a second before settling, her spine curving back against my chest. Her hand left the cushion and shot out to brace against the couch back, fingers splayed, and I got my arm locked around her ribs to hold her steady while my other hand clamped back onto her hip.

Now we were standing. Fully exposed, both of us upright and visible over the low glass railing if anyone across the street bothered to look up, her body trembling against mine as I found the rhythm again, slower first, feeling the new angle, then faster, harder, until the sound of skin slapping skin cut clean through the night air.

“You take me so deep like this,” I said, mouth against her ear, voice wrecked. “So slick. So perfect. Clenching every damn time I bottom out in you.”

Her body jerked with each thrust, cunt pulsing wet and tight around me, and the sounds coming out of her weren’t words anymore — just broken vowels, gasps that hitched every time I drove all the way in. Her head fell back against my shoulder. Her hand left the couch back and found my forearm across her ribs instead, gripping it, nails biting in.

“You hear how wet you are for me?” I said, thrusting harder, the drag and slap of it obscene in the open air. “Whole street could hear this cunt taking me.”

“Don’t — don’t stop —” she gasped, voice cracking apart, hips grinding back to meet me at an angle that had her whole body shuddering. “Please — right there — I’m so —”

I drove into her faster, relentless, one hand sliding down to press against her hip bone and pull her into every stroke, the two of us moving in one hard rhythm now with no pretense of control left in either of us.

“Mads —”

It ripped out of her raw, cracked down the middle, and it landed like a fist to the base of my spine. We’d never said names. Not once, not through any of this, some unspoken rule neither of us had agreed to out loud — and hearing mine break out of her like that, involuntary, wrecked, hit harder than anything her body had done to me all night.

“Say it again,” I snarled, slamming into her, no rhythm left, just force.

“Mads — I’m coming — Mads —”

Her climax hit like a current running through both of us at once, her cunt clamping down so hard around me I lost the next stroke entirely, just buried and held there as she shook, her hand releasing my forearm and flying back to grip the couch back again as her knees buckled, my arm around her ribs the only other thing keeping her upright, her voice breaking apart into nothing but my name over and over against the open sky.

Hearing it undid me. I drove in one last time, deep, and came hard, pulse after pulse, my forehead dropping to her shoulder blade, her name still the last thing ringing between us instead of the silence we’d kept for months.

Neither of us said anything after. I pulled out slow, and she flinched at the loss, folding forward over the couch back to catch her breath, both hands braced white-knuckled against it now, the city noise below completely unaware of what had just carried out over the railing. Somebody could’ve heard every second of it. We both knew it. Neither of us mentioned the name either — not yet, not with our clothes still half off and the rooftop door thirty feet away and unlocked.