The Rooftop Agreement

The rooftop smelled like wet concrete and city heat. I’d only been at Sterling & Associates for three weeks when Elena called me up here, her heels clicking on the gravel like a countdown.

She stood at the edge, back to me, the skyline of downtown bleeding orange and pink behind her. Forty stories up, and I was already dizzy.

“You’re good, Marcus,” she said without turning. “Your briefs are clean. Your research is solid.”

I waited. The wind tugged at my tie.

“But you’re nervous around me. I can smell it.”

I opened my mouth, closed it. She turned, and the sunset hit her face — sharp cheekbones, dark hair pulled back so tight it looked painful, lips painted the color of wine. She was wearing a charcoal skirt suit, jacket open, white blouse unbuttoned one too many.

“I’m not nervous,” I said.

She smiled. It wasn’t kind.

“Good. Because I don’t fuck nervous men.”

The words hung in the air between us, heavy and electric. My pulse hammered in my throat.

“Elena…”

“Ms. Vance,” she corrected, stepping closer. “You haven’t earned first names yet.”

She stopped inches away. I could smell her perfume — something floral and sharp, like jasmine and gin. Her eyes dropped to my mouth.

“But you can earn it tonight.”

She reached out and grabbed my tie, pulled me forward. Her mouth found mine, hard and impatient, teeth catching my lower lip. I gasped against her, and she swallowed the sound.

Her hand slid down, palming my cock through my trousers. I was already hard, straining against the zipper.

“That’s what I thought,” she murmured.

She pushed me backward until my spine hit the low wall at the roof’s edge. The city sprawled below us, tiny cars and distant sirens. Anyone could look up. Anyone could see.

“Undo your pants,” she said.

I fumbled with the button. She watched, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. When I finally got my zipper down, my cock sprang out, thick and aching. The night air hit the tip, and I shuddered.

She licked her palm, slow and deliberate, then wrapped her fingers around me. Her grip was firm, professional. She stroked once, twice, watching my face.

“You like being told what to do, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I breathed.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Ms. Vance.”

She smiled, and it was sharp enough to cut glass. “Good boy.”

She dropped to her knees on the gravel, not caring about the grit or her expensive skirt. She leaned in, and her tongue traced the vein on the underside of my cock, from base to tip. I gripped the wall behind me, knuckles white.

“You taste nervous too,” she said, her breath hot on my skin. “But I can work with that.”

She took me in her mouth — all the way, no hesitation. My hips bucked, and she grabbed my ass with both hands, holding me steady. Her throat relaxed around the head, and she hummed, a low satisfied sound that vibrated through my entire body.

“Fuck,” I hissed.

She pulled back, lips wet, eyes dark. “Not yet. Turn around.”

I obeyed. The gravel bit into my palms as I braced against the wall. She kicked my feet apart, then her hands were on my hips, guiding me back. Her skirt rustled, and I heard the tear of a zipper.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” she said, her voice low and rough. “A man who can actually think before he speaks. A man who follows orders.”

The head of something — her fingers, then the tip of her — pressed against my ass. I tensed.

“Relax,” she whispered. “I’m in charge.”

She pushed inside. I gasped, the sensation sharp and foreign and burning. She paused, letting me adjust, her nails digging into my hips.

“Breathe,” she said.

I did. She pushed deeper, and the pain melted into something else — fullness, heat, submission. She started to move, slow at first, then faster, her breath ragged behind me.

“That’s it,” she moaned. “Take it. Take all of it.”

The city lights blurred below us. Her rhythm grew erratic, her grip tighter. She leaned over my back, her mouth against my ear.

“I’m going to come,” she said, “and you’re going to stay inside me until I tell you to move.”

She did, a sharp cry swallowed by the wind, her body clenching around me. I held still, trembling, every muscle screaming.

After a long moment, she pulled out. She turned me around, pushed me to my knees, and opened her mouth.

“Now finish.”

I came on her tongue, her lips, her chin — thick and hot. She swallowed, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and stood.

She smoothed her skirt, buttoned her blouse.

“Back to work tomorrow, Marcus. And don’t be late.”

She walked to the door, heels clicking on the gravel. At the threshold, she paused.

“And Marcus? You can call me Elena.”

She was gone before I could answer. I stayed on my knees, breathless, the city glittering below me, the taste of her still on my lips.