Midnight Rooftop Fuck With The Wife

I married young, and by twenty-eight I had already learned what boredom tasted like. My husband, David, had been gone for six weeks on a long-term project in Singapore. The house felt too big, the bed too cold, and the quiet nights stretched on forever. I spent my days working from home, answering emails in yoga pants, and wondering if this was all there was.

That changed the evening the carpenter arrived.

Jake pulled up in a battered pickup just as the sun was bleeding orange across the rooftops. He was thirty-two, quiet in that self-assured way some men have, with thick forearms corded from real work and a chest that strained against a plain gray T-shirt already dark with sweat. When he climbed out and looked up at the leaking roof, his jaw flexed and a slow, confident grin spread across his face. Our eyes met across the driveway. Something electric crackled between us instantly.

I stepped outside in a thin white sundress that clung to my breasts and fluttered around my thighs in the warm breeze. “You must be Jake,” I called, voice lighter than it had any right to be.

“Yes, ma’am.” His voice was low, rough like gravel under tires. “Here to fix your leaks.”

I hated being called ma’am, but the way he said it made my nipples tighten against the cotton. I brought him a cold beer ten minutes later, watching the thick column of his throat work as he drank. Droplets of condensation slid down the bottle and landed on his chest, soaking the fabric so it molded perfectly to every ridge of muscle. He caught me staring. Instead of looking away, he held my gaze and smiled again, slower this time, like he knew exactly what I was thinking.

“You always bring your contractors drinks in that dress?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his forearm.

“Only the ones who look like they could bench-press the roof,” I shot back, surprising myself with the flirtation.

His laugh was deep, genuine. For the next hour I found excuses to be outside. I brought him water, then lemonade, then more beer. Every trip up the ladder he took his time, giving me long looks at the way his jeans hugged his ass and thighs. The banter grew bolder. He told me I had dangerous eyes. I told him he had dangerous hands. By the time the sky turned deep indigo, the tension between us felt thick enough to taste.

He finished the major repairs just after eleven. I was in the kitchen pretending to read when I heard his boots on the deck. The knock on the back door made my pulse jump.

“Roof’s solid,” he said when I opened it. He’d stripped off the wet T-shirt and stood there in nothing but worn jeans and work boots, his torso gleaming with sweat under the porch light. Broad shoulders, defined pecs, a trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband. I wanted to run my tongue along every inch of it.

“Want to come up and see?” he asked. His voice had dropped an octave. “Moon’s nice tonight. City lights look pretty from up there.”

I knew what he was really asking. My nipples were already aching, and heat had pooled low in my belly hours ago. I didn’t hesitate.