Rooftop Confession Claims Her Ass

The warm night air clung to the rooftop like a second skin as Colette slipped through the heavy door, her heels clicking softly on the gravel. City lights stretched out below in glittering ribbons, the hum of traffic a distant pulse. She had texted Sullivan an hour ago—I need to confess something. Meet me on the roof.—and now he stood waiting near the low parapet, broad shoulders outlined against the glow, arms crossed over his work shirt still smelling faintly of oil and sweat from the day.

Twenty-eight and the building’s superintendent, Sullivan had been shamelessly trading looks with her for months in the lobby, the elevator, the laundry room. Twenty-four-year-old Colette had felt every one of those looks land low in her belly. Tonight the electric tension snapped tight the second their eyes met.

“You came,” she said, voice low.

“You said confess.” His gaze dragged over her short dress, the way the fabric clung to her hips. “Talk.”