Hard Night on a Houston Rooftop

The rooftop gym on Dallas Street sat empty after ten, Houston wet and loud under the glass. I had closed the kitchen at nine and come up smelling like grill smoke, hoping the iron would knock the double out of my shoulders. The attendant had left the door on the latch. I was mid-set on the rows when the stairwell banged and a man walked in built like he had outgrown every shirt he owned.

Dean Calder, pipeline welder out of Midland, renting two floors down for six weeks. I knew the name from the locker tag. Thirty-one, somebody had said, and it sat easy on him: chest like a slab, arms veined and thick, a work tan cut off hard at the sleeve. Sweat had already gone dark at his collar.

He dropped his bag and looked at me like I was the next thing on a work order.

- You the chef from downstairs?

- Matt. Yeah. You Dean?

- That's me. Always this dead up here?

- After ten. Sense stays downstairs.

He grinned and peeled his shirt off. Dense pecs, a stomach carved by labor, a dark line of hair into his shorts. I missed my last catch. He did not pretend he had missed it.

- Eyes up, chef. Or don't. I ain't shy.

I racked the bar. Thirty-four, broad from stock pots and dawn lifts, thick through the chest and ass, not his kind of cut but enough to fill a doorway. He looked me over the same slow way, like the looking was already half the point.

- You got another hour?

- I got whatever you got.

We trained quiet after that. His hands settled on my ribs when the last bench rep shook, callused and hot. I spotted him and smelled salt and iron while a horn came up off the ship channel and the skyline burned past the glass.

He sat up heaving and jerked his chin at the outdoor rinse, a concrete stall past the sliders with a rain head and a half wall.

- I'm cooked. You coming?

I followed him into the thick night. He kicked his shoes off, hit the cold water, and stood there until his shorts clung to every line I had been trying not to study. I stepped under. The shock ripped a gasp out of me. He laughed low and bumped his chest to mine, wet on wet.

- Been on you since the rows. You doing something, or we going home liars?

I got a hand on the back of his neck and kissed him.

His mouth opened hungry, no show in it. He tasted like heat and the iron of a long day. His hands hauled me in until our cocks, both hard under soaked cotton, pressed and dragged. The half wall hid us from the street. The gym door had swung shut. Nobody else was coming up.

He shoved my shorts down and wrapped a fist around me, rough and steady, stroking while his tongue worked my mouth. I got his waistband past his hips and took the weight of him, thick and hot, the head already slick in my palm. We worked each other under the rain head, hips rolling, water beating our shoulders, his body a furnace against the cold concrete.

He bit the meat of my chest and sucked a nipple until my knees went soft. I pushed him to the wall and went down on the wet pad. His cock curved up heavy, a vein standing along the shaft. I took him in, lips stretched, tongue flat, and the sound that left him was nothing but air.

I worked him deep, one hand on a thigh that jumped, the other rolling his balls, tight and full. He gripped my wet hair and held, hips giving short thrusts I swallowed until spit ran down my chin into the drain. I licked the underside, mouthed the head, tasted salt under the city water, then took him again until his stomach clenched.

He hauled me up, spun me, and put my chest to the tile. His cock rode the cleft of my ass, hot and blunt. A packet tore, the one he had tucked in his shoe, and then two slick fingers opened me, pressure that burned and then gave. I pushed back. He added a third, curled, found the spot that made my cock jump, and worked it until I rocked on his hand.

The fingers left and the head of him pressed in, thick, asking with nothing but weight. I bore down. He sank in slow, a long fill that stole my breath and handed it back hotter. When his hips met me he stayed buried, one arm barred across my chest, a fist around my cock, and held while I opened around the stretch. Water ran our backs.

He moved. Long strokes first, almost out and then deep enough that I felt him in my gut. Then shorter, harder, the wet slap of us loud in the stall. I met every thrust, greedy for the drag. His hand stroked in time, callus catching, thumb smearing the slick at my tip. His mouth stayed at my ear, breath broken, no words left.

I came first, sudden and hard, spilling over his fist and the tile, clenching so tight his rhythm broke. He fucked me through it, pace gone, then drove deep and stayed, pulsing hard, the condom hot and full between us, that big body locking and shuddering against my back. We hung there joined, water gone warm, his forehead between my shoulder blades, the skyline burning over us.