The rooftop was loud and the city was louder. You meant to grab the lemonade pitcher near the railing. The glass in your hand smelled different — sweet, floral, faintly herbal. You drank it anyway because the host was watching. The skyline flickered behind her. Your shoes felt too big. You set the empty glass on the rail and laughed at nothing.
Heat moved up your spine first. Your collar pulled the wrong way. You looked down and your chest crowded the buttons of the borrowed jacket. Your scalp tingled. A strand of purple hair fell across your jaw. The railing was suddenly too high. Someone said a name and you almost answered. The pleated skirt — when had you put on a skirt — brushed your thighs.
Your shoes had been too big. Now your feet filled small heels you did not remember stepping into. The jacket buttons strained. Your hips pushed into the pleated skirt until the fabric stopped fighting you. A breath came out higher than your last one. You licked your lip and tasted gloss. Your shoulders had drawn in. The breeze caught your hair and a pink streak crossed your cheek. The railing reflection wasn't yours. You smiled at it because it smiled first.
"I don't know you." You turned to the voice. "You're a friend of a friend," the man said. He wore a suit, but his tie was loose. "But I don't know your name." He was handsome. His dark eyes were deep.
"I don't remember mine." Your voice rose like a question. You had never spoken before. "I'm Jason." He smiled. "Can I get you a drink?" You glanced at the glass in your hand. "Not that one," he said. "That one's mine."
***
He gave you a different drink. The bartender knew his name. Jason kept his hand at the small of your back through the crowd. He steered you toward a glass alcove off the kitchen. The door clicked. The city kept burning behind the window. He set your glass down on a low shelf. Your knees wanted to bend. You let them.
He turned you by the elbow and you went. His mouth was wet, his lips soft and his stubble rough. He kissed you like he was trying to memorize you. His fingers slipped under the hem of your skirt and hooked your panties. He pulled the fabric down over your hips. His tongue was in your mouth. His hands slid up under the jacket. You reached for his fly and the zipper came down. "I'm going to fuck you now," he said, and his voice was different. He lifted you onto the shelf and spread your knees. You felt air on your skin and his hands on your thighs.
His cock pressed into you and it was hot and thick, and your body opened around him without asking you. You heard your own voice — high, not yours, then yours — say something soft. He moved. The shelf creaked under you. The city kept burning behind the glass.
Your gaze caught in the window, but you weren't looking out. Your eyes had only him. And you weren't really in them anymore. You felt the old shape of you thin out and the new one settle. A name you used to answer to drifted off somewhere and didn't come back. "Oh." You moaned. You kissed him. "You're mine," he whispered. You said yes in your new voice. The lights burned on.