The night manager unlocked the rooftop and the secret ache in my skin.

The hotel was one of those places that looked old but smelled expensive—polished wood, fresh orange blossoms, the distant sound of fado drifting up from the street. Room 312. I was there for a solo weekend, no agenda except to forget the breakup that still stung like salt in a cut.

His name was Mateo. Night manager. Thirty-eight. Dark curls, gold skin, eyes that looked at you like they already knew your secrets.

I came down to the lobby at 1:17 a.m. because I couldn’t sleep and the minibar whiskey tasted like regret. He was behind the reception desk, sleeves rolled, reading a book in Portuguese.

“Trouble sleeping, señorita?”

“Something like that.”

He closed the book. “I could make you a tea. Or…” He let the sentence hang.

I leaned on the counter. My silk robe gaped just enough. “Or?”

He looked at my mouth. Then lower. Then back up. “I could show you the rooftop terrace. It’s closed to guests after midnight. But I have the key.”

I followed him up the narrow service stairs. The terrace was tiny—wrought iron, potted jasmine, city lights spilling across the Tagus River like molten silver.

He locked the door behind us.

Then he kissed me.

Slow. Deep. Like he had all night. Hands sliding under my robe, finding bare skin. I was naked underneath. He groaned into my mouth when he discovered it.

He backed me against the stone balustrade. Lifted one of my legs around his waist. Fingers found me wet, ready. Two slid inside while his thumb circled my clit. I bit his neck to keep from moaning too loud.

“Quiet, cariño. The neighbors might hear.”

“Let them.”

He laughed softly, wicked. Unzipped. His cock was thick, heavy, already slick at the tip. He rubbed it against me, teasing, until I was begging—actual words coming out of my mouth, “Please, Mateo, fuck me.”

He did.

Slow at first. Deep, rolling thrusts that made my eyes roll back. Then harder. The iron railing dug into my back. Jasmine scent mixed with sex. He fucked me until my thighs trembled, until I came clenching around him, whispering his name like a prayer.

He pulled out just before he finished, painted my stomach and breasts with hot ropes of cum.

We stayed there afterward, wrapped in my robe, watching the city breathe.

I checked out two days later. Left him a note with my number.

He never called.

Some nights are perfect exactly because they end.