Chapter 36: Enzo eats Alma's ass with filthy precision, his nose buried between her cheeks as she writhes against his mouth. When she comes screaming, he flips her around and shoves his cock down her throat instead, fucking her face with brutal thrusts while the plane shakes - 'Swallow it all, puta, or I'll cum in that tight ass next'
The Gulfstream’s engines hummed a monotonous, lulling song at 40,000 feet. Enzo sat near the front, a financial report glowing on his tablet, but the numbers blurred. All he could see was the back of Alma’s head three rows behind him, her dark curls resting against the seat as she reviewed Sergio’s Monaco press schedule. The memory of her, spent and trembling in his arms just hours before dawn, was a live wire under his skin.
Sergio was passed out across a row of seats, a sleep mask covering his eyes, snoring softly. The cabin was a tomb of recycled air and muted light.
Then the plane dropped.
It wasn't a gentle dip. It was a sudden, violent sink that shoved Enzo’s stomach into his throat. The report slid off his tablet. A muffled curse came from the cockpit. The seatbelt sign chimed urgently.
Another jolt hit, a sharp, sideways lurch that sent Alma, who had been standing to fetch a file, stumbling into the aisle. She flung out a hand, grabbing for support. She found Enzo’s shoulder. The next turbulence tossed her backward, her balance lost. She fell against him, her back to his front, her soft, round ass landing squarely in his lap, grinding against the sudden, hard swell of his cock.
He didn’t think. His arms locked around her waist, holding her there as the plane shuddered. For three long, breathless seconds, she was molded against him. He could feel every curve through her thin wool skirt, the heat of her even through his trousers. Her scent—jasmine and something uniquely hers—flooded his senses.
The plane steadied. The captain’s voice came on, calm and smooth, apologizing for the rough patch of air. The seatbelt sign remained on.
Alma tried to stand, her cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry, I—”
Enzo’s hand clamped over her mouth, his other arm a steel band across her stomach. He leaned close, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice a low, dangerous growl only she could hear. “Don’t. Fucking. Move.”
She froze. He was rock-hard beneath her. The thrum of the engines seemed to sync with the pulse now pounding in his groin. He looked past her, towards Sergio. The champion stirred, muttered something in Spanish, and turned over, his back to them.
It was the only opening he needed.
In one fluid motion, he stood, taking her weight with him, and marched the few steps to the aft lavatory, his body shielding hers from the rest of the cabin. He shoved the door open, pulled her inside, and locked it. The space was impossibly small, a capsule of cool, mirrored surfaces.
He spun her around, pinning her between his body and the sink. His hands were on her face, tilting it up, his kiss brutal and consuming. It was all tongue and teeth and the furious, silent energy that had been crackling between them since London. She kissed him back just as hungrily, her hands fisting in his shirt.
He broke away, breathing hard. His eyes burned down at her. Without a word, he turned her roughly, bending her over the vanity. Her palms flattened against the cold marble. Her reflection stared back, eyes wide and dark with lust.
His hands pushed her skirt up, bunching the fabric around her waist. He stilled. A low, appreciative rumble escaped his chest.
No panties. Just the smooth, perfect curves of her bare ass.
“You filthy fucking girl,” he snarled, his voice thick with arousal. One calloused hand came down on her exposed cheek, a sharp, stinging slap that made her gasp and push back against him. “You planned this. Sitting there all prim, knowing you had nothing on under this skirt.”
“I didn’t—” she started, but his fingers were already digging into her flesh, spreading her cheeks apart, exposing her completely to the cool air and his predatory gaze.
“Bullshit.” He leaned down, his breath hot against her most intimate skin. “This wet, greedy little cunt says otherwise.” He traced a single, blunt finger through her slick folds, gathering the evidence, and she moaned, her forehead dropping to her arms. “Already soaked for me. And this…” His thumb pressed against the tight, pink furl of her asshole, making her jolt. “You remember how that felt, don’t you? My tongue on this perfect, tight hole.”
Before she could answer, he did it. He spread her wider and lowered his mouth, bypassing her dripping cunt entirely to spear his tongue directly into her ass.
The noise she made was half-shocked gasp, half-raw pleasure. It was an obscene, wet, filthy violation. He licked her there with a fervent, focused intensity, his tongue stiff and probing, fucking into that forbidden entrance with shallow, relentless strokes. The sensation was overwhelming—degrading, intimate, shockingly pleasurable. Her knees trembled. A string of incoherent syllables, a mix of Arabic and French, fell from her lips.
“Quiet,” he grunted against her skin, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. He ate her ass like a starved man, lavishing attention on the tight ring of muscle, then broad, wet strokes down to her dripping slit, tasting her there before returning to his obsessive target. The sounds were lewd, amplified in the tiny space. He was marking her, claiming her in the most primal way he knew.
When she was panting and quivering, on the absolute edge, he pulled back. He unzipped his trousers, freed his cock, thick and veined and leaking. He rubbed the slick head through her wetness, coating himself, then pressed not against her waiting entrance, but against the tight, saliva-slicked pucker he’d just been devouring.
“Enzo,” she breathed, a note of real fear threading through the want.
“Shhh,” he murmured, the sound almost tender. He leaned over her, blanketing her body with his, his chest to her back. He kissed her shoulder, her neck, a stark contrast to the brutal intent of his hips. “I know. I know it’s tight. Just relax for me. Let me in.”
He pushed, a slow, inexorable pressure. It burned, a sharp, stretching ache that made her cry out softly into her arm. He didn’t stop. He kept pushing, inch by torturous, incredible inch, until he was fully sheathed inside that impossibly tight, clenching heat. They both groaned, a ragged duet of shared sensation. He was buried to the hilt in her ass, his balls tight against her.
“Christ, Alma,” he choked out, his face buried in her hair. “You’re so fucking tight. Like a vise.”
He waited, letting her adjust, his body trembling with the effort of his control. He rocked his hips, a minuscule movement that made her whimper. Then he began to move.
It was a slow, deep, punishing rhythm. Each drag out was almost as intense as each thrust in, the friction unbelievable. He fucked her ass with a solemn, focused intensity, his hands moving to cover hers on the counter, lacing their fingers together. It was rough, it was raw, but it was laced with that newfound tenderness, a profound intimacy in the very act of violation.
“You take me so well,” he rasped, his lips at her ear. “This perfect ass was made for my cock. Tell me you feel it. Tell me who you belong to.”
“You,” she gasped, her body yielding, opening for him, the initial pain melting into a deep, full, overwhelming pleasure. “Enzo. God, please…”
“Please what?”
“Harder. Please, harder.”
He obeyed, his pace increasing, his thrusts becoming sharper, deeper. The vanity rattled against the wall with their force. His breathing was ragged in her ear. One hand let go of hers and snaked around her hip, his fingers finding her swollen clit. He rubbed tight, frantic circles as he pistoned into her ass.
The dual assault was too much. Her orgasm ripped through her silently, a seismic shock that clamped her around him, milking his cock inside that intense, clenching channel. Her scream was muffled against her own arm.
It shattered his control. With a guttural groan, he drove into her one last time, his body stiffening, and emptied himself deep inside her. The heat of his release seemed to scorch her from the inside. He collapsed over her, his weight a welcome anchor as they both fought for breath in the vibrating, humming silence of the lavatory.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing fogging the mirror. Slowly, he softened and slipped from her body. He reached for a towel, wet it with warm water from the tap, and gently cleaned her, his touch now utterly reverent. He tucked himself away, watching her in the mirror as she slowly straightened, wincing slightly.
Their eyes met in the glass. Hers were dazed, sated, vulnerable. His were dark, possessive, but soft at the edges.
He turned her around and pulled her into a deep, slow kiss, tasting himself on her lips. “My brave, filthy girl,” he whispered against her mouth.
A sharp knock on the door made them jump apart.
“Alma? You in there? I need that contract summary before we land.” Sergio’s voice, annoyed and sleep-roughened, was just on the other side of the flimsy door.
Enzo’s eyes flashed with warning. He put a finger to his lips.
Alma cleared her throat, her voice remarkably steady. “Just a moment, Sergio. Be right out.”
She looked at Enzo, a wild, secret gleam in her eye. Quickly, she smoothed her skirt, ran her fingers through her curls. Enzo did the same, straightening his shirt, his expression already shifting back to its usual impenetrable mask.
He unlocked the door, opened it just enough to slip out, and was back in his seat, tablet in hand, before Sergio had even turned around. Alma exited a full minute later, the picture of composed professionalism, a file folder in her hands.
“Here you are,” she said, handing the papers to Sergio. As she passed Enzo’s seat, her fingertips, light as a ghost’s touch, brushed across the back of his neck.
He didn’t look up from his screen. But the muscle in his jaw ticked, and a faint, possessive smile touched his lips before it was gone. The plane sailed on through the calm night, its passengers carrying their secrets across the black Atlantic.
The plane sailed on through the calm night, its passengers carrying their secrets across the black Atlantic.
Enzo stared at the financial report without seeing a single digit. The ghost of her heat still clung to his skin, a phantom warmth layered over the memory of her tightness. He could still taste her. Every quiet rustle from her seat behind him was a distraction, a hook in his flesh. Sergio’s soft snores filled the cabin. The attendant was secured up front. They were alone in a bubble of darkness and engine whine.
He couldn’t focus. It was a foreign, infuriating sensation.
He unbuckled his belt with a sharp click. He walked to the galley, pretending to need water. As he passed her, his knuckles brushed her bare shoulder. A simple, deliberate point of contact. He didn’t look down.
“Galley. Now,” he murmured, the words so low they were almost inaudible.
He heard the subtle release of her seatbelt a moment later. He stood at the small counter, pouring mineral water into a crystal glass, waiting. She appeared beside him, leaning against the fridge, her arms crossed. The pose was professional, but her eyes were black pools in the dim light.
“Is there an issue with the Monaco logistics?” she asked, her voice perfectly calibrated for any listening ears.
“Yes.” He set the glass down. It made a solid thunk on the countertop. He turned to her, crowding her into the corner where the shelves met the wall. “The issue is I can still feel your cunt clenching around my cock from five hours ago. The issue is I just fucked your ass in a bathroom and I want to do it again.”
Her breath hitched. A faint tremor ran through her crossed arms.
“We can’t,” she whispered, but her gaze dropped to his mouth.
“We can.” He brought his hand up, not touching her, just hovering beside her jaw. “Sergio’s dead to the world. We have twenty minutes of night left.” He leaned in, his lips a millimeter from her ear. “I want you on your knees. Here. I want to come down your throat so you taste what I left inside you.”
A low whimper escaped her. She uncrossed her arms, her resolve visibly crumbling. Her hands went to his belt.
“Wait.” He caught her wrists, his grip firm. The sudden seriousness in his voice stilled her. This wasn't about lust anymore. It was about possession, clear and territorial. “This stops with anyone else. Everything stops. You look at no one else. You think of no one else. You don’t let another man’s shadow fall on you.”
He searched her face, his expression granite.
“Do you understand what I’m saying, Salma? You are mine. Exclusively. In every way. Or this ends the second this plane lands.”
The use of her real name, not ‘Alma’, struck her like a physical blow. It stripped away every professional pretense. This was not her boss negotiating. This was a man laying claim.
There was no hesitation. Her eyes locked on his, blazing with a ferocity that mirrored his own. “There is no one else,” she said, the words rushing out, fervent and sure. “There hasn’t been. There won’t be. I’m yours. Only yours.”
A raw, powerful satisfaction flooded his chest, hotter than any desire. He released her wrists. “Show me.”
She sank to the galley floor without another word, the carpet dense and crisp beneath her knees. Her fingers worked his belt and zipper with efficient grace. She freed him, his cock already fully hard, jutting up from the dark thatch of hair. She didn’t tease. She took him into the wet, scorching heat of her mouth in one swift, deep swallow, her lips stretching into a tight ‘O’ around his girth.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his head thumping back against the overhead cabinet.
She began to move, her technique a devastating blend of reverence and obscenity. She sucked him with deep, hollow-cheeked pulls, her tongue plastering flat against his sensitive underside on each upward stroke. One hand cupped and gently squeezed his balls. The other reached between her own legs, under her skirt, and he watched the muscles in her arm work as she fucked herself with her own fingers, matching the rhythm of her mouth.
The visual was utterly debasing. It destroyed him. His hand tangled in her curls, not guiding, just holding on.
“You greedy slut,” he breathed, looking down at her worshipful face. “Sucking my cock while you finger that pretty cunt. You’re so fucking perfect for me.”
She moaned around him, the vibration travelling straight to his spine. Her eyes were glassy with pleasure, looking up at him, accepting every filthy word as praise. She increased her pace, bobbing fiercely, saliva slicking the length of him, dripping down onto her hand. The obscene, wet sounds of her mouth on him filled the silent galley.
He felt the primal surge build, a tightening at the base of his cock, a heat coiling in his gut. “I’m going to come. You’re going to swallow every fucking drop. You’re going to taste it and remember who owns this throat.”
She doubled her efforts, a frantic, hungry mess, her fingers working furiously between her own legs. Her muffled cries vibrated against his flesh.
It tipped him over. With a choked-off roar, he came, jetting hot pulses of semen straight down her throat. She swallowed convulsively, her throat working around him, taking everything he gave her. Her own orgasm followed, silent and shaking, her body trembling against his legs as she milked him with her mouth until he was soft and spent.
She cleaned him with her tongue, tenderly, before tucking him away and fastening his trousers. She stayed on her knees for a moment, resting her forehead against his thigh, breathing heavily.
He hauled her up, his hands framing her face. He kissed her, deep and searching, tasting himself on her tongue. It was a seal.
“Good,” he said, the single word carrying the weight of a vow. He smoothed her hair, straightened the collar of her blouse. “Now go sit down.”
She walked back to her seat on slightly unsteady legs. Enzo remained in the galley, finishing his water, watching the first faint smear of dawn bleed into the black horizon. The contract was signed. The territory was marked. A deep, quiet fear cold