Chapter 38: Steam billows around them as Enzo shoves Alma's face into his groin, her lips stretching around his girth while his fingers scissor inside her. 'Suck it deep,' he snarls, his other hand twisting her nipple as water cascades over them. When she gags, he pulls out just to slap his cock against her cheek. 'You'll take it all or I'll leave you here dripping.' Her whimper turns to a moan as he rams back down her throat, his fingers curling to hit that spot that makes her convulse around them.
The Monaco hotel suite still held the morning’s quiet, a sanctuary of rumpled linen and spent warmth. Alma woke before Enzo, a first. She watched the slow rise and fall of his chest in the grey dawn, the formidable architecture of his face softened in sleep. The tenderness from the night before was a living ember inside her, but with it came a restless, hungry energy. The balance had shifted again. He had cared for her, worshipped her. Now, a fierce need to reclaim a different kind of power simmered in her blood.
The race day was a controlled explosion. Sergio, fueled by a mix of fury from the botched dinner and Enzo’s strategic genius, drove like a man possessed, carving from P6 to a staggering, unlikely podium finish—second place, champagne spraying in the Mediterranean sun. The motorhome after was a vortex of shouted celebrations, backslaps, and the acrid-sweet smell of victory cigars.
Through it all, Alma navigated with a serene focus, her eyes meeting Enzo’s across the chaos with a private, knowing heat. She felt the ghost of his mouth between her legs with every step, a secret fuel.
As the chaos migrated to the team’s harborfront party, Enzo caught her elbow in a shadowed corridor. “My hotel. Suite. One hour,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. It wasn’t a question. The command was back, but it was a shared game now. She simply nodded, a flicker of defiance in her eyes.
She used the hour precisely. She dealt with a weeping publicist, diverted a rogue photographer, and ensured Sergio was safely installed as the life of his own party. Then she slipped away, the echoes of celebration fading as she entered the hushed, grand hotel.
She used the key card he’d given her. The suite was empty, silent but for the distant murmur of the port. The bathroom door was ajar, light spilling out, steam curling into the cooler air of the bedroom. The sound of running water, a hard, pelting spray.
She didn’t announce herself. She just stood in the doorway.
Enzo was under the rainfall showerhead, his back to her, head bowed as the water sluiced over the hard planes of his shoulders and down the defined taper of his spine. His body was a lesson in controlled power—the roping muscles of his forearms braced against the tile, the powerful globes of his ass, the strong thighs. He was utterly naked, utterly unguarded. The steam cocooned him, beading on his skin.
Her pulse hammered in her throat. She quietly, methodically, began to undress. Her suit jacket, her blouse, her trousers, her lace underwear—all folded neatly over a chaise lounge. The contrast between her meticulous order and the primal scene before her sent a thrill through her.
She stepped into the bathroom, the warm, wet air kissing her bare skin. The floor was heated tile under her feet. She slid open the glass door of the shower.
The sound was masked by the water’s roar. He didn’t turn. He knew. She saw the awareness tighten the muscles of his back.
She stepped into the downpour. The hot water was a shock, plastering her hair instantly, streaming down her face. She moved close, her naked body just inches from his. She reached out, her fingertips trailing down the wet, soap-slicked channel of his spine.
He shuddered. A full-body tremor that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Her hands slid around his waist, over the hard washboard of his abdomen, following the trail of dark hair that led down. She found him. He was already half-hard, thickening rapidly in her grip as she stroked him with a firm, knowing touch. She pressed her mouth to the space between his shoulder blades, tasting clean skin and hot water.
“Alma,” he growled, the sound swallowed by the shower.
“Don’t turn around,” she whispered, her voice a husky command that mirrored his own.
She sank to her knees on the textured shower floor, the water cascading over her head and shoulders. From this angle, he was a monolith. She nuzzled the back of his thigh, then pressed a kiss to one buttock, her hands gripping his hips. She guided him back, just an inch, and leaned forward.
Her tongue found him from behind, a long, wet stripe from his perineum up over his sac, which she drew into her mouth, sucking gently. He cursed, a sharp, guttural ‘fuck’, his hands slapping flat against the tiles.
She worked him with her mouth, licking, sucking, tasting the clean, soapy skin and the essential, musky salt of him. She felt him swell to full, brutal hardness. Only then did she release him and shift, nudging his legs wider apart. She looked up the long line of his back as she took the head of his cock into her mouth from behind.
The angle was deep, almost brutal. He was fully erect, straining. She relaxed her throat and took him in, her nose pressed against the back of his scrotum. The stretch was exquisite, a full, claiming pressure. She began to move, bobbing her head, using her hand to stroke the base of his shaft where her mouth couldn’t reach. The water filled her mouth, mixed with the bitter, familiar taste of him, and she swallowed it all.
He was panting now, a steady stream of filthy, ragged praise. “Yes… god, just like that… you hungry little bitch… taking all of it…”
His words ignited her. She reached between her own legs as she sucked him, finding herself swollen, dripping wet even amidst the shower spray. She rubbed frantic circles over her clit, the pleasure dual, consuming.
It was the change in her rhythm, the stifled moan vibrating around his cock, that broke his control. He spun around so fast she gasped, her mouth popping off him with a lewd, wet sound.
His eyes were wild, dark with a predator’s intensity. He didn’t lift her up. He hauled her forward by her upper arms, keeping her on her knees, and slammed her back against the shower wall. The tiles were shockingly cold against her heated skin. He loomed over her, water streaming down his face.
“You think you’re in charge?” he snarled, though the thrill in his eyes betrayed his pleasure at her audacity. He thrust his cock back between her lips, fucking her mouth in short, punishing strokes. “This pretty mouth is mine to fuck.”
She opened wide, taking him, her eyes streaming from the water and the force. She loved it. The surrender. The raw use. She moaned around him, the sound vibrating along his length.
With his other hand, he reached down between her legs. Not to tease. Not to coax. He shoved three fingers inside her in one brutal thrust.
She screamed, the sound muffled by his flesh filling her mouth. She was incredibly wet, but the stretch was sudden, intense, a glorious invasion. He crooked his fingers, finding that spot deep within, and pressed ruthlessly as he pistoned his hand.
“You’re fucking drenched,” he grunted, watching her eyes roll back. “Soaking the floor for me. This greedy cunt gets off on sucking my dick, doesn’t it?”
He scissored his fingers inside her, stretching her wide, while his thumb found her clit and rubbed hard, in time with his thrusts into her throat. The coordination was devastating. Pleasure detonated along her nerves, a converging firestorm from her mouth and her pussy. She was gagging, choking, crying out, coming apart against the wall. Her orgasm hit her like a truck, a silent, seismic convulsion that clamped down on his fingers and made her entire body jerk.
He pulled his cock from her mouth, a string of saliva and pre-come connecting them. He was breathing like a bull, his own release imminent. He yanked his fingers from her, turned her roughly to face the wall, and pressed her cheek against the cool tile. He kicked her legs wider apart, the water spraying between them.
He entered her in one single, dominating thrust, burying himself to the hilt in her convulsing, sensitive channel. She sobbed, overstimulated and desperate for more.
“This is where you belong,” he grunted, his hands gripping her hips hard, his body slamming against her ass with each drive. “Always. Choking on me. Coming on my fingers. Getting your tight little pussy ruined by my cock. Say it.”
“Yes!” she cried, the word echoing off the tiles. “It’s where I belong!”
“It’s all you are now,” he panted, his rhythm becoming frantic, losing its precision. “My good, filthy girl. Take my fucking come.”
With a roar that seemed to shake the glass enclosure, he slammed into her one final time and held, his body rigid. She felt the hot, urgent pulse of his release deep inside her, jet after jet, claiming her, filling her. He collapsed against her, his weight pinning her to the wall, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades as they both gasped for air in the steam.
The water began to run lukewarm, then cool. They didn’t move. The only sound was their ragged breathing and the patter of the spray.
Slowly, he softened inside her and slipped out. He turned her gently, pulling her against his chest under the now-cool water, rinsing them both. He cradled her head, his fingers in her tangled curls. He didn’t speak. He just held her as the adrenaline drained away, leaving a profound, wordless exhaustion.
Later, wrapped in thick hotel robes on the balcony overlooking the dark, sparkling harbor, he handed her a glass of mineral water. His phone, face down on the table, had been buzzing incessantly.
“Sergio,” Enzo said, without looking at it. “He’ll be wondering where I am. Where you are.”
Alma sipped her water, the night air cool on her flushed skin. “Let him wonder.”
Enzo looked at her, a slow, appreciative smile touching his lips. It faded slightly. “This complicates everything.”
“It was already complicated,” she said, her voice quiet but clear. “Now it’s just true.”
He studied her for a long moment, then nodded once, a tacit acceptance of the new, treacherous landscape they now inhabited. The phone buzzed again, a persistent insect on the glass table. This time, Enzo picked it up. He didn’t answer. He just read the screen, his expression shifting back to the manager, the strategist.
“It’s not just Sergio,” he said, his voice all business. “The Dubai group. They’ve made a formal offer. A sponsorship deal. They want a breakfast meeting tomorrow at seven. On their yacht.”
He looked up at her. The unspoken question hung in the salt-tinged air: were they a they that could survive the morning light, the contracts, the relentless scrutiny?
Alma met his gaze, the memory of his cock down her throat, his come inside her, as vivid as the contract he now held in his hand. “What’s the play?” she asked, not as his lover, but as his ally.
He smiled, a real one this time. “The play,” he said, “is we go to work.”
He drained his glass and stood, the manager’s mask settling back into place. “Pack an overnight bag. The meeting’s at seven, but their representative implied… extended discussions.” Inside the suite, he moved to the enormous marble bathroom. The shower stall stood vacant, a wet, spent testament. He ignored it, striding to the sunken tub. He turned the taps, and water roared out, steaming instantly. He poured in a capful of violet-scented oil from a crystal bottle, the rich aroma unfurling to cloak the lingering scent of sex and sweat.
Alma watched from the doorway, her robe tied tight. Her body felt used, hollowed out, a well-fucked shell still buzzing from his possession. Her mind was a fragmented thing, synapses firing uselessly, coherency drowned in the aftershocks. She saw him test the water with his hand, his profile stark in the bathroom lights. This meticulous care, coming from the man who had just called her a filthy bitch while fucking her raw against a wall, was more disorienting than the violence.
“Come here,” he said, his voice low. It wasn’t a command this time. It was an invitation.
She let the robe pool at her feet. The air was cool on her skin, raising goosebumps. He took her hand and guided her down into the water. It was scalding, perfect. She hissed as she sank into the deep, violet-hued heat, the water licking at the bruises she knew were forming on her hips. He followed, settling behind her, his body a solid wall of heat and muscle. He pulled her back against his chest, her spine slotting against his sternum, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder.
For a long time, they just existed there. The silence was a palpable thing, thick and forgiving. His breath stirred her damp curls. His hands floated idly on the surface of the water, then one lifted, dripping. He reached for a bar of milled soap, the scent of sandalwood cutting through the violet.
His touch, when it came, was an agony of tenderness. He worked the soap between his palms, then began to wash her. He started with her shoulders, his thumbs kneading the tightened cords of her neck where she’d strained. He moved down her arms, his fingers tracing each muscle, each tendon, with a slow, reverent pressure. He was mapping her, committing her to memory in a way he hadn't when he was taking her.
“You are so strong,” he murmured, his lips against her temple. The words were quiet, meant only for the steam. “The way you take me. The way you work. It’s a fucking marvel, Alma.”
He coaxed her forward to wet her hair, then poured shampoo into his palm. His fingers slid into her thick curls, massaging her scalp in slow, circular motions. The sensation was profoundly intimate, breaking her more effectively than any rough fuck ever could. A small, broken sound escaped her throat. He shushed her gently, working the lather through every strand with infinite patience. “Beautiful,” he whispered, rinsing the suds away with a cupped hand. “Every part of you. This brilliant mind. This relentless mouth. This perfect, greedy cunt.”
The obscenity, uttered in that soft, praising tone, made her shiver. He rinsed her clean, then wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her quiet against him again. The heat and the silence and his touch were a balm, gluing her fractured pieces back together.
Then she shifted. It was a small, instinctive movement. She turned in the water, facing him, the liquid sloshing gently against the marble. She didn’t look at him. She just needed a different kind of closeness. She straddled his lap, sinking down so the water covered them both to the chest. She rested her head on his good shoulder, her arms going around his neck, her body pressed flush against his. It was not an invitation. It was a necessity.
He understood. His arms came around her, one hand splayed wide on her back, the other cradling the back of her head. He held her. Tightly. As if she might float away. He nuzzled into her damp hair.
“My good girl,” he breathed, the vibration rumbling through his chest into hers. “My brave, stunning girl. You handled everything today. You handle me. It’s… unprecedented.”
He kept talking, a low, steady stream of praise that was as foreign and intoxicating as his dominance. He praised her multilingual efficiency with the Dubai logistics, the sharpness of her eyes during the race debrief, the way she’d navigated Sergio’s post-win euphoria. He praised the taste of her mouth, the clutch of her body, the sounds she made when she broke. He wove the professional and the profane together until they were the same tapestry, the same truth of what they were now.
She listened, her breath evening out against his skin. The world, with its dawn meetings and yacht deals and dangerous complications, narrowed to this: hot water, strong hands, and the raw, unvarnished truth of his approval. It was a more potent addiction than any physical release. It was the cornerstone he was laying, and she was willingly, eagerly, building herself upon it.
Later, wrapped in towels, the bath draining with a low gulp, he glanced at the clock. “Four hours until we need to be ruthless.” He ran a thumb over her bottom lip. “Sleep. I’ll hold you.”
They didn’t speak of Sergio. They didn’t speak of the terms. They simply slid between the cool linen sheets, her back to his front, his arm a heavy, possessive weight around her ribs. His last words, spoken into the dark, were not about strategy. “Next time,” he whispered, his breath warm on her neck, “I want to taste my come inside you while you scream.”
The promise coiled in her gut, a serpent of anticipation, as she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.