Chapter 39: Enzo spreads Alma's legs over the sink's edge, his calloused fingers rubbing circles on her clit while his other hand works his thick cock. 'This greedy cunt caused a scene on purpose,' he growls, shoving two fingers knuckle-deep as she whimpers. When the phone vibrates against her swollen nub, she shatters instantly - her juices gushing over his wrist as he laughs darkly and replaces his fingers with his cock, stretching her throbbing walls with one brutal thrust.
The dawn over Dubai was a smear of rose gold and dusty blue, the Burj Khalifa a needle piercing the softening night. Inside the penthouse suite of the Al Wasl, Enzo stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, a silhouette against the waking city. He wore a crisp, white kandura over tailored trousers, a gesture of respect that also managed to look lethally authoritative. Alma fastened the last clasp of her delicate gold necklace, her reflection in the glass overlapping his. She wore a modest, high-necked navy dress that fell to her calves, but the fabric was a whisper-thin silk that clung to every curve. It was armor and invitation, all in one.
“Remember the calculus,” Enzo said, his voice a low rumble. He didn’t turn. “Sheikh Abbas has the capital and the influence. He wants a pet team, a toy for his harbor. We want his money without his interference. He will test you. He will offer you things. A necklace. A car. A suite in this hotel.”
“And I will politely decline,” Alma said, adjusting the fall of her sleeve.
“No.” He finally turned, his eyes dark and unreadable. “You will make him believe the only thing you want, the only thing that could possibly tempt you, is what I decide to give you.”
The meeting was not on a yacht, but within one—a floating palace of glass and white leather moored at the private dock of the Al Wasl. The air inside was frigid, scented with oud and expensive polish. Sheikh Abbas bin Khalid was a man of fifty with the carefully maintained physique of a perpetual thirty-five. His smile was wide, practiced, and didn’t touch his eyes. Two silent guards flanked a bar where a uniformed attendant poured vintage Krug into crystal flutes.
Enzo’s Arabic was fluent, courtly. He exchanged pleasantries, inquired after family, discussed the sublime engineering of the vessel. Alma sat perfectly still, a quiet accessory, her eyes downcast but missing nothing. She noted the sheikh’s lingering glances, the way his attention snagged on the pulse at her throat, on the way her dress tightened across her thighs when she shifted.
The negotiation was a graceful, lethal dance. Enzo parried every attempt at operational control. The sheikh, charm thinning, turned his full focus to Alma.
“And you, my dear,” he said in flawless, Parisian-accented French. “A rose among thorns. What do you think of our city?”
She met his gaze, allowing a slight, deferential smile. “It is a marvel of will, Your Highness. Like Formula One itself. A beautiful illusion of effortlessness built on immense force.”
He liked that. He leaned forward. “Illusions are my specialty. You must let me show you. The private museum at the Louvre Abu Dhabi. A flight over the Line in my helicopter. These things are… enlightening.”
Enzo’s knuckles were white around his flute. He said nothing.
“You are too kind,” Alma demurred, her voice a soft melody. “But my world is quite small. The paddock, the data, Mr. Bellini’s schedule.” She glanced at Enzo, a flicker of something proprietary and warm. It was perfectly timed.
The sheikh’s smile cooled. The rejection, however polite, was noted. He shifted tactics, becoming more aggressive in the financial discussion, pushing for a board seat, for branding on Sergio’s helmet. Enzo remained an immovable wall, polite, firm, unyielding.
A tension thickened the chilled air. The sheikh, frustrated, made a final, grand gesture. He stood, raising his glass. “To partnership, then! In whatever form it must take.” He stepped around the low table, ostensibly to clink glasses with Enzo. As he passed Alma, his hand, holding the champagne flute, “slipped.”
The icy, bubbly river poured directly into her lap, soaking the thin silk, plastering it transparently to her thighs and stomach. The shock was visceral. She gasped, jumping to her feet as the cold liquid seeped through to her skin. The dress was ruined, clinging indecently.
An awful silence descended. The sheikh wore a mask of contrite surprise. “A thousand apologies! Clumsy!”
Alma saw it in his eyes: the calculation. A test of Enzo’s control. A humiliation to rebalance the power. A display of what he could take, or soil, on a whim.
Enzo was already moving. His face was a calm, polite mask, but a storm brewed in his eyes. He didn’t look at the sheikh. He looked at Alma, drenched and shivering.
“If you’ll excuse us,” Enzo said, his voice dangerously even. “My assistant requires a moment.”
He didn’t ask. He took her firmly by the elbow, his grip iron, and guided her—sticky, dripping, humiliated—past the smirking guards, down a corridor, and into a vast, gold-and-marble guest bathroom. He locked the door.
The room was silent but for the drip of champagne from her hem onto the marble floor. She was trembling, from cold, from fury, from the adrenaline of the public violation.
Enzo didn’t speak. He turned on the gold faucet at the oversized sink, ran a cloth under warm water. He faced her. With a brutal tug, he ripped the soaked dress open from neckline to waist. The fine silk gave way with a sigh. She stood there in her sheer, lace bra, now damp and spotted, her skin glistening with sticky alcohol.
“You spilled his drink,” Enzo stated, his voice a low thrum of violence.
“It was an accident,” she breathed, her chin lifting in defiance.
“It was a message. And you delivered it perfectly.” He stepped closer. The anger radiating from him was a physical heat. “You stood there and let him pour his piss-warm ambition all over you. You gave him the show he wanted.”
He wrung out the warm cloth and began to wipe her collarbone. The touch was rough, methodical. Not cleansing. Claiming. Erasing. He scrubbed at the hollow of her throat, down between her breasts. The warm water mixed with the champagne, a sweet, sour smell rising between them.
Then he dropped the cloth. It slapped wetly on the floor.
He pushed her back against the cold marble counter, the edge digging into her spine. He gripped her jaw, forcing her to look at him. “He wanted a taste. Let’s see how he likes the aftertaste.”
He dipped his head and licked a broad, hot stripe from her sternum up to the base of her throat. She cried out, a sharp, shocked sound. His tongue was rough, thorough, lapping up the sticky sweetness. He moved to her breast, his mouth closing over the lace of her bra, sucking the fabric and the champagne-damp skin beneath into his mouth. He bit down, not hard enough to truly hurt, but with a possessive ferocity that made her knees buckle.
“Enzo…” she whimpered.
“Quiet.” He unclasped her bra with one practiced flick, letting it fall. His mouth was on her nipple, licking, sucking, cleaning her with a savage intensity. He moved to the other breast, his hand squeezing the flesh he wasn’t mouthing, his fingers leaving pale marks. He licked her cleavage, the valley between her breasts, his tongue a wet, demanding brand.
He sank to his knees before her, his hands pushing the torn dress and her soaked underwear down her legs in one brutal motion. She stepped out of the puddle of fabric, completely naked and shivering violently now, but not from cold. He forced her legs apart, his gaze burning on the damp thatch of curls.
“He wanted to see you wet,” Enzo snarled. “Let him see what wet really looks like.”
He buried his face between her legs.
It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even pleasure. It was reclamation. His tongue speared into her, a punishing thrust. He licked her with short, furious strokes, his stubble scratching her tender inner thighs. He found her clit and sucked it hard, relentlessly, his nose pressed against her. She was already swelling, aching, her body betraying her by responding to the aggressive violation. She clutched at his hair, her hips jerking forward into his face.
“That’s it,” he growled against her, the vibration making her scream. “Get your fucking cunt messy for me. Mine. Not his. You understand? This slick, pretty pussy is mine to ruin.”
He worked her with his mouth until she was gasping, incoherent, on the edge. Then he stood abruptly, leaving her aching and empty. He unbuttoned his trousers, freeing his cock, which was rigid and thick with angry need. He spun her around to face the gold-framed mirror. Her reflection was a debauched mess: lips swollen, breasts marked by his mouth and hands, eyes wild with lust and fury.
He bent her over the counter, her cheek pressed against the cold marble. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his phone, and unlocked it. He opened the camera, switched it to video.
“Look at the door,” he commanded, his voice hoarse.
She did. In the mirror’s reflection, she saw the main bathroom door. It had a slim, almost invisible gap at the bottom. And in that shadow, she saw the subtle shift of fabric—the hem of a white kandura. Sheikh Abbas was watching.
A new, darker heat flooded her. The exposure. The performance.
“He wants to watch?” Enzo said, loudly enough to be heard through the door. “Let him watch how I discipline what’s mine.”
He placed the vibrating phone on the marble counter, just beside her face. The low buzz filled the air. He spat into his palm, slicked his cock, and without another second of preparation, he drove into her from behind.
The entry was a brutal, stretching burn. She was wet from his mouth but not ready, and he filled her with a single, deep, conquering thrust that stole the air from her lungs. He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He set a punishing, piston-like rhythm, each snap of his hips slamming her into the hard edge of the counter. The pain and the pleasure blurred into one searing point of intensity.
“You see this, you greedy bastard?” Enzo grunted, his eyes locked on the slit of the door as he fucked her. “You see how she takes it? This is what you wanted a piece of? This is what you never get.”
He reached around her hip, his fingers finding her clit, already swollen and exposed from the angle. He rubbed in hard, quick circles, in time with his thrusts. The dual assault was overwhelming. She was sobbing, her breath fogging the mirror, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the slick marble.
Then he picked up the still-vibrating phone.
He brought it down between her legs, pressing the cold, buzzing glass against her sensitive clit as he continued to pound into her.
The effect was electric, inhuman. The sharp vibration tore a scream from her throat. Her vision whited out. Her inner muscles clenched around him in violent, rhythmic spasms. She came with a raw, guttural cry, her body convulsing against his, her juices making a mess on his trousers and the floor.
Feeling her climax, Enzo let out a choked roar. He shoved the phone away, gripped her hips with both hands, and fucked her through her contractions with three final, brutal slams before he emptied himself deep inside her with a force that shuddered through both of them.
For a moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant hum of the yacht’s systems. Enzo pulled out slowly. He tucked himself away, his movements precise once more. He looked at the door. The shadow of the kandura was gone.
He turned Alma around. Her face was tear-streaked, utterly wrecked, beautiful. He cupped her cheek, his thumb wiping a tear away. His touch was now startlingly gentle.
“My brave, brilliant, filthy girl,” he whispered, his forehead touching hers. “That was the final clause. The deal is done.”
He helped her clean up with steady hands, using fresh towels. From his briefcase, he produced a simple black shift dress. He dressed her as if she were a child, his touch firm and sure. He smoothed her hair, wiped the smudged mascara from under her eyes.
When they walked back into the lounge ten minutes later, Alma was composed, pale, but radiant in a strange, untouchable way. Enzo’s expression was one of cool, polite regret.
“My deepest apologies again for the interruption, Your Highness,” Enzo said, his voice carrying a new, unshakeable authority. “A minor disciplinary matter. It has been resolved.”
Sheikh Abbas looked from Enzo’s calm face to Alma’s subdued, yet strangely victorious posture. A flicker of understanding, of defeat, passed through his eyes. He had seen the raw truth of their alliance. He had witnessed the cost of crossing it.
“Of course,” the sheikh said, his smile tight. He gestured to the contract on the table. “The terms, as you stipulated them, are acceptable.”
Enzo nodded. “We will have our lawyers finalize by end of day.”
The return journey to the hotel was made in silence. Inside their suite, the morning sun was now high and hot. Alma walked to the window, her body humming with a deep, sore satisfaction.
Enzo’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it. “Sergio. He’s heard rumors about the sheikh’s… predilections. He’s worried. For the team. For you.”
He came to stand behind her, his hands settling on her shoulders. She leaned back into his solid warmth.
“What do we tell him?” she asked, watching a solitary dhow glide across the blue water.
Enzo’s lips brushed her temple. “We tell him he won.”
Alma closed her eyes, a slow smile touching her lips. They had crossed a new line today. The game had expanded. And she had never felt more powerful, or more owned, in her life. The buzz of the phone against her skin seemed to echo in her bones, a secret, sinful trophy.
The buzz of the phone against her skin seemed to echo in her bones, a secret, sinful trophy. The silence in the suite was absolute, a vacuum after the storm, but it lasted less than a minute. Enzo’s phone, now on the glass table, lit up with an unknown Dubai number. He stared at it, his jaw tightening, before answering with a curt, “Bellini.”
Alma watched his face, seeing the professional mask settle, then fracture into something colder, more calculating. He listened, saying nothing, his eyes finding hers and holding them with a dark, probing intensity. “Understood,” he finally said, his voice devoid of inflection. “We will consider the revised proposal.” He ended the call and placed the phone down with deliberate softness.
“He enjoyed the show,” Enzo stated, walking to the minibar. He poured two fingers of bourbon, not offering her any. “His words. He proposes an addendum to the partnership agreement.” He took a slow sip, the liquid catching the light. “He will triple his initial investment. No board seat. No branding interference. Complete operational autonomy for me.”
Alma’s breath hitched. It was everything they’d fought for, everything Enzo wanted. “In exchange for what?” she asked, though the cold knot in her stomach already knew.
Enzo turned, his gaze a physical weight. “A private viewing. He wants to watch. Not through a door crack. In the room. And he wants to… participate in his own way.” He swallowed the rest of the bourbon, the glass clicking sharply on the marble. “He’s also offering a separate, personal fee. Seven figures. For us. For the performance.”
The word ‘performance’ hung in the air, cheapening the visceral reclamation of the bathroom. This wasn’t about punishment or ownership. This was a transaction. Alma felt the ghost of the vibrating phone against her clit, the sheikh’s shadow under the door. “What did you tell him?”
“I said we would consider it.” He crossed the room, stopping before her. He didn’t touch her. “This is not me telling you what will happen. This is me asking you what you want. The money is life-changing. The investment guarantees Sergio’s championship bid for the next five years. It is the zenith of everything I have worked for.”
“And the cost?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“A different kind of line,” he said, his own voice rough. “One I never planned to cross. It makes it a job. It makes what we do… a service.”
She turned to the window, the dazzling metropolis below seeming suddenly artificial, a gilded cage. She thought of the sheikh’s entitled gaze, the splash of champagne. Her own furious, thrilled complicity in the bathroom. The power she felt when Enzo used her to send a message. This was just another message, written in a darker currency. “If he’s in the room,” she said slowly, thinking it through, “he’s not a threat in the shadows. He’s a participant. A compromised one.”
Enzo’s eyes narrowed, following her logic. “You would have his weakness in the room with us. Recorded, if we chose.”
“You told me to make him believe the only thing I want is what you give me.” She finally looked at him, a strange calm settling over her. “So give me this. Let me give it to you. And let him watch what it truly costs to buy something that isn’t for sale.”
A slow, dangerous approval warmed the coldness in his gaze. He cupped the back of her neck, his thumb stroking her pulse. “You are fucking magnificent,” he murmured, before his expression hardened into that of a strategist. “We control everything. The time, the place, the rules. He watches from a chair. He does not speak. He does not move. If he touches himself, that’s his business. But he does not touch you. He does not look away. You look only at me.”
Alma nodded, the decision crystallizing into a sharp, adrenaline-edged resolve. “And the personal fee?” she asked.
“We take it,” Enzo said without hesitation. “And we use it to build something he can never touch. A house. Far from here. With a door that locks from the inside.”
He made the call. The negotiation was brief, clinical. Terms were set. The sheikh’s penthouse, not the yacht. Two hours from now. A secure, discreet elevator directly into the residence. Enzo listened, then issued a final, quiet command. “You will have the wire transfer confirmation for the personal fee before we step into the elevator. Non-negotiable.”
The connection ended. The machinery was in motion.
The two hours passed in a surreal limbo. Alma showered again, scrubbing away the last traces of the morning. She chose her own clothes this time: simple black lace underwear, a sheer black slip, a pair of stilettos. Armor, again, but of a different sort. Enzo dressed in a dark suit, no tie, the embodiment of severe elegance. He said little, but his hands kept finding her—a touch on her waist, a brush of his lips on her shoulder—as if reaffirming the connection before testing it.
Her phone chimed. A notification from a Swiss bank. She showed Enzo the balance. The obscene number glittered on the screen, a confirmation of their descent. He just nodded.
The private elevator was silent, mirrored, smelling of sandalwood. It opened directly into a vast, spare living room, all white marble and pale silk. Sheikh Abbas stood by a window, dressed in a simple linen tunic and trousers. He looked older without his entourage, his hunger unconcealed. A single, low armchair sat facing a vast, cushioned divan.
“The terms are met?” Enzo asked, his voice echoing in the sterile space.
“The funds are yours,” the sheikh replied, his eyes devouring Alma. “The investment agreement awaits only my signature. Proceed.”
Enzo guided Alma to the divan. He didn’t look at the sheikh. He looked only at her, his hands framing her face. “You are mine,” he said, loud enough for the room to hear. “Every sound. Every shudder. You give them to me.”
He kissed her then, a deep, consuming kiss that was all tongue and possession. His hands slid the straps of her slip down her arms, letting the fabric pool at her waist. He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down her throat, sucking a dark mark onto her collarbone as his hands palmed her breasts, thumbs rough over her nipples.
“On your knees,” he breathed against her skin.
Alma slid off the divan onto the deep, cream-colored carpet, facing Enzo. The sheikh, from his chair, had a perfect profile view. Enzo unzipped his trousers, freeing his cock, already fully hard. He fed it to her slowly, watching her lips stretch to accommodate him. She took him deep, her mouth a wet, willing sheath, her eyes open and fixed on his.
A soft, shaky sigh came from the chair. Enzo’s gaze didn’t waver from Alma’s. He began to move, sliding in and out of her mouth with a measured, rhythmic control. Saliva slicked his length, dripped onto her chin. The only sounds were her wet gagging breaths and the rustle of fabric from the sheikh’s direction.
“Use your hands,” Enzo instructed her, his voice thick. “Show him how you play with yourself while you suck my dick.”
Alma brought a hand between her own legs, pushing the lace of her underwear aside. She was already slick. She moaned around his cock as her fingers found her clit, circling it in time with his thrusts into her mouth. The lewd, synchronised spectacle was unbearable. A choked grunt came from the sheikh.
Enzo pulled out, his cock glistening. “Stand up. Bend over the divan.”
She rose, shaky, and bent forward, her arms on the cushions, her ass presented to both men. Enzo moved behind her, hooking his fingers in her underwear and pulling them down. He spread her open with his thumbs, exposing her completely to the sheikh’s riveted gaze.
“Look at her,” Enzo commanded the sheikh, his voice a dark caress. “Look at this cunt, wet for me because I allow it. This is what your money buys you. A view.”
He positioned himself and pushed inside her in one deep, relentless stroke. Alma cried out, the fullness a shock. He set a brutal pace immediately, each thrust jolting her forward. The divan creaked. The sheikh’s breathing became a ragged, frantic pant.
Enzo fucked her with a focused, athletic ferocity, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. He watched the sheikh over Alma’s arched back. “You like watching her take it? You like seeing her pretty ass jiggle while I pound this tight pussy?”
A strangled, affirmative sound was the reply.
“Then jerk your worthless cock,” Enzo snarled, punctuating each word with a driving thrust. “Jerk it while you watch a real man fuck what he owns.”
From the periphery of her vision, Alma saw the sheikh’s hand move hurriedly in his lap, the linen of his trousers shifting. The sound of his rough, quick strokes joined the wet slap of Enzo’s body against hers. The humiliation was molten, transformative. It became a power of its own. She pushed back against Enzo, taking him deeper, milking him with a violent, internal clench.
“Fuck, Alma,” Enzo groaned, his control slipping. “That’s it. Make him come in his pants like a pathetic boy. Make him waste himself on a fantasy.”
The sheikh’s breaths became short, sharp gasps. Enzo redoubled his efforts, pounding into her with a final, desperate rhythm. Alma felt her own climax tearing through her, a silent, seizing wave that clamped down on Enzo’s cock. He shouted, his body slamming into hers as he came, his release hot and endless inside her.
A final, shuddering groan came from the chair, followed by a sudden, limp stillness.
The room fell into a heavy, stained silence. Enzo stayed buried within her for a long moment, his weight on her back, before slowly pulling out. He didn’t bother to conceal the slick evidence of their act. He turned, tucking himself away, and looked coldly at the sheikh.
The man was pale, spent, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. A damp, dark patch stained the linen over his lap. He looked ruined, hollow.
“The agreements will be signed and delivered to my lawyer by six pm,” Enzo stated, as if commenting on the weather. He helped Alma stand, pulling her slip back over her shoulders with a surprising tenderness. He guided her toward the elevator, not glancing back.
The sheikh said nothing. He just stared at the stain on his trousers.
The elevator doors closed, enclosing them in mirrored silence. Alma trembled. Enzo pulled her against him, his arms wrapping tightly around her, his face buried in her hair. His own heart hammered against her back.
“It’s done,” he whispered, the words raw.
The elevator descended. Alma watched their reflection—the disheveled, beautiful woman, the powerful, haunted man holding her. They had sold a piece of their darkness. They had gotten everything they wanted.
And as the numbers flashed toward the ground floor, she knew, with a certainty that chilled her blood, that the sheikh wasn't the only one who had been watching. Sergio’s worried call echoed in her mind. Their secret world had just developed a crack, and the light bleeding in felt like an interrogation lamp.