Chapter 7: Mid-Air Confessions
The leather of the jet seat sighed as Fernando leaned forward, his voice a low, corrosive whisper. "You keep saying that. 'She needs it.' You sound like a fucking madman trying to explain a chemical fire." Carlos’s gaze never wavered from the closed bedroom door where Isabella slept. "You saw her. Was that the face of someone being destroyed?"
"It was the face of someone who’s forgotten there’s another way to breathe," Fernando shot back, the image of her dazed, bleeding submission flashing behind his eyes. "You’ve wired her pleasure to pain. That’s not love, it’s fucking sabotage."
Carlos’s knuckles whitened on his glass. "You think you understand the first thing about what binds us? You saw a snapshot. A fraction." He finally turned, his eyes dark with a possessive fury. "That mark on her neck? She’ll touch it tomorrow and feel me. She’ll walk sore and remember who filled her. It’s her anchor, you pious fuck."
Fernando’s laugh was a dry, cracking sound. “An anchor? It’s a fucking leash.” He drained his whisky, the ice clattering against his teeth. “You keep her so fucked out, so dazed on your cock and your chaos, that there’s no way to know if she really wants it.”
Carlos stood abruptly, the movement violent in the confined space. “You think I don’t know my own woman?” His voice dropped, dangerous. “You think I haven’t memorized every gasp, every flinch, every desperate fucking clutch?”
“I think she’s addicted to the crash,” Fernando said, standing to meet him. “And you’re the driver.”
The bedroom door clicked open. Isabella stood there, barefoot, the grey blanket draped over her shoulders like a shroud. Her eyes were still glazed, the bandage stark on her neck. “Carlos?” Her voice was a sleep-thickened murmur.
He was on her in two strides, his hands framing her face. “Right here, cariño.” He kissed her, deep and claiming, his tongue sweeping into her mouth. She whimpered, her hands coming up to clutch his shirt.
She melted into the kiss, a soft, surrendering sound in her throat, her body swaying towards his like a compass finding north. Fernando watched, the untouched whisky souring on his tongue, seeing not passion but a system reset, her dazed compliance being wired back into place by his mouth.
“Stop.” The word sliced the air, flat and final.
Carlos ignored him, his hand sliding from her face down to her throat, his thumb pressing against the bandage over his bite. Isabella’s breath hitched, a confused little sound muffled against his lips.
Fernando moved. He crossed the cabin in three long strides, his hand clamping down on Carlos’s shoulder with the force of a wrench slipping off a overtightened bolt. He yanked him backward, breaking the kiss with a jarring violence that sent Carlos stumbling into the holographic display, its glowing gridlines scattering across his furious face.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Carlos snarled, righting himself, his body coiled.
“You are,” Fernando said, stepping between Carlos and Isabella, who stood blinking, the blanket slipping from her shoulders. He kept his eyes on Carlos but spoke to her, his voice low and urgent. “Isabella. Look at me. Did you want that? Right now?”
She stared, her fingers rising to touch her swollen lips, then the white gauze at her neck. Her gaze was a turbulent sea, confusion drowning the earlier haze. “I… he’s…”
“It’s a simple question, niña,” Fernando insisted, not letting her look away. “Yes or no. Did you want his mouth on you the second you walked out here, still bleeding?”
Carlos made a guttural sound of rage. “You don’t get to question her! You don’t get to dissect this!”
“She’s not a fucking theorem, Carlos!” Fernando roared back, finally turning his head, his own control snapping. “She’s a person who just had your teeth in her neck and your cum leaking out of her! Ask her!”
The cabin hummed with tension thicker than the jet’s engines. Isabella’s eyes, wide and glistening, flicked between them—the possessive fury of her champion and the grim, unyielding intervention of his oldest rival. A single, hot tear escaped, tracing a path through the salt on her cheek. Her voice, when it came, was a shattered whisper. “I don’t know.”
Carlos’s face shattered at her whispered confession, the possessive certainty draining away to reveal something raw and panicked beneath. “You don’t know?” he repeated, the words a low, dangerous rasp.
He surged forward, his hands shooting out to grab her upper arms, his fingers digging into the tender bruises he’d left there hours before. Isabella cried out, a sharp, pained sound, and tried to pull back, her bare feet slipping on the polished jet floor.
“You know,” he insisted, his voice dropping to a desperate, coaxing rumble as he yanked her against his body, her back to his front. “You always know, Bella. Your body knows.” One hand slid from her arm to her stomach, pressing her into the hard ridge of his erection straining against his trousers.
He lowered his mouth to her ear, his breath hot and frantic. “You feel that? That’s for you. That’s because you’re here, and you’re mine, and your perfect, used little cunt is still leaking me.” His other hand fumbled with the tie of her sleep pants. “Let me remind you. Let me fill you up again and make you sure.”
She shook her head, a weak, terrified motion, fresh tears spilling as she clutched at the bandage on her neck. “Carlos, please, not now, I’m sore, I’m—”
“Shhh, cariño, I’ll make it good, I’ll make you forget the hurt,” he muttered, his voice slick with a predatory reassurance, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her pants.
Fernando’s chair screeched across the floor. He didn’t shout this time. His voice was cold, clear, and cut through the jet’s hum like a scalpel. “This is what I mean, Carlos.” He didn’t move to pull him off, just stood there, a witness. “Look at her. You want her so dazed and empty-headed. You have to keep her fucked out, or you’re worried she’ll resist you. You’re terrified of that ‘I don’t know’.”
Carlos froze, his forehead dropping against Isabella’s trembling shoulder, his knuckles white where he gripped her hip.
Carlos’s head snapped up, Fernando’s final word hanging in the air like exhaust smoke. That terrified hesitation in her voice, that single moment of uncertainty, was a fissure in his world. He released Isabella so abruptly she stumbled back against the bar.
He took one step towards Fernando, his movements deceptively calm. “You want to see what she needs?” Carlos asked, his voice a flat, dead thing.
Then he moved. It wasn’t a boxer’s punch, but a vicious, scything left hook that came from his shoulder, bypassing Fernando’s wary guard completely. The crack of his knuckles connecting with Fernando’s jaw was a sickening, wet snap of cartilage giving way.
Fernando’s eyes rolled back, his body folding sideways before crumpling to the jet’s carpeted floor, utterly still. Carlos shook the pain from his hand, looking down at the unconscious man with cold, vacant eyes. He then turned, his gaze finding Isabella, who was pressed against the polished bar, a hand clamped over her mouth.
“Now,” Carlos said, his voice stripped of all warmth, all that charming pretence. “We finish this.”
He closed the distance, his hands not gentle but imperative, yanking the loose sleep pants and her underwear down her thighs in one brutal motion. They pooled around her ankles, a silken trap. He spun her around, bending her over the cool, polished surface of the bar, her cheek forced against the wood.
“You don’t get to be unsure about me,” he snarled, unzipping his trousers with a sharp, metallic rip. He didn’t bother with preparation, just spit roughly onto his fingers and smeared it over his already-hard cock, glistening and vicious.
He didn’t guide himself in; he drove. The head of his cock breached her, a brutal, tearing invasion that made her shriek into the polished wood, her body arching in desperate, futile resistance. He grasped a handful of her hair, pulling her head back, and shoved the rest of his length into her tight, unforgiving dryness in one relentless thrust.
She screamed, a raw, scraping sound of pure agony, her nails scrabbling against the bar’s smooth surface. “Carlos, please, it hurts, it hurts so much!” she sobbed, her body shuddering.
“Good,” he grunted, pulling back only to slam into her again, the wet, painful sound of the act obscene in the humming cabin. “You feel that? That’s your punishment for forgetting whose cunt this is.” His pace was mechanical, a punishing piston, each thrust jarring her entire frame against the bar.
His left hand, the same one that had shattered Fernando’s jaw, came down on the curve of her ass with a crack that echoed in the sealed cabin, the pale skin immediately blooming a fierce, hand-shaped red. He did it again, higher, on the tender underside of her cheek, and again, lower, where her thigh met her cheek, a relentless, rhythmic punishment timed with his deep, tearing thrusts.
“You belong to this,” he growled, his voice ragged with a fury that went beyond passion, each word punctuated by the wet slap of his hips against her bruised flesh. “You come on this cock, you fucking ruin yourself for it, you don’t get to ‘not know’.”
She was sobbing, choking on her own spit and tears, her body a taut bow of pain, her fingers slipping uselessly on the polished wood. “Stop, please, Carlos, I can’t—”
He hooked an arm around her waist, yanking her body back onto him, forcing her to take all of him, the brutal angle making her cry out. “You can,” he hissed into her ear, his breath hot. “You will. You’re my perfect, broken little thing, and you’ll take everything I give you.”
Fernando’s consciousness returned in a nauseating wave of throbbing agony, his vision swimming, the taste of copper and cheap whisky thick on his tongue. He blinked, the world tilting, and the sound reached him first: the rhythmic, wet smacks of flesh, the ragged sobs, the low, animal grunts.
He pushed himself up on one elbow, his head pounding, and saw them. Carlos, his trousers around his thighs, his body a machine of violence, pinning Isabella over the bar, her face a mask of tear-streaked agony. Carlos’s reddened hand rose and fell, beating her ass into a uniform, savage crimson, each blow landing with a sickening finality on already-tender flesh.
Isabella was fighting him, a weak, feral struggle, her hands pushing back against his thighs, her body twisting to escape the deep, pistoning invasion. “No, no, no,” she chanted, a desperate mantra against the wood.
Carlos adjusted his stance, gripped her hips like he was wrenching a steering wheel, and delivered one final, excruciating thrust, so deep and brutal it seemed to spear her through. The fight left her body in a sudden, total collapse.
The air left her lungs in a silent, shuddering gasp. Her arms went slack, her head lolled forward, and she hung there, utterly defeated, over the bar. Only the steady, quiet flow of tears down her cheeks, dripping onto the polished wood below, indicated any remaining consciousness.
Fernando watched, paralyzed, his own pain forgotten, submerged in a cold, rising tide of horror that froze the air in his own chest.
Fernando watched, paralyzed, his own pain forgotten, submerged in a cold, rising tide of horror that froze the air in his own chest. Carlos pulled out of her with a wet, slick sound, his cock glistening with her blood and his own spend.
He didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate. He spat onto his fingers, slicked himself roughly, and aligned the thick, weeping head against her other entrance, a puckered star of clenched muscle untouched until this second. “You need all of me, Bella,” he whispered, a dark promise against her ear.
Then he pushed, a brutal, relentless pressure that breached her with a sickening, tearing pop. She screamed, a raw, animal sound that shredded her throat, her body bowing in a spasmodic arch of pure agony. He fed himself into her, an inch at a time, the impossibly tight ring of muscle stretching obscenely around his girth.
“Fuck, that’s it,” Carlos groaned, his own face a mask of strained ecstasy as he buried himself to the hilt inside her clenching, virgin ass. “So fucking tight, so hot around my cock.” He withdrew slightly, then thrust back in, a shallow, painful grind.
Isabella sobbed, her knuckles white on the bar, every nerve shrieking as he carved a new, brutal space inside her. “You’re clenching,” he panted, driving deeper, his hands digging into the bruises on her hips. “You’re trying to keep me in your pretty little ass, aren’t you?”
He fucked her there with a slow, torturous rhythm, each movement a fresh violation. Fernando tried to push himself up, his vision swimming, but could only watch, nailed to the floor by the sheer monstrousness of it. “See?” Carlos growled, his thrusts becoming sharper, more forceful. “You take it. You always take what I give you.”
The jet’s cabin door exploded inward with a deafening hydraulic hiss and a shout of "Carlos, no!" Two burly team security men, summoned by Fernando’s panicked pre-confrontation text, burst through, their faces hardening from professional concern into outright horror at the scene. Fernando, spitting blood, clawed his way upright using a seat back, his one functional eye locked not on Carlos but on Isabella’s broken form over the bar. "Get him off her!" he roared, the command raw and guttural.
The security men moved, not towards Carlos, but to form a barrier, their training overriding their shock as the team physio, a woman named Anya, rushed past them, her medical kit already open. Carlos wheeled around, his cock still slick and glistening, a feral snarl on his lips. "Get the fuck out of my jet!" he bellowed, stepping away from Isabella as if to shield his possession.
Anya didn’t even glance at him. Her hands, clinical and steady, went to Isabella’s trembling shoulders. "Isabella, can you hear me?" she asked, her voice soft but urgent, cutting through the sobs. Isabella’s only response was a shattered, high-pitched whimper as she tried to curl in on herself, the movement igniting fresh agony from her brutalized ass.
"Don't you fucking touch her!" Carlos snarled, taking a step forward, but the larger security guard, Marco, interposed his bulk, a solid wall of muscle and duty.
"Carlos, stand down," Marco said, his voice low and unequivocal, his eyes glancing at the blood smeared on Isabella's inner thighs with cold, professional assessment. Fernando shoved past Marco, his focus absolute. He ripped a soft blanket from a nearby seat and draped it over Isabella's back, his hands surprisingly gentle as he helped Anya guide her away from the bar, her legs buckling instantly.
"Easy, niña, I’ve got you," Fernando murmured, ignoring the throbbing wreck of his own face, all his attention on the flinching, weeping woman. "Don't look at him. Look at me." Her eyes, wide with trauma and excruciating pain, found his, swimming with incomprehension. A fresh sob racked her, her body convulsing as she tried to speak, but only a pained, animal keening escaped her torn throat.
"Internal bleeding is a risk," Anya stated clinically, her fingers pressing gently on Isabella's lower abdomen, feeling the violent tremors. "We need a hospital. Now." Carlos stood frozen, watching them tend to her, his expression crumbling from rage into a terrifying blankness as Fernando, cradling Isabella’s head against his shoulder, glared at him with pure, unadulterated contempt. "This," Fernando hissed, his voice trembling with fury, "is what you did."