“On your knees,” he orders, and I try to resist. But my desire to taste him makes me weak. So I comply, falling to my knees. The bathroom that felt spacious now feels compact, like all the air has been sucked out of the room.
Grabbing his granite hard dick with my hand, I slowly lick from the base to the tip, using as much saliva as possible. He groans deep and low above me, trying to push himself into my mouth, but I don't allow it. I want control. I pull away and glare up at him.
“I’m in control here, you’ll get what I give you, asshole.”
“So bitchy,” he grins as I get back to the job at hand. Literally.
I repeat the licking and sucking, making sure that when I reach the tip I suck and tug on the foreskin, treating it to a luxury tongue massage. Carlos hands hold my head, and from the flexing of his fingers it's taking all his energy to not take over. If he tries again, I’ll leave him with blue balls. His cock is shiny, dripping with my spit as I lather it with attention, before deep throating him until the tip of his dick hits the back of my throat. Luckily for him, I have no gag reflex so I can take that thing as deep as I like.
“Holy shit. You eat cock like a dream,” he moans above me. I look up under my lashes and see he has his head thrown back, enjoying what I’m doing to him, and it fills me with so much pride that I have got this psycho dickhead lost in lust.
As I bob up and down on his dick, I lick the base of his cock while he is deep inside my mouth and swallow, tightening the channel to give the best pressure. I swear his dick feels harder in my mouth as I double down on my efforts. My mouth hurts, my jaw aches. But it’s fucking amazing. Just ask my own hard dick that is really wanting to join in. I moan around him as saliva drips out of my mouth, his groans become louder and I panic for a second that the guys outside will hear. It doesn’t matter though as it's about to be over, his hands hold my head so tightly I can’t move as he fills my mouth with a stream of cum that I struggle to swallow down. Why the fuck am I swallowing? I never swallow.
After a few seconds, his limp dick falls from my mouth and cum and spit dribbles down my chin. I stand and grab the toilet paper that's on the counter behind me and clean up my mouth before it ends up on my clothes, and try to process the fact that I’ve given head to Carlos in his father’s private jet.
“You don’t need to shut down every time we fuck, you know. Nobody saw,” Carlos says as he cleans himself up and adjusts his clothing behind me where I watch him in the mirror.
“I’m not.”
He looks at me, meeting my gaze in the mirror.
“You are. It's the only thing you lie about, so don’t act like I’m dumb enough not to notice.”
“This isn’t easy for me, you know. I told you what happened,” I insist, wanting him to understand.
“Yes and I understand. But when we are on our own like this, you need to start letting go, otherwise you’ll never be free.”
“Ha! Free? You have no fucking idea.”
Carlos moves behind me and pulls my back into his front, tightly holding me in his arms as they snake around my waist. His mouth and nose snuggle behind my ear and I shiver at the contact.
“You never lie when around me, little lion. Never. I won’t allow it,” he whispers harshly and I swallow hard, still watching us in the mirror. I struggle to comprehend that it's me I'm looking at, in another man's arms and it feels…nice. If he wasn’t such a dick, I’d say we look pretty good together.
I don’t respond as he lets go and walks out of the bathroom, whistling as he leaves me behind. I wish the noise in my brain would stop. I know what I want and what I feel, so why can’t I fucking do it? After all these years, why does that motherfucker Mr. Morgan still have a hold over me? Why did he get in my head? I should be over that shit. I’m an adult and I know what's right and wrong, but it's like there’s this barrier that I’m trying to break through, and nothing I do breaks it.
If I could make a wish right now, I would wish I could turn back time to being that fifteen year old boy again. I wish that I wasn’t scared. I wish I’d have taken a knife to the old bastard and slit his throat. I wish I could’ve saved Leo from his fists. Saved us both.
20
CARLOS
N ine and a half hours later and we’re finally landing in Rio. I’m dying to get to the house. The one thing I hate about planes
is how disgusting you feel after traveling on them. I want a shower and some decent food.
“Finally back home, Enrico. Excited?” I say to my piece of shit brother. Something feels off about his response, though. The tired, beaten down demeanour has been replaced with a look of hatred and happiness. His squinting eyes portray the hate for me, but his response sounds almost gleeful.
“You have no idea, Carlos. I can’t wait to get back home. Let’s go,” he says as he jumps up out of his seat with Mark and Lucas exchanging looks of confusion. I don’t like it.
I lead us all to the exit door, Simon following close behind me. As predictable as he is, we didn’t speak for the rest of the journey. I actually mainly slept after the most amazing blow job of my life. That fucker put me to sleep like a baby afterwards. I’ve no idea if Simon managed to sleep, as I awoke to find him just watching me. Lost in thought. I would love to be inside his head sometimes to see what that overworked brain of his is thinking.
The cabin door opens with a hiss, and a wave of heat rushes into my face—dense, immediate and unmistakenly Brazilian. As I step out onto the top of the stairs I take a moment to let it hit me fully.
The air wraps around me like a thick blanket—humid, fragrant and alive. Not the dry artificial warmth of climate control, or polished hotel lobbies, but the kind that clings to your skin and settles into your lungs. It smells like sun baked pavements, faint salt from the ocean somewhere nearby and that earthy sweetness that only comes from air after the rain on warm soil. Underneath it all there are hints of mango, diesel, sweat and the faintest trace of sugarcane smoke. Or I could just be experiencing nostalgia, and all my childhood memories have returned in the form of smells.
It’s overwhelming. It’s home.
Outside the terminal, the sun is already beginning to sink low—painting everything in gold and bronze. The heat radiates from the ground, soaking through my shoes. My shirt starts to cling to my back within seconds, but I don’t care.
