The jet’s cabin was a tomb of polished mahogany and cream leather, the only sound the deep, subsonic hum of the engines. Sinan swirled an inch of bourbon in a heavy crystal glass, his gaze fixed on the endless twilight outside the window. “We’re pathetic,” he said, the words flat in the insulated quiet.

Tim, sprawled in the facing seat, let out a short, humorless laugh. He was already in his tuxedo pants and a crisp white shirt, the bow tie hanging loose around his neck like a noose. “Speak for yourself. I’m getting married in three hours. That’s the opposite of pathetic. That’s… adult.”

“That’s what I mean.” Sinan finally looked at him. “We’re sitting here, sober, dressed like penguins, flying to a wedding we planned. No last-minute party in Macau. No ‘forgetting’ to board. We’re going to be on time. We’re going to stand there and say words in front of people.” He took a slow sip. “We’ve been neutered.”

“We’ve been claimed,” Tim corrected, his voice quieter. He studied his own drink. “And you love it. You love her. You’re just having a final freak-out at forty thousand feet.”

“I’m not freaking out.” Sinan’s jaw tightened. “I’m observing. We used to live. Now we just… manage our lives. Carefully. No surprises. No deviations.”

“Deviations?” Tim’s eyebrow arched. “You mean other women.”

“I mean spontaneity. Risk. The thing that used to make the blood move.” Sinan leaned forward, his eyes intense. “When was the last time you did something you knew you shouldn’t? Something just for the heat of it? Not for Leah. Not for the future. Just for the fucking feeling of being alive?”

Tim held his gaze for a long moment, then looked away, out the same window. “The night with Leah at my place. After the bath. That wasn’t managed.”

“That was love. That’s a different drug. I’m talking about the old one. The pure one. The one that doesn’t ask for your heart in return.” Sinan sat back, a strange, restless energy in his posture. “We’ve sworn it off. Like it’s a vice. Like it’s beneath us now.”

The silence stretched, filled only by the jet’s whisper. Both men were lost in the memory of that old drug—the effortless, empty conquest, the high of a body that was just a body, a transaction that ended with a zipper and a smile. It had been their religion. Now it felt like a heresy against the women waiting for them in Vegas.

The forward cabin door hissed open.

The air hostess, Chloe according to her slim silver name pin, stepped through. “Gentlemen, we’ll begin our descent into Las Vegas in approximately fifty-five minutes. Can I get you anything before we prepare the cabin?”

She was their usual type, a fact that hit Sinan like a physical blow. Late twenties, hair a cascade of honey-blonde, a smile that was professionally warm. The uniform was standard-issue sleek, but she wore it like a challenge: the jacket unbuttoned just enough to strain over the full curve of her breasts, the skirt hemmed a precise, regulatory inch higher than necessary, hugging the spectacular, round swell of her ass as she turned to adjust something at the galley.

Sinan’s mouth went dry. His eyes tracked her, the old software booting up instantly, assessing, appreciating. He saw Tim’s gaze lock onto the same view, the same ancient reflex triggering. The girl bent over slightly to stow a champagne flute, and the dark navy fabric pulled taut across her backside, outlining the perfect, lush hemispheres.

Chloe straightened and turned, catching them both staring. Her professional smile didn’t falter, but something else flickered in her eyes—a recognition, a quiet confidence. She’d been on this jet before. She knew who they were. What they were. Or what they had been.

Sinan’s eyes met Tim’s across the aisle. No words were needed. The same electric current passed between them, a current that had been dormant for months. It was in the slight, almost imperceptible lift of Tim’s chin, the slow, deliberate way Sinan set his glass down on the table between them. The hum of the jet seemed to fade into a ringing silence.

Sinan spoke, his voice low and smooth, all Miami charm. “Chloe, right? Come here for a second.”

She took two steps forward, poised. “Yes, Mr. Ahmed?”

“We’re feeling a little… tense. Pre-wedding nerves.” Sinan’s smile was a knife-edge. “You know how it is.”

“I can imagine,” she said, her voice calm, but her chest rose with a deeper breath.

Tim didn’t smile. His gaze was dark, direct. “We need a distraction. One last time.”

The phrase hung in the air, final and immense. One last time. A sacrament. A funeral. A farewell to the men they had been.

Chloe looked from Sinan’s hungry, commanding face to Tim’s grim, determined one. She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips. She reached up, and with a soft click, unbuttoned the top button of her jacket. “The cabin is secured for descent,” she said, her voice dropping to a murmur. “No interruptions.”

Sinan stood. He closed the distance between them, his movements predatory and fluid. He didn’t kiss her. He placed his hands on her hips, turned her gently, and pushed her forward until her hands were braced on the polished table where his bourbon glass still sat. He looked down at the perfect arc of her ass, encased in dark blue. He heard Tim rise behind him, a shadow at his shoulder.

With deliberate slowness, Sinan gathered the hem of her skirt in his hands and rolled it up, over the backs of her thighs, past the black lace of her thong, until the fabric was a bunched band at her waist. The sight stole his breath. Her skin was pale and flawless, the cheeks full and high, the thong a mere string bisecting them, damp already at the center. The musk of her, clean and musky and female, hit him. He leaned in, his nose almost touching the lace.

“Jesus,” Tim breathed from beside him, his own control fraying.

Sinan hooked his thumbs in the sides of the thong and dragged it down. He didn’t pull it off. He let it tangle at her knees. Then he spread her open with his hands, his thumbs on the soft inner flesh of her thighs. He looked his fill. The pink, glistening furl of her asshole, tight and perfect. The slick, swollen lips of her pussy below, already wet for them. His cock throbbed, a painful, insistent pulse against his zipper. He was so hard it ached.

He lowered his head and breathed her in. Deeply. The intimate, salty-sweet scent filled his lungs, a perfume more potent than any memory. He heard her gasp, felt her thighs tremble under his hands.

Tim’s hand appeared, rough and sure, sliding between Sinan’s face and her body. His fingers found her pussy, stroked through the wetness, gathering it. He pushed two fingers inside, and Chloe cried out, a sharp, genuine sound. Tim worked her, his knuckles brushing Sinan’s cheek, the wet, sucking sounds obscenely loud in the quiet cabin. “She’s ready,” Tim growled, his voice thick.

Sinan didn’t need the report. He could see it, smell it, feel the heat radiating from her. He leaned in again, and this time, he licked. A slow, flat stroke from the bottom of her slit, up over her clit, all the way to the tight pucker above. She jerked, a full-body shudder. He did it again, slower, savoring the taste—musky, clean, addictive. He focused then, his tongue circling her asshole, pressing gently until the ring of muscle yielded and he could push the very tip inside. Her moan was long and broken.

Behind him, he heard the rasp of a zipper, the rustle of clothing. Tim was freeing himself. Sinan pulled back, his own fingers working his belt, his button, his zipper. His cock sprang free, thick and veined and dripping. He was leaking onto his own hand. He didn’t care.

Tim positioned himself behind Chloe, the broad head of his cock nudging against her soaked entrance. He looked at Sinan, a silent question in the storm of his eyes.

Sinan gave a single, sharp nod. “Take her.”

Tim pushed forward, a slow, relentless invasion. Chloe’s head dropped between her shoulders, a choked sob escaping her as he filled her, inch by inch, until his hips were flush against her ass. He began to move, deep, measured strokes that made her whole body sway.

Sinan moved to the side, his own cock in his fist, stroking in time with Tim’s thrusts. He watched, mesmerized—the way her body swallowed Tim, the way her ass clenched with each drive. He waited, letting the need coil tighter and tighter in his gut, letting the visual of his best friend fucking this beautiful, anonymous girl burn into him. This was the old magic. This was the altar.

When Tim’s rhythm began to grow ragged, Sinan tapped his shoulder. “My turn.”

Without a word, Tim pulled out, his cock glistening. They switched places in a seamless, practiced dance. Sinan stepped up behind her. He spat into his palm, slicked himself, then guided his cock not to her pussy, but higher. The blunt head pressed against the tight, forbidden rose of her asshole. He met her glazed, half-lidded eyes in the reflection of the dark window. “This is what you’re here for,” he whispered, and pushed.

The resistance was exquisite. A tight, hot ring of muscle gripping him, fighting him, then yielding with a soft, wet pop as the head breached her. Her scream was muffled against her own arm. He sank deeper, a slow, burning stretch that made his vision blur. When he was fully seated, buried in her incredible, clenching heat, he stopped, panting. He was inside her ass, and it was perfect. It was everything.

He fucked her then, with a focused, brutal intensity. Each thrust was a claim, a memory, a goodbye. The slap of his skin against hers, her ragged cries, Tim’s heavy breathing beside them—it was a symphony of their old life. Tim watched for a moment, then came around front, his cock still hard. He fed it into her mouth, and she took him greedily, sucking, her throat working around him.

They used her. Together. Sinan pounding into her ass, Tim fucking her mouth, their movements falling into a brutal, synchronized rhythm. Chloe was a conduit between them, the vessel for this final, sacred rite. Sinan’s hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back as Tim thrust deeper down her throat. He could feel Tim’s movements through her body, a secondary pulse inside her tight channel. The connection was electric, depraved, and profoundly intimate.

The pressure built, a tsunami in Sinan’s core. He was grunting with each drive, sweat dripping from his brow onto her back. “Tim,” he gritted out, a warning, a plea.

Tim understood. He pulled his cock from her mouth, slick with her saliva, and moved behind Sinan. He pressed himself against the cleft of Chloe’s ass, his cock sliding alongside Sinan’s, both of them buried in the incredible, hot squeeze of her. The double pressure was insane, overwhelming. Chloe was sobbing now, overwhelmed, her body trembling violently between them.

It was too much. The visual, the sensation, the sheer taboo of it. Sinan’s orgasm ripped through him, violent and endless. He shouted, his hips slamming forward as he emptied himself deep inside her, pulses of hot release that seemed to go on forever. The clenching of her ass around him milked him dry.

The moment Sinan finished, Tim shifted. He pushed Sinan’s softening cock aside and, in one smooth motion, guided his own into the same slick, used, stretched entrance. He buried himself to the hilt and fucked her through his own climax, his groan a raw, animal sound as he came inside her, mixing his release with Sinan’s.

They collapsed against her, against each other, a tangled, sweating, panting heap of limbs and spent desire. The cabin air was thick with the smell of sex and sweat and salt. Chloe slumped over the table, boneless, her body marked and used.

For a long minute, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the jet’s hum. Sinan slowly pulled out, his body feeling hollowed, weightless. He looked at Tim, who was doing the same. There was no triumph in Tim’s eyes. No victory. Only a deep, weary emptiness.

They cleaned up in silence, using towels from the galley. They dressed, retying bow ties, smoothing hair, becoming the groomsmen again. Chloe, moving stiffly, pulled her uniform back into place, her face carefully blank. Sinan took a thick envelope of cash from his briefcase and placed it on the table beside her. She didn’t look at it.

The pilot’s voice came over the speaker, calm and professional. “Gentlemen, we are on final approach to Las Vegas. Please ensure your seatbelts are fastened.”

Sinan and Tim took their seats, buckling in. The jet tilted downward. Out the window, the sprawling neon grid of the Strip glittered like a fallen constellation. The wedding venue was a cluster of white lights among them.

Tim stared straight ahead, his profile hard. “One last time,” he said, the words barely audible.

Sinan didn’t answer. He felt the wheels touch down with a gentle bump, a perfect landing. The engines roared in reverse. It was over. The old life was behind them, buried in the sky. Ahead, in the neon-lit night, their new lives were waiting to be claimed.