The jet’s cabin was a low-lit capsule of cream leather and polished walnut, but Tom Zanetti saw none of it. He saw the girls. A dozen of them, maybe more, scattered across the wide seats and the deep carpet—bikinis in neon and black. Tanned limbs. Laughing mouths. All of them were looking at him. All of them are eighteen or nineteen. The chilled, ozone-scrubbed air was already thick with the smell of coconut oil and anticipation.

“Surprise,” Dan said, clapping a hand on Tom’s shoulder. A cigar was already lit between his fingers, smoke curling into the recessed lighting. “You didn’t think we’d let you go quietly, did you?”

Wayne moved past them, his gaze already fixed on a brunette bent over to retrieve a fallen phone. “Consider it a send-off,” Wayne said, his voice a low rumble. “A final taste of the old menu.”

Tom stood frozen at the cabin entrance. His carry-on felt absurd in his hand. He’d packed a suit for tomorrow. He’d kissed Eva goodbye at the villa door two hours ago, her lips soft, her eyes trusting. “Just a quick flight with the lads,” he’d said. “Straight to the venue.”

“Tom?” A blonde in a white bikini top stood up, her smile hesitant. “I’m a huge fan of your sets.”

He didn’t answer. His pulse was a hammer in his throat. This was the trap. Laid out in cream leather and young skin. The one promise he’d made her.

Dan leaned in, his whisper hot against Tom’s ear. “It’s a five-hour flight, mate. You’re not going to just sit there and watch.”

Across the cabin, Wayne had guided the brunette to a plush bench seat. He wasn’t kissing her. He was behind her, his large hands on her hips, his face buried between the cheeks of her bikini bottom. He inhaled, deep and audible, a connoisseur sampling a vintage. The girl gasped, her fingers gripping the leather.

“See?” Dan murmured. “He’s already started. It’d be rude not to join.”

Tom’s cock stirred, a traitorous, thick ache against his jeans. It was a physical reflex trained by a decade of this exact scenario. The sight, the availability, the implicit permission. His body recognized the game before his mind could protest.

The blonde approached, her eyes on the prominent bulge now straining his zipper. She sank to her knees on the carpet, her hands going to his belt. “Let me,” she whispered, not asking.

He should stop her. He knew he should stop her. But his hands didn’t move. He watched her deft fingers undo the button, the zip. The cool air of the cabin hit his skin, then her warm breath. She nuzzled him through his boxers, her nose tracing his length. “Fuck,” she breathed, feeling the size of him. “It’s true.”

Dan had already shed his shirt. A redhead was pulling him down onto a wide seat, her mouth on his neck. Tom heard the wet, hungry sound of Wayne’s tongue working, the brunette’s soft, broken moans.

The blonde pulled his boxers down. His cock sprang free, fully hard, thick, and heavy. She stared at it for a second, a flicker of genuine awe in her eyes, before wrapping her lips around the head. Her mouth was hot, wet, perfect. She sucked slowly, taking an inch, then two, her tongue pressing against the throbbing vein underneath.

A groan tore from Tom’s throat. His head fell back against the bulkhead. His hands, finally moving, tangled in her hair. Not to push her away. To hold her there. To feel the pull of her mouth. This was the feeling. The surrender. The obliterating pleasure that wiped the slate clean. Eva’s face, her trust, it all blurred, drowned under a wave of pure sensation.

“That’s it,” Dan grunted from nearby. Tom opened his eyes. Dan was on his back, the redhead straddling him, riding his cock with slow, deep rolls of her hips. Dan’s hands gripped her ass, his cigar resting in an ashtray beside them, smoke weaving into the scene.

The blonde deep-throated him then, gagging softly, tears springing to her eyes as she took him to the root. The vibration of her throat around him was exquisite. Tom thrust upward, gently at first, then harder, fucking her mouth. He looked down. Her mascara was smudged. She was beautiful. She was nobody.

Wayne stood up, leaving the brunette panting and wet. He unbuckled his trousers, his own erection thick and impressive. He nodded to two girls watching from a seat. “You. Come here.” They obeyed, moving to their knees before him. He fed his cock to one, his thumb tracing the other’s lower lip before pushing two fingers into her mouth. “Suck,” he commanded, his eyes closed, his head tilting back as he began to fuck the first girl’s face in steady, shallow thrusts.

The jet climbed to cruising altitude, a faint tremor running through the frame. The vibration mingled with the other rhythms in the cabin. The slap of skin. The wet, rhythmic sucking. The choked gasps for air. Tom’s release built a tight coil at the base of his spine. He was close. So close. In this sealed, hurtling metal tube, there was no tomorrow. No wedding. Only this.

He pulled the blonde’s head off him with a wet pop. Her lips were swollen, glistening. “Turn around,” he said, his voice rough. “Bend over the seat.”

She scrambled to obey, presenting herself, peeling her bikini bottom to the side. She was already soaked, her pink flesh glistening under the cabin lights. Tom spat into his palm, slicked himself, and positioned the broad head of his cock at her entrance. He didn’t push. He waited. He made her feel the pressure, the imminent stretch. She whimpered, pushing back against him, begging without words.

He drove into her in one brutal, claiming thrust. Her cry was sharp, swallowed by the engine hum. She was tight, impossibly tight, her inner muscles fluttering around the invading girth of him. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, letting them both feel the fullness. Then he withdrew almost all the way and slammed home again. And again. Setting a deep, punishing pace. Each thrust rocked her body forward, her hands scrambling for grip on the leather.

He wasn’t making love. He wasn’t even fucking for pleasure. He was trying to fuck Eva out of his head. To fuck the promise into oblivion. With every plunge, he chased the numbness on the other side of the climax. The girl’s moans escalated, her body clenching around him as she came, but Tom felt distant from it. A conductor of someone else’s symphony.

His own orgasm gathered, inevitable. He pistoned into her, his balls slapping against her skin, the sound obscenely loud. He saw Dan, now with a different girl, bent over the arm of a chair, fucking her from behind with mechanical efficiency. He saw Wayne, lying back as three girls attended to him with mouths and hands.

Tom’s vision whited out. With a final, grinding thrust, he came, his release pumping into the tight, hot channel. He groaned, a raw, animal sound, his hips jerking through the pulses. For a few seconds, there was nothing. Just the void he’d been chasing.

Then he slipped out of her. The cool air hit his wet skin. The girl collapsed onto the seat, spent. Tom stepped back, looking down at himself. At the mess. The reality rushed back in, colder than the cabin air. The promise was broken. He’d broken it in the first hour.

He zipped his jeans with clumsy fingers. The blonde looked up at him, her eyes dazed, satisfied. “Thank you,” she whispered.

The words felt like a punch. Tom turned away, walking toward the small, enclosed lavatory at the rear of the jet. He needed to wash his hands. He needed to not be here. Behind him, the party continued, the sounds of pleasure now sounding hollow, tinny, like a recording he’d heard too many times.

Wayne had the brunette bent over his lap, her face pressed into the cream leather as he drove into her ass with slow, deep rolls of his hips. Her choked moans were lost in the engine’s drone. He was buried in that tight, hot darkness, one hand splayed on the small of her back, the other gripping her hip, his focus absolute. Then her voice, muffled against the seat, broke through. “Is Isla… is she your girlfriend now?”

Wayne froze. His hips stopped. The sudden stillness was more jarring than the thrusting. He pulled out of her with a wet sound. “What did you say?”

She turned her head, cheek smeared against the leather. “The girl from the villa. Isla. People are talking. They say you only fly with her now.”

Wayne didn’t answer. He looked past her, through the window at the endless black sky. His erection, slick and thick, began to soften against her skin. The question hung in the chilled air, killing the mood deader than any noise complaint.

Dan saw the stall. He pulled two giggling blondes into his lap, one on each thigh. He kissed one, then the other, his hands working under their bikini tops, his mouth busy, his eyes on Wayne’s stalled operation. A deliberate distraction.

In the lavatory, Tom scrubbed his hands under the tiny tap. The water was cold. He stared at his reflection in the polished steel, the guilt a cold stone in his gut. The lock clicked open.

A girl slipped inside. She wore a simple gray bikini, her hair a dark tumble around a face that was more curious than eager. She didn’t speak. She just looked at him, then at his hands under the water. Then she stepped forward, her body crowding his in the tight space, and kissed him.

Tom turned his head. “No.”

She kissed his jaw. Her hands went to his waistband. “You’re getting married,” she whispered, as if that explained everything. “One last time.” Her fingers found his zipper.

He caught her wrists. Held them. Her skin was warm. He could feel his own pulse hammering against her grip. He looked at her mouth. He thought of Eva’s mouth, the taste of her promise. The stone in his gut dissolved into a different heat. He let go of her wrists. “Fuck it,” he breathed, and crushed his mouth to hers.

He backed her against the sink, his hands rough on her hips, lifting her. She wrapped her legs around him, her bikini bottom a flimsy barrier. He tore it aside. He was hard again, a traitorous, aching hardness. He pushed into her standing up, her back against the mirror. The angle was deep, punishing. She cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders. He fucked her with a grim, focused intensity, the metal sink rattling with each thrust. He kept his eyes open, watching her face contort, trying to see anyone but Eva in it.

When he was done, he set her down. They didn’t speak. He left her in the lavatory, adjusting her suit. The main cabin was a tableau of spent energy. Girls lounged, dozing. Wayne sat alone, staring at his drink, the brunette gone. Dan was zipping his jeans, a satisfied smirk on his face.

“Everything alright, mate?” Dan asked, lighting a cigar. The smoke curled in the sterile air.

Wayne took a long swallow. “Peachy.” He didn’t look up.

A soft chime echoed through the cabin. The seatbelt sign illuminated. The pilot’s voice, calm and professional, announced their initial descent. The party was over.

The girls stirred, collecting discarded clothing, murmuring to each other. They avoided looking at the men now. The transaction was complete. Tom found his shirt, pulled it on. It smelled of perfume and sex. He couldn’t meet Dan’s eye.

Wayne finally stood, walking unsteadily to his seat. As he passed Tom, he spoke low, for him alone. “Doesn’t feel like a last time, does it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Feels like the first time you know you’ll need to lie.”

Tom buckled himself in. Out the window, the first hints of dawn smudged the horizon. The jet began its smooth, sinking turn toward the earth, toward the wedding, toward Eva. The cabin, now silent except for the engines, felt like a crime scene. And he was the only one who seemed to care about the body.