Serving on a Goldman Sachs private jet came with certain perks, so Sophia didn't bat an eye at the fact that Raphael wasn't legally old enough to drink. She'd already run his full background check anyway.
A minute later she returned with a silver tray holding a single flute of champagne. The golden liquid shimmered as she handed it over.
Raphael took a slow sip. Sophia's voice floated down again.
"Mr. Lee, may I tuck you in with a blanket?"
He gave a small nod. The cabin temperature was perfect—nothing like the freezing-then-boiling mess on regular airliners.
Maybe it was his imagination. Or maybe it was exactly what he'd suspected. As Sophia leaned over to spread the blanket, her fingers "accidentally" brushed straight across the front of his jeans.
He'd already been half-interested in her. Add in twenty-year-old hormones on full blast and days of zero action, and her little move lit the fuse instantly.
Sophia's voice stayed perfectly professional, but there was a new, velvet edge to it now.
"Mr. Lee, would you like a massage? I'm fully licensed—my technique is as good as any professional."
Raphael let the champagne roll across his tongue for a second, savoring the cool burn, then gave her a slow, lazy smile.
"…Sure. I could use one."
He took another sip, the golden bubbles popping lightly against his lips, and reclined the wide leather seat until he was almost horizontal. The private jet's cabin lights had dimmed to a soft amber glow, the engine hum a low, steady thrum beneath everything. He figured she'd start at his shoulders or neck—standard airline "relaxation service" stuff.
Instead, a cool rush of air hit his lap.
His zipper was already sliding down with a soft, deliberate zzzzip.
Raphael's head snapped up so fast the champagne sloshed in the flute.
Sophia had slipped completely under the cashmere blanket like she'd been waiting for this exact moment. The fabric tented over her head and shoulders as she settled between his spread knees. The only warning was the faint rustle of denim, then the warm brush of her fingers hooking into the waistband of his boxer-briefs.
Before he could even form a full thought, her mouth was on him.
The first touch was slow, deliberate heat—soft lips parting, tongue gliding along the underside with practiced confidence. Raphael sucked in a sharp breath, his free hand instinctively gripping the armrest. The contrast hit him hard: the chilled champagne still tingling on his tongue, the warm, wet perfection sliding down his length in one smooth, unhurried motion.
Holy shit.
She took him deeper than he expected, throat relaxing like she'd done this a hundred times in training. No hesitation. No teasing. Just confident, luxurious suction that made his hips twitch involuntarily. Her blonde waves spilled across his thighs under the blanket, tickling his skin, while one manicured hand wrapped around the base, stroking in perfect rhythm with her mouth.
Raphael's head fell back against the seat. A low groan escaped him before he could stop it. The jet's cabin felt ten degrees hotter. Every slow bob of her head sent sparks up his spine. She hummed softly around him—barely audible over the engine—and the vibration damn near short-circuited his brain.
He set the champagne flute in the holder with a slightly shaky hand and let the other slide under the blanket, fingers threading gently into her thick golden hair. Not guiding. Just feeling. She rewarded him by taking him even deeper, nose brushing the fabric of his open jeans, lips sealed tight.
This is insane.
Twenty years old, private Gulfstream, a literal model-level flight attendant on her knees under a blanket, working him like it was the most natural thing in the world. And all of it arranged by Goldman Sachs.
A helpless laugh mixed with another groan.
Thank you, evil capitalism.
Sophia's pace never faltered. She worked him with slow, wet, perfect strokes—tongue swirling on every upstroke, hand twisting gently on every downstroke—until his thighs were tight and his breathing had turned ragged. The blanket rose and fell in steady rhythm with her head. Every so often she'd pull back just enough to swirl her tongue around the tip, eyes probably looking up at him even though he couldn't see them, then sink down again like she was trying to ruin him for every other woman on earth.
Raphael's fingers tightened in her hair. He didn't push. He didn't need to. She already knew exactly what she was doing.
The jet banked gently through a cloud layer, and the subtle shift in pressure only made everything feel more intense.
He closed his eyes, let his head rest against the soft leather, and just… enjoyed the ride.
Sophia, you magnificent bastard.
This wasn't a massage.
This was a five-star welcome to the big leagues.
Thank you, evil capitalism.
---
When the jet touched down at LAX it was already eleven at night.
Raphael learned Sophia had been pulled from Aeroflot just two months ago for this temporary Goldman gig. When she looked up at him with those hopeful eyes, he left her his private number.
He stepped off the jet, powered up his phone in the terminal.
It exploded the second it connected—three texts, two missed calls.
All from Lima and Alessandra.
He opened the latest one from Lima:
Bad boy! Call me the second you land! HUGE news!
Raphael dialed back immediately.
She picked up on the first ring.
"Raphael!"
Lima's voice was practically shaking with excitement. "Guess what happened?"
He started walking toward baggage claim, dragging his carry-on.
"What?"
"Chanel!"
She actually squealed. "Chanel wants me as their global ambassador—for a brand-new perfume!"
Raphael's steps faltered.
"What?"
"Yes! Global! The agent got the call this morning, we signed the letter of intent this afternoon—two million dollars a year!"
Raphael blinked twice, then burst out laughing.
"Congratulations!"
"There's more!"
Lima kept going. "Alessandra got one too—Saint Laurent lipstick, also global, also two million a year!"
This time Raphael actually stopped dead in the middle of the terminal.
Two luxury houses. Same day. Global campaigns for both women?
Way too convenient.
"Raphael? You still there?"
"Yeah."
"You know… somebody hinted that this all happened because of you."
Lima's voice dropped. "Is that true?"
He paused.
"I don't know."
"Really?"
"Really."
Raphael kept walking. "But I can ask."
He hung up, stepped outside, and immediately called Ari.
It rang a few times before Ari picked up.
"Raphael? You back?"
"Just landed."
Raphael cut straight to it. "Quick question."
"Shoot."
"Did you hook Lima and Alessandra up with those endorsement deals?"
Ari sounded genuinely confused.
"What deals?"
"Chanel and Saint Laurent."
Raphael spelled it out. "Global ambassadors. Signed today."
Ari actually went quiet for a second, like he thought he was hallucinating.
"Raphael, I haven't even started reaching out yet. I've been buried in your stuff—haven't had time to call any brands."
Raphael took a deep breath.
"Wait—"
Ari sounded completely lost. "You're telling me they landed Chanel and Saint Laurent on their own? That's impossible. They're hot in the modeling world, but global luxury campaigns are still a couple levels above them—"
"I know."
Raphael cut him off. "That's why I'm asking you."
Ari let out a helpless laugh.
"Wasn't me, man. I don't have that kind of pull—and neither does anyone at WME, including Emmanuel."
Raphael hummed.
"Got it."
He hung up and dialed Philip next.
It rang longer this time.
"Raphael?"
Philip sounded exhausted. "I just left Marvel—still buried in paperwork—"
"Quick question."
"What?"
"Did you set up endorsement deals for Lima and Alessandra?"
Philip paused, clearly thrown.
"What deals? I haven't touched anything. Goldman's had me running nonstop—I haven't had a second to—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
"Wait, what deals?"
"Chanel and Saint Laurent."
Raphael repeated it. "Global ambassadors. Signed today."
Philip sounded like he'd been hit by a truck.
"Raphael, I don't have that reach. I'm still a nobody on Wall Street—luxury fashion? Not even close."
Raphael stayed quiet.
Philip kept talking.
"But if it wasn't me and it wasn't Ari… who the hell was it?"
Raphael thought for half a second.
"Goldman."
Philip went silent.
"Goldman? Paulson again?"
"Most likely."
Raphael explained, "Only he has that kind of pull."
Philip let out a low whistle.
"Raphael, if it's really him… that's a hell of a favor."
"I know. I'll handle it."
He hung up and stood at the airport curb, staring into the cool L.A. night.
The evening breeze felt good on his face.
He pulled up Paulson's number—the private one Paulson had given him personally after the Long Island dinner.
He stared at it for a few seconds, then hit call.
It rang twice.
"Mr. Lee."
Paulson's voice was calm, like he'd been expecting the call.
Raphael smiled.
"Mr. Paulson, sorry to call so late."
"Not late at all. Just left the office. What can I do for you?"
Raphael chose his words carefully.
"The Chanel and Saint Laurent deals… was that you?"
Paulson chuckled softly.
"Small thing. Not worth mentioning."
Raphael took a slow breath.
"Mr. Paulson, that kind of favor—"
"There's no favor to repay."
Paulson cut him off smoothly. "Mr. Lee, I told you—I believe in you. Those two campaigns were just a little welcome gift. Don't give it another thought."
Raphael didn't answer right away.
Paulson continued, tone light as ever.
"Chanel and Saint Laurent have long-standing relationships with Goldman. They were already looking for fresh faces. I mentioned your friends in passing. No big deal."
He made it sound like he'd just commented on the weather.
Raphael didn't know what to say except the obvious.
"Thank you, Mr. Paulson."
But inside, a fresh layer of caution settled over him.
All this just because of the $1.38 billion from the World Cup?
Three straight days of "cultural" events in New York. The very obvious courtship at the private dinner. Then helping buy Marvel—half favor, half flex—showing exactly how much power Goldman could swing.
The flight attendant Sophia had felt like dessert.
And now the endorsements for Lima and Alessandra? It was getting harder and harder to say no.
One hell of a sugar-coated barrage. Raphael had waved the white flag—for now.
"No need to thank me."
Paulson laughed easily. "Mr. Lee, I meant what I said. As long as we keep working together, Goldman will keep supporting your growth. That's not lip service."
Raphael nodded even though Paulson couldn't see it.
"I understand."
"Good."
Paulson paused. "By the way, how did everything go at Marvel?"
"Smooth. Philip's still in New York handling the rest."
"Excellent. Call if you need anything."
"Will do."
Raphael hung up and watched the traffic stream past the terminal.
The night breeze carried a hint of coolness.
He replayed Paulson's words—"That's not lip service."
Yeah. It wasn't.
It was an investment.
An investment in his eye, in his instincts, in the future value he could create.
And Paulson? Guys like him never made a bad trade.
Raphael pocketed his phone and headed for the parking garage.
His Mustang was still right where he'd left it, pearl-white paint glowing under the lights.
He slid behind the wheel, fired up the engine.
The V8 roared to life.
He pulled out and merged into the L.A. night.
His phone buzzed again.
Text from Lima:
Did you find out?
Raphael typed one-handed while driving.
Yeah. A friend helped.
Send.
Less than a minute later:
What friend has that kind of power?
Raphael thought for a second, then replied:
Someone who wants me to owe him a favor.
Send.
Lima didn't text back.
The Mustang climbed onto Pacific Coast Highway. Malibu glowed in the distance, lights blazing from the villas.
Raphael stepped on the gas. The engine growled and shot forward into the darkness.
---
The second Raphael pushed open the front door of the cliffside Malibu villa, Jessica Alba let out a happy, breathless scream that echoed off the high ceilings.
"Baby—!"
She launched herself at him like a missile, long legs wrapping around his waist before he could even drop his bag. Raphael caught her effortlessly, one arm under her perfect ass, the other around her back, and spun her once in the entryway just to hear that delighted laugh turn into a needy moan.
God, she felt good.
Light but still deliciously curvy—Latin genetics at their absolute finest. That ass-for-days, hips-for-days package pressed tight against him, round and firm and bouncy under the tiny silk shorts she was wearing. The same metabolism that let her eat like a queen and still stay this tight after years in Hollywood. Her waist was tiny enough for his hands to almost meet around it, but her tits—full, perky C-cups—were already smashed against his chest, nipples hard through the thin tank top.
He didn't get to admire the view for long.
Jessica, who had gone two full weeks without him, shut him up with her mouth.
The kiss was pure fire—hungry, desperate, wet. Her tongue pushed into his mouth like she was trying to crawl inside him, tasting champagne and the faint trace of Sophia's spit still on his lips. She moaned into the kiss, rolling her hips against the rapidly thickening bulge in his jeans.
"Missed you so fucking much," she gasped between bites to his lower lip. "Two weeks is too long, Raphael. I've been touching myself every night thinking about this cock."
The next second, two very healthy young bodies went to war.
Raphael kicked the door shut with his heel and carried her straight through the house like she weighed nothing. Jessica's legs stayed locked around him, grinding her soaked pussy against his abs while she sucked on his tongue.
First stop: the living room couch.
He dropped her onto the soft leather and ripped her tank top off in one motion. Her tits bounced free—golden, perfect, dark nipples begging for attention. Raphael latched onto one instantly, sucking hard while his fingers shoved her silk shorts and thong down her long legs in a single yank. Jessica was already dripping, a shiny trail of arousal running down her inner thigh.
"Fuck me," she begged, spreading her legs wide. "Right now. Don't be gentle."
He wasn't.
Raphael freed his thick cock—still half-hard and glistening from Sophia's mouth on the jet—and slammed into her in one brutal thrust. Jessica screamed in pleasure, back arching off the cushions as her tight Latina pussy stretched around him.
"¡Dios mío—yes! So deep—!"
He fucked her hard and fast, hips snapping, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the villa. Her tits bounced with every thrust. He grabbed one, pinching the nipple while his other hand pinned her hip down so he could grind against her clit on every stroke.
She came in under two minutes—shaking, squirting a little around his cock, nails raking down his back.
But he didn't stop.
He flipped her over, bent her over the arm of the couch, and took her from behind, pounding that legendary ass until it rippled beautifully with every thrust. Jessica pushed back like a wildcat, moaning in Spanish and English, begging for more.
Next room: the kitchen island.
He carried her there still impaled on his cock, set her ass on the cold marble, and spread her legs wide. Raphael dropped to his knees and buried his face between her thighs, tongue fucking her soaked hole while two fingers curled inside her. Jessica's hands fisted his hair, riding his face shamelessly until she came again, thighs clamped around his head, screaming his name so loud it probably carried out to the ocean.
Then he stood, spun her around, bent her over the island, and fucked her again—deep, punishing strokes that made the marble creak under her elbows. Every thrust drove her hips into the edge. Her ass jiggled. Her pussy creamed down his balls.
"Harder—use me—fuck your little Latina slut—"
The battlefield expanded.
Staircase: he took her against the wall halfway up, her back to his chest, one leg hooked over his arm while he drove upward into her. Her moans bounced off the glass railings.
Master bedroom: finally.
Raphael threw her onto the massive king bed and climbed on top. He fucked her in missionary so he could watch her face—eyes rolling back, mouth open in constant pleasure. Then cowgirl, her riding him like she was trying to break him, tits bouncing, hips rolling in that perfect Latin rhythm. Then reverse cowgirl so he could watch that incredible ass slam down onto his cock.
He switched again—doggy on the edge of the bed, one hand fisted in her long dark hair, the other spanking that jiggling ass until it glowed pink. Jessica came three more times, each one louder than the last, her pussy fluttering and gushing around him.
By the time he felt his own orgasm building, the entire villa smelled like sex—sweat, pussy, and raw lust. Furniture had been knocked askew. The couch cushions were on the floor. A trail of her soaked panties and his clothes stretched from the front door to the bedroom.
Raphael flipped her onto her back one last time, hooked her legs over his shoulders, and folded her in half. He pounded her into the mattress with deep, savage strokes, the wet squelch of her ruined pussy filling the room.
"Gonna fill you up," he growled against her mouth.
"Yes—cum inside me—breed your girl—!"
He buried himself to the hilt and exploded—thick, heavy ropes of cum flooding her spasming pussy. Jessica screamed through her final orgasm, milking every drop, her walls pulsing around him like she never wanted to let go.
They collapsed together, breathing hard, bodies slick and trembling.
The whole house felt like it was on fire—every room used, every surface claimed, moans still echoing faintly off the walls.
Jessica turned her head, kissed his jaw lazily, and whispered against his skin, voice hoarse and satisfied:
"Welcome home, baby… Next round in the shower?"