The air in Indonesia was a sticky mass of humidity and celebration. Fermín had just climbed onto the podium, and the adrenaline—mixed with too many cocktails of dubious origin—was flowing freely at the private party in the hotel.
Pedro remembered the laughter. He remembered the weight of his phone in his hand weeks earlier, exchanging WhatsApp messages with Fermín about the gossip making the rounds in the paddock: two Alphas from the premier class who had supposedly been caught in a compromising situation.
“That's gross, isn't it? Two Alphas... that doesn't make sense, man,” Pedro had written, seeking validation.
“I don't know, maybe one of them isn't as Alpha as he seems. Or maybe they just like each other. Haven't you ever been curious, Tiburón?” Fermín had replied.
That question was the breaking point. Pedro, alone in his room, had searched for videos. With incognito mode activated and his heart pounding in his throat, he had seen what two men—two Alphas—could do to each other. He felt revulsion, yes, a revulsion instilled by years of family conservatism... but he also felt a painful erection that left him trembling.
At the party in Indonesia, under the neon lights, that curiosity became unbearable.
“Do you remember what we talked about on the phone?” Pedro stammered, slurring his words as he leaned on Fermín’s shoulder. Fermín’s scent—that rosemary that seemed amplified by the alcohol—was driving him crazy.
Fermín looked at him, his eyes glistening from the drinks but with a dangerous clarity. He leaned close to Pedro’s ear, his height forcing him to bend down.
“Which part, Pedro? The part where you said it was impossible, or the part where you asked me what it felt like to have someone just as strong as you on top of you?”
“Shut up,” Pedro growled, but he didn’t move away. On the contrary, his fingers dug into Fermín’s arm, testing the firmness of the muscle.
“If you want to know… you just have to ask me,” Fermín whispered.
What followed was a blur of clumsy hands opening the suite door, the sound of leather jackets hitting the floor, and the brutal contrast of their scents: Pedro’s dark chocolate turning sweet with his budding submission, and Fermín’s rosemary claiming every inch of the Murcian’s skin.
