Your comments, reviews, and votes really help me out so much and they make me super motivated to keep working on this story! Thank you! Pat**on : Belamy20
The next day, Adriana Lima's flight touched down in New York.
Raphael was already waiting at the airport.
The second that unmistakable face stepped out of the terminal, he had one thought: Lima, Gisele, and Ambrosio—all three Brazilian.
So… was this about to turn into some kind of all-Brazilian cage match?
Lima kept it simple—white tee, faded jeans, hair down, barely any makeup.
But those wolf eyes still hit like a shot of pure adrenaline.
"Bad boy."
She closed the distance, rose onto her toes, and kissed his cheek. "Miss me?"
Raphael just smiled, slow and knowing.
Lima grinned right back.
"Guess that's a yes."
She hooked her arm through his and they headed out.
The car had barely pulled away from the curb when her phone rang.
She checked the screen and arched a brow.
"Alessandra."
The call connected.
"Adriana, you in New York yet?"
Ambrosio's voice, smooth as silk.
"Just landed."
"Free tonight? I'd love to buy you two a drink."
Lima glanced at Raphael.
He thought for half a second.
"Ask where."
Lima relayed the question.
"A club," Ambrosio answered instantly. "I know a private spot."
Lima's lips curved into that dangerous little smile.
"A club?" she repeated, eyes locked on Raphael. "Alessandra wants to take us clubbing."
Raphael caught her expression in the rearview mirror.
He'd seen that look before—at Neal's party, right before she backed him into a corner.
"Tell her," he said calmly, "change of plans. None of us are twenty-one yet."
Lima laughed out loud.
"He says we're all under twenty-one."
Ambrosio laughed too.
"Then where do you want to go?"
Raphael already had his phone out, dialing Philip.
"Best private club in New York. No ID checks."
Philip was quiet for two full seconds.
"You're nineteen."
"I know. Just drinks. No trouble."
"…Fine. I'll text you an address. Drop my name at the door."
---
Eight o'clock that night, Raphael and Lima stepped into a low-key building in lower Manhattan.
No sign outside. Just a guy in a sharp black suit at the entrance.
"Philip Baker's guests," Raphael said quietly.
The man nodded and opened the door.
Inside was another world—dim golden lighting, dark wood, a jazz pianist in the corner. The crowd was small, expensive, and quietly powerful.
Alessandra Ambrosio was already at the bar.
She wore a sleek black slip dress that showed off those killer collarbones and the long line of her neck, hair twisted up in a loose knot.
When she saw them, she lifted her glass in a lazy salute.
"You're late."
Her gaze slid over Raphael. "Adriana, your bad boy cleans up nice."
Lima slid onto the stool beside her and ordered a whiskey.
"I know."
Raphael took the seat on Lima's other side and ordered the same.
Ambrosio studied him over the rim of her glass, eyes sparkling with amusement.
"Gisele is losing her mind. She's called every model she knows and told them not to work with you."
Raphael shrugged. "Cute."
"Why me?" Ambrosio asked directly.
Raphael thought for a second.
"Your face is better for close-ups."
Ambrosio paused, then laughed—low, warm, and genuinely surprised.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
She took a sip, watching him the whole time.
"Interesting."
---
**Hot Expanded Scene from Chapter 24: The Bar War Turns Filthy**
For the next two hours the two Brazilian bombshells went to war—quiet, elegant, and vicious. Every word dripped with double meaning, every glance was a slow striptease. Ambrosio opened with Victoria's Secret runway stories—who walked the show, who got the wings—her voice like warm honey, but her eyes kept flicking to Raphael as if she were already imagining him bending her over the catwalk. Lima answered in that cool, effortless tone, landing every counter like a velvet knife, her long leg sliding deliberately against Raphael's under the bar until her bare foot brushed the growing bulge in his slacks.
Ambrosio switched to recent campaigns and brand deals, leaning forward so the deep neckline of her black slip dress offered a perfect view of her full tits. Lima casually mentioned the bigger one she'd just signed, her fingers tracing lazy circles on Raphael's inner thigh, nails scraping lightly enough to make his cock twitch.
Then Ambrosio pivoted to men, voice dropping to a filthy purr.
"And speaking of taste in men… Raphael, darling, tell me—do you like a woman who begs… or one who makes you beg?"
This time Lima didn't bite.
She simply turned on her stool, wolf eyes blazing with raw possession. Without a single word she grabbed the front of his shirt, yanked him in, and kissed him right there at the bar—slow, deep, and shamelessly filthy.
Her tongue pushed into his mouth like she owned every inch of him, sliding hot and wet against his, sucking on it greedily while her other hand boldly palmed the massive outline of his cock through his pants. The kiss was wet, hungry, deliberate. Soft little moans vibrated from her throat straight into his as she stroked him in long, possessive pulls, thumb circling the head through the fabric until he was rock-hard and leaking.
When she finally pulled back, a glossy string of saliva still connected their swollen lips. Raphael's breathing was steady, but his eyes had gone dark with hunger.
Ambrosio watched the entire filthy display, lips parted, breathing heavier. Her thighs squeezed together on the stool, nipples visibly tight against the thin dress. She raised her glass, voice low and smoky with arousal.
"To you," she told Raphael, "and your excellent taste."
Raphael clinked his glass against hers, but the air between the three of them was now thick enough to fuck.
Lima's hand never left his cock. She kept stroking him slowly, eyes locked on Ambrosio in pure challenge.
"Still want to talk about men, Alessandra?" she purred. "Or do you want to feel how this one tastes?"
Ambrosio's smile turned wicked and hungry. "I want to taste. Right now."
Raphael's voice was calm, low, and commanding.
"Both of you. Back booth. Now."
The private club's dim golden lighting and deep velvet booths in the far corner gave them perfect cover. The second the heavy curtain fell behind them, Lima dropped to her knees first—elegant even on the floor. She unzipped him with steady fingers and pulled out his thick, heavy cock, already throbbing and glistening at the tip.
"God, look at this monster," she whispered, almost reverent, before spitting a thick glob of saliva onto the head and swallowing him straight down her throat in one smooth, greedy glide.
Raphael groaned low, one hand fisting Lima's silky dark hair as she bobbed on him—wet, sloppy, and hungry. The obscene sounds of her sucking filled the small booth. She kept eye contact the entire time, mascara already starting to run, taking him deeper with every stroke until her nose pressed against his abs.
Ambrosio refused to be left out. She knelt right beside her rival, kissing Raphael's hip while her hand stroked the thick base Lima couldn't fit.
"My turn, bad boy."
Lima pulled off with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting her swollen lips to his glistening cock. She looked at Ambrosio with pure competitive fire.
"Show me how you suck him then, slut."
The two Brazilian goddesses took turns—and then worked him together like they were born for it. Ambrosio was sloppier, gagging herself eagerly as she tried to deepthroat every inch, tears of effort and pleasure streaking her cheeks. Lima was more precise and cruel, swirling her tongue around the sensitive head while her hand twisted on the shaft, whispering filthy Portuguese against his balls.
At one point both of them were licking his cock at the same time—their tongues meeting and tangling around his throbbing length in a messy, spit-soaked kiss while they worshipped him. Spit dripped down his balls and thighs as they competed to be the nastier one.
Raphael tightened his grip in both of their hair, alternating between their warm, eager mouths like a king using his favorite toys.
"Fuck… that's it. Good girls. Show me which one of you is the bigger slut for this cock."
Both women moaned loudly around him at the degradation. Lima took him especially deep and held herself there, throat fluttering, while Ambrosio licked and sucked on his heavy balls, humming in pleasure.
The competition was vicious, elegant, and incredibly kinky.
Raphael could feel his orgasm building when he finally pulled them both off by their hair, voice rough with lust.
"We're going back to the apartment. I want both of you on your knees again… but this time I'm fucking your throats properly until you can't speak."
Lima and Ambrosio looked up at him—lips swollen, mascara ruined, eyes shining with the same dark hunger—and smiled.
"Lead the way, bad boy."
---
An hour later both women were nicely buzzed.
Ambrosio's cheeks were flushed, eyes soft and hazy.
Lima was the same—voice a little husky, words starting to melt together.
Raphael checked the time.
"Time to go. I'll get you both home."
In the Cadillac Escalade the club had sent, Ambrosio leaned back in the seat and looked up at him.
"Home where?"
"Hotel."
"I don't want the hotel." Her voice was lazy, teasing. "What about your place?"
Lima gave a soft laugh beside him.
"He doesn't have a place in New York. Just an apartment my manager rented in the Upper East Side."
Ambrosio's eyes lit up.
"Let's go there."
Raphael looked at Lima.
She met his gaze, something unreadable flickering in those wolf eyes.
Then she shrugged, easy as breathing.
"Whatever."
---
By the time Raphael walked the two of them into the apartment, one thought kept looping in his head:
Philip really picked a place with a huge living room and plenty of bedrooms.
The second the door closed, Ambrosio kicked off her heels and collapsed onto the big sectional, staring at the ceiling.
Lima sat down beside her.
"Drunk?"
"A little."
Lima glanced at Raphael, a wicked smile tugging at her lips.
"What about you? You drunk yet?"
Raphael didn't answer.
He just looked at the two of them on his couch—same flawless faces, completely different energy, both glowing under the low lights.
Ambrosio reached out and caught his wrist, giving a gentle tug.
"Come here."
Raphael stayed standing for one more second.
Lima tilted her head, eyes gleaming.
"You scared?"
Raphael raised an eyebrow.
"Scared of what?"
"Us." Lima's voice dropped. "Scared you won't know how to look at us tomorrow morning."
Raphael's mouth curved into a slow, dangerous smile.
Then he crossed the room and sat right between them.
---
The apartment door had barely clicked shut behind them before the air turned electric.
Raphael stood in the center of the huge living room, still fully dressed, while the two Brazilian goddesses circled him like predators who had finally cornered their prey. The city lights of Manhattan poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting their skin in soft gold and deep shadow.
Lima moved first — always the more possessive one. She stepped in close, wolf eyes locked on his, and slowly peeled his shirt open, button by button, kissing every inch of exposed chest like she was claiming territory. Her lips were still swollen from the booth, glossy with spit and lust.
Ambrosio came in from the side, dress already sliding off one shoulder, full tits spilling free as she pressed her body against his arm. "You made us wait all the way here, bad boy," she whispered in that husky Portuguese-laced English. "Now we're going to make you pay."
Raphael's voice was low, calm, and absolute. "Clothes off. Both of you. Knees."
They obeyed instantly — because they wanted to.
Lima's lace bra and thong hit the floor first. Ambrosio's black slip dress pooled at her feet. Two perfect, golden bodies — long legs, tiny waists, heavy breasts, and those legendary Brazilian asses that curved like sin itself — knelt side by side on the thick rug.
Raphael finally unzipped. His thick, veined cock sprang free, still slick from their earlier work in the booth, heavy and pulsing. Nine inches of hard, angry meat that made both women's eyes darken with hunger.
Lima leaned in first, lips stretching wide as she took him straight to the back of her throat in one greedy swallow. Wet, filthy gagging sounds filled the room while Ambrosio watched, biting her lip. Then Lima pulled off with a wet pop and offered him to her rival like a challenge.
"Your turn, Alessandra. Show me you can handle what I just did."
Ambrosio didn't hesitate. She dove down, sloppy and eager, tears instantly forming in her lashes as she forced herself deeper than she had at the club. Her throat fluttered around him while Lima reached underneath and cupped his heavy balls, rolling them gently, whispering Portuguese filth right against his ear.
"Você gosta de duas putas brasileiras engolindo seu pau, né? Two sluts fighting over your cock."
Raphael groaned, fisting both heads of silky dark hair. He used them like toys — alternating deep strokes into one throat, then the other, making them gag and drool in turns. Spit ran down their chins, dripped onto their tits, connected their lips when they both licked up opposite sides of his shaft at the same time. Their tongues tangled around his cockhead in a messy, spit-soaked kiss while they worshipped him.
"Fuck… look at you two," he growled. "Competing like the greedy little whores you are."
Both women moaned at the degradation, thighs squeezing together, pussies visibly wet and shining.
He couldn't wait anymore.
Raphael pulled them up, spun Lima around and bent her over the back of the huge sectional couch. Her perfect ass arched high, legs spread. He rubbed his fat cockhead against her dripping slit once — then slammed in to the hilt in one brutal thrust.
Lima cried out, fingers clawing the cushions. "Meu Deus… tão grosso…!"
He fucked her hard — deep, punishing strokes that made her ass ripple and her wolf eyes roll back. Every thrust pushed filthy wet sounds out of her soaked pussy. Ambrosio knelt beside them, one hand between her own legs, rubbing frantically while she watched her rival get railed.
Raphael reached down, grabbed Ambrosio by the hair and pulled her face right next to where he was destroying Lima.
"Watch closely," he ordered. "See how her pussy creams all over my cock? Your turn next."
He pulled out of Lima — who whimpered at the sudden emptiness — and shoved straight into Ambrosio's waiting mouth, letting her taste her friend's juices. Then he flipped Ambrosio onto her back on the couch, hooked her long legs over his shoulders, and drove into her in one savage stroke.
Ambrosio screamed in pleasure, back arching, tits bouncing with every pounding thrust. Lima crawled over, straddled Ambrosio's face without being told, and lowered her dripping pussy onto her rival's tongue.
The sight was obscene: Raphael fucking Ambrosio's tight cunt while Ambrosio ate Lima out like she was starving. The two women moaned into each other, tongues and fingers everywhere, bodies slick with sweat and spit.
Raphael switched again — pulling out of Ambrosio and sliding back into Lima while she was still sitting on Ambrosio's face. He fucked her in long, grinding strokes, his heavy balls slapping against Ambrosio's chin with every thrust. The chain reaction made all three of them shake.
He fucked them in every position the huge living room allowed.
On the couch. Against the window with Manhattan sparkling behind them. On the rug — Lima riding him reverse cowgirl while Ambrosio sat on his face, grinding her soaked pussy against his tongue. Then switched — Ambrosio bouncing on his cock while Lima licked where they were joined, tongue flicking his balls and Ambrosio's clit at the same time.
They came together, over and over.
Lima first — screaming into Ambrosio's mouth as Raphael hammered her G-spot until she squirted, soaking his abs and the rug. Ambrosio followed seconds later, thighs shaking, chanting "Sim, sim, porra!" as her pussy clamped down and pulsed around him.
Raphael didn't stop.
He put them both on their knees again, side by side, asses up, faces pressed to the rug. He took turns — five deep strokes in Lima, then five in Ambrosio — until both women were babbling, overlapping Portuguese and English, begging in broken voices.
"Por favor… mais fundo… use me… fuck us like your personal sluts…"
When he finally felt it building, he pulled out and stood over them like a god.
Both women spun around instantly, tongues out, faces pressed cheek-to-cheek, eyes locked on his throbbing cock.
Raphael stroked himself twice and erupted — thick, rope after rope of hot cum painting their beautiful faces, tongues, and tits. Lima and Ambrosio moaned like it was the best thing they'd ever tasted, licking every drop off each other's skin, sharing messy, cum-soaked kisses while they stared up at him with pure, filthy devotion.
Raphael looked down at the two wrecked Brazilian angels — mascara ruined, lips swollen, bodies trembling, covered in his cum and their own juices — and smiled slow and dark.
That night Raphael learned exactly how hot Brazilian fire can burn — especially when it comes in pairs.
One plus one was definitely greater than two.
---
The next morning, sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Lima woke first.
She lay on Raphael's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
Beside them, Ambrosio was still asleep, dark hair spilled across his shoulder.
Lima looked at her, then back at Raphael.
For a second she didn't know what to say.
She felt… pleasantly wrecked.
Not just tired—properly, deliciously spent.
If Alessandra hadn't been there last night, Lima was pretty sure she would've been the one tapping out.
She stared at the ceiling and waited for the jealousy to hit.
It never came.
She just sighed softly, tucked her face back against Raphael's chest, and closed her eyes.
Fuck it.
We'll talk about it later.
---
Two days later, in a converted warehouse in lower Manhattan.
The CK campaign set had been turned into a minimalist dream—pure white floors, pure white walls, giant softboxes throwing warm, intimate light from every angle.
Raphael stood in the dressing room, staring at himself in the mirror.
The stylist had finished the final touches—hair artfully messy, like he'd just rolled out of bed and couldn't be bothered to fix it.
But that was just the garnish.
The real show was everything below the deep-gray boxer-briefs.
Six-one, stretched even taller in the reflection.
Broad shoulders, narrow waist, perfect inverted-triangle physique carved like a Greek statue.
Chest defined but not bulky. Six-pack etched in clean, shadowed lines that caught the light exactly right.
The V-lines dipping toward the waistband screamed there's more louder than any full-frontal ever could.
His skin was a natural sun-kissed tan—no fake spray glow, just real outdoor color. Veins stood out along his arms, tracing the muscle like road maps. Nine-percent body fat at nineteen? In Hollywood that was basically a unicorn.
The stylist stepped back, nodding in approval.
"Perfect. Lisa was right—you don't need anything extra. That body is the artwork."
Raphael smiled, slipped on a robe, and headed for the set.
In the middle of the studio, Adriana Lima was already waiting.
She wore the matching deep-gray lace set, the color somehow making those wolf eyes even more dangerous.
When Raphael stopped beside her, she let her gaze linger a second longer than necessary.
He glanced at the full-length mirror.
One-eight-five next to one-seven-eight. His shoulder line sat noticeably higher. The size difference turned the whole frame into pure visual tension—protection, possession, heat.
The photographer was a forty-something French woman named Alice.
She circled them once, camera already raised, eyes sparkling like she'd just won the lottery.
"Yes! Exactly this!"
She didn't ask them to pose. "Just stand together. Look at me."
Raphael and Lima locked eyes for half a heartbeat.
Then they both turned toward the lens.
The temperature in the studio jumped ten degrees.
The shutter went off like machine-gun fire.
Alice kept muttering under her breath, "Incredible… incredible… the chemistry… that body…"
One setup had them on the bed.
Lima curled against his chest, his hand resting naturally on her waist.
From camera angle it looked like his torso was her personal shield—protective, possessive, undeniably sexy.
Another setup: standing by the window, backlit.
Raphael wrapped his arms around her from behind, chin on her shoulder.
The light carved out the hard line of his shoulders like a mountain ridge.
Lima looked tiny in his hold—even at five-ten she seemed delicate, almost fragile, pressed against him.
The camera loved every single frame.
And so did the two women in it.