Chapter 6: Velvet Vengeance
The bass thumped through the soles of Vanja’s boots, a relentless pulse that vibrated up her spine. Pulse, Dortmund’s exclusive VIP enclave, was a world away from the stadium’s concrete brutality. Low lighting, plush velvet banquettes in deep crimson and gold, and the cloying scent of expensive cologne, cigar smoke, and spilled champagne replaced the sweat and popcorn smell. Strobe lights sliced through the haze, catching the glitter on dresses and the ice in crystal glasses. Dino, slumped beside her on the wide sofa, looked exhausted but exhilarated, a half-empty bottle of vodka chilling in a silver bucket on the low table.
His brow furrowed as he gestured vaguely at her oversized attire. "Vanja," he yelled over the music, leaning close. His breath smelled sharply of alcohol. "What’s with the fucking Dortmund shirt? Seriously. Did you get jumped in the concourse?" He tugged playfully at the long black and yellow sleeve covering her hand. "It’s huge. And… kinda gross now? We drew, it’s a fucking mess, I’m knackered… but celebrating anyway. Why are you wearing enemy colours?"
Vanja shifted, the coarse fabric of Max’s jersey rasping against the velvet cushion. It still carried his scent – sweat, leather, that expensive sandalwood cologne, and something uniquely, aggressively male – a scent that made her skin prickle even in the club’s heat. She took a sip of her own vodka tonic, the cold liquid barely cutting through the dryness in her throat. "Long story, Dino," she shouted back, forcing a casual shrug. "I’ll explain tomorrow. Too loud. Let’s just… celebrate. You played well."
Dino grinned, the exhaustion momentarily lifting. "Yeah? Thanks, cuz. We’re going big. Best club in town, best section. Just…" his grin faltered slightly, a flicker of concern in his dark eyes. He scanned the opulent, shadowy room filled with sleek bodies and predatory glances. "Be careful, okay? This place attracts vipers." His gaze dropped pointedly to her attire again. "You sure you don’t wanna change? Borrow something of mine? That thing looks like you stole it from a bear."
Vanja met his look steadily, though her pulse kicked up a notch. "I’m fine, Dino. Really. It’s… comfortable." Comforting, she almost said. A shield. A brand. The lie tasted sour.
He shrugged, turning his attention to a stunning brunette waving from across the room. "Suit yourself. Don’t wander off."
Vanja leaned back, trying to dissolve into the velvet, trying to ignore the possessive weight of the shirt against her skin. She watched the dancers, the dealmakers in shadowy corners, the servers gliding with trays of obscenely priced drinks. Then, like a cold current cutting through the warm haze, she felt it. The prickle of intense scrutiny. She turned her head slowly, scanning the raised platform near the DJ booth, the most exclusive roost in Pulse.
He was there.
Max.
Leaning back in a throne-like chair, one massive arm draped over the back, a crystal tumbler of dark liquor dangling loosely from his fingers. He wasn't looking at the dancers, or his associates – two sharp-dressed men flanking him, their postures alert, scanning the room. He was looking directly at her. His pale grey eyes, visible even across the distance and through the shifting lights, were locked onto hers with an unnerving intensity. Shock, raw and immediate, flashed across his harsh features, quickly replaced by a seething, possessive fury as his gaze raked down her body, confirming she was still wrapped in his colours. His lips moved. Even through the din, Vanja saw the shape of the word.
"Fuck."
One of his associates, a wiry man with a shaved head, leaned in, following Max's gaze. "Problem, Boss? That girl in the Dortmund shirt? Want her moved?"
Max didn't look away from Vanja. His expression was granite. Slowly, deliberately, he took a long swallow of his drink, his throat working. He lowered the glass. "No," he said, the single word carrying a dangerous finality. His associate straightened, exchanging a quick, unreadable glance with his partner. "It’s all good," Max added, his voice a low rumble she wouldn't have heard if she hadn’t been lip-reading, yet it resonated in her bones. His stare remained fixed, a physical weight pinning her to the velvet sofa.
Dino, oblivious to the silent exchange, returned, dropping heavily beside her. He followed her frozen gaze. His easy grin vanished, replaced by sharp confusion. "Vanja?" he asked, his voice suddenly tight, sober despite the vodka. "What the hell? Why is Max fucking Perković looking at you like that? Like… like he knows you?" He turned fully to her, his eyes searching hers, the playful cousin replaced by the protective, slightly suspicious brother-figure. "How does he know you?"
Vanja’s mind raced. She opened her mouth, a flimsy denial forming, but before she could utter it, Max moved. He stood up, a mountain unfolding from the chair. He said something curt to his men, then started down the short flight of steps from the platform. He moved with predatory grace through the crowd, a shark parting glittering minnows. People instinctively shifted aside. His gaze never left her.
Panic, sharp and acrid, flooded Vanja’s mouth. Max Perković cut through the pulsing crowd like a warship parting waves, his grey eyes fixed on her with unnerving focus. Every instinct screamed to run, but her legs felt leaden, trapped under that predatory gaze.
"Maybe because I'm wearing the fucking Dortmund jersey next to you," Vanja snapped at Dino, the words tumbling out fast and sharp, a desperate shield. She tore her eyes away from Max’s approach, forcing herself to look at her cousin’s confused face. The heat of the club suddenly felt suffocating, the bass vibrating in her chest cavity.
Dino blinked, glancing back towards Max, then at her jersey. "Maybe," he conceded, a frown deepening the lines on his tired face. "But he’s a fan, Vanja, and ‘fan’ is a fucking understatement." He leaned closer, his voice lowering despite the music. "He knows your dad. Seriously knows him."
Vanja’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Hm," she managed, a non-committal hum that felt weak. She risked another glance. Max was closer now, weaving past a group near the dance floor, his expression unreadable but intense. "He’s also dangerous," she added, the words brittle.
"Just like that?" Dino laughed, a short, sharp bark devoid of real amusement. "Yeah, okay, he’s got… presence. But dangerous? Here?" He gestured vaguely at the opulent, controlled chaos of the VIP section. "Relax. He probably just wants his shirt back." He took a long swig from his vodka bottle.
Max stared more. Vanja felt the weight of it, a physical pressure. He was only steps away now, ignoring everyone else. His sheer size blocked the strobing lights momentarily as he stopped before their plush velvet banquette. He didn’t look at Dino. His pale eyes, cold and assessing, swept over Vanja from her fiery hair down to her booted feet, lingering possessively on the black and yellow fabric stretched across her chest.
"Vanja," Max rumbled, his voice cutting through the thumping bass like a blade. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of possession, low and dangerous. Dino stiffened beside her, the joviality vanishing instantly.
Dino stood up, placing himself slightly in front of Vanja, puffing his chest out. "Perković. Something we can do for you?" His voice held forced bravado, but Vanja saw the tension in his shoulders.
I need to talk to Vanja, says Max.
Vanja nods at Dino, please DIno, i ll explain.
fine, he says i ll be back to take you home.
Max ignored him completely. His gaze remained locked on Vanja. "My shirt," he stated, his voice dangerously soft. His hand lifted, not towards her, but the gesture was an unmistakable command. "You're wearing it." A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Take it off." The implication hung heavy: Take it off.Now. Here.
Vanja’s face flushed hot, then cold. Fury warred with a terrifying, unwelcome thrill that shot straight to her core. "Fuck you," she spat, meeting his stare with defiance, though her knuckles were white where she gripped the edge of the seat. The jersey suddenly felt like a second skin, too tight, too intimate. "Finders keepers."
A flicker of something dark and primal ignited in Max’s eyes. He took one final, deliberate step forward, invading their space completely. Max’s sheer presence was a wall. "You don't understand," Max said, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper only she could truly hear over the music. "You don't wear my things, mala. Ever." His gaze raked over her again, deliberately slow, lingering on the swell of her breasts under the thin polyester, the curve of her hips. "Especially not when they look that fucking good on you. It gives me ideas."
He leaned down suddenly, his face inches from hers. She could smell the expensive whiskey on his breath, the sandalwood and sweat, the raw masculine energy radiating from him. "Ideas about ripping it off you," he breathed, the words thick with lust, "and fucking you right here on this velvet couch " His hot breath fanned her cheek. "You want that? You want everyone to see how wet you get for me while you're wearing my colours?"
Vanja gasped, a jolt of pure, shocking arousal hitting her low in the belly, warring with outrage. "You arrogant bastard—"
Max didn't let her finish.Before Vanja could react, Max’s fingers tangled roughly in the front of the Dortmund jersey. He didn't ask. He pulled. Hard. The cheap polyester seam at the shoulder gave way with a loud rrrrrip. Cool club air hit her exposed collarbone and the black lace strap of her bra. Dino shouted something, lost in the music, scrambling to rise again.
Max ignored him, his eyes burning into Vanja's, reflecting the pulsing strobe lights. "Wrong colours," he snarled, yanking the torn fabric down her other arm, exposing more skin, the swell of her breast barely contained by the lace. His other hand grabbed her bicep, hauling her upright off the sofa with terrifying strength. "Mine." He spun her around, shoving her hard against the cold, mirrored wall beside their banquette, her back hitting the glass with a thud that vibrated through her bones. The torn jersey hung off one shoulder, bunched around her waist.
His body pressed against her back, pinning her, solid and immovable. She felt the hard ridge of his erection digging into her ass through the layers of her jeans and the torn jersey. "Fucking hell," he growled into her ear, his breath scalding hot. One large hand slid around her waist, under the loose hem of the torn shirt, fingers splaying possessively over the bare skin of her stomach. His other hand tangled in her red hair, pulling her head back sharply, exposing her throat. "Should have taken it off when I told you." His lips brushed the sensitive skin below her ear, sending shivers of dread and unwanted desire down her spine. "Now you get the consequence."
Come, he says, takes her by the hand and she just goes with him to the back room.
His hand under the jersey slid down, rough fingers finding the button of her jeans, popping it open with brutal efficiency. The zipper rasped down.
Max’s fingers didn't hesitate. They plunged down the front of Vanja’s panties, into the heat between her legs. She cried out, a strangled sound, as his thick fingers found her slick folds. "Christ," he groaned against her throat, his own breath ragged now. "Soaking. You wanted this. Wanted me to take it." He thrust two fingers inside her without warning, deep and rough, a claiming. She gasped, arching against the wall, the cold glass against her cheek, the heat of him at her back, the invasion stretching her.
"Tight little cunt," he rasped, pumping his fingers ruthlessly, curling them to find that spot inside her that made stars burst behind her eyelids despite the terror and shame. "Made for this. Made for taking cock." He withdrew his fingers, slick with her arousal, and she heard the unmistakable sound of his zipper. The hard, hot length of his erection pressed against her exposed ass cheek, then slid down, seeking. She felt the blunt, insistent head nudge against her entrance, already wet and open from his fingers.
"No," Vanja whimpered, the protest weak, lost in the music, her body betraying her, pushing back against him instinctively. The torn jersey was hiked up around her waist now, her jeans and panties shoved down mid-thigh. The world narrowed to the cold mirror against her face, the pounding bass, the smell of him, and the terrifying, undeniable pressure between her legs.
"Too late, mala," Max growled, biting her shoulder through the fabric. He gripped her hips hard, fingers digging into her flesh. "Shouldn't have worn my shirt." With one brutal thrust, he buried himself inside her to the hilt, stretching her wide, filling her completely. Vanja screamed, a sound swallowed by the music, her body seizing around his invading girth. He didn't pause. He pulled back almost immediately, then slammed forward again, harder, setting a punishing, relentless rhythm against the mirrored wall. "Fuck!Yes! That's it!Take it! Take my cock in that tight little pussy!" His grunts were harsh in her ear, punctuated by the wet slap of skin on skin, audible even over the thumping bass. He held her hips immobile, driving into her with deep, powerful strokes that shoved her against the glass with every thrust. The ripped Dortmund jersey hung uselessly, a symbol of defiance now violated, riding up her back with each violent movement. "Mine! Say it! Fucking say it's mine!" His hand fisted tighter in her hair, pulling her head back further, arching her body to take him even deeper. The pleasure was a brutal counterpoint to the shock and violation, a dark wave threatening to pull her under as he pistoned into her with possessive fury. She could see a distorted reflection in the mirror – his face contorted with savage lust, hers flushed, eyes wide with a terror that was terrifyingly mixed with raw, unwanted ecstasy. He fucked her like he owned her, like the ripped shirt meant he did, deep and hard against the cold glass, the sounds of their brutal coupling lost in the pulse of the club but screaming in Vanja’s senses. Every thrust was a claiming, a punishment, and a dark promise she couldn't escape. "You feel that?" he grunted, slamming home again, making her cry out. "You feel who owns this cunt now?" He didn't wait for an answer, lost in the rhythm of taking her, the scent of sex and sweat thick around them, his grip unyielding. "Gonna fuck you raw," he promised against her sweat-slicked neck, the words a dark vow, "until you scream my name. Until you fucking beg for it." He drove deeper, harder, the mirrored wall shuddering slightly with the force. "This is just the start."
The mirrored wall shuddered with each brutal thrust, Max’s cock pistoning deep into Vanja’s slick cunt. "Just the start," he growled again, biting the tendon in her neck, the sharp pain mingling with the overwhelming fullness. His hands clamped her hips, fingers digging bruises into her flesh, holding her open for his relentless pace. Vanja’s cries were swallowed by the club's roar, her body arching involuntarily against the cold glass, torn between the violation and the shocking, undeniable waves of pleasure coiling tighter with every deep stroke. "Fuck! Take it! Take all of it, you tight little whore!" he snarled, his breath hot and ragged against her ear, the wet slap of their bodies a lewd counterpoint to the bass.
He pulled out abruptly, leaving her gasping, empty and clenching around nothing. Before she could react, he spun her around, shoving her backwards onto the plush velvet banquette. Her ripped jersey rode up, her jeans and panties tangled around her thighs. Max loomed over her, his grey eyes burning with feral hunger, his cock glistening with her wetness, thick and hard against his stomach. He ripped the jersey completely off her shoulders, exposing her black lace bra struggling to contain her breasts. "Look at you," he rasped, spreading her legs wide with rough hands. "Look how fucking wet you are for me." He plunged two fingers back inside her, curling them cruelly against that spot. Vanja arched off the sofa, a choked scream tearing from her throat as an orgasm ripped through her, violent and unexpected, her cunt spasming around his fingers.
Max withdrew his fingers, slick and glistening, and brought them to her lips. "Taste," he commanded, shoving them into her mouth. The musky, salty tang of her own arousal flooded her senses. She gagged weakly, but he held her jaw closed, forcing her to suck. "Good girl," he murmured darkly, watching her struggle. Then he was on her, his weight crushing, his cockhead nudging her swollen entrance again. "Now scream properly," he ordered, and slammed back into her dripping heat with one powerful thrust. Vanja screamed, the sound raw and piercing, lost in the music but echoing in her own skull.
He fucked her hard on the velvet, driving deep, the plush fabric bunching beneath her ass with each powerful surge. His hands gripped her breasts through the lace, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp, thumbs finding her nipples and pinching them ruthlessly. "These fucking tits," he groaned, leaning down to bite the swell above her bra. "Made for my hands, my mouth." He lifted her hips higher, changing the angle, grinding his pubic bone against her clit with every downward plunge. The pressure was unbearable, exquisite. Vanja clawed at his shoulders, her nails digging in, her body writhing beneath him, no longer fighting the sensations but chasing them desperately. "Yes! Oh god, yes!" The admission tore from her, a surrender to the brutal pleasure he was wringing from her body.
"God? Fuck God," Max snarled, pistoning harder, faster. "Scream my name!" He slammed into her, hitting her cervix, making her cry out. "Say it! Who owns this cunt?" His hand slid down, fingers finding her clit again, rubbing hard, fast circles. The dual assault was too much. Vanja shattered, her back bowing off the sofa, a guttural scream ripping from her throat. "MAX!" The name was torn from her, a ragged sob of release as her cunt convulsed violently around his pounding cock, milking him.
He roared, a sound of pure triumph, and hammered into her through her climax, his rhythm becoming frantic, erratic. "Fuck! Take it! Take my fucking cum!" He buried himself to the hilt, grinding deep as his cock pulsed thick ropes of hot come deep inside her. Vanja felt the scalding flood, the intimate claim, and another smaller wave of pleasure washed over her, leaving her trembling and utterly spent. Max collapsed heavily on top of her, his breath ragged against her neck, his weight pressing her into the velvet. She was slick with sweat, come leaking between her thighs, the scent of sex thick and primal in the air.
He lifted himself slightly, looking down at her wrecked face, her glazed eyes. "Told you," he breathed, a predatory satisfaction in his gaze. He pulled out slowly, making her whimper at the sudden emptiness and the slick slide of his softening cock. He hauled her limp body upright, pulling her jeans and panties roughly back up over her sticky thighs. He shrugged off his own expensive jacket, wrapping it around her bare shoulders, covering the ripped jersey bunched at her waist. "Come," he commanded, his voice rough but devoid of the earlier fury. He pulled her to her feet. Her legs buckled, but his arm locked around her waist, holding her up. Dazed, trembling, her mind fogged with exhaustion and the aftershocks of relentless pleasure, Vanja stumbled alongside him, letting him guide her through the pulsating darkness of the club, past oblivious dancers and shadowy figures, towards a discreet door marked 'Private'.
Max shoved the door open, pulling her into a dimly lit corridor, then through another door into a lavish, soundproofed lounge. Plush carpets, low leather sofas, a stocked bar. He didn't stop. He hauled her through another door, then outside. Later, they went into a car and then into a luxurious apartment, into a starkly luxurious bedroom. Silk sheets, dark wood, the scent of expensive cologne replacing the club's miasma. He pushed her towards the massive bed. "Sleep," he ordered, stripping off his own shirt. Vanja didn't argue. She crawled onto the cool silk, the jacket falling away. She was vaguely aware of Max moving around the room, the clink of a glass, the sound of water running. Her eyelids were leaden. The last thing she felt was the dip of the mattress as he lay down beside her, pulling the sheet over them both, his arm heavy across her waist.
She arched into him, her body responding instinctively even in her half-conscious state. Max fucked her again, slow and deep this time, in the silk-sheeted darkness. He made her come with relentless fingers and tongue, then again with his cock, filling her once more. The sensations blurred together – the slide of silk, the hard heat of him, the deep pulses of pleasure that rolled through her like waves, each one pulling her further under. He fucked her so many times, in so many ways – on her back, on her knees, bent over the edge of the bed – each orgasm harder, deeper, more draining than the last, until the pleasure became a suffocating tide, pulling her down into a deep, exhausted half-sleep, her body humming and utterly spent.
Vanja woke slowly, disoriented. The light was dim, filtering through heavy curtains. Silk bedsheets, impossibly smooth and cool, tangled around her legs. Real silk. The scent was unfamiliar – sandalwood, expensive linen, sex. She blinked, her body aching in places she hadn't known could ache, a deep, satisfying soreness between her legs. Memory slammed back: the wall, the velvet banquette, the relentless fucking. She turned her head sharply.
Max was there. Lying next to her on his side, propped up on one elbow, watching her. His grey eyes were alert, unreadable in the gloom, tracing the lines of her face, the swell of her breasts above the sheet. He looked utterly at ease, naked from the waist up, the sheet draped low over his hips.
"Your cousin called," he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. "Five times." He reached out, brushing a strand of fiery red hair from her cheekbone. His touch was surprisingly gentle, but it sent a jolt through her. "I told him you were asleep."
Vanja stared at him, the implications crashing down. Dino knew she was here. With him. Fury, shame, and a terrifying flicker of something else warred within her. "Fuck you, Max," she whispered, her voice hoarse.
A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face, predatory and knowing. "Yeah," he murmured, his thumb tracing her swollen lower lip. "That you did."