Chapter 14: Scandal in Scarlet
The low hum of the restaurant felt like a physical pressure against Vanja’s skin, amplified a hundredfold by the memory of the paparazzi’s flashbulbs exploding behind them. The lingering echo of Manuel’s low growl in her ear – "Let them watch how I make you blush" – still sent heat coiling low in her belly. His massive hand remained on the exposed dip of her lower back, a brand through the thin silk of her scandalously low-cut red dress. Every step deeper into the sleek, dimly lit Michelin-starred space felt like a declaration. His fingertips traced idle, possessive circles on her bare skin, making her shiver despite the restaurant’s warmth. The scent of seared scallops, truffle oil, and expensive wine wrapped around them, thick and luxurious.
"Neuer. Table for two." Manuel’s voice, calm and authoritative, cut through the ambient murmur. The maître d' snapped to attention, recognition and deference flashing in his eyes. "Of course, Herr Neuer. Right this way." They were led through the hushed elegance, past starched white tablecloths and sparkling crystal. Vanja felt dozens of eyes tracking them – curiosity, speculation, outright envy. She kept her chin up, channeling the fierce confidence her Balkan grandmothers had drilled into her, but beneath it, her pulse hammered. This was playing with fire.
Then she saw them.
Aleksandar Pavlović sat at a corner table, his usually cheerful face tight with worry. Across from him, looking brittle and forcing a smile, was Lina. And beside her, radiating frost, was Joshua Kimmich. His gaze locked onto Vanja like a laser sight. The cold fury she’d seen in the Säbener Straße corridor was back, intensified. It swept over her, then shifted to Manuel’s hand on her back. A muscle jumped violently in Joshua’s jaw. Lina followed his stare, her eyes widening almost imperceptibly before she looked down at her wine glass, knuckles whitening on the stem. Aleksandar saw them too; his expression shifted from worry to grim resignation.
Manuel’s hand tightened fractionally on her spine. He hadn’t missed a beat. "Evening," he rumbled, a casual acknowledgment devoid of warmth as they passed the tense table. He didn’t slow, guiding Vanja towards their own secluded booth near the panoramic window overlooking the city lights.
Once seated, the leather booth enveloping them, the intensity shifted. Manuel’s gaze, predatory and hot, raked over her. The low neckline of the dress exposed the swell of her breasts; his eyes darkened, lingering. He reached across the small table, not for the menu, but for her hand. His thumb stroked the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. "Red suits you," he murmured, his voice a low thrum that vibrated straight to her core. "Like blood on snow. Makes me want to fuck the defiance right out of you." Her breath hitched. The crude words, spoken so calmly amidst the clinking silverware and murmured conversations, were electrifying.
A waiter materialized. Manuel ordered for them both without consulting her – a robust Croatian red for her, a mineral water for him, starters, mains. The effortless dominance, the assumption of control, should have chafed. Instead, it sent another wave of liquid heat pooling between her thighs. She remembered the feel of him the night before, the brutal possession, the relentless claiming. Her body remembered too, clenching with phantom need.
The food arrived – delicate amuse-bouches, then rich, complex dishes. Vanja barely tasted them. Manuel’s focus was a tangible thing. He watched her eat, his eyes tracking the movement of her lips, the subtle flex of her throat as she swallowed. Under the crisp linen tablecloth, his foot slid along her calf, nudging her legs apart. She gasped softly, nearly dropping her fork. His expression didn’t change, but the pressure increased, his polished shoe insinuating itself higher, pushing her knees wider apart beneath the table. His gaze held hers, a silent command. Stay open. For me. She felt utterly exposed, even fully clothed, her panties already dampening under his relentless, public assault.
"Enjoying the sea bass?" he asked conversationally, his fingers tracing the rim of his water glass. His foot pressed against the apex of her thighs now, a firm, demanding pressure right over her clothed cunt. He rotated his ankle slightly, grinding the hard leather against her sensitive bundle of nerves.
Vanja choked on her wine. "It’s… exquisite," she managed, her voice strained. The friction, the sheer audacity of him doing this here, surrounded by oblivious diners, was overwhelming. Her nipples tightened painfully against the silk of her dress. She squeezed her thighs together, trapping his foot, trying to mute the sensation. He simply pressed harder, relentless.
"Good." He took a sip of water. "You look flushed, Vanja. Warm?"
She was burning up. "A little," she whispered.
His lips curved in the faintest, most dangerous smile. "I know how to cool you down." He pushed his chair back slightly, the movement smooth and casual. "Excuse me a moment." He stood, towering over the table. His hand brushed her bare shoulder as he passed, a searing touch. "Don’t go anywhere." The command was soft, absolute.
Vanja watched Manuel’s broad back disappear towards the restrooms, the heat between her thighs a throbbing counterpoint to the icy stare still drilling into her from Joshua’s table. She forced herself to sip her wine, the rich Croatian red tasting like ash on her tongue. Every nerve felt raw, exposed, acutely aware of Lina’s tense posture and Joshua’s simmering fury radiating across the elegant room.
The low murmur of conversation, the clink of cutlery, the distant sizzle from the open kitchen – it all faded into a distant hum. Seconds stretched, each one amplifying the slick ache Manuel had deliberately left her with. She shifted on the leather seat, the movement making her painfully aware of how wet she was, how the silk of her panties clung. Fucking hell. He’d done this on purpose, left her desperate in public. A fresh wave of heat flooded her face under Joshua’s relentless gaze.
Then, a text vibrated against the table where her phone lay screen-down. Unknown number. Her stomach clenched. She flipped it over.
Ladies’. Now. - M
Two words. An absolute command. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum solo drowning out the restaurant’s careful symphony. She pushed her chair back, the scrape loud in her own ears, avoiding looking towards Joshua’s table. She walked, legs trembling slightly, towards the glowing restroom sign, feeling a dozen curious eyes follow the sway of her hips in the tight red dress.
The ladies’ room was empty, cool marble and soft lighting. Before she could even register her reflection in the vast mirror, the door marked 'Staff Only' beside the sinks opened silently. A massive hand shot out, grabbed her wrist, and yanked her into pitch-blackness. The door clicked shut behind her. Storage. The air smelled of bleach and linen. "Manuel—" His mouth crashed down on hers, silencing her, a hard, demanding kiss that stole her breath. One hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back sharply, while the other slid down, finding the low dip of her back, then lower, fingers slipping beneath the silk, over the curve of her ass.
"Fucking hell, Vanja," he growled against her lips, his voice thick with possession. "Seeing you sit there, blushing, knowing you were wet for me while he watched…" His hand moved, cupping her roughly between her legs through the thin fabric of her dress and panties. She gasped, arching into the pressure. "You liked it," he accused, his fingers pressing harder, grinding against her swollen clit. "Liked him seeing my hand on you, knowing I own this cunt." He ripped her panties down her thighs in one brutal motion, the silk tearing. The cool air hit her exposed flesh, making her shiver.
Then his fingers were on her, skin to skin, hot and demanding. Two thick digits plunged into her soaking pussy without warning, curling deep. "Fuck!" she cried out, her hands scrabbling against his broad shoulders for purchase as he fucked her with his hand, hard and fast. His thumb found her clit, rubbing rough, insistent circles. "So fucking wet," he snarled, watching her face contort in the sliver of light under the door. "Dripping for me. For everyone to see if they knew." He added a third finger, stretching her, filling her unbearably. The wet, filthy sound of his fingers pistoning in and out of her slick cunt echoed in the small, dark space.
He bent his head, biting her neck, sucking a bruise into her skin as his fingers worked her ruthlessly. "Come, Vanja," he commanded, his breath hot against her ear. "Come on my fucking fingers. Show me." The pressure built, coiling impossibly tight, the scrape of his calloused fingers against her inner walls, the relentless assault on her clit. She bit her lip hard to stifle the scream as the orgasm ripped through her, violent and shattering, her cunt clenching rhythmically around his thrusting fingers, wetness gushing over his hand. Her knees buckled; only his arm around her waist kept her upright as she convulsed.
He slowly withdrew his soaked fingers, holding them up in the dim light. He brought them to her lips. "Taste," he ordered, his grey eyes burning. Helpless, she opened her mouth, tasting her own slick musk on his skin as he pushed his fingers past her lips. He watched her suck them clean, a dark satisfaction in his gaze. "Mine," he stated, pulling his fingers free. He adjusted his trousers over the obvious bulge straining against the fabric, then smoothed her dress down over her bare ass. He pulled her torn panties off completely, shoving them into his pocket. "Let's go."
He opened the staff door, stepping back into the bright restroom as if nothing had happened. Vanja followed on shaky legs, her face flushed, lips swollen, the scent of sex clinging to her. He didn’t look at her, just washed his hands meticulously at the sink, then held the main door open for her. They walked back through the dining room, past Joshua’s frozen table, past the curious glances. The maître d’ presented the bill discreetly; Manuel signed it without looking. His hand returned to the bare skin of her lower back, a brand. "Car's outside."
The cold night air hit her like a slap as they stepped out, the flashes of waiting paparazzi exploding again. He shielded her slightly, guiding her firmly into the back of the waiting black SUV. The door slammed, cutting off the chaos. Silence descended, thick with what had just happened. He didn’t touch her during the drive, just stared out the window, the city lights reflecting in his hard eyes. The tension coiled between them, a live wire.
The car pulled up to his sleek, modern apartment building. He ushered her inside, through the minimalist lobby, into the private elevator. Inside his penthouse, the vast space mirrored hers but colder, sharper edges, all concrete and glass overlooking the dark city. He tossed his keys onto a side table with a clatter. The sound echoed. He turned to her, finally, his expression unreadable. The predatory heat from the restaurant storage room was banked, replaced by a deep exhaustion etched around his eyes.
"Come, love," he said, his voice rough but softer now, the command gone. "Let's sleep." He held out his hand. She smiled, the genuine warmth cutting through the lingering haze of sex and public display. She stepped into him, rising on her toes to kiss him gently, tasting the faint echo of salt and herself on his lips. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, burying his face in her hair for a moment. Then, wordlessly, he led her towards the dark expanse of the bedroom.