Chapter 5: Pretzels and Pulse Points
The pretzel was a losing battle. Flakes of salt scattered across the table like tiny meteors as Vanja tried to tear a piece without demoliting the whole thing. A smear of sweet mustard clung to the corner of her mouth. Manuel watched, amused, before reaching out with a thumb to wipe it away. His thumb lingered for a second on her lower lip, a rough, warm pressure, before he leaned in and stole the taste with a kiss that was both soft and possessive.
Their knees stayed touching under the small table for the rest of the evening, a constant, warm point of connection. When his phone lit up with a text, the screen flashing with Joshua’s name and a terse message, Manuel didn’t even glance at it. His hand just found its way to her thigh under the table, his palm a heavy, reassuring weight through the denim. He squeezed gently, his attention never leaving her face.
“You want to get out of here?” she asked, her voice low. “My place is closer.”
He just nodded, a slow, intent look in his eyes that made her stomach flip.
Her apartment was in an old, elegant building with a mosaic-tiled entryway and a creaking, cage elevator that felt like a relic. When she unlocked the door and led him inside, he let out a low whistle. The place was spacious, with high ceilings, dark hardwood floors, and a view of the city lights through large, arched windows. It was furnished with a mix of modern pieces and heavy, inherited furniture that spoke of old money.
“Wow,” Manuel said, his gaze sweeping over the living area and down a hallway that clearly led to multiple rooms. “Modeling pays well.”
Vanja grinned, dropping her keys into a ceramic bowl on an entryway table. “Well, but not that well. It’s my parents.”
He smiled, a genuine, understanding curve of his lips that erased any potential awkwardness. “Nice.”
Then he was crossing the space between them, and all conversation ended. He cupped her face, his touch surprisingly gentle for hands so large and capable, and kissed her. This wasn't like the playful kiss in the beer garden or the charged one in his apartment. This was deep and hungry, a release of the tension that had been building all night. She met his intensity with her own, her hands fisting in the soft fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer.
They stumbled towards the sofa, a large, plush thing that swallowed them as they fell onto it. His mouth was on her neck, her jaw, then back on her lips, relentless. Her fingers were under his shirt, mapping the hard planes of his back, feeling the powerful muscles shift under his skin. He groaned, the sound vibrating against her throat. “Fuck,” he breathed, his hips pressing against hers. “You’ll drive me crazy.”
She moaned into his mouth, arching against him, every coherent thought dissolving into pure sensation.
Then her phone rang.
Not her standard ringtone. A specific, shrill cascade of notes she’d assigned to one person. The sound was a bucket of ice water.
“Fuck,” Vanja hissed, pulling her mouth from his. Her body went rigid. “I’m sorry. I need to take this.”
She scrambled off him, her heart hammering for a completely different reason now. She snatched the phone from the table. “Vid?” she said, her voice tight with immediate concern. “What happened?”
Manuel sat up, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. He watched as she paced away, her free arm wrapping around her stomach. Her entire posture was coiled with a tension he hadn’t seen before.
“Ok,” she said, her voice shifting into a calm, big-sister tone that didn’t match the worry in her eyes. “So you had a fight with your coach? What did he say? About international duty?” She listened, nodding. “Well, you are yet to decide.” A pause. Her pacing stopped. “Wait, did you decide?”
She listened again, her shoulders slumping slightly in what looked like resignation. “Yes, he says, I want to play for the Swiss national team.” She let out a soft breath. “Ok, whatever you want. I’ll come see you this weekend.” Another pause. “Ok. Go to sleep now. We’ll talk in the morning. I have something to do.”
A tinny, questioning voice came from the phone. “Something to do?” her brother asked. “Is there someone there with you?”
Vanja turned, her eyes meeting Manuel’s across the room. She gave him a small, wry smile. “Yeah,” she said into the phone. “Manuel Neuer.”
Her brother’s laugh was loud and clear through the speaker, full of teenage disbelief. “Yeah, yeah. Enjoy your books, Vanj.”
She ended the call and tossed the phone back onto the table. Manuel laughed, a rich, warm sound that filled the quiet apartment. “Manuel Neuer?”
“That was my brother,” she said, walking back towards him. “He didn’t believe me.”
“Is he ok?” Manuel asked, his smile fading into genuine concern.
“Yeah. Just had a huge fight with Niko.”
Manuel’s eyebrows lifted. “Niko?”
“Yeah, Niko Kovač. His coach.”
“Oh,” Manuel said, the name landing with clear professional recognition. His gaze sharpened, the pieces clicking into place. “Vid, as in Vid Vr?”
“Yes,” Vanja said, sinking down onto the couch beside him. “My younger brother.”
Manuel said nothing for a moment, just looked at her, taking in this new, significant layer of her life. A Serbian sister studying in Germany, a brother playing for Dortmund, coached by a man she seems to know well, now choosing to play for Switzerland. The complexity of it was dizzying. Then he leaned in and kissed her, a slow, deep kiss that felt like a punctuation mark, a deliberate turning of the page from the world outside back to the two of them, here, in the quiet of her apartment.
Then he leaned in and kissed her, a slow, deep kiss that felt like a punctuation mark, a deliberate turning of the page from the world outside back to the two of them, here, in the quiet of her apartment. His hands moved from her face to the hem of her shirt, his fingers slipping underneath to find the warm skin of her waist. “I want to see you,” he murmured against her lips, his voice thick. “All of you.”
She stood, pulling him up with her, and led him by the hand down the dim hallway to her bedroom. The city lights cast long, geometric shadows across her large bed. Without a word, she turned her back to him, a silent invitation. He understood, his fingers working the button of her jeans and sliding the zipper down with a rasp that sounded impossibly loud. He pushed the denim and her underwear down her hips in one rough, eager motion, his palms skimming the curves of her ass.
She stepped out of the clothes pooled at her feet and turned to face him, completely bare. His gaze was a physical heat, traveling over her breasts, her flat stomach, the dark blond triangle of hair between her thighs. “Fuck, Vanja,” he breathed, his own hands fumbling with his belt. “You are perfect.”
He shed his clothes quickly, his body a landscape of powerful muscle and old scars. His cock was already fully erect, thick and heavy, and the sight of it sent a fresh, liquid heat pulsing through her. He pushed her back onto the bed, following her down, his weight a delicious anchor. His mouth found her breast, his tongue laving her nipple before he sucked it hard into his mouth, drawing a sharp, keening cry from her throat.
His hand slid down her stomach, his fingers parting her folds. “So wet for me,” he growled, sliding two fingers inside her. She was incredibly tight, her inner muscles clenching around his probing digits. She gasped, arching her back, her hips moving against his hand. “You feel that? You’re gripping my fingers like a fist.”
He replaced his fingers with the head of his cock, pressing against her entrance. He was so big, stretching her unbearably as he began to push inside. A ragged moan tore from her lips, a mix of pleasure and sharp, filling pressure. “Oh god, Manuel… you’re so fucking big.”
He sank into her fully, a slow, relentless invasion that stole her breath. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, letting her body adjust to his girth. Then he began to move, a deep, punishing rhythm that had her clutching at his back. Each thrust was a raw, primal claim, the slap of their skin echoing in the room. “Is this what you wanted?” he grunted, his breath hot in her ear. “My cock this deep inside you?”
“Yes,” she panted, her nails digging into his shoulders. “Fuck me harder. Don’t stop.”
He drove into her with renewed force, his hips pistoning, the bedframe groaning in protest. The coil of pleasure in her belly tightened, snapping with a violence that made her scream, her body convulsing around him. The intense, milking contractions of her orgasm pushed him over the edge. With a guttural roar, he plunged as deep as he could and came, his hot release flooding into her in powerful, pulsing jets.
He collapsed on top of her, both of them slick with sweat and breathing in ragged gulps of air. After a few minutes, still buried inside her, he lifted his head. His hand traced the line of her hip. “I’m not done with you,” he said, his voice rough with renewed desire.
He rolled them over, so she was straddling him. She sank down onto his renewed hardness with a low, satisfied groan, riding him with a slow, grinding rhythm that made him curse. He watched her, his hands gripping her hips, guiding her movements. “Look at you,” he muttered, his eyes dark with lust. “Taking all of me. Your perfect body.”
She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest, and changed the angle, rocking back and forth until he was groaning, his eyes squeezed shut. The second time he came was quieter, a long, shuddering release that left him breathless beneath her.
They lay tangled together for a while, the sheets damp and tangled. He nuzzled her neck, his lips soft on her skin. Then his hand drifted down her stomach again, his fingers finding her clit, which was still sensitive and swollen. He rubbed slow, insistent circles until she was gasping, her body responding all over again.
“Once more,” he whispered, his voice a dark promise. He rolled her onto her hands and knees, entering her from behind with a single, deep thrust that made her cry out. This time was frantic, a fast, animalistic coupling driven by pure, insatiable need. He fucked her with a desperate intensity, his grip on her hips sure to leave bruises.
When his final, roaring orgasm ripped through him, he held her hips locked against his, pumping his seed into her until he was utterly spent. He slumped forward, his chest against her back, both of them trembling and slick with sweat. He stayed inside her for a long moment, both of them breathing in the dark, sex-heavy air.
He stayed inside her for a long moment, both of them breathing in the dark, sex-heavy air. Eventually, he softened and slipped out, the loss of him making her feel suddenly empty. They didn’t speak, just shifted in the tangled sheets until they found a comfortable knot of limbs, his arm a heavy, possessive weight across her waist as sleep pulled them under.
The morning light was sharp and accusing, slicing through the gaps in the blinds. Vanja woke first, the reality of the day settling over her like a lead blanket. She watched Manuel sleep, his face relaxed and younger-looking, the fierce competitor from last night entirely gone. The scent of him, of them, was everywhere.
“I have to go to Dortmund this weekend,” she whispered, her voice raspy. “I can’t meet you.”
His eyes opened slowly, clear and blue and instantly awake. He processed this, his gaze steady on her. “Do you need a ride?” he asked, his voice gravelly with sleep.
She blinked, stunned. “To Dortmund?”
“Yeah,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I have training on Thursday, but I’m free on Friday.” He shifted onto his side, propping his head on his hand. “We can take my car.”
A slow smile spread across her face, a genuine, uncalculated reaction that felt foreign and light. She nodded. “Okay. I’ll tell Vid to meet us at his apartment.” A laugh bubbled up in her chest. “He will be shocked.”
Manuel grinned, a flash of pure, boyish delight. He leaned in and kissed her, a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of morning and possibility. Then his hand slid from her waist to her hip, his grip firm. He rolled onto his back, pulling her on top of him. She could feel him hardening against her thigh, already thick and eager.
She settled over him, guiding him inside with a slow, deliberate roll of her hips. She took all of him, a sharp, filling stretch that made her gasp. Then she began to move, establishing a hard, relentless rhythm that had him gripping the sheets.
“Fuck,” he grunted, his eyes locked on hers, his hips lifting to meet her downward thrusts. “Your pussy… fuck.”
She leaned forward, her breasts brushing his chest, and put her mouth to his ear. “Yeah,” she grinned, her voice a low, filthy whisper as she licked the shell of his ear. “That’s the idea, Neuer.”
“Fuck” he half-moaned, half-laughed, the sound choked off as he drove upwards, going even deeper, hitting a spot that made her vision blur.
She rode him like that until the headboard was knocking a steady, frantic beat against the wall and his laughter had dissolved into ragged, pleading curses, his release triggering her own in a blinding, convulsive wave that left them both wrecked and breathless in the stark morning light.
The knocking headboard fell silent, leaving only the sound of their ragged breaths mingling in the sunlit room. Manuel’s hands, which had been gripping her hips hard enough to leave faint red marks, slid limply to the sheets. Vanja collapsed onto his chest, her skin slick with sweat, feeling the frantic, slowing drumbeat of his heart against her ear.
“I’m going to be so late,” he mumbled into her hair, his voice thick and spent. His fingers traced a lazy pattern on the small of her back.
“You’re a professional athlete,” she murmured, not moving. “Can’t you just run faster?”
He laughed, a low, breathy sound, and gently shifted her off him. The cold air hit their damp skin as he swung his legs out of bed. “It doesn’t work like that, Professor.” He stood, a towering, magnificently naked figure in the morning light, and began gathering his clothes from the floor where they’d been discarded hours before.
She watched him dress, the domestic intimacy of the act feeling more profound than the sex. He pulled his hoodie over his head, his hair sticking up in chaotic tufts. He found his phone buried in the sheets and winced at the screen. “Scheiße. I have twenty minutes.”
He leaned over the bed, bracing himself on one arm, and kissed her deeply, a taste of salt and sleep and her. “Friday,” he said, a statement of fact. Then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down her hall, the front door clicking shut behind him.
The silence he left was immense.
Manuel’s black Porsche cut through the Munich traffic with an aggressive purr. He pulled into the players’ lot at Säbener Strasse with a spray of gravel, sliding into his designated space just as the first groups were heading onto the pitch. He killed the engine and grabbed his bag, already unzipping his hoodie as he jogged toward the building.
“Cutting it fine, Manu!” Thomas Müller called out from a nearby bench, lacing up his cleats with a wide, knowing grin. “Big night? Or a slow morning?”
Another player whistled. “Look at his hair! Definitely a slow morning.”
Manuel just shook his head, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face as he pushed through the glass doors. “You wish you knew, boys.” He didn’t break stride, heading straight for the locker room to change.
The air inside was thick with the smell of liniment and clean sweat. Most of the squad was already in their training kits. He nodded at a few guys as he beelined for his locker, pulling his shirt off.
Aleksandar Pavlovic, tying his boots nearby, looked up. “Hey, Manu. Everything good with… you know.” He gestured vaguely, a diplomatic reference to seeing him leave with vanja.
“Better than good,” Manuel said, pulling his training jersey over his head. He sat to put on his own boots, his voice dropping slightly. “Listen, you hear anything about Vid Vr? The kid at Dortmund.”
Pavlovic looked surprised, pausing with a lace in each hand. “Kovač’s young prospect? Yeah, I’ve heard. Technical, smart. Why?”
Manuel kept his eyes on his boots, tying them with efficient, practiced loops. “Just curious. He’s thinking about declaring for Switzerland, apparently.”
“Huh. Big decision.” Pavlovic finished with his laces and stood, stretching. “Could use a player like that. You scouting for us now?”
Manuel just grinned, standing up and slamming his locker shut. “Something like that.”
Across the room, Joshua Kimmich listened to the exchange while meticulously arranging his socks on the bench beside him. He said nothing, his expression neutral, but the careful, almost rigid set of his shoulders was a clear enough statement for anyone who knew how to look. He picked up a ball and walked out onto the pitch alone, his silence a stark island in the room’s easy camaraderie.