Chapter 4: Kitchen Confrontation
The message from Julian was a minor earthquake in the careful quiet of her week. In London for Spurs. Your place. Friday. Be there or be boring. She stared at the text, then fired back a call.
“You don’t even live here,” she said, pacing by her windows. “You can’t just declare my apartment a party venue.”
“I can, and I have,” Julian’s voice was cheerful over the din of what sounded like a German beer hall. “You have the space. I have the friends. It’s synergy. Besides, you’ve been moping. You need noise.”
“I don’t mope. I train.”
“See? Moping. Eight o’clock. I’ll bring the good beer.”
He hung up. Vanja threw her phone onto the vast, empty sofa. The silence of the apartment, usually a sanctuary, now felt accusatory. She thought of Martin’s last message. Talk later. They hadn’t. A week of silence had passed, the digital connection freezing back into permafrost. The idea of a party, of noise and strangers, felt abrasive. And yet, a treacherous, hopeful part of her whispered: He’s in London. He knows Julian.
By Friday, she was a knot of conflicted energy. She dressed with deliberate casualness—black jeans, a simple grey top that clung to her torso, bare feet on the polished concrete floor. She didn’t want to look like she was trying. Julian arrived with an army of people and crates of beer, transforming her sleek, minimalist space into a buzzing, noisy hub. Footballers, a few models, journalists she vaguely recognized, all blending into a haze of laughter and bass-heavy music.
Vanja played host, her competitive spirit channeled into keeping a calm smile while internally cataloguing every arrival. Riccardo was holding court in a corner, his loud laugh periodically cutting through the music. No Martin.
The disappointment was a physical ache, a cramp beneath her ribs. She felt stupid. Of course he wasn’t coming. He was probably at home watching match tapes, living up to his “married to football” reputation. She grabbed a beer, the bottle cold and bitter in her hand, and leaned against the kitchen island, forcing herself to laugh at one of Julian’s stories.
The doorbell rang again. Julian, mid-anecdote, waved a dismissive hand. “Get that, will you, Kongskard? It’s your door.”
She shot him a glare but weaved through the bodies, the chatter a dull roar in her ears. She pulled the door open, a practiced hostess smile already on her lips.
It died instantly.
Martin Ødegaard stood in her hallway, backlit by the muted sconce light. He wore dark jeans and a charcoal sweater, his blond hair slightly tousled. He looked less like a footballer and more like someone who’d just stepped out of a Scandinavian noir film—all sharp angles and quiet intensity. He held a bottle of wine loosely by the neck.
For a second, they just stared. The noise from the party seemed to recede, muffled by the thick, sudden tension in the space between them. His eyes, that unsettling pale blue, scanned her face, then flickered past her shoulder into the apartment chaos.
“You’re here,” he said. His voice was low, barely audible over the music.
The shock melted, replaced by a fierce, vindictive joy. She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms, letting her smile return, wider and more genuine now. “Yeah,” she said, the word a soft challenge. “It’s my apartment, after all.”
A flicker in his eyes. Surprise, then something hotter, darker. He hadn’t known. Julian, the bastard, had set this up perfectly. Martin recovered quickly, giving a slight, almost imperceptible nod. “Nice place.”
“Thanks. Come in. It’s a bit of a zoo.”
He stepped inside, his arm brushing against hers as he passed. The contact was electric, a jolt that traveled straight to her core. She closed the door, sealing them into the noisy, crowded world he seemed so alien within. He moved through the party like a shark through shallow water—smooth, aware, fundamentally out of place. He exchanged brief nods with a few players, accepted a clap on the shoulder, but his trajectory seemed preordained. He ended up at the far end of the living room, near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering city, a solitary island in the social sea.
Vanja watched him. He sipped the wine he’d brought, not the beer, his gaze fixed on the London skyline. She should mingle. She should talk to one of the guys, who kept glancing hopefully at her. Instead, she found herself moving towards the windows, drawn by a gravitational pull she was tired of resisting.
She stopped beside him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him, not close enough to touch. They stood in silence for a moment, looking out.
“Julian’s an idiot,” she said finally.
“He is,” Martin agreed, his voice a quiet rumble. “But occasionally useful.”
“Is that what this is? Useful?”
He turned his head to look at her. The city lights reflected in his eyes, fracturing the blue into a thousand cool shards. “The cat video was useful. It was funny. This is… louder.”
“You didn’t have to come.”
“Yes,” he said, simply. “I did.”
The admission hung between them, stark and undeniable. He had wanted to see her. The party was just the conduit. The noise around them faded to a distant hum, the people becoming vague, shadowy shapes. All that existed was the few inches of charged air separating their bodies.
“This is a terrible place to talk,” she said, her own voice sounding strange to her.
“I’m not here to talk.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, and the heat in it was so intense she felt her lips part automatically.
“Why are you here, then?”
He leaned in, just a fraction, his breath a warm whisper against her ear. “To finish what we started in that corridor. To see if it was a mistake.”
Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. Every instinct screamed to close the distance, to kiss him right there in front of everyone. But the competitor in her, the one he seemed to understand so well, held her back. “And if it wasn’t?”
“Then we’ll know.”
He straightened up, taking his heat with him, and took a slow drink of his wine. The action was deliberate, controlled, a man used to managing pressure. Vanja’s control felt brittle, ready to shatter. She saw Riccardo watching them from across the room, his expression curious.
“This is my home,” she said, the words tasting like a warning and an invitation.
“I know.” He set his glass down on a nearby shelf, empty. “Show me the rest of it.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a command, and she was eager to obey. Without a word, she turned and walked away from the windows, away from the party, down the short hallway that led to the private part of the apartment. She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. She could feel him behind her, a solid, silent presence.
She pushed open the door to her bedroom, stepping inside. It was dark, lit only by the ambient city glow through another large window. She heard the door click shut behind him, and the sound was profoundly final, cutting off the party noise to a dull throb.
She turned to face him. He was already there, his body crowding hers back against the door. No pretense, no more games. His hands came up to frame her face, his touch surprisingly not gentle, but possessive. He studied her in the semi-darkness, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone.
“No goddess here,” he murmured, the words rough.
“No,” she breathed. “Just me.”
He kissed her. It wasn’t like the first time, which had been a clash of fire and defiance. This was deeper, hungrier, a claiming. He poured all that focused intensity into it, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, tasting her. She kissed him back with equal fervor, her hands fisting in the soft wool of his sweater, pulling him closer until not an inch of space remained between them. She could feel the hard, athletic lines of his body, the evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against her stomach.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. “Tell me to stop.”
“Fuck you,” she gasped, pulling his mouth back to hers.
He laughed, a dark, thrilling sound against her lips, and his hands left her face to go to her chest.
His fingers hooked into the neckline of her grey top. He didn’t peel it away gently; he wrenched it down, the fabric straining and tearing at the seams. Her breasts spilled free into the cool air, and he broke the kiss to look at her, his gaze a physical caress. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word full of dark appreciation.
He took her nipple into his mouth, hot and wet, his tongue lashing over the tight peak. She cried out, her head thudding back against the door. His other hand squeezed and kneaded her other breast, his touch demanding, leaving no part of her untouched. “So fucking perfect,” he muttered against her skin, his teeth grazing her.
Her hands scrambled under his sweater, desperate to feel him. She pushed it up, her nails scraping over the hard planes of his stomach, the taut muscle sheathing his ribs. He let her pull it over his head and throw it aside, his own breathing harsh in the quiet room. His chest was pale and sculpted, a light dusting of blond hair leading down.
She reached for the button of his jeans, but he caught her wrist. “My turn,” he said, his voice gravel.
He spun her around, facing the door, his body pressed against her back. One hand slid down her stomach, past the waistband of her jeans, and cupped her roughly through her underwear. She was soaked, the fabric slick. He groaned into her hair. “Always this wet for me?”
“Shut up,” she panted, pushing her hips back against him.
He didn’t tease. He yanked her jeans and underwear down her thighs in one brutal, efficient movement. The cool air hit her bare skin, followed instantly by the scorching heat of his palm. He shoved her forward, bending her over, her hands splaying against the smooth wood of the door. She heard his belt buckle clink, the zip of his fly, the rustle of denim being shoved down.
She felt the thick, blunt head of his cock press against her entrance, wet with her and with him. No condom. The thought flashed, hot and irresponsible, but the need was a tidal wave, drowning all caution. He paused, letting her feel the full, intimidating length of him. “This what you wanted?” he gritted out, his hands digging into the flesh of her hips.
“Just fuck me, Odegaard.”
He drove into her with a single, deep, devastating stroke. She screamed, the sound muffled against her arm. He was huge, stretching her unbearably, filling her completely. He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, setting a punishing rhythm right from the start.
Each thrust was a conquest, a raw claiming. The door rattled softly with their impact. The distant thump of the party’s bassline synced with the brutal cadence of their bodies. He fucked her with the same focused intensity he played with, a ruthless, athletic precision aimed solely at driving them both over the edge.
His grip on her hips was iron, sure to leave bruises. She pushed back against him, meeting every plunge, each collision sending shockwaves through her core. “Harder,” she demanded, the word a broken gasp.
He obliged, his pace turning frantic, animalistic. One hand left her hip and snaked around her front, his fingers finding her clit. He rubbed harsh, tight circles, the dual assault of his cock and his touch catapulting her toward a shattering peak. The pleasure was almost violent, coiling tighter and tighter.
“I’m gonna come,” she warned, her voice strangled.
“Come on my cock,” he growled, his thrusts becoming ragged, losing their rhythm. “Do it.”
The command broke her. Her orgasm ripped through her, a blinding white seizure of pleasure that locked her muscles and tore a ragged sob from her throat. Her inner walls clenched around him, milking his length.
The sensation tipped him over. With a guttural groan that was almost a shout, he buried himself to the hilt, his body shuddering against hers. She felt the hot, pulsing spill of him deep inside her, a primal, intimate shock. He held himself there, collapsed over her back, their sweat-slick skin sticking together, both of them trembling in the aftermath.
The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the muted party hum. He slowly softened and slipped out of her. A trickle of their mixed release traced a warm path down her inner thigh. He turned her around, his hands gentler now, cradling her face. He looked wrecked, his hair damp, his eyes wild and dark.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, he kissed her again, deeply, slowly, a possessiveness now tempered with something dangerously close to tenderness. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against hers. The world outside the door, the rumors, the game, all of it felt galaxies away.
He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb, his breath evening out. “Vanja,” he started, his voice rough.
“Vanja,” he started, his voice rough.
She placed a finger over his lips, still feeling the aftershocks in her thighs. “Don’t. Not yet.”
He captured her wrist, kissing her fingertip, his eyes never leaving hers. The silence between them was no longer empty; it was charged, humming with everything they’d just done. The smell of sex and sweat was thick in the air, a primal testament against the sterile city lights.
“So,” she finally whispered, her voice hoarse. “What’s the verdict?”
A slow, real smile touched his mouth, the first she’d ever seen that wasn’t a polite facade. It transformed him. “It was not a mistake,” he said.
She leaned in and bit his lower lip gently, a claiming of her own. He hissed, his hands tightening on her waist.
“We need to go back,” she said, the practical world seeping in at the edges.
He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his breath hot on her damp skin. “I don’t want to,” he groaned, the sound vibrating through her.
She pushed at his shoulders, her strength returning. “I’ll tell Julian you feel sick from the wine. A sudden bug.”
She grinned, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “You stay here and look well… less good.”
“Impossible,” he murmured, his lips trailing her collarbone.
She winked, extracting herself from his grasp, feeling their combined fluids cooling on her skin. She pulled her torn top back up as best she could, tugged her jeans on, and slipped out the door, leaving him in the dark room.
Julian was by the kitchen island, swirling a beer. He raised an eyebrow at her dishevelment. “Lost our captain?”
“He’s feeling sick. The wine, maybe,” Vanja said, her tone impressively casual. “I’m just checking on him.”
Julian’s eyes narrowed, then widened with dawning, delighted comprehension. A slow smirk spread across his face. “Ah. A sudden illness. Better go and take care of our captain, Jakobsen. He’s in… capable hands.”
She slapped his arm but nodded, grabbing a glass of water from the counter. “Don’t wait up.”
She re-entered the bedroom and locked the door with a definitive click. He was sitting on the edge of her bed, still shirtless, the city light painting silver lines across his torso. He watched her approach, his gaze a physical weight.
She set the water down and stood before him, tilting his chin up with a finger. “So, as it turns out, Ødegaard,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, playful register. “I’m your nurse for tonight.”
He growled, the sound coming from deep in his chest, and pulled her down onto his lap. His mouth found hers again, hungry and insistent. His hands slid under her ruined top, palms scraping over her sensitive nipples. “Nurse me, then,” he muttered against her lips.
She kissed him back, all teasing gone, replaced by a fresh, urgent hunger. She pushed him back onto the mattress, straddling him. His cock was already hard again, pressing against his stomach. She leaned down, her hair curtaining their faces. “You’re a terrible patient.”
“You’re a distracting nurse.”
She shifted, positioning herself above him. She reached between them, guiding him, notching the broad head of his cock at her entrance. She was still slick and open from before. She sank down onto him in one slow, excruciatingly deliberate motion, her eyes locked on his, watching his control fracture.
He filled her utterly, a stretching, perfect burn. She began to move, a slow, rolling grind of her hips, taking him deep. “Is this the treatment you had in mind?”
His answer was a choked curse. His hands flew to her hips, not to guide her, but to feel her move on him. “Faster.”
She obeyed, rising and falling with increasing speed, the wet, slapping sound of their connection filling the room. Her own pleasure built quickly, a tight coil from the base of her spine. He thrust up to meet her, driving even deeper.
“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice raw.
She opened her eyes, meeting his intense stare. This felt more invasive than the sex itself, this unblinking contact as their bodies slamming together. She felt exposed, seen in a way that bordered on terrifying.
“I’m going to come,” she gasped, her rhythm faltering.
“Come on my cock,” he ordered, his grip bruising. “Now.”
The command, the sheer dominance in his voice, tipped her over. Her orgasm ripped through her with silent, shocking force, her body clamping around him in rhythmic pulses. She cried out, collapsing forward onto his chest.
The feel of her climax tightening around him was his undoing. With a sharp, guttural groan, he rolled them over, pinning her beneath him. He fucked her through her own tremors, his pace frantic and desperate, chasing his own end. Three more brutal, deep thrusts and he came, his whole body seizing, a hot, liquid rush spilling inside her.
He collapsed, his weight a welcome anchor. They lay tangled, skin slick, hearts hammering against each other. The party was a distant, irrelevant murmur. Here, in this room, there was only the smell of sex and the sound of their breathing slowing.
After a long while, he shifted, pulling out of her. He didn’t go far, just onto his side, facing her. He traced the line of her eyebrow with a fingertip, a strangely tender gesture. “Julian will know.”
“Julian has known since the gala,” she said, her voice muffled by his chest. “He’s an idiot, but he’s not blind.”
Martin was silent for a moment. “Riccardo will have a field day.”
“Let him.” She propped herself up on an elbow. “Does it matter?”
He looked at her, his expression unreadable in the dim light. For a man who had just fucked her with such raw possession, he now seemed uncertain. “I don’t do this,” he said finally.
“What? Have sex?”
“This,” he said, his gesture encompassing the rumpled bed, their nakedness, the lingering intimacy. “Complications.”
She laughed, a short, sharp sound. “You started it. You liked my cat video.”
“I liked you,” he corrected quietly. “The video was just… you.”
The honesty in his words stilled her. She lay back down, staring at the ceiling. The truth was a cold splash. She liked him, too. More than she’d intended. More than was safe for either of their meticulously managed lives.
“What now, Captain?” she asked, the title a soft challenge.
He didn’t answer immediately. He leaned over her, his body blocking out the light. He kissed her, slow and deep, a kiss that felt like a promise and a goodbye all at once. “Now,” he said, pulling away, his voice resolved, “I have training at seven. And you have a party to host.”