Chapter 6: Martin pins Vanja against his bedroom wall, one hand tangled in her hair as the other rips open the buttons of her jeans. 'You’re mine now,' he growls, shoving the fabric down her thighs. Vanja drops to her knees without hesitation, taking his cock deep into her throat while still wearing his shirt—the fabric clinging to her sweat-slicked skin as he fucks her mouth with brutal precision.
The potato pancake place was, as promised, a dump. A narrow, steamy café tucked between a newsagent and a betting shop in Holloway, its linoleum floors sticky with decades of spilled tea, the air thick with the smell of frying oil and cabbage. Vanja watched Martin’s face as they squeezed into a red vinyl booth. His polite mask was firmly back in place, but his eyes held a glint of pure, undiluted horror.
“This is it,” she said, grinning. “The best.”
“It’s… authentic,” he managed, carefully sliding a paper napkin under his wrists.
A seventy-something waitress with a shock of dyed red hair slapped two laminated menus on the table. “What’ll it be, love?”
Vanja didn’t look at hers. “Two potato pancakes with sour cream and applesauce. Two large teas. Thanks, Doris.”
Doris eyed Martin, his expensive wool coat draped over the booth, his clean, angular face so out of place. “He with you?”
“Unfortunately,” Vanja said.
“Right you are.” Doris shuffled off.
Martin leaned forward, his voice low. “She knows my name.”
“Doris doesn’t watch football. She watches darts. You’re safe.”
He shook his head, but a real smile, small and private, touched his lips. “You’re a menace.”
The food arrived, golden-fried discs of shredded potato, crispy at the edges, steaming hot. He watched her tuck in with competitive gusto, then tentatively took a bite. His eyebrows lifted. “Okay. That’s… really good.”
“Told you.” She watched him eat, the careful, methodical way he did everything. “How’s the bus lag?”
He gave her a look that could melt steel. “Don’t.”
She laughed, the sound bright in the dingy café. He relaxed, incrementally, shoulders dropping as the tea warmed him. They talked about nothing. Training regimens. The peculiar smell of Portuguese stadium grass. The mind-numbing boredom of her sociology readings. It was easy. Shockingly, dangerously easy.
Outside, a fine, cold drizzle had started. They stood under the café’s faded awning.
“My car’s around the corner,” he said, nodding up the street.
“I can get the tube.”
“Don’t be stupid.” He touched her elbow, a brief, guiding pressure. “Come on.”
The car was a sleek, black SUV with tinted windows. The driver, a middle-aged man named Frank, nodded once. “Gaffer.”
The drive was quiet, the city a grey blur through the rain-streaked glass. Vanja expected to be taken back to her apartment. Instead, they glided into the underground garage of a towering, glass-clad building in a part of the city where the sidewalks looked vacuumed.
“Where are we?”
“My place,” he said simply, getting out.
His penthouse was not a home. It was a statement. Vast, open-plan, all cool concrete, bleached oak, and floor-to-ceiling glass. The London skyline sprawled beneath them, shrouded in mist, a living painting of grey and muted gold. It was breathtaking, and utterly sterile. There were no photographs, no books, no stray coffee mugs. Just a single, immense white sofa, a minimalist steel kitchen, and a professional-grade treadmill facing the windows. It felt like a very expensive hotel suite, or a stage set for a man who had perfected his performance.
“Wow,” Vanja said, her voice echoing in the vast space. “It’s… very you.”
“What does that mean?” He was taking off his coat, hanging it with precise movements.
“It means it’s perfect. And it looks like no one lives here.”
He didn’t deny it. “I like order.”
She wandered to the window, looking down at the tiny, ant-like cars. “Must be lonely up here.”
She felt him come up behind her, not touching, but his presence was a solid warmth at her back. “It is,” he said, his voice quiet.
That admission, in this sterile space, felt more intimate than anything they’d done in the dark. She turned to face him. He was watching her with that intense, focused stare, but the detachment was gone. In its place was a raw, hungry need that made her breath catch.
“I have something for you,” he said, his tone shifting, becoming deliberate.
He walked to a closet, opened it, and pulled out a flat, navy blue box. He handed it to her.
She lifted the lid. Inside, folded with military precision, was an Arsenal home shirt. But it wasn’t from the club shop. The fabric was heavier, the crest embroidered, not printed. And on the back, above the number 8, was not his name.
It was hers. JAKOBSEN.
She stared at it, her mind blank for a second. Then it clicked. A possessive, territorial thrill shot through her, sharp as a blade. Her eyes snapped to his. “You had this made?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“The day after the gala.”
He’d done this days ago. Before the hotel, before the phone call on the bus. He’d seen her, decided something, and acted with chilling, premeditated intent. He was marking her, as definitively as he could within the rules of his world. It was arrogant. It was insane. It was the hottest thing anyone had ever done for her.
She lifted the shirt from the box. “It’s a small.”
“I know your size.” His voice was flat.
A challenge ignited in her blood, competitive and dark. She held his gaze, her fingers going to the buttons of her blouse. She undid them slowly, one by one, letting the fabric fall open. She saw his jaw tighten, his eyes darken. She shrugged the blouse off, let it drop to the polished concrete floor. Then her jeans, her socks, until she stood before him in just her bra and underwear, the cool air of the penthouse raising goosebumps on her skin.
His breathing had shallowed. He didn’t move.
Vanja picked up the shirt, shook it out, and pulled it over her head. The fabric was cool and smooth against her skin. It smelled faintly of him—clean laundry and something indefinably masculine. It hung tight on her, the hem hitting mid-thigh. She ran her hands down the front, over the embroidered badge, feeling the weight of his claim.
“Do you like it?” he asked, his voice a low rasp.
“It’s the most arrogant thing I’ve ever seen,” she said, stepping closer to him. “I love it.”
In a swift, violent motion, he closed the distance between them. His hands fisted in the fabric of the shirt at her hips, bunching it. “It looks better on you,” he said, his mouth hovering inches from hers. “But I think I want it off.”
“Then take it off.”
He didn’t. He spun her around, pulling her back against his chest. His arms locked around her, one across her collarbone, the other low on her stomach, pinning her. He was hard against her back. He nuzzled her hair aside, his mouth hot on her neck. “You wore a United shirt to wind me up,” he murmured, his breath scalding her skin. “Now you’re wearing mine. For real.”
“It’s just a shirt,” she gasped, but the effect was undeniable. She felt owned, consumed.
“It’s not.” His hand slid from her stomach, under the hem of the shirt, his fingers skimming up her inner thigh. He found her through her underwear, already wet for him. He pressed the heel of his hand against her, a slow, grinding pressure that made her knees buckle. “This is mine too. All of it.”
He hooked his fingers into the lace of her panties and tore them down her legs. The sound of the fabric ripping was obscenely loud in the quiet room. He kicked them aside. His other hand stayed locked across her chest, holding her upright, a prisoner against him.
With his free hand, he undid his trousers. She felt him, hot and rigid, push against her. He didn’t enter her. He rubbed himself through her slickness, teasing, driving her mad. “Say it,” he commanded, his voice rough in her ear.
“Say what?”
“Who do you belong to?”
She writhed against him, desperate for friction, for him to fill her. He held her still, his control absolute. “Martin…”
“Say it.”
The word was a surrender, and a victory. “You.”
He thrust into her in one deep, brutal stroke, seating himself to the hilt. A cry was torn from her throat, echoed by a guttural groan from his. He didn’t move for a long moment, just held her there, impaled, letting her feel the full, stretching invasion. The city lights blurred outside the window.
Then he began to move. Slow, at first, achingly deep pulls that rubbed every sensitive place inside her. His arm across her chest tightened, his hand splaying possessively over her heart. His other hand abandoned her hip and came around to her clit, his fingers finding a rough, perfect rhythm.
“Look,” he growled, forcing her head to turn towards the vast window. Their reflection was a ghostly image in the glass: his large form enveloping hers, her face twisted in pleasure, his name on her back. “See that? That’s you. Wearing my name. Taking my cock. Nobody else gets this. Ever.”
His words, filthy and definitive, shattered her last semblance of control. The pace quickened, turned punishing. He fucked her with a relentless, driving force, each slam of his hips driving her against him. The shirt rode up, a tangled barrier between them. He yanked it up to her waist, his hands now digging into the bare skin of her hips, holding her in place for his thrusts. The sound of flesh meeting flesh, wet and rhythmic, filled the sterile space.
“Come for me,” he demanded, his voice strained with his own nearing climax. “Come on my shirt.”
It was the final, undeniable claim. Her orgasm erupted, a violent, shattering wave that tore through her with a force that made her scream, her body convulsing around him in tight, rhythmic pulses. He swore, a raw, Norwegian curse, and his own control broke. He pulled her back onto him with a final, deep thrust, his release flooding into her as he buried his face in her neck, his whole body shuddering.
They slumped against the glass, both breathing in ragged, shattered gasps. The city sprawled, indifferent, below them. Vanja’s legs gave out. He caught her, turning her in his arms, lowering them both to the floor in a heap of tangled limbs and sweat-damp fabric.
For a long time, they just lay there on the hard, cold concrete, the Arsenal shirt rucked up around her waist, his softening cock still inside her. His arms were around her, his face pressed into her hair. The frantic energy had burned away, leaving a hollowed-out, tender quiet.
Eventually, he shifted, pulling out. He stood, offered her a hand. She took it, her legs still unsteady. He led her wordlessly through the pristine space to a bedroom that was just as minimalist—a huge, low platform bed, more windows. An en-suite bathroom of grey stone and chrome.
“Shower,” he said, not a question.
They showered in silence under a rain of scalding water. He washed her with a clinical, thorough care, his hands gentle on her sore skin. She washed him in return, soap sliding over the hard planes of his stomach, the powerful muscles of his thighs. The act was more intimate than the sex had been.
Wrapped in thick, white towels, they returned to the bedroom. He pulled back the grey duvet. They slid in together, naked, the towel falling away. He turned off the light. The room was plunged into a deep blue gloom, illuminated only by the distant, glowing grid of the city.
Vanja lay on her side, facing the window. He curled around her, his front to her back, his arm a heavy weight across her waist. His lips brushed her shoulder.
“You broke my rule,” he said into the dark, his voice quiet and hoarse.
“What rule?”
“No one stays here.” A pause. The words hung in the air, charged with a meaning he hadn’t intended to reveal. “I don’t… bring people here.”
She understood. This penthouse was his fortress, his control center. Letting her in was the final breach. She placed her hand over his where it rested on her stomach, lacing their fingers together. “I’m not ‘people’,” she whispered.
He didn’t answer. He just tightened his grip, pulling her closer, his breath evening out against her skin. Outside, the rain began to fall in earnest, streaking the panoramic view. Inside, in the heart of his ordered, lonely kingdom, they slept.
Inside, in the heart of his ordered, lonely kingdom, they slept. Vanja woke to the pale, watery light of a London morning filtering through the floor-to-ceiling glass. She was alone in the vast bed, the space beside her cool. For a disorienting second, she thought she’d dreamed the entire, improbable night. Then she smelled coffee.
She found him in the kitchen, dressed in simple grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt, staring at a tablet propped against the kettle. He looked up. The morning light sharpened his features, making him seem younger, and more tired.
“Coffee’s there,” he said, nodding to a full cup on the counter.
“You’re very domestic for a superstar,” she said, her voice rough with sleep. She took the cup. It was black, just how she liked it. Another unsettling detail he’d catalogued.
He shrugged, eyes back on his tablet. “Match analysis. Southampton away tomorrow.”
The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the fridge. The intimacy of the night felt like a separate reality, gilded and sealed away. This was the return to the real world, and it was awkward. She leaned against the counter, watching him.
“So, is this the part where you tell me it was fun, but you’re really busy with the season?”
He put the tablet down, his blue eyes meeting hers. They were clear, assessing. “Do you want it to be?”
“No.”
“Good.” He picked up his own coffee. “Because I don’t do this. The… after. I don’t know the protocol.”
His honesty was disarming. “There isn’t one. We make it up.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. “I’m better with set plays.”
She walked over to him, stopping within his space. She wore only the Arsenal shirt from last night. She saw his gaze drop to where it hung on her thighs, his name on her back. A muscle in his jaw jumped. “We broke a lot of your rules last night,” she said softly.
“Yes.”
“Want to break more?”
He set his cup down with a deliberate click. The controlled facade was still there, but she could see the pulse beating rapidly in his throat. “What are you proposing?”
“You like order. Control.” She reached out, tracing a finger down the center of his chest, over the cotton of his shirt. “I like to win. To push. What if your control… is my challenge?”
His hand snapped up, catching her wrist. His grip was firm, not painful, but unequivocal. “Be specific.”
“You tell me what to do.” She held his gaze, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Here. Now. And I’ll do it. I’ll follow your set play, Captain. But I’ll be trying, every second, to break it. To make you lose control.”
The air in the room changed. It became charged, crystalline. His eyes darkened, flooding with a predatory focus that made her skin prickle. This was the edge they’d been circling since the gala. He released her wrist.
“Kneel.”
The word was quiet, absolute. A thrill, cold and sharp, shot down her spine. This was it. The game. She didn’t hesitate. She lowered herself to the polished concrete floor, the chill seeping through the thin shirt into her knees. She looked up at him from beneath her lashes, a deliberately submissive posture undermined by the defiant gleam in her eyes.
He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. “Take my cock out.”
Her fingers went to the waistband of his sweatpants. She pushed them down, just enough. He was already half-hard. She took him in her hand, feeling him swell further at her touch. She leaned forward, her breath ghosting over the tip. She didn’t take him in her mouth. She waited, watching him.
“Now,” he said, his voice tighter.
She opened her mouth and took just the head, swirling her tongue around the sensitive ridge. A low groan escaped him. His hand came to the back of her head, not pushing, just resting there, a weight of potential. She took him deeper, slowly, savoring the way he filled her mouth, the salt-skin taste of him. She established a rhythm, slow and deep, using her hand at the base. She was good at this, and she knew it. She applied pressure, hollowed her cheeks, listened for the hitch in his breathing.
His fingers tangled in her hair. “Faster.”
She obeyed, increasing her pace. But then she pulled off completely, looking up at him, her lips slick and swollen. “Is this what you want?” she whispered, her voice husky.
“Don’t stop.”
“Or what?”
A flash of something dangerous crossed his face. He pulled her up by her arms, roughly, and turned her, bending her over the cold steel of the kitchen island. Her cheek pressed against the metal. He yanked the shirt up to her waist, exposing her completely. He kicked her legs wider apart with his foot.
“Or I take what I want,” he growled. He spat into his palm, slicked himself, and drove into her from behind without another second of preparation.
The penetration was a shock, a breathtaking fullness that stole the air from her lungs. She cried out, a raw sound that echoed off the hard surfaces. He didn’t pause. He set a brutal, punishing rhythm, each thrust jolting her forward against the island. One hand anchored on her hip, fingers digging in, the other fisted in her hair, holding her head down.
“You want to break my control?” he panted, his voice ragged behind her. “Try. Come on. Make me fucking lose it.”
She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, clenching around him tightly. “You already are,” she gasped.
He swore, a filthy, beautiful stream of Norwegian. His hand left her hair and snaked around her hip, his fingers finding her clit. He rubbed it in hard, frantic circles, perfectly in time with his drives. The dual assault was overwhelming. Pleasure coiled, tight and urgent, low in her belly.
“Come,” he commanded, his breath hot on her neck. “Come all over my cock. Do it.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a demand she couldn’t disobey. Her orgasm exploded, violent and convulsive, her internal muscles milking him in rhythmic spasms. She screamed, the sound tearing from her throat, her body bowing under the force of it.
Feeling her climax, his own control shattered. His thrusts became erratic, animalistic. He buried himself to the hilt, his body locking around hers as he came with a raw, guttural shout, his release pumping into her in hot pulses. He collapsed over her, his weight pressing her into the cold steel, both of them slick with sweat, trembling.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Slowly, he softened inside her. He withdrew, his hands going to her hips to steady her as her legs threatened to buckle. He helped her stand, turning her to face him. The shirt was ruined, crumpled and damp. His face was flushed, his hair disheveled, his eyes blazing with a spent, unfiltered intensity. He looked wrecked. He looked real.
He cupped her face, his thumbs wiping at the tears she hadn’t realized had spilled from the intensity. “Okay?” he asked, his voice gravel.
She nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. You?”
He gave a short, breathless laugh, resting his forehead against hers. “I have no idea.” He looked at the kitchen island, the scene of their obliteration, then back at her. “That was…”
“A lot.”
“Yeah.” He exhaled slowly, then pulled her into a tight, silent embrace. They stood there in the wreckage of his control and her defiance, clinging to each other as the morning light grew stronger. The game had changed. The limits had been explored, and found to be frighteningly, exhilaratingly far away. Where they went from here was a terrifying, open field.