Chapter 7: pussy
The silence after the kitchen was a living thing, thick and charged. They stood there, clinging to each other, sweat cooling on skin, hearts hammering against ribs. The enormity of what they’d just done—not just the sex, but the obliteration of his precious control—hung in the air between them.
Finally, Martin stirred. He pressed a kiss, surprisingly soft, to her temple. “We need another shower.”
This time, it was different. The frantic energy was spent. The water was warm, not scalding. He washed her with a silent, thorough reverence, his hands sliding over the slope of her shoulders, the curve of her spine, the slight tremor in her thighs. She leaned into his touch, her forehead resting against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart under her ear.
Back in the stark bedroom, he found a soft grey t-shirt and a pair of his sweatpants for her. They swam on her, the hem of the pants rolled multiple times. He pulled on a fresh pair himself and didn’t bother with a shirt.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, running a hand through his damp hair.
Vanja shook her head. She felt hollowed out, saturated. “No. Just… tired.”
He nodded, a quick, efficient gesture. He pulled back the duvet again. They slid in, the sheets cool and crisp against her skin. The city’s perpetual glow painted his face in shades of blue and shadow as he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.
“You’re leaving tomorrow,” she said into the quiet. “Southampton.”
“Early flight. Six AM.”
She rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand to look at him. “So this is it? Good luck, see you never?”
He turned his head, his eyes meeting hers in the dim light. They were unreadable pools of dark. “What do you want it to be?”
“I want to know if I’ll see you again.”
“Yes.” The answer was immediate, devoid of hesitation. “Is that a problem?”
“For who?”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “For you. Your season. Your… life.”
She traced a finger along the sharp line of his collarbone. “I can run and fuck you. I’m multi-talented.”
He caught her hand, bringing it to his mouth and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. The gesture was so tender it made her chest ache. “Vanja,” he said, her name a low vibration against her skin. “What are we doing?”
“Breaking all your rules,” she whispered. “And loving it.”
He exhaled, a slow release of tension. He turned onto his side, facing her, their bodies aligning in the dark. His hand came up, his fingertips tracing the line of her jaw, her cheekbone, her brow. It was a studying touch, as if he were memorizing her by braille. His gaze was so intense it felt physical.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, his voice rough. “The… after. The talking. The… whatever comes next.”
“So don’t talk,” she said, shifting closer until their faces were inches apart. “Just feel.”
His hand slid down, over the worn cotton of the t-shirt, coming to rest on her hip. His thumb stroked a slow arc there. “I feel too much when I’m around you. It’s… disruptive.”
“Good.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. Then his expression grew serious again, his eyes dropping to her mouth. “Can I try something?”
“Anything.”
He moved slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. He kissed her. But it was nothing like the kisses before—those had been about possession, conquest, fire. This was… exploration. A soft, searching pressure. His lips were warm, surprisingly soft. He tasted of toothpaste and something uniquely him. He kissed her with a aching, tentative sweetness that unraveled something deep inside her. She kissed him back, matching his gentleness, her hand coming up to rest on the side of his neck, feeling his pulse jump under her palm.
When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling. “I’ve wanted to do that since the gala,” he murmured. “Just… like that.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I knew if I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop.” His hand slid from her hip, under the hem of the t-shirt, his palm warm against her stomach. “And I was right.”
He kissed her again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against hers. The gentleness began to fracture, edged with a returning hunger. He rolled her onto her back, settling over her, his weight a delicious anchor. The kiss turned hot, wet, open-mouthed. His hips ground against hers, the thin layer of cotton between them doing nothing to hide his renewed hardness.
But then he broke away, his breath coming fast. He shifted down the bed, his movements deliberate. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of the borrowed sweatpants and slowly, slowly, pulled them down her legs, tossing them aside. He knelt between her thighs, his hands spreading her open.
The look on his face was one of pure, reverent hunger. In the muted light, she could see his pupils were blown wide, his lips slightly parted. He just looked, his gaze traveling over her with a focus so absolute it made her blush.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said, his voice hushed, almost awed. “Every part of you.”
He leaned down, but not to enter her. He nuzzled the inside of her thigh, planting a soft kiss there. Then another, higher up. His breath was hot against her sensitive skin. She shuddered, her hands fisting in the sheets.
“Martin…”
“Shhh.” He looked up, his eyes locking with hers. “Let me.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He lowered his mouth to her, and his tongue traced a slow, flat stripe from her entrance up to her clit.
A sharp gasp tore from her throat. Her hips bucked involuntarily. He held her down, his hands firm on her thighs, and did it again. And again. Each pass was slow, languid, utterly consuming. He wasn’t trying to make her come quickly; he was mapping her, learning her taste, her texture, her responses.
Then his mouth closed over her clit, and he sucked, gently at first, then with more pressure. His tongue swirled around the swollen bud, flicking against it with pinpoint accuracy. Pleasure, white-hot and electric, shot through her veins. She cried out, a ragged, broken sound.
He released her, his breath fanning over her wetness. “You taste like heaven,” he growled, the words vibrating against her. “I could do this for hours.”
He shifted, dragging his tongue lower, delving into her entrance. He fucked her with his tongue, deep and slow, swallowing the proof of her arousal. The obscene, wet sounds filled the quiet room. He alternated between lapping at her core and returning to suck her clit, building a rhythm that was maddeningly precise, exquisitely slow.
“Please…” she begged, her back arching off the bed.
“Please what?” He lifted his head, his mouth slick and glistening.
“More. Harder. Fuck, please.”
A dark smile touched his lips. “Since you asked so nicely.”
He buried his face in her again, but the pace changed. It became relentless. His tongue drilled into her, his lips and teeth working her clit with a focused, brutal intensity. One hand slipped from her thigh, his fingers sliding inside her, curling, finding that spot deep within that made her vision blur. He fingered her in time with the thrusts of his tongue, a perfect, devastating coordination.
The coil of tension in her belly tightened to a breaking point. She was babbling, words in a mixture of Danish, English, nonsense. Her legs shook uncontrollably around his head. She felt split open, consumed, entirely at his mercy. And he was merciless, driving her higher and higher with a single-minded determination that was more intimate than any possession.
When the climax hit, it was catastrophic. It ripped through her like a seismic event, a convulsive wave of pure sensation that tore a scream from her throat. Her body bowed, rigid, as he drank her down, his mouth and fingers never stopping, milking every last pulse of pleasure from her until she was a shuddering, sobbing wreck, spent and boneless against the sheets.
Slowly, he crawled up her body. He kissed her stomach, her sternum, the hollow of her throat. He tasted of her. His face was wet with it. He finally reached her mouth, kissing her deeply, letting her taste herself on his tongue. It was the most intimate thing she had ever experienced.
He gathered her to him, tucking her head under his chin. She could feel his heart pounding against her cheek, feel the hard length of him pressed against her hip, still unsatisfied but ignored. He just held her, one hand stroking her hair as her breathing gradually evened out.
After a long while, he spoke, his voice a low rumble in his chest. “My friends,” he said, “the ones who really know me… they don’t call me Martin.”
She looked up at him, her eyes still hazy. “What do they call you?”
He met her gaze, his blue eyes softened in the dark. “Mats.”
The name, private and unadorned, felt like a key turning in a lock. It was a piece of him, handed to her without ceremony. A true name, for the true self that was emerging in the wreckage of his rules.
She reached up, touching his cheek. “Mats,” she whispered, testing the sound. It fit him, this quieter, hidden part.
He captured her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. “Don’t… don’t use it in public.”
She shook her head. “No. That’s just for here.”
He nodded, a deep satisfaction settling in his eyes. He pulled her closer, wrapping himself around her like a shield. Outside, the first hints of dawn were smudging the sky a pale grey. His alarm would ring all too soon, pulling him back into the world of flights and match analysis and captaincy. But for these few, stolen hours, he was just Mats. And she was in his arms. The game was no longer about winning or breaking control. It had become something else entirely, and neither of them knew the rules.
It had become something else entirely, and neither of them knew the rules. The name ‘Mats’ hung between them in the dark, a fragile, new thing. Vanja traced the line of his jaw with her fingertip, feeling the slight scratch of stubble.
“I like it,” she whispered. “It suits you.”
He made a noncommittal sound, but she felt the smile against her hair. His body was relaxed for the first time since she’d met him, the constant tension in his shoulders finally unwound. She kissed the base of his throat, tasting salt and skin. His hand drifted from her hair, down her spine, coming to rest possessively on the curve of her hip.
The quiet stretched, comfortable and deep. The city’s hum was a distant lullaby. Vanja’s mind, however, would not still. A restless energy, competitive and hungry, began to coil in her gut again. He had worshipped her. He had broken her apart with his mouth and hands. Now, he lay peacefully under her, his hard length pressed against her thigh, seemingly content to just hold her.
She wasn’t.
She shifted, rolling until she was straddling his hips. The grey duvet pooled around them. He looked up at her, his blue eyes lazy and sated, but questioning.
“My turn,” she said, her voice low.
A slow, understanding smile spread across his face. “Your turn for what?”
“To set the play.” She leaned down, bracing her hands on either side of his head. Her hair fell around them like a curtain. “You had your control. You took what you wanted.” She brushed her lips over his. “Now I’m going to take what I want.”
His hands came to her waist, gripping. “Yeah? And what’s that?”
“You.”
In one fluid, powerful motion, she sat up. She reached between them, wrapping her hand around his cock. He was fully hard again, thick and hot in her palm. She positioned him at her entrance, watching his face. His breath hitched, his gaze locked on hers, utterly captive.
She sank down onto him in a slow, deliberate descent.
A hissed curse escaped his lips. His fingers dug into her hips. She took him all, a deep, stretching fullness that made her own breath shudder. She paused, seated fully, letting them both feel the exquisite, unbearable pressure.
Then she began to move.
SHE RIDES HIM HARD.
She planted her hands on his chest for leverage, her thighs flexing. She rose up until only the head of his cock remained inside her, then slammed back down, taking him deep in one forceful stroke. He groaned, a raw, gut-punched sound. She did it again. And again. Not a gentle rhythm, but a punishing, athletic pace. Her body was a weapon of pleasure, built for speed and endurance, and she used every ounce of her strength.
“Fuck, Vanja,” he gasped, his head tipping back into the pillow.
She rode him with a furious, focused intensity. Each impact of her hips against his was a sharp, wet slap that echoed in the quiet room. She chased her own release with a single-minded drive, but she also chased his surrender. She wanted to see that icy control shatter completely. She leaned forward, changing the angle, and he cried out, his hands flying to her ass, gripping the flesh hard.
“Is this what you want?” she panted, never breaking her rhythm. “Is this breaking your rules?”
“Yes.” The word was torn from him. His eyes were wild, unfocused. “Don’t you fucking stop.”
She didn’t. Her muscles burned, sweat beading on her skin and sliding between her breasts. The room filled with the sounds of their bodies: the slap of skin, their ragged breathing, the slick, filthy noise of her taking him. He swore in Norwegian, his hips bucking up to meet her downward drives, trying to match her ferocity but failing. She was in control. She was setting the pace, and it was brutal.
One of his hands snaked between them, his thumb finding her clit. The added friction was electric, overwhelming. Her rhythm faltered for a second, a stutter in her perfect, punishing tempo.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough.
Her eyes, which had been squeezed shut in concentration, flew open. She met his gaze. His face was a mask of primal need, his lips parted, his pupils black with desire. Seeing him like this, utterly wrecked by her, sent a new bolt of lightning through her core.
“Come for me,” he growled, his thumb pressing harder. “Come on my cock. Now.”
The command, combined with the relentless assault of his body inside her and his thumb on her clit, shattered her. Her orgasm ripped through her with violent, convulsive force. She screamed, her body clamping down around him in rhythmic, tightening pulses. Her vision whited out.
Feeling her climax, his own control snapped. With a guttural roar, he flipped them, pinning her beneath him in a swift, powerful motion. He drove into her, three more deep, final thrusts, and she felt him pulse, hot and deep, as he came with her name a broken whisper against her neck.
They collapsed, a tangled, sweat-soaked heap of trembling limbs. His weight pressed her into the mattress, a solid, anchoring warmth. The only sound was their labored breathing, slowly synchronizing.
After a long time, he rolled off her. The space beside her felt cold without him. She turned her head to see him lying on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. The first true light of dawn was bleeding into the room, painting everything in pale, unforgiving grey.
“Christ,” he breathed, eventually.
“Yeah,” she echoed, her voice hoarse.
He moved his arm, turning to look at her. His expression was unguarded, raw, and utterly exhausted. He reached out, his fingers brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek. “What are you doing to me?”
She caught his hand, lacing her fingers with his. “I don’t know.” She squeezed. “But it’s mutual.”
A sharp, electronic chirp shattered the stillness. His phone alarm, buzzing on the nightstand. The real world, with its flights and duties, came crashing back. He didn’t move for a second, just stared at their joined hands. Then, with a sigh that seemed to come from the soles of his feet, he disentangled himself and swung his legs out of bed.
“I have to go,” he said, not looking at her.
The change was jarring. The man from moments before was gone, replaced by the footballer, the captain, the controlled entity named Martin. He walked, naked and unconcerned, into the bathroom. She heard the shower turn on.
Vanja lay in the bed that smelled of him and sex and sweat, listening to the water run. The high of the night was draining away, leaving a hollow, uncertain ache. She got up, found the enormous t-shirt she’d worn earlier, and pulled it on. She padded out to the main living area, its sterile perfection now littered with the evidence of them: discarded clothes, two empty water glasses, a blanket crumpled on the floor.
He emerged ten minutes later, hair damp, dressed in tailored trousers and a crisp white shirt, his carry-on bag in hand. He looked polished, remote, untouchable.
“Frank is downstairs,” he said, checking his watch. “I’ll have him drop you home.”
“Right.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Southampton.”
“Yeah.” He finally looked at her, his gaze sweeping over her in his shirt, her tangled hair, the marks his mouth had left on her neck. Something flickered in his eyes, quickly suppressed. “I’ll be back late tomorrow.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. A fact inserted into the space between them.
“Okay,” she said.
He walked over to her, stopped a foot away. He didn’t touch her. “Last night…” he began, then stopped, searching for words.
“It doesn’t need a name,” she finished for him.
He nodded, once. “But it’s not nothing.”
“No.”
He leaned in, then, and kissed her. It was brief, firm, a seal on a contract. “I’ll call you,” he said against her lips. Then he turned and walked toward the door, his bag slung over his shoulder.
“Mats,” she said softly.
He froze, his hand on the door handle. He didn’t turn around, but his shoulders tensed. After a beat, he gave a single, slight nod, and was gone. The door clicked shut with a sound of finality. Vanja was left alone in the silent, gleaming penthouse, the ghost of his touch on her skin, the taste of him in her mouth, and the unsettling, thrilling certainty that nothing between them was finished. It was only just beginning.
It was only just beginning. The silence he left behind was a physical presence, thick and humming. Vanja stood in the center of the immaculate, violated living room, the city sprawling indifferently below, and felt utterly untethered. She showered in his bathroom, using his soap that smelled of pine and cold air, and dressed in yesterday’s clothes which carried the scent of the potato café and him.
Frank, the driver, was polite and silent during the trip back to her modest flat in Hackney. The normalcy of her own space—the cluttered bookshelf, the mismatched mugs, the framed photo of her with her parents after her first European gold—felt like a museum exhibit from someone else’s life. Her body ached in specific, glorious ways. She touched her neck where his stubble had scraped the skin raw.
Her phone remained silent. She knew he’d be in meetings, on the plane, in the pre-match hotel. The disciplined part of her brain approved. The rest of her, the part that still felt him moving inside her, screamed. She went for a punishing ten-mile run along the canal, her legs protesting, her mind blissfully blank for the first time in days.
The run ended. The silence returned. She heated a frozen pizza and ate it standing at her kitchen counter, staring at her phone. It’s not nothing, he’d said. The uncertainty was a live wire in her gut.
At 10:17 PM, her screen lit up. An unknown number. A Southampton area code. Her throat tightened.
She answered. “Hello?”
A beat of silence, then his voice, quieter than she remembered, filtered through what sounded like a hotel bathroom fan. “It’s me.”
“I know.” She leaned against the wall, sliding down to sit on the floor. “How’s the hotel?”
“Shit. Thin walls. I can hear Ben White snoring through two doors.” A pause. He was breathing slowly, deliberately. “How are you?”
“Sore.”
A low, rough chuckle traveled down the line, vibrating in her ear. “Good.”
They didn’t speak for a moment. She could picture him, sitting on the edge of a bathtub, still in his suit trousers, his free hand running through his hair.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he said, the words rushed, as if admitting to a crime. “About you. In my shirt. On my floor. The way you came apart.”
A flush of heat spread through her. She closed her eyes. “Which time?”
“All of them.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m hard right now just thinking about it. It’s fucking inconvenient.”
“Prove it.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” She shifted, her own body responding. “Prove it. Put me on speaker. Let me hear.”
A sharp intake of breath. A click. The acoustics changed, the room echo becoming a small, tiled chamber. “Okay.”
She heard the soft rustle of fabric, a zip being lowered. A long, slow exhale from him. Then the sound, unmistakable and filthy: the slick, rhythmic friction of a hand moving over stiff, swollen flesh. Her own hand slipped into her leggings.
“You’re touching yourself,” he said, his voice strained. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.” Her fingers were already wet. “Are you thinking about my mouth?”
“Christ, yes.” The pace of the sound from his end increased. “The way you sucked me. Deep. Like you wanted to choke on it.”
“I did.” She matched his rhythm, her fingers circling her clit. “I want your cum in my throat. Next time.”
A guttural groan from him. The sound was raw, unfiltered, and it pushed her closer to the edge. “Tell me what else you want.”
“I want you to fuck my thighs. I want to watch you come all over my skin.”
“Fuck, Vanja.” His breathing became ragged, punctuated by the wet, urgent sounds of his fist. “I’m close. Are you close?”
“Yes. Keep talking.”
“I want to bend you over that kitchen island again. I want to hold you down and make you take every inch until you scream. I want to own that scream.”
His words were the final trigger. Pleasure detonated low in her belly, radiating out in violent waves. She cried out, biting her own fist to muffle the sound, her body convulsing against the wall. Through the phone, she heard his own climax, a shattered, broken curse followed by thick, ragged panting.
The line was filled with the sound of their recovery. The mundane hum of his hotel fan. A car alarm from her street below.
“Well,” he finally said, his voice hoarse. “That was…”
“Necessary,” she finished, pulling her hand from her pants. She felt boneless, satiated, and strangely connected to him across the miles.
“Yeah.” A rustle, like he was cleaning up. “I play tomorrow at three.”
“I know. I’ll watch.”
“Don’t.” The word was sharp, automatic. Then, softer. “It’s… it’s just a job. When I’m with you, it’s not.”
The admission hung between them, fragile and huge. He was giving her a piece of him the cameras never saw: the man who needed the game to be separate from the mess of whatever this was.
“Okay,” she said. “Text me when it’s over.”
“I will.” A pause. “Vanja?”
“Yeah?”
“The shirt. My shirt. Don’t give it back.”
She smiled in the dark. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
The call ended. The hollow feeling from the morning was gone, replaced by a simmering, patient heat. She slept deeply, dreamlessly, wrapped in the conviction of his want.
The next day passed in a blur of study and light training. At 2:58 PM, against his request, she turned on the match. She watched him move across the screen with a grace that was almost cruel, his expression a mask of focused calm. He scored a free-kick in the 64th minute, a perfect, curling shot into the top corner. His celebration was subdued, a simple point to the sky, no smile. The commentators praised his icy composure.
She saw right through it. She saw the faint tension in his jaw, the way his eyes flicked to the bench a second too long after the goal. He was holding something back, conserving a part of himself. For her. The thought was a victory more potent than any trophy.
His text arrived two hours after the final whistle. Back late. Don’t wait up.
She replied immediately. I’m not at my flat.
The three dots appeared, hovered, disappeared. Then: Where.
Yours. I let myself in. The doorman remembered me. She’d used her runner’s charm and a vague mention of the captain expecting her. It had worked.
I’ll be there by 11.
I’ll be awake.
At 10:47, the penthouse door hissed open. He stood in the doorway, his carry-on bag dropped at his feet. He still wore his travel clothes—dark jeans, a black hoodie pulled up. He looked exhausted, and wired, and beautiful. He’d come straight from the airport.
Vanja was on the vast white sofa, wearing only the navy blue Arsenal shirt with her name on the back. One leg was curled beneath her, the other stretched out. She held a glass of his whiskey, the amber liquid catching the city light.
He locked the door. The electronic deadbolt slid home with a definitive thud. He didn’t move further into the room, just stared at her from the shadows of the entryway.
“You watched,” he said, his voice flat.
“I did.”
“I told you not to.”
“I don’t take orders well.” She took a slow sip of whiskey, letting it burn its way down. “You played beautifully. And you were holding back.”
That got him. He pushed the hood off his head, his blond hair messy. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do.” She set the glass down. “I could see it. You were keeping a part of yourself quiet. The part that screams.”
He moved then, a predator’s lope across the polished floor. He stopped in front of the sofa, looking down at her. The energy coming off him was volatile, a contained storm. “That part isn’t for the pitch.”
“I know.” She uncrossed her legs, letting the shirt fall open. “It’s for me.”
He knelt. Not on the sofa, but on the floor in front of her, between her spread thighs. His hands, still cool from the night air, landed on her knees. He pushed them wider, his gaze dropping to where the shirt barely covered her. His breathing was shallow.
“You’re in my shirt,” he murmured, his thumbs digging into the soft skin of her inner thighs.
“You told me to keep it.”
“I know.” He leaned forward, burying his face against her stomach, inhaling deeply through the fabric. His shoulders slumped, the last of the captain’s posture dissolving. “I’m so fucking tired, Vanja.”
The raw weariness in his voice cracked something open in her chest. This wasn’t about sex. Not yet. This was about surrender of a different kind. She carded her fingers through his hair. “Then don’t be the captain here. Just be Mats.”
He turned his head, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her stomach through the shirt. His hands slid up her thighs, pushing the hem higher. He looked up at her, his blue eyes blazing in the dim light. “I need to be inside you. Right now. I don’t have the patience for anything else.”
“Then take it.”
He didn’t need telling twice. He pulled her to the very edge of the sofa, yanked his own jeans open, and freed himself. He was brutally hard, the head dark and flushed. He nudged at her entrance, found her wet and ready for him. With one hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise, and the other tangled in the fabric of his shirt at her chest, he pushed into her with a single, deep, consuming thrust.
They both cried out. The fit was perfect, stretching, agonizingly familiar. He didn’t move for a long moment, just stayed seated to the hilt, his forehead dropped to her shoulder, his whole body trembling with the effort of his control. She could feel the dampness of his hoodie against her skin, the rapid hammer of his heart.
“Fuck,” he whispered, the word shuddering out of him. “This is what I thought about. The whole fucking match. This right here.”
He began to move. It wasn’t the frantic, competitive pace of before. This was something darker, more profound. Deep, rolling strokes that reached a place inside her that made her see stars. Each thrust was a claim, a grounding, a return. His mouth was on her neck, sucking bruises into her skin, marking her in a way the cameras could never see.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he growled against her pulse point, his hips pounding a relentless rhythm. “Say it.”
“I’m yours.” The words were torn from her, truth and submission.
“Only mine.” He bit her shoulder, not gently. “This cunt is mine. This mouth. This heart. All of it.”
“Yes.” She was unraveling, the coil of pleasure tightening with each brutal, perfect stroke. Her nails scrabbled at his back, clutching the thick fabric of his hoodie. “Mats, please…”
“Come on my cock,” he ordered, his voice breaking. “Let me feel you. I need to feel you.”
His command, the use of his private name, the sheer overwhelming physicality of him—it shattered her. Her orgasm ripped through her with silent, blinding intensity, her body clamping around him in wave after wave of convulsive pleasure. She writhed beneath him, a wordless sob caught in her throat.
Feeling her fall apart, his own control vaporized. His thrusts lost all rhythm, becoming frantic, desperate. With a raw, ragged shout, he slammed into her one final time, his body locking as he emptied himself deep inside her. He collapsed forward, his weight crushing her into the sofa, his face buried in her neck, his entire frame shuddering through the aftershocks.
They stayed like that for a long time, a tangled, sweat-damp mess of limbs and clothing. His breathing slowly evened against her skin. The city lights blinked outside, indifferent witnesses.
Eventually, he shifted, pulling out of her gently. He didn’t go far, just slid onto the sofa beside her, pulling her into his arms so her back was against his chest. He nuzzled her hair. His hand came to rest low on her stomach, possessive even in repose.
“I lied,” he said, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction.
“About what?”
“I told the driver to take the scenic route from the airport.” He kissed her shoulder. “I needed the extra ten minutes to think about this.”
She laced her fingers with his over her stomach. “And what did you decide?”
“That I’m fucked.” He said it with a strange, peaceful finality. “Completely and utterly fucked.”
She smiled in the dark, pressing back against the solid warmth of him. For the first time, the uncertainty felt like a destination, not a void. They were in it now. Whatever it was. The game had changed entirely, and the only rule left was to hold on tight.