Chapter 8: The Morning Claim
Vanja woke to a slow, stretching fullness, a deep internal pressure that pulled her from sleep like a tide. The room was dark, the city a muted glow behind the blinds. Disorientation lasted only a second before sensation crystallized.
He was already inside her.
Martin—no, Mats—was on his side behind her, his chest a solid wall of heat against her back, one arm hooked possessively around her waist, pinning her to him. His cock was buried to the hilt in her pussy, stretching her, a thick, insistent presence. He wasn’t moving. He was just… occupying her. As if he’d slipped in while she slept and now held her captive with the sheer fact of his invasion.
She let out a soft, startled gasp.
His lips touched the shell of her ear. “You were making noises in your sleep,” he murmured, his voice gravelly with sleep. “Little whimpers. I wondered what you were dreaming about.”
He flexed his hips, a minute shift that made her clench around him. A low groan vibrated from his chest into her spine.
“Was it this?” he whispered, and began to move.
It was a languid, predatory rhythm. He pulled back almost all the way, the drag exquisite and maddening, before sinking back in with a smooth, deliberate stroke that pushed the air from her lungs. There was no preamble, no gentle awakening. He was taking what he wanted, and what he wanted was her, soft and sleepy and pliant.
“Mine,” he growled, the word a hot puff against her neck. He punctuated it with a deeper thrust, his pelvis grinding against her ass. His teeth scraped the sensitive skin of her shoulder, not quite biting, a promise of possession.
Vanja melted into the pillows, a whimper escaping her throat. She was still half-submerged in dreams, her body responding instinctively, heat pooling low in her belly. She reached back, her fingers finding and tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, holding him to her.
“Yes,” she breathed, a surrender.
That seemed to unleash something. The slow, deep strokes grew more purposeful, more demanding. His arm tightened around her waist, locking her in place as his hips began to piston in a harder, faster tempo. The quiet room filled with the wet, rhythmic sound of their joining, the slap of his skin against hers. Each thrust jolted through her, a direct line to her core.
“You feel even better like this,” he rasped, his breath coming faster. “Half-asleep. All warm and tight around me. Just a perfect, wet hole for my cock.”
The filthy words in his accented voice sent a shock of arousal straight through her. She pushed back against him, meeting his drives, wanting him deeper.
“Fuck, yes,” he hissed. “Take it. Every inch.”
He shifted his angle slightly, and on the next inward stroke, the head of his cock brushed a spot that made her cry out, her back arching. He found it again, and again, hammering into it with unerring accuracy. The pleasure was a coiled spring, tightening with every impact. His free hand slid down from her waist, over the curve of her hip, fingers delving into the thatch of curls to find her clit.
The dual assault was devastating. His cock pistoning deep inside, his fingers working tight, urgent circles on her swollen bud. The orgasm built with terrifying speed, a pressure threatening to shatter her.
“Mats… I’m gonna…”
“Come,” he commanded, his voice raw. “Squeeze my cock. Let me feel you come.”
It broke over her like a wave, a silent, seizing climax that ripped a choked scream from her throat. Her inner muscles clamped down on him in violent, rhythmic pulses, milking his length. The intensity of it blurred her vision, turning the dark room to static.
Feeling her convulse around him shattered his own control. With a guttural roar, he drove into her one last, brutal time, his body locking as he emptied himself deep inside her. His release seemed endless, hot pulses that synced with the last flutters of her own. He collapsed against her, his weight heavy and welcome, his face buried in her hair, his entire body shuddering.
For long minutes, the only sounds were their ragged breaths slowly settling. He softened inside her but didn’t withdraw, his arm still a band of iron around her middle. He nuzzled the sweat-damp hair at her temple.
“Good morning,” he said, finally.
A breathless laugh escaped her. “You’re insane.”
“You love it.”
She did. She twisted in his arms until she could face him. In the near-dark, his features were softened, his eyes sleepy and sated. She kissed him, a slow, deep tasting. He hummed against her mouth, his hands coming up to cradle her face.
When they parted, he brushed his thumb over her cheekbone. “I have training at nine. You have that physiology lecture.”
The real world, with its relentless schedules, intruded like a cold draft. She’d almost forgotten. “Yeah. At eleven.”
“You should stay. Sleep more. The place is yours.” The offer was gruff, but the meaning was clear. He was letting her into his sanctuary, even in his absence.
She shook her head, regret a tangible weight. “I need my notes. And clean clothes that aren’t your kit.”
He nodded, understanding. The life of an elite athlete was a series of negotiated absences. He rolled onto his back, running a hand over his face. “Shower with me. Then I’ll call Frank.”
The shower was a steamy, shared space of quiet intimacy. They washed each other with a focus that was less erotic and more necessary, a practical tenderness. He soaped her back, his thumbs working at a knot of tension in her shoulder. She shampooed his hair, his head tipped back under the spray, eyes closed. It was peaceful, a silent communion.
Dressed in yesterday’s clothes, she felt oddly displaced. He was in his training gear, a bag by the door. He looked every inch the superstar captain again, the man from the charity gala, the one who had once seemed untouchable. But he pulled her to him before they left, kissing her with a lingering hunger that belied the professional facade.
“Tonight,” he said against her lips. It wasn’t a question.
“I have track work until seven.”
“I’ll be done by five. I’ll come to you.”
The idea of him in her small, cluttered flat was jarring. “It’s not exactly the penthouse.”
“I don’t give a fuck.” He kissed her once more, hard. “Text me your address.”
Frank drove her home in the same comfortable silence. Her flat felt hollow, sterile. She moved through her routine on autopilot: coffee, a banana, gathering her books. But her skin still felt his hands, her body still hummed with the memory of his possession. The lecture on neuromuscular fatigue was a distant buzz.
Her phone lit up on the library desk just after one.
M: Thinking about your pussy. It’s distracting.
A bolt of heat shot through her. She glanced around, then typed back.
V: Is it sore? You used it pretty hard this morning.
M: It’s perfect. I can still smell you on my fingers.
She shifted in her seat, her cheeks flushing.
V: You’re going to get in trouble.
M: Already am. Pulled a shot wide. Gaffer asked if I was ill.
V: Tell him you’re sexually incapacitated.
M: He’d probably congratulate me. 5 hours.
The countdown was excruciating. Her afternoon training session was a blur of explosive starts and grueling 400-meter repeats. Her coach praised her focus, but it wasn’t focus—it was a frenetic energy, a need to expend the anticipation burning through her veins.
At 6:45, freshly showered in the athletes’ lounge, her phone buzzed.
M: Outside.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She grabbed her bag and practically ran out of the complex. A sleek, black Audi was idling at the curb, not Frank’s car. The passenger window slid down. Mats was driving, wearing a simple black cap pulled low, a grey hoodie. He looked like any other incredibly handsome man, not a global football icon.
“Get in,” he said, a smile playing on his lips.
She slid into the luxurious interior. The car smelled of clean leather and his cologne. Before she could even buckle her seatbelt, he leaned across the center console, cupped her face, and kissed her. It was a deep, claiming kiss that tasted of mint and want.
“Hi,” he said when he pulled back.
“Hi yourself. Where’s Frank?”
“Gave him the night off. I wanted to drive you myself.” He put the car in gear and pulled into traffic. “Your place. Directions.”
She guided him through the streets of Hackney to her modest building. He parallel parked with an ease that surprised her. He grabbed a small duffel from the back seat and followed her up the two flights of stairs, his presence overwhelming the narrow hallway.
She unlocked her door, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s small.”
He stepped in, dropping his bag, and looked around. The space was a riot of her life: running shoes by the door, textbooks stacked on the coffee table, a bright rug from her grandmother in Serbia, a framed poster of the Copenhagen skyline. It was warm, lived-in, chaotic.
He turned to her, his eyes dark. “It’s you.” He said it like it was the highest compliment. Then he closed the distance, backing her against the closed door. His hands framed her face. “I’ve been thinking about one thing all day.”
“What?”
“You. Bent over this couch.” His gaze flicked to her small, worn sofa. “I want to see you in your space. I want to fuck you where you live.”
The crude words, delivered in his low, calm tone, made her knees weak. She reached for the waistband of his joggers. “Then stop talking.”
It was a frantic undressing, a tangle of clothes dropped on her rug. The evening light streamed through her windows, painting their skin in gold. He turned her, his hands on her shoulders, applying gentle pressure until she was leaning forward, her palms flat on the back of the sofa. He knelt behind her, his hands spreading her thighs apart.
He didn’t enter her immediately. He first pressed his face between her cheeks, his tongue licking a broad, wet stripe from her entrance to her clit. She jerked, a cry escaping her. He did it again, and again, feasting on her with a low, hungry sound, until she was trembling and pushing back against his mouth.
“Please, Mats… now.”
He rose, the head of his cock nudging against her slick opening. He pushed in, not with a single thrust, but with a slow, inexorable pressure that made her moan into the sofa cushions. He filled her completely, his hips flush against her ass.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his hands gripping her hips. “You look even better like this. In your little flat. Taking my cock.”
He began to move, setting a deep, rolling pace that shook her whole body. The sofa creaked with each powerful thrust. This was different from the penthouse. Here, the sounds were louder, more intimate—their skin slapping, his grunts, her choked pleas, the rustle of the cushion fabric. Her world narrowed to the feel of him splitting her open, the burn in her thighs, the overwhelming sense of being claimed in her own territory.
One of his hands slid around her hip, his fingers finding her clit, already swollen and sensitive. The contact was electric. “Come for me, Vanja,” he growled, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, losing rhythm. “I want to feel you lose it in your own home.”
The combination of his command, his relentless penetration, and the rough circle of his fingers was too much. Her orgasm detonated, a raw, screaming release that ripped through her with violent force. She clenched around him so tightly he swore, his own control snapping.
With three final, brutal slams, he came, a hot flood deep inside her, his body collapsing over hers as they both gasped for air, slick with sweat, anchored only by his weight and the solid reality of the couch.
They slid to the floor, a heap of tangled limbs on her colorful rug. The sun had dipped lower, casting the room in long shadows. He pulled her into his arms, her back to his chest, both of them staring at the ceiling.
“So,” he said after a while, his voice relaxed. “This is where the world’s fastest runner lives.”
She poked his thigh. “It’s not a penthouse.”
“It’s better.” He kissed her shoulder. “It’s real.”
They lay there as the room darkened, not speaking, just breathing together. The unspoken things hung in the air between them—the looming separation of away games, her own competition season, the fragile, unnamed thing they were building. It felt terrifyingly real, anchored now not just in his sterile sky palace, but in her messy, earthly domain.
He finally stirred. “I’m starving. And I saw a kebab shop on the corner.”
She laughed, the sound bright in the quiet room. “You, Martin Odegaard, want a kebab?”
“Mats,” he corrected softly. “And yes. With you.” He stood, pulling her up with him. “Then I’m taking you back to bed. Your bed. And I’m going to fuck you slowly, all night long, until neither of us can remember our own names.”
The promise was a thrill in her blood. The future was a minefield of complications, but for now, there was just this: his hand in hers, the smell of sex and summer evening, and the certain, exhilarating sense of a freefall with no net in sight.
The kebab shop was brightly lit and smelled of frying grease and cumin. They stood at the counter, Mats’ cap pulled low, Vanja in her track jacket. The man behind the counter did a double-take, his eyes widening slightly at Mats, but he simply nodded and took their order.
“You get recognized here often?” Vanja asked, taking the warm, foil-wrapped bundles.
“Sometimes. They’re usually cool. It’s just food.” He took the bags from her, his fingers brushing hers. The normalcy of it felt more intimate than anything in the penthouse.
Back in her flat, they ate on the floor, leaning against the sofa. Grease dotted the coffee table. He told her a story about a disastrous away game in Kiev, the heating failing, and she laughed until she snorted. He watched her, a softness in his eyes usually reserved for moments of pure focus on the pitch.
“What?” she asked, wiping her mouth.
“Nothing. You’re just… different.”
“Different from what?”
“From everything else.” He said it simply, as if stating a fact about the weather. He balled up his foil and stood, extending a hand. “Come on. I need a shower. A real one. And you’re coming with me.”
Her bathroom was cramped, the shower a narrow cubicle. They fit by necessity, skin against slick skin under the hot spray. He washed her hair again, his fingers massaging her scalp with a tenderness that made her throat tighten. She turned, water streaming down her face, and kissed him. It started slow, a gentle exploration, but hunger quickly reignited.
He backed her against the cool tiles, his hands sliding down to grip the backs of her thighs. He lifted her effortlessly, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. The head of his cock, already hard, nudged against her entrance. He pushed up, filling her in one smooth, vertical stroke that made her gasp into his mouth. The angle was deep, unbearable. He braced her against the wall, his thrusts a relentless, upward drive.
“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice rough over the spray.
She forced her eyes open. His gaze was locked on hers, blue and intense, watching every flicker of pleasure and pain cross her face. Water plastered his blond hair to his forehead. This wasn’t the detached, possessive fuck from the morning. This was raw, connected, almost confrontational.
“You feel that?” he grunted, driving into her again. “That’s me. All of me. Remember it.”
“I will,” she panted, her nails digging into his shoulders.
“Who do you belong to right now?”
“You.” The answer was immediate, wrenched from her.
He kissed her, a clash of teeth and tongue, his pace becoming frantic, punishing. The shower walls echoed with the wet slap of their bodies, their ragged breaths. Her climax built from a deep, aching place, coiling tighter with each penetrating thrust. When it broke, it was a silent, shuddering release that squeezed a broken sound from his chest. He followed her over, his own orgasm pulsing inside her, his forehead dropping to her shoulder with a choked groan.
He held her there until the water ran cold.
Later, in the tangle of her sheets, she traced the faint scar on his knee. The city lights painted stripes across his bare chest. He was staring at the ceiling, one arm behind his head.
“I leave for Madrid tomorrow. Pre-season friendly.”
The words landed like a physical blow. She’d known his schedule, of course. It didn’t soften the impact. “How long?”
“Four days. Then we’re back, then it’s a week in the States.” He turned his head to look at her. His expression was unreadable. “It doesn’t stop. Not until May.”
The minefield was no longer on the horizon. They were in it. Her own season was a whirlwind of training camps and European meets. The idea of coordinating their chaos felt absurd.
“This is fucking impossible,” she said, not as a lament, but as a challenge.
A slow smile touched his lips. “You’re a world-class athlete. So am I. We solve impossible problems for a living.” He rolled onto his side, facing her. “I want this. I want you. Tell me you want it too, and we’ll figure out the rest.”
She searched his face. This was the man who had ignored her at the gala, whose indifference had been a magnet. Now, his focus was entirely on her, a terrifying and exhilarating weight. “I want it.”
He nodded, once. “Good.” He leaned in and kissed her, a seal on the pact. “Then while I’m gone, you think about this.” His hand slid between her legs, his fingers finding her still-sensitive flesh. “You think about how I fucked you here, in your bed. You think about my cock in your mouth.”
She shuddered, arousal flashing through her like a live wire. “You’re trying to distract me.”
“Is it working?” He parted her folds, circling her clit with a deliberate, knowing pressure.
“Yes.”
He moved down the bed, pushing her thighs apart. His breath was hot on her inner skin. “I’m going to make you come so hard you forget your own name. And then you’re going to do the same for me.” He looked up, his eyes glinting in the dark. “And every time you’re alone in this bed for the next four days, you’re going to feel this emptiness. And you’ll know it’s for me.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. His tongue delved into her, a flat, demanding stroke. He licked into her with a single-minded intensity, his hands pinning her hips to the mattress. She cried out, her back arching. He was relentless, devouring her, his nose pressing against her clit as he fucked her with his tongue. The coil of pleasure snapped faster this time, a sharp, brutal climax that tore through her without mercy.
Before the last tremor had faded, he was moving up her body, his cock poised at her entrance. He was huge, slick with her wetness. He pushed inside with a low groan, seating himself fully. “Now,” he whispered, his lips against her ear. “Your turn. Use that famous competitive spirit. Make me come.”
It was a command. She locked her legs around his hips, meeting his thrusts with a fierce, driving rhythm of her own. She raked her hands down his back, bit his shoulder, used every ounce of her strength to pull him deeper, faster. She watched his control fracture, his eyes squeezing shut, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
“That’s it,” she urged, her own voice guttural. “Let go. Come inside me. Fill me up.”
Her words, her demanding rhythm, shattered him. With a raw, broken shout, he obeyed, his body convulsing as he emptied himself. He collapsed, his weight a solid comfort, his heartbeat a wild drum against her chest.
In the heavy silence afterwards, he brushed the hair from her damp forehead. “Four days,” he repeated, a vow.
“Four days,” she echoed.
The freefall continued, but now there was a hand holding hers in the dark. The net, she realized, was each other. It was a terrifying, fragile thing to trust.