Chapter 16: Skybound Possession
The jet’s wheels hit the Milan tarmac with a jolt, snapping Vanja out of the hazy, adrenaline-fueled bubble of the flight. Kenan groaned beneath her, his hands still loosely gripping her hips where she’d straddled him during the descent. Alex’s possessive hand slid reluctantly from her thigh as the cabin lights flickered brighter. The raw electricity that had crackled between them moments ago – Kenan’s hardness beneath her, Alex’s fierce kiss claiming her mouth while Kenan held her steady – dissipated into the mundane reality of landing. It left Vanja buzzing, restless, unsatisfied.
"Christ," Kenan muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Need a shower. And a bed." He stretched, the powerful lines of his footballer’s body evident even in his rumpled clothes.
Alex stood, rolling his shoulders. The dark intensity in his eyes had banked, replaced by a familiar, charming weariness. "Penthouse, Kenan? Faster than a hotel." His voice was casual, but the glance he shot Vanja held a lingering possessiveness, a reminder of his growled words: You’re mine too.
Kenan nodded, already texting his driver. "Yeah. Plenty of room. Dusan’s probably still passed out in the back." He gestured vaguely towards the partitioned rear section of the jet where his Juventus teammate, Dusan Vlahovic, had slept off most of the flight after hitting the complimentary vodka hard at the Adidas party.
The transition from sleek jet to Kenan’s sprawling Milan penthouse was a blur of hushed voices, cool night air, and the smooth glide of a luxury SUV. The penthouse was exactly as Vanja remembered: minimalist, expensive, floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the glittering city skyline. Cold marble floors met her bare feet as she kicked off her heels.
Kenan headed straight for the master suite, calling over his shoulder, "Guest rooms down the hall. Help yourselves." He sounded already half-asleep.
Alex lingered in the vast living room, pouring two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler. He offered it to Vanja. She shook her head, the restless energy still humming under her skin. The vodka on the jet, the tension, Alex’s kiss, Kenan’s hands… it had wound her tight like a spring.
"Sure?" Alex asked, his gaze assessing her. He took a slow sip himself. "Still wired?"
"Just tired," Vanja lied, forcing a smile. "Long night." She couldn’t meet his eyes, the memory of his fingers slipping between her thighs too vivid. She needed space. Air. Anything to diffuse this coiled tension before she did something reckless. Like climb back onto Kenan. Or push Alex against that cold marble wall.
Alex watched her for another beat, then shrugged, the charming mask firmly back in place. "Alright. Claim a room before Kenan snores the place down." He gave her a playful wink that didn’t quite reach his eyes and ambled towards another guest room.
Vanja wandered down the hallway, past closed doors. Silence, thick and heavy, settled over the penthouse. She paused outside a room, hearing Kenan’s faint snoring already starting. Alex’s door clicked shut further down. Alone. The buzzing under her skin intensified. The penthouse felt too big, too quiet, amplifying the echo of her own pulse. She needed… something. Release. Distraction.
She drifted towards the open-plan kitchen, drawn by the faint glow of the sub-zero fridge. The cool air washed over her as she opened it, seeking water. The silence was shattered by a clumsy thud and a muttered curse in Serbian.
Dusan Vlahovic stumbled into the kitchen’s periphery, blinking blearily. He looked wrecked. Tall, powerfully built like Kenan, but his dark hair was mussed, his usually sharp features softened by alcohol and sleep. He leaned heavily against the stainless-steel island, squinting at Vanja in the fridge light. He wore only low-slung sweatpants, his torso bare.
"Vanja?" His voice was thick, slurred. "Thought you were…" He gestured vaguely towards Kenan’s room. "With him. Or the German." He grinned, lopsided and unfocused. "Lucky bastards."
Vanja straightened, holding a chilled bottle of water she didn’t really want. The sight of him, dishevelled and half-naked, the raw masculinity softened by drunkenness, sent a fresh, unexpected jolt through her. The restless energy found a new focus. "Just thirsty," she said, her voice sounding huskier than intended. She took a slow sip, her eyes holding his.
Dusan pushed off the island, swaying slightly as he took a step closer. The scent of vodka and sleep clung to him. "Thirsty," he repeated, his gaze dropping to her mouth, then travelling down her body, lingering on the curve of her hips beneath the thin fabric of her party dress. "Yeah. Me too." He reached past her, his arm brushing hers, fumbling inside the fridge for another bottle. His body heat radiated against her side.
He cracked the cap, took a long swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, locked back onto hers. "Couldn't sleep?" he asked, stepping even closer, invading her space. The kitchen island pressed against her back.
"No," Vanja breathed. The buzzing under her skin was a roar now, focused entirely on his proximity, the smell of him, the blatant hunger in his drunken stare. The unresolved tension with Kenan and Alex, the adrenaline crash, the sheer horny frustration – it all coalesced into a single, sharp need. "Too… wound up."
A slow, predatory smile spread across Dusan’s face. He placed his vodka bottle on the counter with deliberate slowness. "Wound up," he echoed. His hand, large and warm, settled on her waist, fingers splaying possessively. "I know a way to unwind." His thumb rubbed a slow circle against the silk of her dress, just above her hip bone. The touch burned.
Vanja didn't hesitate. She dropped the water bottle. It clattered forgotten on the marble floor. Her hands flew to his bare chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath warm skin. She pushed him back a step, not away, but towards the cold expanse of the stainless-steel fridge door. "Show me," she demanded, her voice low and rough.
He grunted, surprised but instantly compliant, his back hitting the fridge with a metallic thud. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her flush against him. The hard ridge of his erection pressed against her stomach through the thin sweatpants. Vanja surged up, capturing his mouth in a fierce, hungry kiss. It was messy, tasting of stale vodka and desperation. His tongue plunged against hers, his hands sliding down to grip her ass, lifting her slightly.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, grinding against him, the friction delicious through the layers of silk and cotton. He groaned into her mouth, his hands tearing at the hem of her dress, bunching it up around her hips. Cool air kissed her exposed skin. His fingers, clumsy with drink but urgent, found the edge of her lace underwear, dragging them down her thighs.
"Fuck, Vanja," he rasped, breaking the kiss to bury his face in her neck, biting lightly. His own sweatpants were shoved down just enough. He fumbled between them, his fingers slick against her, finding her already wet, hot, ready. A low growl vibrated in his chest. "So fucking ready."
He didn't wait. Didn't tease. He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock pressing against her entrance. Vanja arched her back, bracing her hands against the cold fridge door behind his shoulders. "Now," she gasped. "Hard."
He obeyed. With a grunt, he drove into her in one deep, forceful thrust. Vanja cried out, her head snapping back, the stretch intense, almost overwhelming. Dusan held her pinned against the fridge, his hips pistoning. There was no finesse, just raw, drunken need meeting her own desperate hunger. The rhythm was brutal, relentless. The fridge door rattled faintly with each powerful drive.
His hands gripped her ass, fingers digging in, lifting her to meet his thrusts. His mouth was on her neck, her collarbone, biting, sucking. Vanja clawed at his shoulders, her nails scraping skin. The cold metal against her palms, the heat of his body crushing hers, the thick, animal sounds he made – it was primal. It obliterated everything else: the jet, Kenan, Alex, the unspoken tension. There was only this friction, this deep, pounding invasion, the sharp edge of pain mingling with the building, undeniable pressure coiling low in her belly.
"Faster," she gasped, tightening her legs around him, urging him on. Her breath came in ragged pants against his ear. "Don't stop."
He groaned, his thrusts becoming even more frantic, losing rhythm but gaining force. The slap of skin against skin echoed in the cavernous kitchen. Vanja felt the tension snap, a white-hot wire fraying. She buried her face in his shoulder, biting down hard as the orgasm ripped through her, sharp and convulsive, wringing a choked scream from her throat.
Dusan shuddered, his own release hitting seconds later. He slammed into her one last time, grinding deep, a guttural groan tearing from him as he pulsed inside her. He slumped against her, his weight heavy, his breath hot and ragged against her neck. They stayed like that for a moment, pinned against the humming fridge, slick with sweat, the only sound their harsh breathing and the distant hum of the city below.
Slowly, Dusan’s grip loosened. He slid out of her, letting her legs drop to the cold floor. Her knees trembled. He leaned back against the fridge, eyes closed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Vanja straightened her dress with shaky fingers, the silk clinging uncomfortably. She avoided looking at him, the sudden reality crashing in. The vodka bottle lay on its side on the floor, a small puddle spreading on the marble.
Without a word, Vanja turned and walked away on unsteady legs, leaving Dusan slumped against the fridge, the scent of sex and spilled vodka hanging thick in the air. The penthouse felt colder, emptier than before. She needed a shower. Needed to scrub the feel of him off her skin. But the restless energy was gone, replaced by a hollow ache and the chilling certainty that the night’s complications were far from over. The city lights blurred outside the windows as she hurried down the dark hallway.
The city lights blurred outside the windows as she hurried down the dark hallway. Vanja’s bare feet slapped the cold marble, each step echoing the frantic rhythm still hammering in her chest from the kitchen. She needed water, soap, distance from the smell of vodka and Dusan’s sweat clinging to her skin. The guest bathroom door felt flimsy under her shaking hand.
She flicked the light on, the sudden brightness harsh after the penthouse gloom. Her reflection in the mirror was a mess: smudged mascara, flushed cheeks, hair escaping its updo, the thin silk of her dress wrinkled and damp in places she didn’t want to think about. Stupid. Reckless. Drunk. The words echoed uselessly. She turned the tap on full, icy water shocking her wrists, splashing her face, trying to rinse away the feel of his hands, the imprint of the fridge door on her palms. It didn’t work. The hollow ache inside just deepened.
A heavy thud against the bathroom door made her jump, water spraying the sink. "Vanja?" Dusan’s voice, thick and slurred, came through the wood. He fumbled with the handle. "Open up. Still thirsty." The lock clicked – she hadn’t engaged it.
Panic flared, cold and sharp. "Go away, Dusan. Seriously, I'm done." She braced a hand against the sink, the porcelain cold. "You need sleep, not… whatever this is."
He shoved the door open anyway, filling the small space. His sweatpants were still loose, hanging low on his hips. His eyes, bloodshot and heavy, raked over her, lingering on the damp patches darkening the front of her dress, the water dripping down her neck. "Doesn't look done," he mumbled, stepping closer, the scent of sex and alcohol rolling off him. "Look wound up. Tighter than before." His hand reached out, clumsy, brushing a wet strand of hair from her cheek. His knuckles were scraped – maybe from the fridge, maybe from the party earlier.
She flinched back, hitting the edge of the sink. "Jesus, back off!" Her voice cracked. "Just leave me alone!" The command felt weak against the sheer, drunken bulk of him crowding her in. The bathroom felt tiny, airless.
He didn't leave. He trapped her, one hand planted on the counter beside her hip, the other gripping her waist, fingers digging in. "Made you come apart against the fridge," he breathed, his face inches from hers, vodka fumes sharp. "Sounded good. Wanna hear it again." His free hand slid down, rough and insistent, pushing the damp silk of her dress up her thigh. Her own traitorous body reacted instantly, a fresh pulse of heat blooming low despite the fear, the anger, the bone-deep weariness.
"You're wasted," she hissed, trying to twist away, shoving at his chest. It was like pushing a brick wall. "This is fucked up!" Her pulse pounded in her ears, louder than the running tap.
"Probably," he agreed, unconcerned. His fingers found the damp heat between her legs, bypassing her underwear, calloused skin sliding against slick flesh. She gasped, a sound that was pure reflex, her hips jerking forward. He grunted, low and satisfied. "Still wet. Still fucking ready." His fingers pushed inside, not gentle, a rough mimicry that sent an electric jolt through her core. Her knees buckled, held up only by his grip and the sink edge. "See?" His breath was hot on her ear. "Told you. Not done."
He pulled his fingers out, wiping them on her thigh. Then he was yanking his sweatpants down further, his cock springing free, already hard again. He turned her roughly, shoving her upper body down over the cold porcelain sink basin. The edge bit into her hips. Her cheek pressed against the chilled surface next to the running faucet. She saw droplets of water, a smear of her mascara on the white porcelain. Her reflection vanished, replaced by distorted chrome.
"No, Dusan, wait—!" The protest choked in her throat as he shoved her thin underwear aside and thrust into her, hard and deep, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. She cried out, the sound muffled against the sink. There was no warm-up, no easing in. Just the relentless, punishing drive of his hips, the slap of skin, his groans loud in the tiled space.
She clawed at the smooth sink, trying to find purchase, trying to push back, trying to stop. But her body betrayed her utterly. The raw friction, the sheer physical overwhelm, ignited something feral. Heat coiled, impossibly tight, deep inside, building with each jarring thrust. It was too much. Wrong. Dangerous. But the sensation was a wildfire, consuming thought, consuming protest.
He fucked her like he was exorcising demons, one hand fisted in her hair pulling her head back, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. Her breath came in ragged gasps, fogging the cold chrome. The orgasm hit her like a physical blow, a terrifying wave of pure, obliterating sensation crashing over her, tearing a ragged scream from her throat. As she convulsed around him, the sheer impossibility, the stupidity, the raw vulnerability crashed through the pleasure.
"This can not be happening!" she hissed, the words a venomous whisper torn loose by the force of her climax, an ugly truth spat against the gleaming porcelain as her vision whited out.
Vanja shoved herself upright from the sink, the cold porcelain imprint bitter against her flushed skin. Dusan stumbled back, sweatpants tangled around his thighs, his breath ragged. She didn’t look at him, shoving past his bulk, the smell of sex and vodka suddenly cloying, suffocating.
"Fuck off, Dusan," she spat, her voice raw, echoing off the tiles as she fled the small, violated space. She didn’t run towards Kenan’s room, or Alex’s door further down the hall. She saw only darkness, a sanctuary. The last guest room. She slammed the door, fumbling the lock, leaning her forehead against the cool wood, her body trembling not with pleasure now, but shock, revulsion, and a terrifying echo of unwanted arousal.
Her legs buckled. She slid down the door, collapsing onto the plush carpet, drawing her knees up. The expensive silk dress felt like a dirty shroud. She buried her face in her hands, trying to erase the feel of the sink edge, Dusan’s brutal grip, the conflicting surge of her own traitorous climax. Outside, silence. Had he passed out again? Vanja closed her eyes, the city lights bleeding through the blinds painting stripes across her huddled form. Sleep was impossible. The hum of the penthouse felt accusatory.
Hours bled into the grey pre-dawn. Dusan Vlahovic surfaced from a swamp of unconsciousness, his head a pounding drum solo against the cold marble floor of Kenan’s kitchen. Every muscle screamed. His mouth tasted like something had died in it. He groaned, rolling onto his back, the unforgiving floor sending fresh jolts of pain up his spine. Sunlight, weak but insistent, streamed through the vast windows, stabbing his eyes.
He squinted, shielding his face. The air… it wasn't just stale vodka and sweat. It was her. Vanja. The scent clung to him, potent and unmistakable – expensive perfume tangled with the musk of sex, sweat, and a faint, metallic tang he couldn't place. It was embedded in his skin, his hair, the very fabric of his low-slung sweats. It filled his nostrils, dragging him violently back into the fractured shards of memory: the fridge door rattling, the frantic slap of skin, her choked scream against the sink, the feel of her body yielding brutally beneath his. The taste of her neck.
"Jebem ti," he whispered, the Serbian curse ragged. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, wincing. His cock, predictably, painfully hard, strained against the confines of his sweatpants. He looked down at himself, disgust warring with a visceral, undeniable hunger. The evidence was everywhere.
His gaze flicked to the stainless-steel fridge door – faint smudges, maybe fingerprints? To the puddle of vodka long dried on the marble. To the guest bathroom door down the hall, firmly shut. He remembered shoving her against that sink, her protest choked off. Remembered her hips bucking against him, into him, even as she spat venom. The heat, the violence of it, the sheer wrongness of it flooded him, tightening his gut. He had a girlfriend back in Turin. vanja bogdanovic Sweet, patient vanja b.who hated the spotlight. who was friends with vanja. What the fuck had he done? what have they done
But Christ, Vanja. The way she moved, that lightning speed coiled in her runner’s body. The defiance in her eyes even when she was pinned. The sheer, untouchable confidence that crumbled into raw, gasping need… He’d watched her for years, orbiting Kenan and Alex, a fire he knew better than to touch. Until last night. Until the vodka and the jet-lag and the primal thrum of the party and finding her alone, wound tight and radiating heat.
He’d never felt desire like this. Consuming. Reckless. Dangerous. It scared him. It electrified him. He wanted her again, right now, with a ferocity that shook him. Wanted to erase the roughness, maybe, or just dive back into it, consequences be damned. He scrubbed a hand over his face, rough stubble scraping his palm. The scent of her was a brand.
"Fuck," he muttered, the word thick with self-loathing and unspent lust. He pushed himself fully upright, swaying slightly. He needed water. A gallon of it. And a shower so scalding it would peel this craving off his skin. He glanced again at the closed guest room door, his jaw tightening. Kenan wouldn’t care, probably. Alex? Alex’s possessive hand on Vanja’s thigh on the jet flashed in his mind. That was a different kind of fire. One he’d just thrown gasoline on.
He stumbled towards the sink, turning the tap on full, splashing icy water onto his face, scrubbing furiously. It didn't help. The scent remained. The hardness remained. The memory of Vanja coming apart under his hands, against the sink, remained, seared into him. He gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white, staring at his own haunted, hungover reflection in the chrome. This was a disaster. And he’d never wanted anything more.