Chapter 8: Post-Game Claim
The humid air in Kenan’s penthouse bedroom hung thick, charged with the sharp tang of sweat, freshly cut grass ingrained in his jersey, and the heavy sweetness of arousal. Vanja straddled his hips, perched on her knees above him. Kenan lay back against the dark silk pillows, his chest still rising and falling rapidly beneath the sodden black and white fabric of his Juventus top. Her own breath came in ragged gasps, her hands braced on the hard planes of his chest, fingers digging into the damp polyester.
His eyes, dark and intense, tracked her every movement, the pupils blown wide in the low light filtering through the massive windows framing the city skyline. A slow, predatory grin spread across his face as he felt the deliberate, grinding roll of her hips against the hard ridge straining against his shorts. His hands slid up her bare thighs, rough palms catching slightly on the smooth skin beneath her skirt, settling possessively on her waist.
"Fuck," he groaned, the sound low and gravelly from the game, his grip tightening. He bucked his hips up, meeting her downward pressure with a sharp thrust that drew a gasp from her lips. "Watching me play gets you this wet?" He didn't wait for an answer, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Could smell it on you in the box. All that focus... all that fucking power... it did this to you?"
Vanja leaned forward, her dark blonde hair falling like a curtain around their faces, blocking out the city lights. Her eyes, usually bright with confidence, held a fierce, almost feral heat. She held his gaze, a slow smirk playing on her lips. "Maybe," she breathed, her voice husky. "Or maybe it was the look you gave me after the assist. Like you owned the fucking stadium. And everything in it." She ground down harder, eliciting another deep groan from him, the damp fabric of her underwear a friction against him.
He chuckled, a dark, satisfied sound. His hands moved from her waist, sliding up under the loose cashmere sweater she wore, pushing it up. His thumbs brushed the lower curve of her breasts, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from her. "Including you," he murmured, his gaze dropping to where her skin met the crumpled sweater. "Especially you."
The jersey was suddenly an unbearable barrier. The damp fabric clung, restrictive. With a swift, impatient movement fueled by pure need, Vanja grabbed the neckline of his prized match shirt. The seams protested with a sharp rrriiiiip as she tore it open down the middle, buttons pinging off the polished concrete floor. Cool air hit Kenan’s sweat-slicked chest. The scent of grass, salt, and pure, potent Kenan intensified, flooding Vanja’s senses.
Kenan didn’t flinch. His eyes only darkened further, approval flashing in them. He reached for the waistband of her skirt, fingers fumbling slightly in his haste. Vanja batted his hands away. "My turn," she declared, her voice thick. She shifted her weight, hands moving to the button and zip of his shorts, then peeling them and his briefs down just enough to free him. The sight of him, thick and straining, glistening already, sent a fresh jolt of liquid heat through her core. The air between them crackled.
She didn't hesitate. Guiding him with one hand, Vanja lifted herself slightly, then sank down onto him in one smooth, deliberate stroke. The sensation of being filled so completely, so suddenly, ripped a cry from her throat – a raw sound of shock and immediate, overwhelming pleasure. Her head fell back, exposing the long line of her neck where the faint, fading bruise from Alex’s grip was still visible near her collarbone.
"Jesus, Vanja," Kenan gasped out, his hands flying to her hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. His eyes were glued to her face, to the expression of stunned ecstasy etched there, then flickered down to the bruise. A muscle jumped in his jaw. He surged up, capturing her lips in a searing kiss that was all teeth and tongue and shared, desperate hunger. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tender. It was claiming, consuming, a violent counterpoint to the violation Alex had inflicted on that same throat.
Vanja met the kiss with equal ferocity, her hips beginning to move. She rode him hard, setting a relentless, demanding pace, rising and falling, taking him deep with each descent. The sweat-dampened jersey hung open around his torso, brushing her inner thighs. Her sweater was rucked up under her breasts, bouncing with her movements. The only sounds were their harsh breathing, the slick, rhythmic slide of skin on skin, the faint creak of the bed beneath them, and the low, continuous moan vibrating in Vanja’s chest.
Kenan met her thrust for thrust, hands gripping her hips, guiding her, urging her faster, deeper. His gaze was locked on her, drinking in the sight: the flush spreading down her chest, the desperate concentration on her face, the bounce of her breasts. "That's it," he growled, his voice strained. "Fuck me like you mean it. Like you did when you watched me own that pitch." He shifted slightly, angling himself, hitting a spot inside her that made her cry out sharply, her rhythm faltering for a second before becoming even more frantic.
"Kenan..." she choked out, her voice breaking on his name. The pressure was building, coiling tight and hot low in her belly, amplified by the sheer physicality of him, the scent of his exertion, the memory of his power on the field translating into this raw, intimate dominance. She could feel him swelling, hardening impossibly further inside her. The rough fabric of his torn jersey scraped against her inner thigh. The fading ache near her collarbone ached dully under the intensity of the moment.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice raw. Vanja forced her heavy-lidded eyes open, meeting his intense gaze. Sweat dripped from his temple. He looked utterly wrecked, utterly in control. "See me?" His thrusts became harder, more deliberate, driving her towards the edge with each one. "This is what you wanted. What you came for."
It wasn't a question. It was an accusation, a truth. Vanja couldn't deny it. The stadium, the exposure, the danger Alex represented – it all dissolved into this: the pulse of him inside her, the anchoring grip of his hands, the devastating intimacy of his gaze. The coil snapped. Pleasure detonated through her, wave after blinding wave, tearing a ragged scream from her throat that was part relief, part surrender. She convulsed around him, her body clamping down hard.
The pressure of her climax triggered his own. Kenan’s head slammed back against the pillow, a harsh, guttural groan tearing from his chest – a sound ripped straight from the pitch after a hard-won goal. His hips bucked erratically, driving into her one final, deep time as he pulsed hotly within her, his grip on her hips brutal, holding her impaled as he emptied himself. His eyes were squeezed shut, face contorted with release.
For long seconds, the only sound was their labored breathing, harsh in the sudden stillness. Vanja collapsed forward, her sweat-slicked forehead resting against his equally damp chest. Her body trembled violently, aftershocks still rippling through her. The scent of sex and sweat and torn fabric was overpowering. Kenan’s arms came around her, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, surprisingly gentle now. His other arm tightened around her back, holding her close, her skin sticking to his.
They lay entangled in the humid aftermath, the city lights painting shifting patterns across their exhausted bodies. Vanja focused on the frantic thud of his heart beneath her ear, slowing gradually. The adrenaline of the game, the escape, the frantic coupling – it all bled away, leaving a profound, bone-deep weariness, and a strange, fragile peace. He hadn’t asked about Alex. He hadn’t mentioned the crowd chanting her name. He’d simply given her this: oblivion found in his strength, in the visceral, grounding reality of their bodies.
Kenan shifted slightly, his lips brushing the top of her head. "Alright?" he murmured, his voice rough sandpaper.
Vanja didn't trust her voice. She just nodded against his chest, the movement small. His hand stroked her hair once, twice. The silence stretched, comfortable now, heavy with unspoken things and the lingering echo of shared intensity.
Then, vibrating faintly against the polished nightstand, Vanja’s phone lit up. A single, insistent buzz. Followed by another. And another. A relentless, pulsing notification light cutting through the dim peace of the room like a blade. Munich calling. The outside world, with its complications and its dangers, crashing back in. Vanja tensed, a cold dread seeping into the warmth where their bodies met. Kenan’s arms tightened around her, a silent question in the sudden stillness. The phone kept buzzing.
The buzzing phone sliced through the humid silence of the penthouse bedroom like an ice pick. Vanja flinched against Kenan’s sweat-dampened chest, the fragile peace shattering instantly. Her breath hitched, shallow and sharp, as the relentless light pulsed against the polished nightstand, casting frantic shadows.
"It’s him," she breathed, the words barely audible, muffled by Kenan’s skin. She felt the vibration through the mattress, a jarring counterpoint to the slowing thud of his heart beneath her ear. Alex. The name hung unspoken, heavy with the memory of fingers digging into her throat, the possessive fury in the stadium tunnel. How did he get this number? Did he track her? Panic, cold and slick, began to coil in her gut, tightening around the fading warmth of Kenan.
Kenan’s arms, which had been loosely holding her, locked like steel bands. His body shifted, rolling slightly, pulling her tighter against his side rather than letting her scramble away. The movement was possessive, instinctive. His chin rested on the top of her head. "Ignore it," he murmured, his voice a low rumble vibrating through his chest into hers. It wasn't a suggestion; it was a command wrapped in velvet.
Vanja tensed, her muscles rigid. The phone buzzed again, louder in the stillness, demanding attention. "He won’t stop," she whispered, her gaze fixed on the pulsating light. The image of Alex’s face, contorted with fury when he saw her leave with Kenan, flashed behind her eyelids. "He knows I’m here. He saw."
"Let him know," Kenan countered, his tone flat, dangerous. He lifted his head, forcing her to tilt hers back to meet his eyes. They were dark, unreadable pools reflecting the city lights outside the vast windows. "Let him chew on it." His thumb traced the edge of the fading bruise on her collarbone, a deliberate touch. "He doesn’t get to lay hands on you. Ever."
The touch sent a shiver through her that wasn’t entirely fear. The memory of Alex’s grip warred with the visceral echo of Kenan’s strength moments before, his power channeled into pleasure, not pain. But the phone kept buzzing. Reality pressed in, suffocating. "He’s Alex," Vanja said, the name heavy with implications – history, entanglement, the messy web of their shared lives. "He won’t just chew. He’ll swallow everything whole and spit out the mess."
Kenan huffed, a sound of pure disdain. "He’s a spoiled brat swinging above his weight." His gaze dropped pointedly to the bruise again. "And he damaged property." The possessiveness in his voice was stark, primal. It should have felt suffocating, but after Alex’s cold fury, it felt like shelter. Dangerous shelter. The phone finally fell silent, the notification light winking out, leaving an eerie quiet that felt heavier than the noise.
The respite was brief. A second later, the screen lit up again – not vibrating this time, but glowing steadily. An incoming call. Alex’s name flashed, stark and accusing on the display. Vanja’s stomach lurched. She tried to push herself up, urgency flooding her limbs. "Kenan—"
But he tightened his hold, pinning her effortlessly. "No." His voice was granite. Let it ring. Let him imagine where you are. What you’re doing." His eyes held hers, refusing to let her look away. "He needs to learn his place isn’t here."
The phone rang, the default tone jarringly cheerful in the charged atmosphere. It echoed off the concrete walls and high ceilings. Ring. Ring. Ring. Each chime was a hammer blow against Vanja’s frayed nerves. She felt exposed, hunted, even within the luxurious cage of Kenan’s embrace. The scent of their sex, mixed with sweat and torn fabric, suddenly felt cloying, trapping her. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the sound, the light, the terrifying inevitability of Alex’s rage.
Kenan watched her struggle, the rapid flutter of her pulse visible in her throat. A dark satisfaction flickered in his eyes, seeing the effect his mere proximity had. His gaze traveled down from her tense jaw to the vulnerable column of her neck, tracing the line where her dark blonde hair stuck to damp skin. He saw the faint mark left by Alex’s fingers, already starting to yellow at the edges. His own hand shifted from her waist, sliding slowly up her spine, a deliberate counterpoint to the violation perpetrated by the other man.
Vanja flinched slightly at the new touch, her eyes snapping open, wide and wary. Kenan didn’t speak. He simply lowered his head, his breath warm against the sensitive skin beneath her ear. The phone rang out, the sudden silence a momentary reprieve thick with anticipation. Before the voicemail could click in, Kenan pressed his lips firmly to the exact spot where the bruise bloomed. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't soft. It was a deliberate claiming, a brand laid over Alex’s damage, a silent roar of possession that vibrated through her bones.