Chapter 6: Against the Glass
The hiss of the shower cut off abruptly. Silence flooded Joshua’s apartment, thick and expectant, broken only by the faint hum of the city far below the floor-to-ceiling windows. Vanja stood frozen by the glass, staring out at the glittering grid of Munich at night. The panorama was breathtaking, impersonal, like the apartment itself – cool, controlled, expensive. A stark contrast to the frantic heat still simmering low in her belly, the phantom pressure of his hand on her knee during the reckless drive, the taste of his victory-salt kiss still on her lips. Her reflection in the dark glass looked pale, wide-eyed, her work clothes rumpled. Out of place.
The soft pad of bare feet on polished concrete. She didn’t turn. Couldn’t. The air shifted, charged with damp heat and the clean, sharp scent of his soap. She felt him before she saw him – a presence radiating warmth and intensity mere feet behind her.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t hesitate. Three long, silent strides closed the distance. His hands, large and still faintly damp from the shower, landed on her hips. Hard. Spinning her around with startling force. Her back slammed against the cold, unyielding glass. A gasp tore from her throat, swallowed instantly by the vastness of the room.
He crowded her instantly, his body a solid wall of heat against hers. The towel was slung low on his hips, revealing the defined V leading down, the damp trail of dark hair. Water droplets clung to his collarbones, his chest still flushed pink from the shower and the lingering exertion of the match. His eyes, a fierce, burning blue in the dim light filtering from the kitchen, locked onto hers. No tenderness. Only raw, predatory hunger.
"All fucking day," he growled, his voice rough gravel scraping against the silence. His breath, warm and smelling faintly of mint, fanned her face. One hand slid possessively up her side, over her ribs, stopping just beneath her breast. The other snaked down, under the hem of her skirt. His fingers were calloused, demanding, pushing the thin fabric of her tights aside, finding the elastic band of her panties. "Watching you. In the tunnel. Trying to hide." His fingers hooked into the lace. "Pretending you weren’t fucking mine."
He yanked. Hard. The delicate lace tore with a sharp sound, lost in the sudden rush of Vanja’s indrawn breath. The ruined fabric pooled around her ankles, trapped beneath her tights. His hand was instantly back, pushing the tights down her thighs, his fingers sliding unerringly through the slick heat between her legs. A low, primal groan vibrated from his chest as he found her wet, swollen folds.
"Christ," he hissed, his fingers circling her clit with rough, urgent strokes. "Soaked. For me." He leaned in, his forehead pressing against the cold glass beside her head, his eyes blazing into hers. "Been thinking about this cunt since I walked off that pitch. Since I tasted you in the car." His fingers plunged deep inside her, curling, finding that spot that made her cry out, her hips jerking involuntarily against his hand. "Fuck, Vanja. Tight. Hot." He added a second finger, stretching her, the intrusion sharp and glorious. "Couldn’t focus on a goddamn thing Nagelsmann said. Just this." He thrust his fingers deeper, harder. "Just imagining fucking you against this window. Making you scream loud enough they hear it down on the fucking street."
Vanja whimpered, her head falling back against the glass with a dull thud. The cold seeped through her blouse, a shocking counterpoint to the fire he was stoking inside her. His fingers worked her ruthlessly, pulling gasps and choked moans from her throat. Her hands scrabbled against the smooth glass, finding nothing to hold onto. She clutched at his shoulders instead, the damp skin hot and solid beneath her fingers. "Joshua… please…"
"Please what?" he demanded, his breath hot on her neck. He nipped at her earlobe. "Tell me what you want. Tell me you want my cock buried in this dripping wet pussy."
"I want it!" she gasped, arching against his hand, desperate for more, for him. "Your cock! Now! Fuck me!"
He withdrew his fingers abruptly, slick and glistening. He didn’t step back. His hands went to the towel knotted low on his hips. One sharp tug. It fell away. He was already hard, thick and straining, the head flushed dark and leaking. He gripped himself, stroking once, twice, his gaze locked on hers, fierce and triumphant. He kicked the towel aside.
He grabbed her hips again, lifting her effortlessly. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, her skirt rucked up around her hips. The cold glass pressed against her bare ass. He positioned himself, the blunt, hot head of his cock pressing insistently against her entrance, slick with her arousal and his own pre-come.
"No more waiting," he growled, his voice thick with need. He thrust forward. Hard. Deep. A single, powerful surge that buried him to the hilt inside her in one relentless motion.
Vanja screamed. The stretch was intense, overwhelming, the sudden, complete fullness stealing her breath. He held himself there, buried deep, his muscles rigid, his forehead pressed to hers. She could feel the frantic pulse of his cock inside her, the tremor running through his thighs. "Fuck," he breathed, the word ragged. "So fucking tight. Taking me so deep." He pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, letting her feel every ridge, every inch of him dragging against her sensitive inner walls. Then he slammed forward again. Harder.
He set a brutal, punishing rhythm. No finesse. Just raw, driving need. His hips pistoned against hers, the wet slap of skin echoing sharply in the minimalist space, mingling with their harsh, ragged breaths. The cold glass vibrated faintly against her back with each powerful thrust. He braced one forearm against the window beside her head, his other hand gripping her ass cheek, pulling her down onto his cock with every downward plunge.
"Whose cunt is this?" he demanded, his voice strained with exertion. He angled his hips, driving deep, hitting that spot inside her that made her vision blur. "Tell me!"
"Yours!" Vanja cried out, her nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders. "Yours, Joshua! Fuck! Right there!"
"Feel it?" he grunted, grinding his pelvis against her clit with each thrust, the friction maddening. "Feel how deep I am? How much I fucking need this?" He slammed into her, harder, faster, losing rhythm, driven by pure, desperate hunger. "Come for me, Vanja. Come on my cock. Milk me dry."
The command, the relentless pounding, the sheer overwhelming force of him pushed her over the edge. Her orgasm detonated, a white-hot explosion that ripped through her core, muscles clamping down violently on his thick shaft, pulling a ragged shout from him. "FUCK! VANJA! YES!"
Her climax triggered his own. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, his body locking, cock pulsing as hot jets of come flooded her depths. He collapsed forward slightly, his weight pressing her harder against the cold glass, his forehead resting against her shoulder, both of them gasping, shuddering, slick with sweat and the mingled scent of sex and soap.
Silence descended, thick and heavy, broken only by their slowing breaths and the distant hum of the city. His cock pulsed weakly inside her, softening but still intimately lodged. Vanja’s legs trembled where they were hooked around his hips. The cold from the window seeped deeper into her bones, a stark contrast to the furnace heat radiating from his body pressed against hers. She felt utterly claimed. Hollowed out. Used. And terrifyingly, overwhelmingly, satisfied.
Slowly, carefully, he withdrew. The sudden emptiness was profound. He lowered her legs, her knees buckling slightly as her feet touched the cool concrete floor. He stepped back, breathing hard, his chest glistening. He looked… spent. Powerful. Possessive. His gaze raked over her: her skirt bunched around her waist, her blouse askew, her hair wild, her skin flushed, the evidence of him glistening on her inner thighs. A muscle ticked in his jaw. He bent, picked up the discarded towel, and wordlessly handed it to her.
Vanja took it numbly, clutching the soft terrycloth. She didn’t move to cover herself. She just stared at him, her dark green eyes wide, searching his face. The raw intensity was fading, replaced by something else – a flicker of uncertainty? Fatigue? The adrenaline crash after the match, after… this?
He turned away abruptly, walking naked towards the sleek black sofa. He sank onto it with a heavy sigh, running a hand through his damp hair. He didn’t look at her. "Sit," he said, his voice rough but quieter now. He gestured vaguely towards the other end of the sofa.
Vanja hesitated, clutching the towel. Her legs felt like jelly. She took a shaky step forward, then another, the cool air hitting her exposed skin. She sank onto the far end of the sofa, pulling the towel around her shoulders like a shield. The leather was cool beneath her bare thighs. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. The panoramic view of Munich glittered mockingly outside.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the spotless floor. "That Dortmund midfielder," he began, his voice low, almost conversational, yet strained. "The one who kept trying to play through the middle? Number 8." He glanced sideways at her. "You eviscerated him online last season. Jaka95." He paused, letting the name hang in the air. "Called his tactical awareness ‘glacial’. Said he moved like he was ‘stuck in fucking treacle’." A ghost of a smirk touched his lips, but his eyes remained intense, fixed on her reaction. "It was brutal. Accurate." He leaned back slightly, his gaze locking onto hers fully now. "You were right. He was shit today."
Vanja froze. The air left her lungs. Jaka95. Her online shield. Her sanctuary. The persona where she was sharp, unfiltered, respected. He knew. He fucking knew. The realization slammed into her, stealing her breath more effectively than his thrusts against the glass. Her mind raced, connecting fragments: his sudden interest online, the heated debates, the way ‘kimmi95’ had pushed her, challenged her… understood her. The dismissive Joshua Kimmich and the fiercely intelligent kimmi95 were the same person. He’d been debating her, sparring with her mind, while treating her like an irritating distraction in person. The betrayal, the confusion, the sheer audacity of it choked her.
"You…" she whispered, her voice trembling with disbelief and rising anger. "Kimmi95? That was you?" The towel slipped from her shoulders. She didn’t care. "All that time? Arguing formations? Player stats? The fucking high press?" Her voice rose. "While you treated me like… like some fucking groupie idiot?" The hurt surged back, sharp and fresh, cutting through the post-coital haze. "You knew it was me? You knew jaka95 was me?"
He met her furious gaze unflinchingly, though a flicker of something – guilt? – crossed his features. "Not at first," he admitted, his voice steady but low. "Not for months. Just… someone smart. Sharp. Knew their shit." He paused, his eyes tracing her face. "Argued like hell. Made me think." He leaned forward again, his intensity returning. "Then… little things. The way you phrased things. References to Munich pubs only locals know. That rant about Bayern’s youth academy structure…" He shook his head slightly. "It clicked. Before… before the locker room." He looked away, jaw tightening. "Before I fucked everything up."
Vanja stared at him, the pieces clicking into a horrifying, exhilarating picture. The intellectual sparring partner she’d secretly admired, the man whose tactical mind fascinated her online… was the same man whose touch ignited her, whose dismissal cut her, who had just taken her with raw, possessive fury against his window. The contradiction was dizzying. "Why?" she breathed, the anger momentarily eclipsed by bewildered hurt. "Why treat me like that? If you knew… if you respected jaka95…"
He looked back at her, his blue eyes dark, conflicted. "Because jaka95 was safe," he said, the words rough. "Words on a screen. Ideas. No…" He gestured vaguely at her, encompassing her body, her presence. "This. No fucking… feeling." He dragged a hand over his face. "You walked into that locker room, and it wasn't just smart arguments anymore. It was… you. Tall. Those eyes. That fucking mouth." His gaze dropped to her lips. "And I panicked. Felt… exposed. Out of control." He met her eyes again, a raw honesty there she hadn't seen before. "Easier to push you away. Pretend you were just another distraction. Safer."
Silence fell again, heavier now. The glittering city outside seemed distant, irrelevant. Vanja pulled the towel tighter, the soft fabric a poor barrier against the emotional storm. The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface. The hurt. But tangled with it was a terrifying understanding, a glimpse into the guarded fortress behind Captain Kimmich’s intensity. And beneath it all, the undeniable, visceral memory of his body claiming hers against the cold glass.
He watched her, his expression unreadable now, the vulnerability she’d glimpsed shuttered away. The footballer, the strategist, back in control. "You should eat," he stated flatly, nodding again towards the untouched fruit bowl. "Or sleep." He didn’t move towards her. The distance between them on the vast sofa felt immense. "Guest room’s down the hall. Left." He stood up abruptly, naked and powerful in the dim light. "I need to review the match footage." He walked towards a sleek desk tucked in a corner, away from the windows, away from her. The implicit dismissal was clear, a retreat back to familiar territory.
Vanja watched him go, the towel damp against her skin. Her body ached in places both pleasant and profound. Her mind reeled. Kimmi95. Jaka95. The locker room. The rug. The window. The revelation. The cold, impersonal apartment. And Joshua Kimmich, a complex, contradictory storm she was suddenly trapped inside. Exhaustion crashed over her, a tidal wave. Eat? Sleep? Impossible. She curled her legs up onto the sofa, pulling the towel completely around her, shrinking into the cool leather. The city lights blurred. The only certainty was the deep, bone-weary ache and the echoing silence of his domain.
The cold leather bit into Vanja’s bare thighs. Joshua’s silence from the desk corner was a physical weight, thick with unspoken tension and the sharp scent of his expensive soap lingering on her skin. She shivered, pulling the damp towel tighter, the city lights below blurring into meaningless streaks of gold and white. Her mind churned: the brutal honesty in his confession, his panicked retreat, the raw, claiming power of his body still echoing in her muscles. Kimmi95. The intellectual fury she’d admired online, dissecting tactics with scalpel precision, was the same man whose gaze could strip her bare, whose hands had just pinned her against glass. The contradiction was a live wire.
“Reviewing footage my ass,” she muttered, the sound swallowed by the vast, sterile room. She watched his rigid back at the sleek desk, the powerful line of his shoulders tense beneath bare skin. He wasn’t typing. Wasn’t moving. Just staring at the dark screen. A hollow ache settled deep in her belly, colder than the leather, sharper than the fading throb between her legs. Exhaustion warred with a simmering, dangerous anger. He’d cracked open a door to something real, vulnerable, only to slam it shut again. Retreating behind the footballer, the strategist, the dismissive prick.
The scrape of his chair legs on concrete was sudden, jarring. He stood, a dark silhouette against the window’s glow, tension radiating off him in waves. He didn’t look at her, striding instead to the minimalist kitchen island. He grabbed the ignored bowl of fruit – plump grapes, perfect strawberries – his movements tight, controlled. He stopped before her, looming. The bowl was thrust towards her, a silent, awkward command. “Eat something.” His voice was rough gravel, devoid of its earlier heat, but layered with something else… frustration? Irritation at his own failure to maintain distance? “You’re shaking.”
Vanja stared at the fruit, then up at him. His face was a mask, jaw clenched, but his eyes… those intense blue eyes burned with a conflict he couldn’t hide. Hunger. Anger. Confusion. The same war she felt reflected back. “Not hungry,” she said flatly, pushing the bowl away slightly. Her voice sounded raw, scraped. “Just cold. And pissed off.”
Something snapped. The bowl clattered onto the low glass coffee table, grapes spilling, rolling onto the floor. He didn’t spare them a glance. His hand shot out, fingers tangling roughly in her damp hair, tugging her head back. Not painful, but demanding. Absolute. “Pissed off?” he echoed, his breath hot on her face, mint and aggression. His other hand ripped the towel from her grasp, exposing her completely. The sudden cold air hit her skin, pebbling her nipples. His gaze raked over her, leaving trails of fire. “You’re dripping wet again. Smell it? Your pussy’s still slick from my cum.” He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, the whisper harsh, filthy. “Is that why you’re pissed, jaka95? Because you need me to fuck that anger out of you? Need my cock stretching that tight little cunt again?”
The crude words, the use of her online alias, the possessive fury in his touch – it ignited her. Not submission, but a fierce, answering fire. “Fuck you, Kimmich,” she hissed, trying to twist away, her nails digging into his forearm where it braced beside her head. It was futile. His strength was immense. “You arrogant prick.”
He laughed, a short, dark sound devoid of humor. “That’s it,” he growled, his free hand sliding down her belly, fingers splaying possessively over her mound. He found her folds instantly, slick and swollen, just as he’d said. He plunged two thick fingers inside her without preamble, curling them hard. Vanja gasped, her back arching off the leather, a shockwave of pure sensation ripping through her resistance. “Still so fucking wet for me,” he murmured, watching her face, his fingers pumping ruthlessly, scissoring, stretching her. “Even pissed off. Your body knows. This cunt knows its owner.” He withdrew his fingers, glistening, and brought them to her lips. Smearing her own slickness across her mouth. “Taste it. Taste how much you want this.”
She refused to open her mouth, glaring defiance. He chuckled again, darkly amused. He wiped his fingers on her inner thigh, leaving a shiny trail. Then his hands gripped her hips, hauling her roughly to the very edge of the sofa. He shoved her knees apart wide, spreading her completely open before him. His cock, already hard again, thick and flushed, jutted aggressively between them. He gripped the base, the swollen head nudging insistently against her entrance, smearing her slickness over himself. “Don’t need you to open your mouth there,” he rasped, his eyes locked on where he pressed against her. “Just need you to take me. Every fucking inch.”
He slammed forward. No slow slide, no gentle breach. One brutal, deep thrust that buried him to the hilt. Vanja cried out, the sudden, intense fullness stealing her breath, her body reflexively clenching around the thick invasion. He held himself deep, grinding his pelvis against her clit, the rough friction electric. “Fuck, yes,” he groaned, his head dropping back for a second, tendons standing out in his neck. “Squeezing me like a fucking vise.” He pulled back almost completely, letting her feel the drag, the exquisite friction of his hard shaft pulling out, then drove back in hard. And again.
He fucked her with short, powerful strokes, piston-like, his hips slamming against hers with jarring force. The sound was obscene – wet, rhythmic slaps echoing off the concrete walls and high ceilings, punctuated by their harsh gasps. He braced one hand on the sofa back beside her head, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise, holding her immobile, a perfect sheath for his relentless thrusting. The spilled grapes were crushed beneath the sofa legs. He fucked like he played midfield: dominant, demanding, utterly in control of the tempo, pushing relentlessly into her depths. “Whose slutty little pussy is this?” he demanded, his voice strained with effort, each word punctuated by a deep plunge. “Tell me!”
“Yours!” The word tore from her, ripped out by the sheer force of sensation, the brutal claiming. “Yours, Joshua! Fuck!”
“Louder!” He angled his hips, driving up hard, hitting that spot deep inside that made stars explode behind her eyes. He found a punishing rhythm, deep and fast, the base of his cock grinding against her clit with every thrust. “Scream it! Let the whole fucking building hear who owns this dripping wet hole!”
The combination was devastating. The relentless pounding, the deep friction, the rough grind on her clit, the sheer animal dominance radiating from him – it shattered her defenses, her anger, everything. Pleasure coiled, impossibly tight, a spring wound beyond breaking point. She was close, so close, his name a desperate gasp on her lips. He felt it too, his thrusts becoming ragged, losing their precise rhythm, driven by raw need. “Come on, Vanja! Come on my cock! Milk me! Now!”
The command, the final brutal thrust hitting that perfect spot – it detonated her. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and consuming, her body convulsing, inner muscles clamping down hard on his thick shaft like a velvet fist. A raw, guttural cry tore from her throat, filled with surrender and intense release. "JOSHUA!"