Chapter 7: Parking Lot Passion
The late afternoon sun slanted across the Manchester City training ground, casting long, distorted shadows from the players shuffling towards the car park. Vanja walked with clipped strides, the click of her heels on the asphalt echoing the rigid set of her shoulders. Her green eyes were narrowed, fixed on the sleek, black Mercedes AMG parked near the exit, its dark windows reflecting the fading light like obsidian. Erling Haaland leaned against the driver’s door, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching her approach. The easy confidence he usually wore was replaced by a simmering intensity, a storm brewing beneath the surface. The air crackled with unresolved tension from their clash earlier in the tactical room.
"You ignored me," Haaland stated flatly as she drew near. His voice was low, gravelly, devoid of its usual playful rumble. "For three days. After… everything." His blue eyes flickered over her face, searching, lingering on the faint, almost faded bruise high on her cheekbone – a ghost of his grip. He saw the new defensive schematics she’d presented, the ones that openly challenged his interpretation of the striker’s role in the high press. Her intelligence was a blade, sharp and cutting.
Vanja stopped a few feet away, meeting his gaze head-on. The scent of cut grass and car exhaust hung in the air. "We had a meeting, Erling. I presented my analysis. It wasn’t personal." Her voice was cool, professional, the voice of Coach Jakobsen. "My job is the team’s structure, not stroking your ego."
"Stroking my ego?" A harsh bark of laughter escaped him. He pushed off the car, closing the distance in one long stride. He stood over her, the sheer size of him suddenly oppressive. The memory of him holding her through the night, the surprising tenderness, felt like a dream shattered. The Viking was back, immense and demanding. "Is that what you call it when you let me fuck you senseless against my wall? When you scream my name while you soak my fucking floor? When you wear my clothes and cry in my arms?" His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Or was that just professional courtesy too, Coach?"
Vanja flinched, the raw coarseness of his words hitting like a physical blow, stripping away her carefully maintained detachment. The images flooded back: the brutal impact against the cool concrete, the blinding pleasure-pain, the terrifying vulnerability curled against his chest. Shame and fury warred within her. "Shut up," she hissed, her own voice trembling now. "That was a mistake. A fucking lapse. It doesn’t change the tactics. It doesn’t mean you get special treatment!" She turned sharply, intending to stalk away, to bury this recklessness back in the realm of 'mistakes'.
His hand shot out, not rough, but unyielding as an iron bar, clamping around her upper arm. "It changes everything," he growled, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. Before she could wrench free, before she could shout, he yanked the passenger door open and pushed her inside the Mercedes. She stumbled, falling back onto the cool cream leather of the backseat. He was in the car instantly, the door slamming shut behind him with a heavy thud, plunging them into shadowed, intimate gloom. The scent of expensive leather, his cologne, and the lingering ghost of her own perfume from previous drives filled the confined space.
"Erling, stop! Get out!" Vanja scrambled to push herself up, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The framed photo of his family on the dashboard seemed to mock the chaos. "This is insane! You can’t just—"
He moved with predatory speed, ignoring her protests. His large hands gripped her hips, spinning her roughly onto her back. The supple leather squeaked beneath her. One hand pinned her shoulder to the seat, his strength overwhelming. The other hooked into the waistband of her leggings and underwear together and yanked them down to her knees in one brutal motion. Cool air hit her exposed skin, making her gasp. He shoved her knees apart, spreading her thighs wide open, forcing her vulnerable heat into the dim light filtering through the tinted windows.
"Erling, no! Don’t—" Her protest died in a choked gasp as he dropped his head between her legs. There was no preamble, no gentle exploration. His mouth was on her, hot and demanding, his tongue lashing her swollen clit with ruthless, precise strokes. The sensation was electric, immediate, a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure that ripped through her resistance. "Fuck!" The curse tore from her lips, involuntary, ragged.
He feasted on her. His tongue was relentless, flicking, circling, pressing hard against the sensitive bud. His broad shoulders blocked out the light, his head a dark shape between her thighs. The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth working on her filled the car – slick slurps, sharp sucks, the low hum vibrating against her flesh. He groaned, the sound muffled against her, vibrating through her core. "Fuck, Vanja. Soaked already. Tastes like fucking heaven. Taste like mine." His words were thick, guttural, filthy praise that sent fresh shivers of heat through her.
His fingers joined the assault. Two thick digits slid into her dripping pussy with ease, pumping shallowly at first, then deeper, curling upwards with unerring accuracy, finding that spot inside her that made her vision blur. "Oh god! Right there!" she cried out, her hips bucking uncontrollably off the seat, seeking more pressure, more friction. Her fingers tangled in his short, blond hair, not pushing him away, but holding on, anchoring herself against the onslaught.
"Yeah, scream for me," he commanded against her clit, his tongue never stopping its relentless rhythm. "Scream like you did on my floor." He hooked his fingers harder, pressing deep, rubbing that spot in slow, deliberate circles while his tongue flickered rapidly over her clit. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, unbearable. Pleasure coiled tight, agonizingly intense, deep in her belly. She felt herself clenching rhythmically around his invading fingers, her wetness soaking his hand, his chin. "That's it, baby, fuck my fingers. Squeeze them. Come on my fucking tongue."
The pressure built, a terrifying, beautiful wave cresting higher and higher. Her back arched off the leather seat, muscles straining. A high, keening sound escaped her, ripped from somewhere primal. "Erling! I'm... I'm gonna—!"
"Come," he snarled, sucking her clit hard into his mouth, tongue pressing flat and vibrating. His fingers pistoned inside her, curling ferociously. "Squirt. Do it. Let go. All over me. Now, Vanja! Fucking now!"
The command shattered her. The coil snapped. Pleasure detonated, white-hot and blinding. Her body convulsed violently, a guttural scream tearing from her throat, raw and unrestrained. Her cunt clenched and spasmed around his fingers, drenching them. A hot rush of liquid pulsed out of her, soaking his chin, his mouth, dripping onto the cream leather seat beneath her. She felt the warm spray hit his face, heard his groan of pure satisfaction vibrating against her throbbing flesh as he lapped at her, drinking her in, his fingers still working her through the violent aftershocks that shook her body.
She collapsed back onto the seat, gasping, trembling uncontrollably, utterly spent. Her thighs were splayed wide, trembling, covered in a sheen of sweat and her own release. Haaland lifted his head slowly. His face glistened in the dim light, wet from her orgasm. He looked utterly feral, his blue eyes dark with primal satisfaction and something fiercely possessive. He licked his lips slowly, deliberately, tasting her. He pulled his fingers from her still-quivering pussy, holding them up, glistening. He brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean, his gaze locked on hers. "Every fucking drop," he rasped, his voice thick. "Mine." He leaned forward, his breath hot and smelling of her, and captured her lips in a deep, claiming kiss, forcing her to taste herself on his tongue. Outside, the sounds of the training ground faded into insignificance. Inside the black Mercedes, the only reality was the smell of sex, the lingering tremors in her body, and the fierce, unreadable intensity in Haaland’s eyes as he pulled back, his thumb tracing the fading bruise on her cheekbone with unexpected softness. "Now," he murmured, the raw heat in his voice shifting into something deeper, infinitely more dangerous. "We talk."
The wet leather seat clung coldly to Vanja’s bare thigh as she scrambled upright, fumbling her leggings back over trembling legs. Her pussy throbbed, oversensitive, the lingering taste of herself sharp on her tongue from his kiss. Erling watched her, breathing ragged, his jaw tight, eyes still dark with that unnerving blend of possession and something raw she couldn't name. The smell of sex, salt, and exertion filled the confined space of the Mercedes, thick as fog.
She yanked her leggings up, fingers clumsy. "Talk?" Vanja’s voice was hoarse, scraped raw from screaming. "About what, Erling? How you ambushed me? How you fucking…" She gestured helplessly, encompassing the damp seat, his glistening chin, the overwhelming intimacy of it. "Again? Is this just how we communicate now?" Shame warred with the fading echoes of that shattering orgasm, making her voice brittle.
He wiped his mouth slowly with the back of his hand, his gaze never leaving hers. "About why you freeze me out after." His voice was low, intense, stripped of the earlier predatory growl. "About why you hide behind 'Coach Jakobsen' the minute we leave that bedroom, or my fucking floor, or this car." He leaned in slightly, the air crackling anew. "About the fucking bruise on your cheek. Why didn’t you tell me?" The softness in his question about the bruise was a stark contrast to the hard set of his shoulders.
Vanja flinched, her hand instinctively rising to touch the fading mark. "I walked into a door," she snapped, the lie automatic, brittle. "It’s nothing." She looked away, out the tinted window at the emptying parking lot, needing distance from his penetrating gaze. "This isn't smart. Pep… the team… we can't keep doing this. It’s a bomb waiting to blow." The professional consequences felt suddenly, terrifyingly real.
Erling snorted, a harsh, humorless sound. "Smart? Fucking me against my wall wasn't smart. Letting me taste you like that just now wasn't smart." He leaned closer, invading her space, his scent – sweat, her arousal, expensive cologne – overwhelming. "But you did it. Twice. And you screamed. Loud." His finger traced the line of her jaw, surprisingly gentle, stopping at the bruise. "Tell me the truth. About this. About why you run."
Panic fluttered in her chest. "Because it's just sex, Erling!" The words burst out, louder than intended, echoing slightly in the car. "Amazing, mind-blowing, fucking incredible sex, yes! But that’s all it is. That’s all it can be!" She met his eyes again, defiance warring with a desperate plea in her green gaze. "You know that. I know that. We both signed up for it." Her breath hitched. "Until we didn’t."
He went still. Utterly still. His hand dropped from her face. The predatory focus sharpened, zeroing in. "What does that mean?" His voice was dangerously quiet. "Until we didn't?"
Vanja swallowed hard. The truth, the terrifying, impossible truth she’d been shoving down, surged up. She couldn't look at him. Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the thrum of her own pulse in her ears. "I want it to be more." She forced herself to meet his gaze, the vulnerability raw and terrifying. "Fucking is great. I love it. Yes. But… I want to date you, Erling. Have dinners with you. Watch a movie. Go for a fucking walk." The admission hung in the air, fragile and immense. "I want more than just… this."
Silence descended, thick and charged. Erling stared at her, his expression unreadable, the fierce blue of his eyes searching hers. The implications screamed louder than her climax had moments earlier. Pep. The club. The relentless media scrutiny. Her grandfather's legacy. His own burgeoning legend. Vanja felt naked, more exposed than when he’d pulled her leggings down. She steeled herself for the inevitable retreat, the cold pragmatism.
She wrapped her arms around herself, a flimsy shield. "How would we even tell Pep?" The question was barely a breath, laced with dread. "It’s impossible. Utterly fucking—"
"Let me handle Pep." Erling’s voice cut through her spiraling panic, firm, decisive. The intensity remained, but the edges softened. He reached out, his large hand covering both of hers where they gripped her own arms. His touch was warm, grounding. "Don’t worry about Pep. Don’t worry about anything right now."
Her breath caught. "But—"
"Shhh." He squeezed her hands gently, then released them. He moved back to the driver's seat, the leather creaking softly. "Now, let’s go home." He turned the key; the Mercedes’ powerful engine purred to life, a low, insistent vibration in the tense silence.
Vanja blinked, stunned. "Home?" she echoed, the word feeling foreign. Her apartment was sterile, functional. His place… she’d only seen it under the cover of frantic need or the briefest of exits.
He shifted the car into gear, his profile sharp against the twilight filtering through the windscreen. He glanced over at her, a flicker of something warm, almost tentative, in his eyes. "Yes. To my house." His knuckles were white on the steering wheel for a second before he relaxed his grip. "I’ll make dinner." He pulled out of the parking space, the city lights blurring past the tinted windows as they accelerated into the Manchester night.
The Mercedes cut through the Manchester drizzle, the rhythmic swish of the wipers the only sound inside the tense cockpit. Vanja stared out the window, the neon streaks of the city reflecting wetly on the glass, mirroring the turmoil inside her. She could still feel the phantom pressure of his mouth, the hot slide of his fingers, the shocking release that had left her trembling and raw. "Home." He’d said it. Claimed it. She clutched her knees, the damp patch on her leggings a stark reminder of the violence and the vulnerability they’d just shared. What the hell were they walking into?
Erling drove with fierce concentration, knuckles pale on the wheel, the silence stretching taut between them. The air hung thick with the scent of their coupling, leather, and unspoken fear. He hadn’t flinched at her confession. Hadn’t laughed. Had simply stated he’d handle Pep and brought her here. To his place. Not just for sex. For dinner. Her stomach churned, a mix of residual arousal and pure terror. The bruise on her cheek throbbed faintly, a stupid badge from a training ground collision she hadn’t wanted to explain, fearing it looked like… something else. Something weak.
He pulled into the underground garage of a sleek, modern building. The engine cut, plunging them into near silence. He didn’t rush, just sat for a moment, the dim light carving shadows on his face. Finally, he turned to her, his blue eyes searching hers in the gloom. "This is real, Vanja," he stated, his voice low but resonant in the confined space. "You said you want more. I’m giving you more. All of it." He reached over, his thumb brushing lightly over the fading bruise. "Starting with the truth. Always. Now, come inside."
The minimalist expanse of Erling’s apartment felt alien and intimidating. Vanja hovered near the vast windows overlooking the glittering, rain-slicked city, hugging herself despite the modern warmth radiating from hidden vents. He’d tossed his keys onto a sleek, low table with a sharp clatter, his movements tight with contained energy. "Make yourself at home," he’d muttered, already striding towards his bedroom. "Gotta shower. Stink of the pitch… and other things." Her face flushed hot. He disappeared, leaving her alone in the echoing silence. The panoramic view felt like staring into an abyss. More. He’s giving you more. Fuck.
She couldn’t just stand there vibrating with anxiety. The gleaming, intimidating kitchen beckoned. Cooking. Something normal. Something grounding. She found a drawer full of neatly folded, impossibly soft t-shirts. She pulled out a plain black one, smelling faintly of his detergent and him. It swamped her, falling halfway down her thighs, the fabric soft against her oversensitive skin. His shirt. In his kitchen. The domesticity felt like a dare. She rummaged, finding pasta, a jar of sun-dried tomatoes, cream, garlic. Simple. Focus on the sizzle of garlic in olive oil, the sharp tang of chili flakes. The mundane rhythm calmed her frantic pulse, even as she strained to hear the shower stop. He’s telling Pep tomorrow. Oh god.
The water shut off. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Footsteps, heavy and barefoot, approached down the hall. She kept her back to the doorway, stirring the creamy sauce, the spoon clinking nervously against the pot. She felt him enter the kitchen, felt the heat and damp radiating from him before she saw him. A towel hung low on his hips, water droplets clinging to the defined ridges of his abdomen, tracing paths down the hard planes of his chest. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her. The silence stretched, thick with the scent of food and clean, male skin.
"Smells good," he finally rumbled, his voice still slightly rough. He pushed off the frame and walked towards her, the space shrinking around him. She turned, clutching the spoon like a weapon. He stopped inches away, his gaze intense, sweeping over her face, lingering on the bruise, then drifting down her body, lingering where his t-shirt clung to her curves, stopping at her bare legs. His eyes darkened. "Looks better on you," he murmured, the possessive edge back in his tone, a low thrum beneath the casual words. He reached out, his fingers brushing the hem of the shirt where it met her thigh. "Fuck, Vanja. Just seeing you like this…"
He didn’t finish. He closed the distance in a heartbeat. One large hand cupped the back of her neck, the other slid possessively around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The towel was all that separated her bare skin from his damp heat. His mouth crashed down on hers, not asking, taking. It wasn't the brutal claiming of the car; this was fierce, deep, and loaded with a raw, desperate need that stole her breath. He tasted of toothpaste and something inherently Erling. She dropped the spoon with a clatter, her hands flying to his shoulders, gripping the hard muscle there, melting into the kiss, the simmering sauce forgotten. His tongue thrust against hers, demanding and deep. A low groan vibrated from his chest into hers.
"Been thinking about this all fucking day," he growled against her lips, his hands sliding down her back, over the curve of her ass, kneading the firm flesh through the thin cotton. "Since I watched you walk away after the meeting. Since I saw that fucking bruise." His mouth left hers to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down her jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin below her ear. "Wanted to pin you against the whiteboard. Fuck you right there." He sucked hard on her neck, marking her. She gasped, arching into him. "Wanted to chase away whatever made you look scared." His hand slid under the hem of the shirt, his rough palm skating up her bare thigh, fingertips brushing the edge of her cotton panties. "Feel you," he breathed, his fingers dipping lower, tracing the damp seam of her through the fabric. "So fucking wet already. For me? Just wearing my shirt?" His touch was electric, deliberate, finding the swollen nub hidden beneath.
"Oh, God, Erling!" she cried out, her hips jerking against his hand. The simmering arousal from the car, the tension, the terrifying vulnerability – it all coalesced into a white-hot point under his touch. "Yes! Fuck, right there!" Her fingers tangled in his damp hair, pulling him closer.
"Need to be inside you," he rasped, his voice thick with lust. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties and yanked them down her legs in one sharp motion. They pooled around her ankles. He lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, the damp towel the only barrier. He carried her the few steps, pinning her back against the cool stainless steel of the refrigerator door. The shock of cold metal against her bare backside made her gasp. He kicked her panties aside. His eyes, blazing with primal hunger, locked onto hers. "Need to feel this tight cunt wrapped around my cock." His hand shoved the t-shirt up around her waist, fully exposing her glistening pussy. He fumbled with the towel at his hips, letting it drop.
His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, already flushed and straining, the head swollen and slick with pre-cum. He was immense, the thick veins standing out prominently. The sight of him, huge and hard against her wet folds, sent a fresh flood of heat between her legs. He pressed the blunt head against her entrance, rubbing it through her slickness, coating himself. A low, guttural groan tore from his throat. "Look at you. So fucking ready." He positioned himself, the broad crown pressing insistently. "Take it, Vanja. Take every fucking inch."
With one powerful thrust of his hips, he buried himself inside her to the hilt. She cried out, a sharp, ragged sound, her body stretching exquisitely to accommodate his girth. He filled her completely, stretching her walls, the friction overwhelming. "Fuck! So deep! Oh, God!" she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. He held himself there, buried deep, letting her feel the thick, throbbing length of him stretching her wide. He dropped his forehead to hers, his breathing harsh. "Feel that? Feel how fucking deep I am?" He ground his hips in a slow, deliberate circle, grinding his pubic bone against her clit. "All mine."
He pulled back almost entirely, until just the swollen head remained, stretching her entrance. Then he slammed back in, hard and deep, the force driving a choked scream from her lungs. He set a brutal, relentless pace, pistoning into her with powerful thrusts that rocked her back against the fridge with each drive. The metal rattled softly. His grip on her hips was iron, fingers digging in, holding her open, forcing her to take the full, forceful impact. Wet, slapping sounds filled the kitchen, mingling with their ragged gasps and moans. Each thrust hit that deep, aching spot inside her, sending jolts of pure electricity through her core. "That's it! Fuck! Squeeze me!" he commanded, his voice a raw scrape. "Tight little cunt! Clench on my cock!" He shifted slightly, angling himself, hitting that spot even harder. Her vision blurred. Pleasure, sharp and almost painful, coiled impossibly tight. "Gonna make you fucking scream again," he promised, his thrusts becoming even more urgent, deeper, harder. "Gonna fill this pussy up. Mark you inside." His mouth found hers again, swallowing her cries, his tongue mimicking the relentless thrust of his cock.
The coil snapped violently. Her orgasm ripped through her with shocking force, a tidal wave of pure sensation. Her cunt clamped down hard around his driving cock in rhythmic, pulsing spasms, milking him. "ERLING!" she screamed against his mouth, her body convulsing, trembling uncontrollably against him. Her release flooded around his pistoning length, adding to the obscenely slick sounds.
Her climax triggered his. With a harsh, guttural roar that echoed in the kitchen, he slammed into her one final, shuddering time, burying himself impossibly deep. She felt the hot, thick pulse of his cum jetting deep inside her, flooding her core in powerful spurts. He held himself pressed hard against her, grinding his hips, driving every last drop into her welcoming heat. He gasped, shuddering, his forehead pressed to the cool fridge beside her head, his body trembling with the force of his release. "Fuck... Vanja... yes..." he breathed, ragged and spent.
They stayed locked together, breathing harshly in the sudden quiet of the kitchen, the only sound the frantic beating of their hearts and the faint hiss of the forgotten sauce starting to burn. Slowly, carefully, he pulled out. A trickle of his cum mixed with her slickness ran down her inner thigh. His gaze followed it, dark and possessive. He gently lowered her trembling legs, letting her stand, though she leaned heavily against the fridge for support. He reached out, his thumb wiping the sticky evidence from her thigh, then brought it to his lips, licking it clean without breaking eye contact. "Mine," he murmured, the word thick with satisfaction and something infinitely deeper.
He pulled the t-shirt down over her hips, covering her, then leaned in, kissing her slowly, deeply, tasting the aftermath on her lips. "Let me turn down that sauce," he rasped against her mouth. "Then we eat." He turned towards the stove, moving with a surprising tenderness considering the violence of their joining moments before. Vanja slid down the fridge slightly, her legs still shaky, watching him. The weight of what had just happened, the raw intimacy, the sheer claiming, settled over her. It felt terrifying. Necessary. Like falling.
The morning light streamed through the panoramic windows of Erling’s bedroom, painting golden stripes across the vast, rumpled bed. Vanja stirred, blinking against the brightness. She was wrapped in the warmth of his body, his arm heavy and secure around her waist, her back pressed against his solid chest. His bed. She’d slept. Deeply. Safely. The scent of him – clean skin, sleep, something uniquely male – enveloped her. She shifted slightly, and his arm tightened instinctively, pulling her closer, a low, sleepy rumble vibrating in his chest against her back. A small, unbidden smile touched her lips. Safe.
He’d been gone when she woke again, the space beside her cool. She found the discarded t-shirt from yesterday and slipped it on, the soft cotton falling to her mid-thigh. Padding barefoot into the main living area, the silence felt different. Purposeful. Heard, not tense. She spotted his phone on the counter, the screen lit. Pep’s name. Her breath hitched. He’d done it. Already. Before she could panic, the sound of the shower started. She needed to do something. The sleek kitchen called again. Coffee. Strong. And… breakfast?
She found eggs, bacon, bread. Simpler than last night. The rhythmic sizzle of bacon, the smell of coffee brewing, felt like building a tiny, fragile fortress of normalcy. She stood at the counter, flipping bacon in a pan, the oversized shirt slipping slightly off one shoulder, lost in the domestic rhythm. The scrape of the bathroom door opening made her jump. Erling stood in the hallway, fully dressed in training gear, his damp hair tousled. He was staring at his phone, a look of intense concentration on his face. Then, a slow, genuine smile spread across his features. Relief? Satisfaction? He looked up, his eyes finding her immediately, scanning her from her messy hair to her bare legs, lingering on the shirt.
He pocketed his phone and walked towards her, his strides long and confident. The intensity in his eyes wasn't predatory now; it was warm, open, almost boyish. "Morning," he said, his voice still slightly rough from sleep, but lighter. He stopped right in front of her, the smell of soap and clean skin replacing the musk of sex. He reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheekbone beside the fading bruise. "Talked to Pep."
Vanja held her breath, the spatula hovering over the pan."And?" The word was barely a whisper.
Erling’s smile widened. "Told him I like you. Told him I was planning on dating you. Properly." He watched her reaction, his gaze steady. "He said… 'About fucking time, Erling. Just don't let it fuck up training.' Then he asked if we wanted dinner at his place next week." He chuckled, a low, easy sound. "Supports us. Fully."
A wave of dizzying relief washed over her, so powerful it made her knees weak. She hadn't realized how much tension she’d been carrying until it released. "He… he did?" Tears pricked her eyes. Stupid, overwhelming tears.
"Yeah," Erling murmured, his thumb brushing away a tear that escaped. "He did." He looked down at the pan, then back at her, his gaze softening further. "Smells amazing." He leaned in slowly, deliberately, giving her time to pull away. She didn’t. His lips met hers, not demanding, but warm, tender, lingering. A kiss of promise, of relief, of something new and terrifyingly real. "Thank you," he whispered against her lips. "For this." He gestured vaguely at the cooking food, but his eyes said he meant everything. The vulnerability. The trust. The breakfast.
He pulled back slightly, his eyes darkening again, but with a different heat now. He looked her up and down once more, taking in the shirt, her bare legs, the intimate domesticity of the scene. "You look fucking perfect," he growled, the possessiveness back, but laced with undeniable affection. He slid his hands slowly down her arms. "Want to kiss you. Want to hug you so tight." His hands settled on her hips, pulling her gently against him. She could feel the hard ridge of his cock already stirring against her belly, even through his training shorts. His voice dropped, low and rough with renewed desire. "Want to bend you over that counter right now and fuck you senseless all over again." He squeezed her hips, his erection pressing insistently. "But," he sighed dramatically, a playful glint in his eyes despite the heat, "training. Pep would kill me if I'm late." He kissed her again, quick and hard this time. "Tonight," he promised, the word heavy with intent. He grabbed a piece of bacon from the pan, winked, and headed for the door. "Save me some of that. And don’t change out of that shirt." The door clicked shut behind him.
Vanja stood frozen for a moment, spatula in hand, the echo of his promise thrumming through her. The smell of bacon, coffee, and him filled the air.