Chapter 4: The Morning After
The heavy apartment door slammed shut behind them, echoing in the small foyer with the sound of finality. The world outside ceased to exist. Vanja’s back hit the solid wood, the impact jarring a gasp from her lips that was instantly swallowed by Thomas’s mouth. His kiss wasn’t gentle now. It was a claiming, hot and demanding, tasting of the cantina’s red wine and something darker, more primal. His hands, already tangled in the dark blonde cascade of her hair, fisted tighter, angling her head just so, deepening the invasion.
Her own hands weren’t idle. They scrabbled at the buttons of his expensive sweater, clumsy with urgency. "Off," she gasped against his lips, the word muffled, desperate. "Get this fucking thing off." The polished veneer of the cantina, the witty repartee, the careful distance – incinerated in the heat arcing between them since her impulsive kiss. Her carefully constructed control fractured, leaving only raw, pulsing need.
He growled low in his throat, pulling back just enough to yank the sweater over his head in one swift, powerful motion. It revealed the compact, defined musculature of his torso, the powerful shoulders and biceps honed on the pitch, a light dusting of hair across his chest. Vanja’s gaze raked over him, a fresh wave of heat pooling low in her belly. Her fingers immediately found his belt buckle, metal clinking loudly in the charged silence of her apartment hallway.
Thomas mirrored her urgency. His hands slid down her sides, bunching the soft emerald wool of her sweater. He dragged it upwards, rough, impatient, exposing the lace trim of her bra. "You too, Shark," he commanded, his voice thick, rough. He pulled the sweater over her head, sending her hair tumbling wildly around her flushed face. His eyes, dark with lust, devoured the sight of her breasts straining against the fragile lace. "Fuck, Vanja."
He didn't wait. His mouth crashed down on hers again, one hand sliding around to the clasp of her bra. It gave way with a soft snap. He pushed the lace aside, his palm closing roughly, possessively, over the full swell of her bare breast. His thumb rasped over her already hardened nipple, drawing a sharp cry from her that dissolved into a moan. He bent his head, his mouth hot and wet, latching onto the other peak, sucking hard. Vanja arched into the sensation, her head thudding back against the door, a litany of "Yes, oh god, yes," falling from her lips.
Her hands found the waistband of his chinos, shoved past the loosened belt. The button popped, the zip rasped down. Her fingers slid beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs, encountering the hot, rigid length of him. He was thick, hard as steel beneath the cotton. She wrapped her hand around him, squeezing, feeling the powerful throb against her palm. Thomas groaned against her breast, the vibration sending shivers through her entire body. "Jesus," he hissed, pulling away from her breast, his breath ragged. "Bed. Now."
He stepped back, grabbing her hand, pulling her roughly away from the door. They stumbled down the short hallway towards the living area, shedding clothes as they went. His chinos and briefs hit the floor, kicked aside. Her jeans and panties tangled around her ankles; she kicked them off violently. They collided with the arm of her well-worn couch, dislodging a pile of sociology journals. Papers fluttered to the floor, ignored. He spun her around, pushing her down onto the cushions. The worn fabric was cool against her fevered skin. Her corkboard of meticulously planned schedules and team strategies loomed above them, a silent, absurd witness.
He didn't join her immediately. He stood over her, gloriously naked, his erection jutting thick and insistent from the thatch of dark hair at his groin. His gaze burned over her body sprawled on the couch – the full curves of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the dark blonde thatch between her thighs. The raw appreciation in his eyes, mixed with the feral intensity, made her core clench violently. She felt utterly exposed, utterly wanted. Her legs fell open in invitation, a silent, desperate plea.
"Look at you," he breathed, voice ragged. "Fucking stunning." He dropped to his knees between her splayed thighs. His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging in, pulling her towards the edge of the couch cushion. His head dipped. Not tentative, not exploratory. He pressed his mouth directly against her soaked cunt, his tongue a broad, hot stroke parting her folds. Vanja cried out, her back arching off the cushions. "Oh, fuck! Thomas!"
He groaned against her, the vibration intensifying the sensation. His tongue was relentless, lapping at her slickness, circling her clit with ruthless precision. He licked into her, deep and probing, then flattened his tongue to drag slowly upwards, focusing pressure on the swollen bundle of nerves. One hand slid down, a thick finger sliding easily into her tight channel. She was drenched, her body opening for him without resistance.
"Fuck, you taste good," he muttered against her, his voice muffled, thick with her arousal. He added a second finger, stretching her, curling them upwards inside her. "So fucking wet. For me?" His gaze locked with hers, demanding an answer even as his mouth and fingers worked her mercilessly.
"Y-Yes!" she gasped, hips bucking against his face. "All for you! Oh god!" The dual assault – the insistent pressure on her clit, the deep, curling thrust of his fingers – was obliterating coherent thought. Pressure coiled tight, unbearably tight, low in her belly. Her hands fisted in the cushions, knuckles white. "Don't stop... please, don't stop..."
He didn't stop. He drove her ruthlessly towards the edge. His tongue flickered rapidly over her clit, his fingers pistoning in and out, curling against that spot deep inside. The sounds were obscene – the wet slide, her ragged gasps, his low groans. Her thighs trembled violently around his head. The coil snapped.
Her orgasm ripped through her, a wave of blinding, white-hot intensity. She cried out, a raw, guttural sound torn from her throat, her body bowing up off the couch. Pleasure radiated outwards, convulsing through her core, clamping down on his fingers, sending shockwaves along every nerve. He kept his mouth on her, gentling his tongue, lapping gently as she shuddered and gasped, riding the aftershocks.
Before the tremors had fully subsided, before she could even catch her breath, he was moving. He withdrew his fingers, wiped them roughly on his own thigh, and surged up over her. His weight settled between her legs, heavy, hot, demanding. The broad, slick head of his cock pressed insistently against her entrance, still pulsing and sensitive from her climax.
He braced himself on one forearm beside her head, his other hand gripping his shaft, guiding it. His eyes, dark and predatory, held hers. "Need to be inside you, Vanja," he growled, his voice thick with need. "Now. Need to feel that tight fucking cunt."
She was still buzzing, open, liquid heat. "Yes," she panted, wrapping her legs around his hips, her heels digging into the hard muscles of his ass, pulling him closer, urging him in. "Do it. Fuck me, Thomas. Now."
He pushed forward in one powerful, deliberate thrust. He was big, stretching her exquisitely, filling her completely. Vanja gasped, a sharp intake of breath at the immediate, overwhelming fullness, the delicious burn of the stretch. He buried himself to the hilt in one stroke, his pelvis grinding against hers. He held there for a heartbeat, buried deep, both of them gasping, the magnitude of the connection momentarily stunning.
"Christ," he choked out, his forehead dropping to hers. "You're so fucking tight. So hot." He pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, the drag intense, then slammed back in hard, bottoming out inside her with a force that rocked her whole body. Vanja cried out again, her nails raking down his sweat-slicked back. "Harder!"
He obliged. Gripping her hip tightly with one hand, anchoring her, he began to fuck her in earnest. Deep, powerful thrusts that drove the breath from her lungs. The rhythm was relentless, possessive. He pulled almost all the way out, the head of his cock catching on her rim, then plunged back into her wet heat with a force that jolted the couch, making the legs scrape against the floor. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the small space, mingling with their ragged breathing and guttural moans. Her Manchester City scarf, knocked from the armrest, lay crumpled on the floor beside a stray thesis page.
His thrusts were brutal, perfectly angled, each one hammering against that sensitive spot deep within her. The overstimulation from her first orgasm only heightened the intensity, sending fresh sparks of pleasure radiating through her core. She met him thrust for thrust, arching her hips, taking him deeper, urging him on with incoherent cries and the desperate clutch of her legs around him. "There! Fuck, yes! Right there!" Her fingers scrabbled across his shoulders, his back, seeking purchase.
He shifted slightly, driving into her with a new angle, grinding his pelvis against her clit with every deep plunge. The added friction was electric. Vanja felt another orgasm building, faster this time, a crushing wave gathering force. She could feel the tension coiling in his body too, the muscles in his back and shoulders rigid beneath her hands, his thrusts becoming even harder, more urgent, losing a fraction of their rhythm. His breath came in harsh pants against her neck.
"Gonna come," he grunted, the words strained, guttural. "Fuck, Vanja... that cunt... feels too fucking good..."
"Inside me," she gasped, tightening her legs around him, pulling him impossibly deeper with her heels. She felt swollen, stretched, perfectly impaled. "Come inside me, Thomas. Fill me up."
The filthy demand snapped his control completely. With a final, animalistic groan that seemed to be ripped from his chest, he slammed into her one last time, burying himself to the root. He stiffened, his back arching. Hot jets of come pulsed deep inside her, wave after wave, flooding her, the intimate heat triggering her own climax. She shattered around him, her inner muscles milking his cock as her own release tore through her, a silent scream on her lips as her vision whited out at the edges, her body convulsing beneath his.
He collapsed onto her, his weight a heavy, welcome anchor as they both gasped for air, slick with sweat, trembling with the aftershocks. His forehead rested against the cushion beside her head, his breath hot and ragged against her ear. The silence of the apartment rushed back in, punctuated only by their harsh breathing and the distant hum of the city outside. The smell of sex, sweat, and the lingering spice of his skin filled the air. Her scattered thesis notes lay forgotten on the floor. His softening cock was still buried inside her, a thick, heavy reminder of the connection that had just shattered her carefully ordered world. Vanja lay utterly still, staring up at the ceiling, utterly spent, utterly changed.
Thomas lay heavy on her, his breath still ragged against her ear, the damp heat of his skin pressed along the entire length of her back. The thick weight of him inside her was softening, a slick reminder of the ferocity only moments past, yet his arm remained locked around her waist, pinning her to the sweaty cushions. Vanja stared past his shoulder at the ceiling, the unfamiliar contours of his body a stark intrusion in her meticulously ordered space.
"Christ," he finally muttered, the word vibrating through her. He shifted slightly, the movement pulling a soft, involuntary gasp from her as he slipped free, a warm trickle following. The sudden emptiness was jarring.
He rolled off her, collapsing onto his back beside her on the narrow couch, one arm flung over his eyes. The cool air hit her damp skin, raising goosebumps. They lay in silence, the only sounds their gradually slowing breaths and the distant wail of a siren filtering through her apartment window. Her discarded thesis notes lay scattered near his discarded sweater like casualties.
"Fuck," Thomas exhaled, a low rumble. He didn't move his arm. "That was..."
"Intense?" Vanja supplied, her voice sounding rough, unused. She didn't look at him. Her gaze traced the familiar crack in her ceiling plaster, the one shaped vaguely like England. Manchester City. The thought felt absurd now. Distant.
He snorted, a humourless sound. "Yeah. 'Intense'." He finally lowered his arm, turning his head to look at her. His eyes, usually sharp and assessing on the pitch, looked unfocused, dazed. Sweat plastered dark strands of hair to his forehead. "You okay?"
The question was jarringly mundane after the raw filth they’d growled at each other. Fill me up. "Fine," she lied, shifting to pull her legs up slightly, suddenly self-conscious of her nakedness sprawled beside him. Her skin felt hypersensitive, every brush of the worn cotton upholstery a vivid reminder.
He pushed himself up on one elbow, the movement making the old couch springs groan in protest. His gaze swept over her body, lingering on the red marks blooming on her hips where his fingers had dug in, the slight flush still high on her breasts. It wasn't the predatory hunger from before, but a blunt, assessing stare. "Good marks."
Vanja felt a flush creep up her neck, unrelated to exertion. She pulled the Manchester City scarf from the floor, draping it hastily over her bare stomach and thighs, a flimsy shield. "Occupational hazard of fucking footballers?" The sarcasm was weak, automatic. A defence mechanism clicking back online.
He smirked, a glint returning to his eyes. He reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the scarf, dangerously close to her hip bone. "Something like that." His touch, even that fleeting, sent a fresh jolt through her exhausted system. His hand moved away, rubbing over his face. "Need a shower. Smell like the aftermath of a derby."
That’s mostly you inside me, she thought, the crudeness startling her internally. She watched him swing his legs off the couch, his muscular back flexing as he stood. He was utterly unselfconscious in his nudity, powerful and primal, scanning her small living space. His discarded clothes were a tangled heap near the door; hers were scattered like debris across the floor to the couch.
"Bathroom?" he asked, turning back towards her.
"Down the hall. Last door." Vanja kept the scarf pulled tight. The sight of him standing there, gloriously naked amidst her books and Bayern Munich posters, was deeply unsettling. A collision of worlds she’d never intended to merge.
He nodded, stepping over the pile of his chinos and boxer briefs. He paused at the threshold of the hallway, looking back. Water droplets from his earlier exertions tracked paths down his defined abdomen. "You joining me?"
The invitation hung in the humid air, thick with the musk of their sex. The thought of hot water sluicing over her sweat-slicked skin, the intimacy of sharing that small space... it felt like stepping off another cliff. Her body, still humming with aftershocks and a treacherous, rekindling heat, screamed yes. Her mind, scrambling to reassemble the shards of professionalism, shouted caution.
She hesitated, her fingers tightening on the scarf. Thomas watched her, a challenge in his steady gaze, waiting. The momentum of his departure stalled, the air crackling with unspoken possibility. The water started running down the hall.
The water hammered against the tiles, a steady drumbeat echoing down the hallway. Steam began to curl around the doorframe, carrying the faint scent of her lavender soap, soon to be overwhelmed. Thomas stood silhouetted in the doorway, naked, powerful, water droplets still tracing paths down the ridges of his abdomen. His gaze, heavy-lidded but intensely focused, locked onto hers.Waiting. The challenge hung thick in the humid air, mingling with the musk of their sweat and sex still clinging to the couch, to her skin beneath the flimsy shield of the scarf.Vanja’s fingers tightened on the Manchester City wool. Every rational thought screamed disaster – the PR consultant, the footballer, the tangled sheets of professionalism incinerated on her living room floor amidst scattered thesis pages. But her body, thrumming with the aftershocks of his possession and a treacherous, rekindling heat, remembered the brutal fullness, the way he’d growled fill me up.The memory liquefied her resistance. With a sharp inhale that felt like tearing free, she dropped the scarf.It pooled silently at her hips. "Fuck it," she breathed, the words rough, almost defiant. She swung her legs off the couch, standing on slightly trembling knees.The cool air kissed her damp skin, raising fresh goosebumps.
Thomas’s lips curved, not quite a smile, more a predator’s satisfaction. He didn’t move, just watched her walk towards him, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor, past the tangled wreckage of their clothes. His eyes raked over her – the red marks on her hips from his grip, the slight flush still high on her breasts, the dark blonde triangle between her thighs, glistening faintly.The raw appreciation in his stare was a physical touch. She stopped inches from him, the steam from the bathroom warm on her face. He reached out, calloused fingers brushing a stray strand of damp hair from her cheek, the gesture unexpectedly gentle after the ferocity on the couch. His thumb traced her jawline. "Knew you would, Shark," he murmured, his voice low, rough-edged. He turned, stepping into the cloud of steam, pulling her gently by the hand after him.
The bathroom was small, instantly claustrophobic with the steam and his presence. Hot water cascaded from the showerhead, pounding the tiles, filling the room with noise and wet heat. Thomas stepped under the spray first, tilting his head back, water sluicing through his dark hair, down the powerful lines of his shoulders and back. Vanja followed, gasping as the near-scalding water hit her skin, a shock after the cooler air. It stung, then soothed, washing away the sweat, the stickiness between her thighs. She closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against his wet shoulder blade, feeling the solid muscle beneath slick skin. His hand found hers behind his back, interlacing their fingers, pulling her flush against him. Her breasts pressed into the hard planes of his back, her nipples hardening instantly against the wet heat. He groaned, a deep vibration she felt through her chest.
He turned within the circle of her arms, water streaming down his face, plastering his hair darkly to his skull. His eyes, dark and hungry, scanned her face, then dropped lower. His hands slid down her slick sides, over the curve of her hips, gripping her ass firmly, pulling her pelvis tight against his. She felt him, already hardening again against her belly, thick and insistent despite the recent intensity. "Look at you," he breathed, water dripping from his lips onto her collarbone."All wet for me again."His voice was thick, possessive. One hand slid between them, fingers finding her cleft, already slick with more than just water. He rubbed firmly, circling her clit with rough, knowing strokes. Vanja cried out, her head falling back against the tiled wall, the cool surface a shock against her scalp."Thomas!"
"Need to taste you again," he growled against her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. His fingers delved deeper, two thick digits sliding easily into her still-loosened channel, curling upwards. The angle was different under the pounding water, more intense, the heat amplifying every sensation. "Fuck, you’re soaked.Couldn’t wait, could you?" His words were filthy, deliberate, designed to stoke the fire.She gasped, her hips bucking against his hand. "No! Didn’t... couldn’t..." Coherent thought drowned under the dual assault of water and his fingers. He pistoned them in and out, the wet slide obscenely loud under the shower’s roar, while his thumb maintained ruthless pressure on her clit. The overstimulation was electric, painful and exquisite, pushing her rapidly towards another peak.Her legs trembled violently. "Gonna come... oh god, right now!"
He drove her relentlessly, fingers plunging, thumb grinding. "Come on my fingers, Vanja," he commanded, his breath hot on her ear."Scream for me." The orgasm tore through her, sharp and shattering, a silent scream ripping from her throat as her body convulsed, clamping down hard on his thrusting fingers, water sluicing over her bowed form. He held her through it, fingers still working her sensitive flesh, prolonging the spasms until she whimpered, oversensitive.
Before she could recover, he spun her around, pressing her chest-first against the slick tiles. The cold surface shocked her heated skin. He kicked her legs wider apart, water pounding her back, running in rivulets down the cleft of her ass. His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into the same tender spots as before. She felt the broad, blunt head of his cock nudge against her entrance, slick with her arousal and the shower water. He didn’t ask. He pushed forward in one powerful, relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt in her still-quivering cunt. Vanja gasped, the stretch intense, the fullness overwhelming."Fuck!Yes!"He didn’t pause. He set a brutal pace immediately, pulling almost all the way out until just the head remained lodged inside, then slamming back into her wet heat with enough force to drive her hips against the tiles. The slap of skin on wet skin echoed off the bathroom walls, competing with the water’s roar. His thrusts were deep, punishing, perfectly angled to hammer against that spot deep within her. One hand slid around her hip, fingers finding her swollen clit again, rubbing in tight, frantic circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves. The dual stimulation – the deep, pounding penetration and the insistent friction on her clit – was merciless, dragging another orgasm from her exhausted body almost immediately. She cried out, a ragged sob, her inner muscles fluttering wildly around his thick cock.
"Take it," he grunted, his voice strained, guttural. His hips pistoned, driving into her with relentless force."Take my cock, Vanja. That’s it.Milk me." His fingers on her clit became rougher, more insistent. She felt him swelling inside her, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, more erratic. The tension in his body, pressed against her back, was immense, coiled steel about to snap. "Gonna fill you again," he choked out. "Gonna pump this tight fucking cunt full..."
The filthy promise tipped her over. Another orgasm, less a wave than a seismic jolt, ripped through her. She screamed, the sound swallowed by the shower’s noise, her body clamping down on him in violent pulses. With a final, guttural roar that seemed torn from the depths of his chest, Thomas slammed home and held, buried to the root. Hot jets of come pulsed deep inside her, flooding her core, triggering aftershocks that made her knees buckle. He held her upright, his body shuddering against hers, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades, breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps against her wet skin. They stayed locked together under the pounding water, trembling, spent, the only sounds their labored breathing and the relentless downpour.Eventually, the water began to cool. Thomas slowly pulled out, a thick trickle of their mingled release following. He turned her gently in his arms, pulling her under the spray again, letting the water wash over them both. He reached for her shampoo, working it into her dark blonde hair with surprising tenderness, his strong fingers massaging her scalp. Vanja leaned into him, boneless, her earlier defiance replaced by a profound, trembling exhaustion. He rinsed her hair, then his own, the silence between them heavy but not uncomfortable. Just... spent.He turned off the water. The sudden quiet was deafening.Steam still curled thickly in the small room.
He stepped out first, grabbing two towels from the rack. He handed her one, large and fluffy, then wrapped the other around his own hips. Vanja dried herself mechanically, the soft cotton abrasive on her oversensitive skin. She avoided looking at him directly, suddenly acutely aware of the intimacy, the vulnerability. He dried his hair roughly, then ran a hand over his jaw."Got a spare toothbrush?" he asked, his voice casual, almost normal, but deeper, rougher.
Vanja blinked, towel paused at her waist."Uh... yeah.Bottom drawer."She gestured vaguely towards the vanity.
He rummaged, found a sealed one, tore it open. Squeezed toothpaste onto it.Started brushing. The mundane act, performed naked except for the towel slung low on his hips, amidst the lingering steam and scent of sex, was jarring.He spat, rinsed.Looked at her reflection in the fogged mirror. "You coming to bed? Or you planning to stand there dripping all night?"Bed.The word hung between them.Her bed. Not the couch.Not a hurried exit.He wasn't leaving. The implication settled over her, heavier than the wet towel. Her gaze flickered past him, through the open bathroom door, down the short hall to her bedroom doorway. Her sanctuary, about to be invaded by the aftershocks of this... whatever this was. Her scattered thesis notes were still on the living room floor.The Bayern Munich poster watched from the bedroom wall. Thomas Müller, star striker, stood dripping on her bathmat, waiting.Vanja took a slow breath, the humid air filling her lungs. The tremor in her hands had subsided, replaced by a deep, bone-weary ache and a strange, unsettling calm. The chaos of the press room, the sharp retort that started this, the frenzy on the couch, the pounding in the shower – it all felt distant, blurred by steam and exhaustion. He’d asked about her life outside work.Well, here it was. Naked, damp, and utterly disordered. She met his eyes in the mirror, seeing not the predator now, but a man equally wrecked, equally unsure of the next play.He stayed. The towel slipped slightly as she moved towards the bedroom, not looking back."Light's on the left," she said, her voice surprisingly steady. "Don't trip over my anthropology textbooks."