Chapter 9: Taking Her Ass
The echoes of laughter from the FaceTime call faded, leaving behind a comfortable silence thick with shared exhaustion and the lingering scent of sex. Vanja nestled deeper into Thomas’s side on the couch, his arm a heavy, reassuring weight around her shoulders. The city lights painted shifting patterns on the ceiling, replacing the grid of grinning faces on the now-dark phone screen. Her body throbbed pleasantly, a deep ache that was part fatigue, part profound satisfaction, and part the ghost of his claiming possession.
"Madhouse," Vanja murmured against his chest, her voice raspy. "Manuel wasn't kidding."
Thomas chuckled, the vibration rumbling through her. "Told you. Welcome to the circus, Schatz." He tilted her chin up, his eyes searching hers in the dimness. The playful glint was still there, but beneath it, she saw the intensity that had driven him earlier, banked but not extinguished. "You okay? Really?"
She nodded, tracing the line of his jaw with a fingertip. "Overwhelmed? Yes. Regretful?" She met his gaze squarely. "Not for a second. Even if Bayern thinks they can just… relocate me like a filing cabinet." The frustration at the club's high-handed dismissal of her resignation bubbled up briefly.
His thumb brushed her lower lip. "They know your value. They're just scrambling. Tomorrow we face the music." He leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss that started soft but quickly deepened, tasting of shared defiance and renewed hunger. His hand slid beneath the terrycloth robe still draped loosely around her, finding the bare skin of her waist, then sliding up to cup her breast. His thumb circled her nipple, already hardening instantly under his touch. "Right now," he breathed against her mouth, "I need more of you."
The shift was electric. The languid comfort evaporated, replaced by the crackling tension that always ignited between them. Vanja arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping her. "Thomas…"
"Shower," he stated abruptly, pulling back just enough to look at her. His eyes were dark pools of need. "Now. I want you clean. I want you prepped." The command was clear, the implication sending a fresh jolt of heat straight to her core. He wanted her ass.Again. The memory of the earlier intensity, the brutal claiming, the sheer overwhelming fullness, made her clench internally.
He stood, pulling her up with him. The robe slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet, leaving her naked before him. His gaze raked over her body, lingering on the faint bruises already blooming on her hips from his earlier grip, a dark satisfaction flashing in his eyes. He stripped off his t-shirt and sweatpants with efficient movements, his erection already thick and heavy, curving upwards against his belly. He took her hand, leading her wordlessly towards the bathroom.
The shower was a brief, functional affair under the hot spray. Thomas washed her with a focus that was almost clinical, his large hands smoothing soap over her skin, paying particular attention to her back, her ass, kneading the muscles. He turned her, facing the tiled wall, warm water cascading over her shoulders. His fingers, slick with soap, found the cleft of her ass, circling her tight opening. He pressed gently, insistently.
"Relax," he murmured, his voice low and rough against her wet hair. His other hand slid around her front, fingers dipping between her legs, finding her clit already swollen and slick. "Get wet for me, Vanja. Get ready." He stroked her clit in slow, deliberate circles while his other finger pressed harder against her asshole, the dual sensation making her gasp and push back against his hand involuntarily. She felt the tip of his finger breach her, a sharp, stretching intrusion eased by the soap and water, working her slowly open as he continued to tease her clit. She moaned, bracing her hands against the cool tiles, her body yielding to his insistent preparation, arousal coiling tighter with every stroke of his fingers.
He turned off the water. Towels were rough, hurried. He dried her swiftly, patting her ass dry with a possessiveness that made her shiver. Then, without a word, he scooped her up, carrying her dripping wet, back into the bedroom. He laid her down on her stomach in the center of the large bed, the cool sheets a shock against her heated skin. He grabbed the bottle of lube from the nightstand.
Vanja heard the cap click open, the wet sound as he slicked himself generously. She felt the bed dip behind her as he knelt between her spread thighs. His hands gripped her hips, lifting her ass towards him. The blunt, slick head of his cock pressed against her prepared opening, a hard, insistent pressure.
"Deep breath," he commanded, his voice tight with anticipation.
She inhaled sharply, pushing her face into the pillow. He pushed.
It was a slow, relentless invasion, stretching her impossibly wide, burning with a deep, visceral intensity. She cried out, a muffled sound against the bedding, her fingers clutching the sheets. He held still, buried to the hilt, letting her adjust to the overwhelming fullness, his cock a thick, immovable presence inside her. She felt every ridge, every pulse of his arousal. His groan was long, guttural, vibrating through her body. "Fucking hell… like a goddamn vice."
Then he moved. Pulling back almost all the way, the drag exquisitely painful, before slamming forward again. Hard.Deep. Vanja gasped, arching her back, the friction igniting sparks along her nerves. He set a punishing rhythm immediately – deep, piston-like strokes that punched the breath from her lungs. The slap of his hips against her ass echoed in the quiet room, mingling with their harsh breathing and the slick, obscene sounds of her body taking him.
"Yeah," he hissed, his hands gripping her hips bruisingly tight, holding her steady for his brutal thrusts. "Take it. Take every fucking inch of me." He leaned forward, draping his body over hers, his chest pressing against her back, his mouth finding her ear. "Whose ass is this?" he growled, punctuating each word with a deep, grinding plunge that made her whimper.
"Yours!" she gasped, the words forced out."Thomas! Yours!"
"Fucking right," he snarled, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, desperate lunges. He shifted his angle slightly, driving upwards, hitting a spot deep inside that sent white-hot lightning through her. She screamed, her body convulsing, her inner muscles clamping down hard on his invading length. "God, yes! Squeeze my cock! Fucking milk it!" He roared as her climax ripped through her, her body shuddering violently beneath him. Her clenching spasms triggered his own release. He buried himself to the root, grinding deep, his cock pulsing violently as he emptied himself inside her tight channel with a guttural shout, hot jets flooding her depths. He collapsed onto her back, his weight crushing her into the mattress, both breathing in ragged, shuddering gasps.
He stayed sheathed inside her, softening slowly, his breath hot against her neck. Gradually, he slipped out, followed by a warm trickle onto the sheets. He rolled off, pulling her with him onto her side, tucking her back against his chest. He pressed a kiss to her damp shoulder. Silence settled, filled only by their slowing breaths. The deep ache was profound, a mixture of raw pleasure and utter exhaustion. Vanja felt boneless, claimed, utterly spent.
Thomas’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. He groaned, reaching for it blindly. It was a text notification. He squinted at the screen in the dim light filtering through the curtains – dawn was approaching.
"Bayern HQ," he muttered, his voice thick with sleep. "Confirming the meeting. Midday. Sharp." He dropped the phone back onto the nightstand with a thud. "Sleep, Schatz," he murmured, pulling the covers over them both, his arm tightening around her waist. "Big day tomorrow. Time to face the fucking music." His breathing deepened almost instantly, the deep, even rhythm of sleep.
Vanja lay awake for a moment longer, listening to the city stirring outside and Thomas’s steady heartbeat against her back. The physical proof of his possession throbbed gently between her legs. Bayern HQ awaited, a gauntlet of questions and rearranged duties. But wrapped in the heat of Thomas Müller, the man who had just claimed her body and soul with brutal, undeniable force, she felt a strange sense of calm. They were in the storm together. Whatever tomorrow brought, she was his. And he was hers. She closed her eyes, the exhaustion finally pulling her under, the scent of him and sex the last thing she registered before sleep claimed her. The 'big day' loomed, but for now, there was only this: the deep ache, the possessive warmth, and the fragile peace before the storm resumed.
The fragile peace shattered with the shrill alarm. Vanja groaned, burying her face deeper into Thomas’s chest, inhaling the musk of sex and sleep clinging to his skin. His arm tightened around her waist possessively. "Five more minutes," he mumbled, his voice thick, his morning erection pressing insistently against the curve of her ass. The deep ache between her legs was a potent reminder of the night before, a pleasant soreness radiating through her core. Outside, Munich was fully awake, traffic humming, a stark contrast to the warm, tangled intimacy of the bed.
He rolled her onto her back before she could protest, his weight settling over her hips. His eyes, still heavy-lidded but sharpening with intent, scanned her face, then drifted down her body. His thumbs brushed the faint bruises on her hips, a dark flicker of satisfaction crossing his features. "Still mine," he stated, not a question. His hand slid down her belly, fingers parting her folds with practiced ease, finding her slick and swollen even after the night’s exertions. "Fuck, you’re still so wet for me." He dipped two fingers inside her, curling them, drawing a gasp from her lips. "Morning fuck, Schatz. Quick and dirty."
He didn’t wait. He slicked himself with her wetness, the thick head nudging her entrance. He pushed in with one hard, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Vanja cried out, arching off the mattress, her body instinctively clenching around the sudden, delicious invasion. "Christ, Vanja," he groaned, his hips already pistoning. "Tight little cunt… gripping me like a fucking fist." He braced himself on his elbows above her, driving into her with short, brutal strokes, the slap of skin echoing in the room. His gaze locked onto hers, intense, demanding. "Look at me. Watch me fuck you."
She met his stare, her breath hitching with each powerful slam. Her hands scrabbled at his shoulders, nails digging in. It was raw, urgent, devoid of last night’s lingering tenderness, pure physical claiming. He fucked her like he owned her, which, in that moment, he absolutely did. Her climax built fast, a coil tightening unbearably low in her belly, fueled by the relentless friction and the sheer dominance radiating from him. "Thomas… fuck… I’m gonna…" she choked out.
"Come," he commanded, grinding deep, hitting that spot that made her vision blur. "Come on my cock. Now." Her body obeyed instantly, convulsing around him, a silent scream tearing from her throat as waves of intense pleasure crashed over her. Her violent clenching triggered his own release. He slammed home one final time, holding himself deep as he pulsed inside her, a guttural groan ripped from his chest, hot seed flooding her depths. He collapsed onto her, crushing her into the mattress, both breathing raggedly, slick with sweat.
He rolled off after a moment, leaving her feeling hollowed out and trembling. The scent of sex hung thick in the air. Thomas slapped her ass lightly, possessively. "Shower. Now. We’ve got that fucking meeting." His tone brooked no argument. Vanja dragged herself up, every muscle protesting, the evidence of their coupling trickling down her inner thigh. The fragile peace was well and truly gone, replaced by the gritty reality of facing Bayern’s brass.
The sleek, modern Bayern Munich headquarters felt sterile, intimidating. Vanja smoothed her tailored skirt, acutely aware of Thomas walking beside her, radiating a calm confidence that felt at odds with the tension knotting her stomach. The memory of his cock stretching her, filling her, felt incongruous here amidst the glass and chrome. They were ushered directly into Karl-Heinz Rummenigge’s spacious office. The director sat behind a vast desk, flanked by the stern-faced Sporting Director. Thomas’s relaxed posture – leaning against the window frame, arms crossed – seemed to unnerve them more than any protest.
"Frau Vran," Rummenigge began, steepling his fingers. "Your resignation. We cannot accept it." His voice was firm, leaving no room for discussion.
Vanja drew a steadying breath. "With respect, Herr Rummenigge, I must insist. My relationship with Thomas creates a clear conflict of interest." She gestured towards him. "It compromises my objectivity. It’s untenable."
"Nonsense," Rummenigge countered sharply. "You are the best PR strategist we have had in years. Look at Thomas’s form since you started consulting – sharper, more focused, statistically his best season in midfield creation." He nodded towards Thomas. "Whatever you’re doing… it’s working." He leaned forward slightly. "The conflict of interest argument is weak. We manage spouses, siblings within the organization. We manage this."
Thomas pushed off the window frame, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips. Vanja felt a flicker of irritation. "And what happens," she pressed, her voice tight, "when we inevitably break up? Or have a massive, public fight? Or," she paused, the word feeling strange and heavy, "get married? How does the club navigate that?"
Thomas’s smile widened. He looked directly at Rummenigge. "Yeah, Karl-Heinz," he echoed, his tone deceptively light. "What does happen after we marry?" The question hung in the air, charged.
Rummenigge stared at Thomas for a long beat, then threw his head back and laughed, a rich, booming sound that filled the office. "After you marry?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "Thomas, you’ll probably play even better!" He stood up, walked around the desk, and clapped Thomas firmly on the shoulder. "You did good, Thomas. Better than both you and I thought you could." He winked. "Much better."
Thomas laughed outright now, a genuine sound. Vanja felt utterly sidelined, her concerns dismissed as trivialities. Her cheeks burned. "Fine," she stated flatly, the word clipped and final. She turned on her heel without waiting for dismissal and walked out of the office, the heavy door clicking shut behind her with a sound of finality she didn't feel.
Inside the office, Rummenigge watched the door close, his expression shifting to thoughtful appreciation. "She is amazing, isn't she?" he murmured, almost to himself.
Thomas was still smiling, his gaze lingering on the door Vanja had exited through. "Yeah," he agreed softly, warmth in his voice. "She really is."
"Just like her mother," Rummenigge added casually, turning back to pour himself a glass of water from a carafe on his desk.
Thomas froze. The smile vanished. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Her mother?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
Rummenigge took a sip of water, meeting Thomas’s gaze evenly. "Yes. Dana. My sister Dana." He raised an eyebrow. "You didn't know?"
Thomas stared at him, the pieces crashing together with brutal clarity – Vanja’s fierce independence, her occasional guardedness, her sharp intelligence mirroring Dana’s own formidable spirit. The secrecy. "No," he admitted slowly, a new understanding dawning, tempering his initial shock. A small, rueful smile touched his lips. "But I understand now. Why she would want Vanja hidden from…" he gestured vaguely, encompassing Rummenigge, the club, the legacy, "...all this. From Rumenige." He deliberately used the nickname, the one Dana had always used with a mix of affection and exasperation.
Rummenigge chuckled again, a softer sound this time. "Take care of her, Thomas," he said, his tone losing its earlier business edge, becoming almost paternal. "Truly. She’s… special." He raised his glass slightly in a silent toast before turning back to his desk, the meeting effectively over. Thomas stood motionless for a moment longer, the revelation about Vanja’s lineage echoing in the sudden silence of the plush office, the weight of Rummenigge’s unexpected charge settling onto his shoulders. Outside, Vanja was waiting, undoubtedly furious. The storm had just acquired a whole new, deeply personal dimension.
Thomas shoved open the heavy office door, the polished wood thudding against the stop. The hallway was empty except for Vanja leaning against the cold, marble-clad wall twenty paces away, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her eyes, blazing with fury and unshed tears, locked onto his. He strode toward her, the sharp clicks of his shoes echoing in the sterile corridor.
"Special?" Vanja spat the word Rummenigge had used like venom before Thomas could speak. Her voice shook with suppressed rage. "Did he pat you on the head like a good boy? Assure you I'm just a bonus to your midfield stats?" She pushed off the wall, stepping into his space, her tall frame rigid. The scent of her expensive perfume warred with the faint, lingering musk of their morning sex still clinging to his skin. "Did he fucking warn you? Or ask you to marry me?"
Thomas caught her shoulders, fingers digging into the soft wool of her blazer. "Schatz," he started, his voice low and urgent, trying to cut through her anger. She jerked backward, breaking his grip. "Stop it. Listen. He didn't warn me about marriage. He didn't ask me anything." Frustration roughened his tone. His thumb brushed the wetness trailing down her cheek. "He just told me you're his niece."
Vanja froze. The fight drained from her posture, replaced by a sudden, bone-deep weariness. Her shoulders slumped. "Yes," she whispered, the word barely audible. She looked down at the gleaming floor, avoiding his gaze. "I...well, fuck." Her fingers trembled. "He kept me hidden. Protected. Or caged. Depends on the day." Shame etched lines around her eyes. "I didn't want this... complication touching you."
Thomas pulled her hard against him, ignoring her startled gasp. His arms banded around her waist, crushing her to his chest. He didn't hesitate. His mouth crashed down onto hers, silencing any protest, any explanation. It wasn't gentle. It was possession, a searing brand. He kissed her until her lips softened beneath his, until her fists unclenched and gripped the fabric of his shirt instead of pushing him away. He broke the kiss, breathing harshly, his forehead pressed to hers. "I don't care," he growled, the words vibrating against her skin. "Niece of Rumenige, PR genius, sociology student... doesn't fucking matter. You are mine. No matter what."
He spun her around, pressing her back against the cold marble wall. His hand shoved her skirt up around her hips, the fabric bunching roughly. His fingers hooked into the waistband of her panties, yanking them down her thighs. They snagged around her knees. She gasped, the chill of the stone seeping through her blouse. "Thomas... someone could—"
"Let them see," he snarled, fumbling desperately with his own belt and zipper. The metallic rasp was loud in the quiet hallway. "Let them see who owns you." His cock sprang free, already thick and straining. He spat into his palm, slicked himself roughly, then pressed the leaking head against her entrance. She was wet—anger and adrenaline and the raw pull between them had seen to that—but not prepared. He pushed anyway.
Vanja cried out, a sharp, bitten-off sound as he breached her. The stretch was intense, sudden, bordering on painful. He drove forward relentlessly, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Her back scraped against the unforgiving marble, her hands flattened against it for purchase. "Fuck! Thomas!" Her inner muscles clenched violently around his invading length, a reflex both of shock and unwanted, overwhelming arousal.
"Tight fucking cunt," he groaned, pulling back only to slam home again. He set a punishing rhythm immediately, hips pistoning, driving into her hard and deep. His hands gripped her hips, fingers pressing into the bruises from the night before, holding her still for his assault. The sound was obscene—wet slaps of flesh, her choked whimpers, his ragged grunts. "Take it," he commanded, his breath hot against her ear. "Take every fucking inch. Belongs in you." He bit her earlobe, not gently. "You feel that? My cock buried in Rummenigge's precious niece?"
She moaned, a high, desperate sound, arching back against him. The friction burned, the invasion stretched her mercilessly, but the crude ownership in his words, the sheer taboo of where they were, ignited a wildfire in her core. "Yours!" she gasped, pushing back against his thrusts now, meeting his force. "Only yours!"
"Yeah," he hissed. He hooked one arm under her thigh, hiking her leg higher, opening her wider. The new angle drove him impossibly deeper. She screamed as he hammered into that spot, the pleasure-pain so acute it blurred her vision. Her climax ripped through her without warning, a violent convulsion that clamped down on his cock like a vise. "Fuck! Yes! Squeeze me, you perfect bitch!" he roared, his own control shattering.
He held himself buried deep as he came, pulsing violently inside her, hot jets flooding her channel. His thrusts became short, ragged jerks, milking his release. He collapsed forward, pinning her fully against the cold wall, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades, both breathing in shattered gasps. Warmth trickled down her inner thigh. Silence descended, heavy and thick, broken only by their labored breathing echoing off the marble. The smell of sex and sweat hung pungent in the corporate air. He stayed sheathed inside her for a long moment, softening slowly, his grip on her hip shifting from bruising pressure to a heavy, possessive weight. He finally pulled out, the sudden emptiness making her gasp. He turned her around, pulling her panties back up her legs with clumsy hands, smoothing her skirt down. His gaze met hers, intense, unreadable. "Yours," she breathed again, the word raw.
He nodded once, a sharp jerk of his chin. He took her hand, his grip firm, grounding. "Come on," he said, his voice rough but devoid of anger. "Let's get the hell out of this mausoleum." He led her down the echoing hallway, their footsteps the only sound now, towards the exit, towards whatever storm awaited them next. The weight of secrets and obligations pressed down, but for this moment, walking hand-in-hand through the polished halls of power, the only thing that mattered was the heat of his skin against hers and the lingering, claiming ache deep inside her.