Chapter 9: Postpartum Reclamation
The DFB presidency suite smelled of lemon polish and old money. The mahogany table between them felt like a no-man’s land. Three elderly men in impeccably tailored suits stared at Vanja, their expressions a blend of paternal concern and thinly-veiled panic.
“Co-lead? Gemeinsame Führung?” President Hoffmann steepled his fingers. “Vanja, your contributions are… unprecedented. But the structure… the federation has hierarchies for a reason.”
Vanja didn’t blink. She wore a sharply cut navy blazer, her hair pulled back, the diamond on her left hand catching the light. The faint, lingering soreness between her legs from the morning was a grounding anchor. “Hierarchies exist to win. My proposal increases our probability of success. Rudi oversees the senior team’s tactical spine and media. I manage talent pipeline, set-piece innovation, and opponent psychology. Two separate departments. One unified objective.”
Rudi, sitting slightly apart, cleared his throat. “She’s right. The game has evolved. This isn’t 1990. We need a brain trust, not a single guru.” His voice held a finality that brooked no argument. “And she’s earned it. The U21 World Cup wasn’t a fluke. It was a blueprint.”
The silence was thick. They saw it then—not a mentor and his protégé, but a partnership. An alliance. The unspoken truth of the baby, of the shared house in the Taunus, hung in the air, a tactical nuke they couldn’t defuse.
Hoffmann sighed, the sound of generations of tradition yielding. “A six-month trial. Until the Euros. The press will call it nepotism. A circus.”
Vanja allowed a small, cold smile. “Let them. I’ll provide the lions.”
Her first day at the senior national team camp was an autopsy performed in real-time. Every glance from a veteran player, every deferential ‘Frau Oldenburg’ from a staff member, was a data point. Her body, still relearning its own geography, was a liability she dressed in armor: a tailored tracksuit, sleek trainers. Her breasts, heavy and tender, were bound tight beneath a functional sports bra. The scar on her abdomen pulled faintly with certain movements.
Rudi was in his element, a general on the turf, his voice booming across the practice pitch. Vanja observed from the periphery, a silent satellite, taking notes on a tablet. The disconnect was physical agony. She watched movements she needed to correct, patterns she could break, and had to channel it all into tapping glass.
During the mid-morning break, Rudi caught her eye and jerked his head toward the main equipment building. A curt, almost imperceptible nod. She waited five minutes, then followed.
The interior was a cathedral of order: rows of pristine lockers, shelves stacked with training bibs, boxes of new balls, and metal racks of cones and agility poles. The air was cool, smelling of synthetic fiber and disinfectant.
She heard the door click shut behind her and turned.
He was already on her, his mouth claiming hers with a hunger that stripped away the morning’s protocol. His hands gripped her ass through the tracksuit pants, squeezing the full flesh. “Watched you all morning,” he growled against her lips. “Thinking about this ass. Thinking about how you walked in here like you owned it, with my milk still in your tits.”
She bit his lower lip, drawing a sharp hiss. “I do own it.”
He spun her around, bending her forward over a stack of blue training cones still in their plastic wrap. The material crinkled under her weight. He yanked her pants and underwear down to her thighs in one rough pull. The cool air hit her skin. He freed himself, his cock already hard and angry.
“You’re still sore,” he stated, not a question, his fingers finding her folds, testing. She was wet, a slickness that belied the deep, internal tenderness that was her new constant.
“Yes,” she spat, pushing back against his hand.
“Good.”
He didn’t gentle himself. He guided the thick head to her entrance and pushed in with a single, relentless thrust. The burn was immediate, a stretch that bordered on pain, lighting up the raw, healing places inside her. She cried out, a sharp sound swallowed by the shelves.
“Fucking tight,” he groaned, his hands clamping on her hips, holding her still as he sunk to the hilt. “Tighter than before. Like a virgin.”
He began to move, a punishing, shallow rhythm designed to maximize the friction. Each snap of his hips jolted her forward against the cones. The soreness ignited, transformed into a white-hot signal of pure possession. She was split open, claimed anew in a room that symbolized the heart of his world.
“You take it,” he grunted, his pace increasing. “You take my cock in this house I built, with your cunt still torn up from my son.”
Her protests were incoherent, lost in a haze of pain and gathering pleasure. She reached back, clawing at his thigh. “Harder. You fucker, harder.”
He obliged, his thrusts becoming deeper, brutal piston strokes that made the cone stack shudder. One hand snaked around her front, yanking her zipper down, tearing at the sports bra to free her breast. He groped the swollen flesh, his fingers pinching and pulling at the nipple. A sudden, warm trickle of milk leaked over his fingers.
The sensation—the blatant vulnerability of it—unlocked something feral in her. A second, sharper climax ripped through her, tearing a scream from her throat. Her inner muscles clenched in ragged spasms around his driving length.
He fucked her through it, his own control shattering. With a final, deep grind, he came, pumping his release into her with a guttural shout, his body slumping over hers. They stayed locked together, panting, the only sounds their ragged breaths and the distant hum of a lawnmower on the pitch outside.
He softened inside her, slipping out. A mix of their fluids and a few drops of her milk stained the plastic wrap beneath her. She felt ravaged, hollowed out, and profoundly powerful.
He righted her clothes with a surprising tenderness, zipping her tracksuit, wiping his hand on his own pants. He turned her to face him. His eyes were dark, sated, but searching. “Alright?”
She nodded, wiping her mouth. “I’m alright.” And she was. The pain was a compass needle, pointing true. She was here, in the sanctum, marked and marking.
The family lunch was a different kind of tactical operation. They picked up Lukas and Alex from Rudi’s mother’s immaculate bungalow. Greta Völler was a spry woman in her 70ies with eyes that missed nothing. She handed Lukas over, his blanket smelling of lavender and guilt.
“He took the bottle well,” Greta said, her gaze flicking between Vanja’s composed face and her son’s satisfied ease. “You look tired, Liebling.”
“It was a stimulating morning,” Vanja replied, bending to kiss the woman’s papery cheek.
In the backseat of the Range Rover, Alex, their older son chattered about football stickers. Lukas slept in his carrier. Vanja watched the forest blur past, her body throbbing in time with the engine. The vibrant soreness was a secret she carried, a counterpoint to the domestic scene.
The restaurant was a rustic Gasthof with a playground. They claimed a table on the terrace. Vanja unbuttoned her blouse discreetly under a draped muslin cloth to nurse Lukas when he fussed, her golden-green eyes scanning the menu while the baby latched on with a fierce suction that echoed through her nerves.
Rudi cut Alex’s schnitzel. “So, your new office. Settled in?”
“It’s adequate. The video system is outdated.” She shifted Lukas to her other breast, a fresh, familiar pang of relief and discomfort. “I’ve ordered upgrades.”
Alex looked up, ketchup on his chin. “Papa says you’re the boss now too.”
“Co-boss,” Vanja corrected gently.
“Like superheroes?” the boy asked.
Rudi laughed, a warm, full sound. “Exactly. She’s the brains. I’m the… loud voice.”
Vanja met his eyes across the table. The sunlight caught the silver in his stubble. In that moment, she saw the whole improbable architecture of their lives: the screaming equipment room, the silent boardrooms, the gurgling baby at her breast, the hopeful boy beside him. It wasn’t a balance. It was a cascade, a glorious, unstable avalanche she was learning to surf.
Lukas finished, milk-drunk. She handed him to Rudi, who cradled him with an instinctive grace, burping him on his shoulder. Vanja buttoned her blouse, the fabric brushing her sensitive nipples. The pain was fading into a deep, settled warmth.
She took a sip of mineral water, watching her family. The game ahead was the biggest of her life, and for the first time, the pitch felt limitless. She had the playbook in her mind, the leverage in her body, and the team, in all its chaotic, glorious forms, right here at this sun-drenched table. She smiled, a real one, and reached for a piece of Rudi’s bread.
“Pass the salt,” she said. It wasn’t a request.
It wasn’t a request. Rudi passed the salt, his fingers brushing hers, a fleeting connection that still carried the morning’s violation in its touch.
Alex kicked the table leg, a monotonous thump-thump-thump that vibrated through the silverware. “I’m bored.”
“Stop that,” Rudi said, not looking up from Lukas’s sleeping form. His tone was automatic, a parental recording.
The boy kicked harder. The water glasses shimmied. “I want ice cream. Now.”
Vanja watched a muscle feather in Rudi’s jaw. Her own patience, already abraded from the equipment room and the meeting, wore thinner. “You’ll have ice cream after you finish your food. Not before.”
“No!” Alex’s voice spiked, shrill and deliberate. He swept his hand out, sending his fork clattering to the stone terrace. Several diners turned. Greta’s lessons in decorum evaporated in the bright sun.
Rudi’s head snapped up. “Alexander. Pick it up.”
“You pick it up.”
The silence was instantaneous and electric. Rudi’s expression darkened, the easy coach vanishing behind the eyes of a man whose authority was being publicly, childishly, dismantled. He shifted Lukas carefully into the crook of one arm, his movements stiff with contained anger.
Before he could speak, a thin, reedy wail erupted from the baby carrier at Vanja’s feet. Lukas, disturbed by the shout or the tension, was awake and furious. His cries were jagged, punching the air.
“Great,” Vanja muttered, the word swallowed by the sudden dual cacophony. She bent to lift him, a fresh lance of soreness shooting through her pelvis as she moved. The baby’s face was red, his tiny fists batting the air.
“I want to go home! This is stupid!” Alex yelled, tears of frustration now mixing with defiance. He shoved his plate. It screeched across the table.
Rudi stood up, looming. “That is enough. You will sit, and you will be silent.” His voice was low, a dangerous rumble that usually made players pale.
Alex flinched but held his ground, a miniature rebellion quaking in his lower lip. Lukas screamed louder, his cries knotting Vanja’s nerves into frayed, screaming wires. The pleasant family scene curdled, exposed as a fragile performance. Milk let down in her breasts, a sudden, warm, embarrassing soak against her blouse, prompted by the baby’s cries and her own spiking stress.
She jiggled Lukas uselessly. “He’s hungry again, or wet, or just fucking furious. I don’t know.” The profanity slipped out, sharp and genuine.
“Just take him to the car,” Rudi said, his focus split, a tactical nightmare. “I’ll handle this.”
“Handle it? He’s throwing a fit because you’ve been staring at the baby all lunch. He exists, Rudi.” She hoisted the screaming infant higher, dampness spreading on her shirt. The elegant co-boss was gone, replaced by a harried, leaking, pissed-off mother.
Alex, seeing an opening, slid from his chair and made a run for it—not toward the playground, but toward the restaurant’s interior, a blur of small fury. Rudi swore, a gut-punch German obscenity, and went after him, moving with startling speed for a man holding a baby.
Vanja was left alone at the wrecked table, clutching a wailing Lukas. The eyes of the other patrons were physical weights. She fumbled for her wallet, threw down enough cash to cover the meal and the scene, and stalked toward the parking lot, every step a jostling agony for the baby and her own raw body.
The car was a sealed tomb of heat. She wrestled Lukas into his carrier, her hands unsteady, then hauled her blouse open. He latched on with a desperate, punishing suction that made her gasp. She leaned her head back against the seat, eyes closed, as he fed. The tears that came were hot, silent, and brief. They were not from sadness, but from a pure, overwhelming saturation.
Ten minutes later, the rear door opened. Rudi guided a silent, scowling Alex into his booster seat, buckling him in with rigid, efficient movements. The boy’s face was streaked and guilty. Rudi slid into the driver’s seat, the door thudding shut with finality. The engine growled to life.
No one spoke for twenty kilometers. The only sounds were Lukas’s soft, post-feed grunts and the hum of the autobahn.
Their new home, the one Nigel had helped them find, was a modern structure of glass and weathered wood, nestled in secluded hills. It should have felt like a sanctuary. It felt like a bunker.
“Go to your room,” Rudi told Alex, his voice emptied of anger, just flat. “Until I say otherwise.”
The boy went, shoulders slumped. Vanja carried Lukas upstairs to the nursery, changed him mechanically, and placed him in the crib. He stared up at her, wide-eyed and calm, the storm passed. She stood over him, hands braced on the rail, until her breathing slowed.
She heard Rudi moving downstairs, the clink of a bottle, the heavy drop of himself into a living room chair. The house held its breath.
Vanja walked into their bedroom, the evening sun painting the floor in long, accusatory stripes. She peeled off the milk-stained blouse, the restrictive sports bra. She stood naked before the full-length mirror, examining the map of her new reality: the silvered scar, the fuller breasts with their pink nipples, the faint stretch marks like faint tides on her hips. The body that commanded a national team.
She heard his step on the stairs, heavy and slow. He appeared in the doorway, a shadow filling the frame. He looked spent, older than he had that morning.
“Today was…” he began.
“A shit show,” she finished, not turning from the mirror.
He came up behind her, his reflection meeting hers in the glass. His hands came to rest on her bare hips, his thumbs stroking the crests of her pelvis. The touch was not an initiation, but a question.
She answered by reaching back, her fingers finding the buckle of his belt. The leather slithered free. He was soft. She turned, pushed him firmly until his knees hit the edge of the bed, and he sat. The predatory focus from the equipment room was back in her eyes, but colder now, a need for reclamation.
She knelt on the plush rug between his spread legs. “You let a six-year-old break your focus,” she said, her voice quiet. She took him into her mouth, not to tease, but to dominate. Her tongue worked the soft flesh with ruthless determination, her lips forming a tight, demanding seal. She used her hand, twisting and pulling in rhythm with her mouth, her gaze locked on his.
He hardened swiftly under the assault, a thick, heavy weight on her tongue. “Vanja…” he warned, a hand coming to her head.
She slapped it away. “No.” She took him deeper, until the head bumped the back of her throat, and swallowed against him. The obscene, wet sound filled the quiet room. She pulled off, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his glistening tip. “You don’t get to direct this. You lost that privilege at lunch.”
She rose, straddled his lap, and guided him inside her with one brutal, sinking motion. She was still wet from earlier, but the entry was a stark, stretching fullness. She clenched around him, a vise of muscle.
“This is what you want,” she hissed, her face inches from his. She began to move, a hard, grinding ride, using her thighs for leverage. “This is what you fucking take. When everything else is chaos, you take this.”
Her breasts swayed with the motion. He grabbed them, rough, kneading the sore flesh, pinching her nipples until she cried out, the pain arcing straight to her core. The earlier soreness was a phantom, burned away by a sharper, more immediate fire.
“My cunt’s still wrecked from you,” she gasped, riding him faster. “And you’re going to fill it again. You’re going to come so deep inside me I’ll taste it tomorrow. Do it.”
Her command unleashed him. His hips pistoned upward, meeting her downward slams. The bedframe knocked a staccato rhythm against the wall. His grip on her hips would leave bruises. The physicality was a purge, a violent reset. There were no tender words, only guttural sounds and the slap of skin.
She felt the coiling snap in her belly first, a detonation that stripped her voice to a raw, broken scream. Her inner muscles fluttered wildly, milking him. With a shattered groan, he followed, pulsing hot jets into her depths, his whole body shuddering beneath hers.
She collapsed forward, her sweat-slick skin sticking to his shirt. They stayed like that, entangled and wrecked, as the last of the sun bled from the room. The silence now was different. Not empty, but settled.
After a long while, she shifted, feeling his spend leak from her onto his trousers. She didn’t move to clean it up.
“We need a nanny,” she said into the darkening room. “A professional. Not your mother.”
He breathed beneath her, his hand tracing the line of her spine. “Okay.”
“And tomorrow,” she said, lifting her head to meet his eyes in the gloom. “You will handle Alex. I will handle the training film for Portugal. And tomorrow night, we will try to have a civil dinner.”
He gave a faint, weary chuckle. “That’s your tactical adjustment?”
“It’s the only play that matters right now,” she said, and finally, she kissed him. It was soft, a closed-mouth press of lips that held the salt of sweat and the ghost of everything else. Outside, through their wall of glass, the first stars appeared, cold and precise in the deepening blue.
Outside, through their wall of glass, the first stars appeared, cold and precise in the deepening blue.
Morning arrived not with a scream, but with a slow, milky haze. Vanja woke to Lukas’s hungry snuffling from the monitor. Her body felt worked-over, a complex map of pleasant and punishing aches. Rudi was already gone, a note on his pillow: Meeting at 8. Handled the nanny agency. She traced the bold script with a fingertip. He had handled it.
Her mother arrived at ten, a whirlwind of efficient warmth smelling of rosewater. She took Lukas from Vanja’s arms with a practiced swoop. “A whole day. You look like you need ten. Go. Connect with your firstborn. The baby is wallpaper; he won’t remember I’m here.”
Alex was in the garden, listlessly kicking a football against the retaining wall. Thump. Thump. Thump. Each impact echoed the restaurant’s disaster.
“Boots on,” Vanja called from the terrace door. “We’re going into the city.”
He didn’t turn. “Why?”
“Because I said so. And because there’s strawberry ice cream with sprinkles at that place you like by the river.”
He finally looked at her, his small face a battlefield of suspicion and hope. “Papa said I’m grounded.”
“Papa isn’t here. I’m overriding the call.” She used her coach’s voice, the one that brooked no debate from millionaire athletes. “Move.”
The city was a bombardment of summer sound and movement. She held his hand tightly crossing the streets, his small, warm palm tucked in hers. At the ice cream parlor, she let him get the strawberry with sprinkles and a toxic blue bubblegum scoop on top. She got a single espresso. They sat at a tiny wrought-iron table watching the river barges slide past.
He ate with intense concentration, avoiding her eyes. Then, with his bowl half-finished, he spoke to his spiraling mess of cream and sugar.
“Mama,” he said, the word muffled.
“Yes, Schatz.”
“It feels like Papa prefers Lukas now.”
The statement landed, a clean, surgical cut. She put her espresso down. The noise of the city faded to a distant rumble. This was the core of it, the poisoned root of the tantrum. Not boredom. Eradication.
She reached over, gently turning his chin so he had to look at her. His eyes were the same golden-green as hers, shimmering with unshed tears.
“That is not true,” she said, each word measured and clear. “Listen to me. Lukas is a noise. A beautiful, demanding noise. But you are our first son. You are the blueprint. Papa loves you with his whole history. He is just… loud with the new noise.”
Alex blinked, a single tear tracing a path through a dusting of blue sugar on his cheek. “He shouts more.”
“He’s German. He shouts at the weather. It doesn’t mean anything.” She brushed the tear away with her thumb. “And I know you will be the best big brother. Because you are smart. And strong. And you have my temper, which is unfortunate for everyone, but useful.”
A faint, wobbly smile touched his lips.
“Now come,” she said, pushing back her chair. “Lukas is with Grandma. Let’s go out and have a fun day just the two of us. I want to show you something.”
“What?”
“Where the magic happens. Or where the shouting happens. It’s the same building.”
The DFB headquarters loomed, a fortress of glass and ambition. The lobby was a cavern of polished stone, echoing with the clicks of expensive shoes and the murmured reverence of tourists viewing the World Cup trophy in its security case. Alex clung to her hand, his eyes wide.
Her security pass got them everywhere. The guards nodded. “Frau Oldenburg.” Their eyes flicked to the boy with curiosity but no surprise. She was a fact here now.
They took the elevator to the executive floor. The hallway was silent, lined with framed photos of legendary goals. Alex pointed at one. “That’s Papa.”
“A long time ago. When his hair was a crime against humanity.”
He giggled, the sound bouncing off the austere walls.
Rudi’s office door was ajar. They heard his voice, not shouting, but firm, layered with a steel-cable tension. “…if you think that fax from UEFA is a suggestion, you’re as naive as you are underqualified. Fix it.”
Vanja pushed the door open.
Rudi stood behind his massive desk, phone to his ear, his back to the windows overlooking the training pitches. He wore a crisp grey shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. The man on the other end of the line was getting flayed alive. Rudi’s gaze, hard as flint, snapped to them. It held on Vanja, then dropped to Alex. Something shifted, a subtle recalibration deep in his eyes. The anger didn’t vanish, but it was compartmentalized, shoved into a locked room.
“I have to go,” he said into the phone, his voice dropping an octave. “Handle it.” He hung up without waiting for a reply.
“We were in the neighborhood,” Vanja said, her voice bland. “Thought we’d see where you plot world domination.”
“Papa, your office is huge!” Alex breathed, releasing Vanja’s hand to venture inside, drawn to a glass case holding a pair of old, mud-caked boots.
Rudi came around the desk. He moved slowly, deliberately. He crouched down, bringing himself to Alex’s eye level, the motion making his knee pop. “It’s big because I have a big head. Your mother tells me this often.” He looked at the boy, really looked at him. “Did you have ice cream?”
“Two scoops.”
“A professional. Good.” Rudi’s hand came up, hesitated, then ruffled Alex’s hair. It was an awkward, tender gesture. “I’m sorry about yesterday. At the restaurant. I was… managing the noise badly.”
Alex scuffed his shoe on the plush carpet. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not. But we’ll do better.” Rudi stood, his eyes finding Vanja’s over their son’s head. The look was a conversation: gratitude, acknowledgment, a simmering heat that had been banked since the previous night. The office, his kingdom, was now subtly permeated with their presence, their fallout, their messy life.
“Show him the trophy room,” Vanja suggested. “I need five minutes with your tactical board for Portugal. I had an idea at three a.m.”
Rudi nodded. “Come on, Alex. I’ll show you the real gold.”
They left, Alex’s chatter fading down the hall. Vanja closed the office door. The silence was immediate, charged. She walked to the tactical board, a massive touchscreen on the far wall, still displaying the 4-2-3-1 formation for the upcoming friendly. But her skin was humming.
She heard the door open and close behind her. She didn’t turn.
His footsteps were quiet on the carpet. He stopped close enough that she could feel the heat of him through her thin linen dress. The scent of his soap, his clean sweat, flooded her senses.
“Thank you,” he murmured, his breath stirring the hair at her nape.
“For what?”
“For bringing him. For the ice cream. For overriding me.”
She finally turned. They were inches apart. The focused intensity from the training camp equipment room was back in his eyes, but refined, distilled into something quieter and more dangerous. The context transformed it. Here, in his sanctum of power, with their son just down the hall, the transgression was more potent.
“You looked at him,” she said softly. “You really saw him.”
“I did.”
Her hand came up, fingers sliding over the rolled sleeve of his shirt, tracing the hard curve of his forearm. “You look good in here. In charge.”
“I am in charge.”
“Are you?” Her fingers walked up to his bicep, squeezed. The muscle was rock-hard. She leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Prove it.”
A low sound vibrated in his chest. His hands closed on her waist, spinning her gently but insistently to face the tinted glass window. The training grounds sprawled below, empty and green. “Quiet,” he commanded, his voice a rough whisper.
He gathered the fabric of her dress in one fist, hiking it up around her hips. She heard the flick of his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper. Cool air hit the backs of her thighs. She braced her hands on the cool glass, her breath fogging a small circle.
He didn’t bother with preliminaries. There was no gentle exploration. His fingers pushed her thin underwear aside, delving into the damp heat he found there. She was already wet, her body anticipating this the moment she’d decided to come here. He grunted, a sound of dark satisfaction.
“Still sore?” he asked, his cock nudging against her, a blunt, demanding pressure.
“Fuck you,” she breathed, pushing back.
He drove into her with a single, deep, claiming stroke. The fullness was breathtaking, a stretch that bordered on pain, a glorious reoccupation. She bit down on a cry, turning it into a choked gasp against the window.
“No,” he growled, his body covering hers, one arm wrapping around her ribs just beneath her breasts, locking her to him. “Let them hear. Let the whole fucking federation hear.”
He set a brutal, possessive rhythm. Each thrust slammed her forward, her palms squeaking on the glass. The world narrowed to the heat of him splitting her open, the hard plane of his stomach against her ass, the relentless drive of his hips. The view of the hallowed training pitches blurred.
“This is my office,” he grunted into her neck, his teeth grazing her skin. “And you walk in here, with my son, smelling of sunshine, and get this cunt so ready for me.”
“It’s always ready for you,” she gasped, the admission torn from her. “Since you wrecked it. It’s yours. A fucking mess. All yours.”
His arm tightened, his hand splaying over her ribs, holding her immobile as he fucked her. The pace was punishing, a raw piston motion designed for ownership, not pleasure, though the pleasure was a searing side effect. She could feel every vein, every ridge of him, a familiar and devastating topography.
“Come,” he ordered, his voice fraying. “Come on my cock in my office. Now.”
The command, the sheer arrogant dominance of it, triggered a convulsive climax. It ripped through her without warning, a silent, shocking seizure of her muscles that clamped down on his driving length. Her vision whited out at the edges. A thin, ragged moan escaped her clenched teeth.
Feeling her internal spasms, he lost his rhythm. With three final, jagged thrusts, he buried himself to the hilt and came. His release was a hot flood inside her, a pulsing claim that made her shudder. He muffled his groan against her shoulder, his big body trembling with the force of it.
They stayed locked together, panting, leaning against the window for support. The evidence of their coupling leaked down her inner thigh. Below them, the pristine pitches lay silent, unaware.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out. He gently tugged her dress back to its place.