Chapter 11: Neuer bends Vanja over the glass balcony, her dress ripped open as he slams into her from behind, groaning 'This cunt belongs to me' while she screams into the night air. The cold metal bites her nipples as he fists her hair, pounding her dripping pussy with such force the railing trembles beneath them.
The penthouse elevator doors slid open, releasing Vanja into the cool, silent darkness of the rooftop. The city sprawled below her, a tapestry of electric gold and deep shadow. She needed the quiet, the space, anything to scrub the memory of Cash’s hands on her hips, his vapid club-banter ringing in her ears. It had been a move, a piece on a chessboard, and it had worked exactly as intended.
She walked to the glass railing, the metal cold even through her dress. She didn’t hear him approach; she felt him. A shift in the air, a presence as solid and imposing as the city’s skyline.
“Did you enjoy your dance?”
Neuer’s voice was low, stripped of its usual captain’s authority, leaving only the razor edge beneath. He came to stand beside her, not looking at her, his profile etched against the lights.
“It was informative,” Vanja replied, tracing a drop of condensation on her wine glass. “He has quick feet. Poor tactical awareness, though. Easily drawn out of position.”
“Don’t,” he warned, the single word a crack of ice.
“Don’t what? Analyze a player? It’s my job.” She finally turned to face him. “Or is it only your job to analyze me? To watch from the shadows and then lock me in rooms when you don’t like what you see?”
He moved then, a swift, predatory turn that caged her against the railing. The city yawned behind her, a hundred-story drop at her back. His hands gripped the cold steel on either side of her hips.
“I saw the way he looked at you.”
“And how was that, Manuel?” she challenged, her voice a taunt. “The way you look at me when you think no one’s watching? Or the way Joshua looks at me when he knows you are?”
His control snapped. A raw, audible thing. He grabbed her face, his fingers digging into her jaw. “You flaunt yourself for a boy. You let him press against you in a room full of people. For what? To get a reaction from me?”
“Is it working?” she breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs. The danger in his eyes was a more potent drug than any champagne.
His answer was a brutal, consuming kiss. It wasn’t about pleasure; it was a punishment, a reclamation. His tongue invaded her mouth, a possessive, angry thrust that tasted of whiskey and fury. She met it with equal ferocity, her teeth scraping his lip, drawing a metallic hint of blood.
He broke the kiss, his breath ragged. “You want a reaction?” He spun her around, facing her toward the sprawling city. His body pressed against her back, his erection a hard line against her through his trousers. One hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back. The other shoved her dress up around her waist, baring her to the night air. “You’ll get one.”
There was no finesse, no seduction. He tore her thong aside with a sharp rip of fabric. He unzipped his fly, the sound harsh in the quiet, and freed himself. He was already slick at the tip, brutally hard.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he growled into her ear. “To be bent over the railing for all of Munich to see? To be fucked like a common whore?”
Before she could answer, he drove into her. A single, deep, tearing thrust that stole her voice and filled her completely. She cried out, a strangled sound swallowed by the city’ hum. He was too big, too rough, and it was perfect.
He set a savage, punishing rhythm, his hips slamming into her with enough force to push her against the unyielding glass barrier. Each thrust was a word in their argument. Mine. Not. His. Mine.
“You think that boy could fuck you like this?” he grunted, his hand leaving her hair to grip her hip, his fingers bruising her skin. “You think he could fill this tight cunt the way I do? Make you scream for it?”
Vanja could only gasp, her fingers splayed against the cool glass, her world reduced to the brutal friction of him moving inside her. The sheer exposure was a terrifying thrill. Anyone in the taller buildings across the way could be watching, seeing the legendary Manuel Neuer take her from behind with raw, animalistic fury.
“Answer me,” he demanded, his pace never faltering.
“No,” she moaned, the admission torn from her. “No one. Only you.”
His hand slid around her hip, his fingers finding her clit. He rubbed it with a rough, circular pressure that was almost painful, sending jolts of electricity through her oversensitive nerves. “Then come for me. Now. I want to feel you come on my cock while you remember who you belong to.”
The command, the relentless stimulation, the degrading, glorious reality of it all broke her. Her orgasm crashed over her, a wave of violent, shuddering pleasure that clenched around his invading length. She screamed, the sound raw and unfiltered, echoing into the vast night.
Feeling her convulse around him was his undoing. With a guttural roar that was pure, undiluted triumph, he buried himself to the hilt and poured into her, his own release a hot, pulsing flood that seemed to go on forever. His body shuddered against hers, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, joined, breathing in ragged unison. The city lights twinkled, indifferent.
Slowly, he pulled out. The night air felt cold on her exposed, wet skin. He turned her around to face him. His expression was no longer angry, but stark, stripped bare. He looked at her—her flushed face, her swollen lips, her dress bunched at her waist—with a strange, almost pained intensity.
He tucked himself away and zipped his fly, the mundane action a bizarre contrast to what had just occurred. He reached out and, with a surprising gentleness, smoothed her dress back down.
“The team training,” he said, his voice hoarse. “It’s at ten. Don’t be late.”
He turned and walked away, leaving her alone against the railing, the scent of him on her skin, the feel of him deep inside her, and the chilling certainty that this war between them had no end in sight. It was only just beginning.
Vanja stood trembling against the railing, the city’s lights blurring through unshed tears of fury and arousal. Her skin tingled where his hands had been, the ache between her legs a raw testament to his possession. The chill night air did nothing to cool the fire he’d ignited deep inside her.
She heard the soft swoosh of the rooftop door opening behind her. She didn’t need to turn; the familiar, lighter footfall was unmistakable. “Enjoying the view, Josh?” she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.
Kimmich moved to lean against the railing beside her, his gaze fixed on her disheveled state. “Saw Manuel storm out. Looked like he lost a final.” He nodded toward her torn thong, barely hidden by her dress. “He leave any for the rest of us, or did he claim the whole pitch?”
Vanja met his eyes, seeing the predatory interest there. “There’s always room on the bench for a substitute.” The challenge hung between them, charged and dangerous.
He closed the distance in one swift movement, his hand cupping her between her legs through the fabric. “Fuck, you’re soaked.” His fingers pressed hard, making her gasp. “Did that arrogant bastard even make you come, or just piss you off?”
“Why don’t you find out?” she taunted, her body already responding to his touch.
He spun her around, shoving her face-first against the cold glass. “I’ve been waiting for this since the locker room.” He yanked her dress up to her waist, exposing her completely. “Watching him have you first made me so fucking hard.”
His cock was already out, thick and eager, slapping against her thigh. He didn’t bother with foreplay. He drove into her from behind, one brutal thrust that buried him to the hilt. Vanja cried out, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth glass.
“Tighter than I imagined,” he grunted, his hands gripping her hips like vices. He set a relentless pace, each slam echoing the city’s pulse below. “You like this, don’t you? Being the team’s little fucktoy.”
She could only moan, the fullness overwhelming her. “Yes… god, yes…”
He leaned over her, his breath hot on her neck. “Tell me who’s fucking you now.” His rhythm was jagged, possessive. “Say my name, you brilliant bitch.”
“Joshua,” she gasped, the word a surrender. “It’s you, Joshua.”
He fucked her harder, his balls slapping against her with wet, filthy sounds. “I’m going to fill this perfect cunt until it overflows.” His voice was a rough whisper. “Make sure you remember me every time you sit down tomorrow.”
The raw vulgarity sent her over the edge. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and consuming, her inner muscles clamping down on him in rhythmic waves. Feeling her come undone, he growled and poured into her, his own release a hot, endless flood that sealed their complicity.
He stayed inside her for a long moment, both of them breathing heavily. Then he pulled out, the sudden emptiness a shock. He tucked himself away, his expression unreadable. “Training at ten,” he said, echoing Neuer’s words. “Don’t be late.”
He left her there, stained and used, the city’s lights winking like a thousand knowing eyes. The game was far from over.
The game was far from over. Vanja’s hands trembled as she straightened the bunched fabric of her dress, the silk clinging damply to her thighs. She felt the cool night air kiss the wetness between her legs, a stark reminder of the two men who had claimed her minutes apart. Her body ached with a deep, satisfying soreness, but her mind churned with the implications of this dangerous triangle.
From the shadowed recesses near the penthouse door, he watched her dress. Manuel Neuer stood perfectly still, his broad shoulders leaning against the cold steel frame, his blue eyes tracking her every movement. He saw her fingers fumble with the thin strap on her shoulder, the way she winced slightly as she smoothed the material over her hips. The city’s glow outlined her form, highlighting the messy cascade of her dark blonde hair and the defiant set of her jaw.
He didn’t move, didn’t speak. His silence was a heavier presence than any touch. He watched the subtle shift of muscles in her back as she reached behind to adjust the dress, his gaze dropping to the faint red marks his hands had left on her skin. The possessive curl in his gut tightened, a raw, unspoken claim that vibrated in the space between them.
Vanja felt the weight of his observation like a physical pressure, a chill that had nothing to do with the night. She knew he was there, could sense the intensity of his focus as surely as if he were still inside her. She didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge him; instead, she took a slow, steadying breath, the air filling her lungs with the scent of rain and their mingled sweat.
His eyes followed the line of her leg as she bent to retrieve her torn thong from the floor, a dark, sodden scrap of lace. He watched her slender fingers curl around it, then tuck it into the small clutch she carried, a practical, unembarrassed act that sent a jolt of pure, undiluted lust through him. This was not a woman who would be shamed; she would catalog the evidence and plan her next move.
He finally shifted, the soft scuff of his shoe on concrete breaking the silence. “You missed a button,” his voice was low, rough from disuse, and carried across the rooftop with intimate clarity.
Vanja’s hands stilled at the small of her back. She finished fastening the button, her movements deliberate and unhurried. “I suppose you’re an expert on women’s clothing now,” she said, her tone flat, devoid of its usual sarcasm. She finally turned to face him, her golden-green eyes meeting his across the distance.
He didn’t smile. His expression was granite, but his eyes burned with a cold fire. “I’m an expert on you.” He pushed off from the doorframe, taking a single step forward, his presence instantly dominating the expansive rooftop. “On what you look like when you come. On the sounds you make when you’re being fucked by someone else.”
She held her ground, her chin lifting. “Is that what this is? A debriefing?”
“It’s a reminder.” He stopped a few feet from her, his gaze dropping to her mouth, then back to her eyes. “The game has rules. You don’t get to change them mid-play.”
“I didn’t realize I was playing your game, Manuel. I thought I was coaching a team.”
“You’re in my world now.” His voice dropped to a near whisper, lethal and intent. “Every breath you take here is part of it. Every touch you allow. Every fucking moan.” He closed the remaining distance, his body not touching hers but radiating heat. “And I’m always watching.”
He watched her dress, his eyes lingering on the final button she secured, on the way her hair fell across her face as she looked down. He saw the slight tremor in her hand before she clenched it into a fist at her side. He saw the flush that remained on her chest, the evidence of his possession, and Kimmich’s, marked on her skin. He saw it all, and he stored every detail away, fuel for the next confrontation, the next brutal claiming. He turned and walked away, leaving her standing there, perfectly dressed and utterly exposed, the pieces set for the next move.