Chapter 7: Vanja gasps as Neuer's teeth sink into her shoulder, his thick fingers spreading her slick folds before driving into her with brutal precision. 'Fuck—yes, right there!' she screams, her back arching as he pistons into her dripping cunt, the slap of wet skin echoing off the marble walls.
The silence that followed her challenge was louder than any scream. For three days, it stretched between them, a taut wire thrumming with unspent energy. At the training ground, his gaze was a physical weight, a brand that followed her from the pitch to the analysis room. He never spoke of it, never acknowledged the shift. He just watched, his blue eyes calculating, as if she were a new formation he needed to break.
The tension built like a storm front, oppressive and electric. It broke after a brutal Champions League press conference, where journalists had circled like vultures, asking about legacy, about pressure, about things no athlete ever truly wanted to articulate. Vanja had watched from the side, her professional mask firmly in place, seeing the rigid set of Neuer’s shoulders, the tight line of his jaw. He was a fortress, but even fortresses had cracks.
She found him in the executive shower room, a place of gleaming marble and glass, the steam already thickening the air. He was alone, standing under one of the rainfall showerheads, his back to her, water sluicing down the powerful grooves of his back and shoulders. The view through the glass wall was of the empty, floodlit training pitches, a silent, green stage.
He didn’t turn. “Lock it.”
The same command. The same finality. Her fingers trembled as she slid the bolt home. The hum of the water, the hiss of steam, the scent of sandalwood and clean, wet skin—it was a different sanctuary, but the ritual was the same.
She stripped off her clothes, the fabric falling soundlessly to the damp floor. The steam kissed her skin, a prelude to a different kind of heat. She walked towards him, the marble cool under her bare feet.
He turned as she stepped under the jet, the hot water instantly plastering her dark blonde hair to her skull and back. His eyes were dark, stormy, the controlled calm of the press conference completely gone. He looked feral.
Without a word, he grabbed her, spinning her and pinning her front against the cool, wet tiles. He captured both her wrists in one of his large, strong hands, yanking them above her head. The pressure was unyielding.
“Tell me you want this,” he demanded, his voice a low growl against her ear, barely audible over the drumming water. His other hand slid down her side, over the curve of her hip, and between her legs from behind. His fingers parted her, rough and demanding.
She gasped, her body arching against the tile. His cock, hard and thick, pressed against the cleft of her ass, grinding between her thighs, a promise of what was to come. The contrast of the cool tile on her front and the scorching heat of him at her back was dizzying.
“Say it,” he insisted, his fingers finding her clit, circling with a brutal, precise pressure that made her knees buckle.
“Yes,” she choked out, the word swallowed by the steam. “God, yes, I want it.”
“Want what?” His voice was relentless. He bit the tendon where her neck met her shoulder, a sharp, claiming pain.
“You! I want you, Manuel. Fuck me. Please.”
That was all the permission he needed. He released her wrists, his hands gripping her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. He guided himself to her entrance, the head of his cock pressing against her slick, swollen folds. He didn’t slide in. He pushed, a slow, inexorable, stretching invasion that made her cry out, her forehead pressing against the tile.
He filled her completely, a perfect, burning fit. He held there for a moment, buried to the hilt, both of them panting, the water cascading over them. Then he began to move.
It was a different rhythm from before. Not the frantic hunger of the hallway, nor the cold, deliberate possession of the massage room. This was raw, athletic, deep. Each thrust was a piston stroke, driving the air from her lungs, pushing a moan from her throat with every impact. The sound of their bodies meeting, a wet, slapping rhythm, echoed off the marble and glass.
“Is this what you think about?” he grunted, his pace relentless, his hands keeping her pinned. “When you’re in your meetings with your charts and your PhD theories? You think about this cock splitting you open?”
“Yes!” she screamed, the admission torn from her, her fingers scrambling for purchase on the slick tile.
He fucked her harder, deeper, his body a machine of pure muscle and intent. One of his hands left her hip and tangled in her wet hair, pulling her head back, forcing her to look at their reflection in the glass wall opposite. Her face was flushed, her eyes wild, her mouth open in a silent cry. His body, powerful and driving, moved against and within hers. The sight was as obscene as it was arousing.
“Watch,” he commanded, his voice ragged. “Watch me take you.”
He changed his angle, hitting a spot inside her that made her vision blur. A broken string of curses and pleas fell from her lips. She was close, so close, the coil tightening to a screaming point of no return.
“Come for me,” he ordered, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, more focused. “Now.”
It was the command in his voice, the sheer dominance, that shoved her over the edge. Her orgasm ripped through her, a violent, convulsing wave that clenched around him, milking his length as she shuddered against the tiles, her cry echoing in the steamy enclosure.
He followed her over, his own control shattering. With a final, deep, guttural roar, he drove into her one last time, his body seizing as he emptied himself inside her, his release a hot flood amidst the cool stream of the shower.
For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing and the steady pulse of the water. He slumped against her, his weight a heavy, welcome burden. His forehead rested between her shoulder blades, his breath hot on her skin.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. He turned her around, his hands gentle now, framing her face. The storm in his eyes had subsided, replaced by a look of stark, unsettling vulnerability. Water dripped from his dark blond hair onto her cheeks like tears.
He searched her face, his thumb tracing her jawline. “This changes everything,” he whispered, the words a confession, a surrender.
The steam clung to them, a wet shroud in the sudden quiet. His whisper hung between them, a fragile thing in the aftermath of their brutality. Vanja’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic echo of his fading pulse against her back.
He didn’t move away. His hands, which had been so punishing, now cradled her face with an unnerving tenderness. She could feel the steady thrum of his body against hers, the water washing away the evidence but not the sensation. “Manuel,” she breathed, her voice hoarse.
His blue eyes, usually so distant, were now dark pools of raw possession. “Mine,” he stated, the word not a question but a decree. He lowered his head, his mouth capturing hers in a kiss that was nothing like before—it was deep, claiming, and terrifyingly final.
His tongue plunged into her mouth, a deliberate invasion that mirrored what his body had just done. One hand slid from her face down her neck, over her breast, his thumb roughing over her nipple until it peaked into a hard, aching point. A low groan rumbled in his chest.
He broke the kiss, his breath hot against her lips. “I’m going to fuck you again,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly. “Right here. And you’re going to come on my cock until you forget your own name.”
Before she could answer, he spun her around, pressing her front back against the tiles. He kicked her legs wider apart, the marble cold against her inner thighs. His hand smoothed down the curve of her spine, a possessive stroke, before settling on her hip.
He entered her in one smooth, brutal thrust, his cock sliding back into her slick, willing heat. She cried out, her fingers splaying against the wall. He was still half-hard, but he filled her completely, stretching her anew.
“That’s it,” he grunted, setting a slow, deep rhythm. “Take all of me.” Each push was a deliberate reclaiming of the territory he’d already conquered. His other hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back to watch their reflection.
Her eyes were glazed, her lips swollen. His body, powerful and relentless, moved against hers. “See?” he growled. “See who you belong to now?”
He drove into her harder, faster, the wet slap of their skin echoing off the glass. The pleasure built, a coiling tension that was sharper, more intense than before. She was already sensitive, every nerve ending alive and screaming for him.
“Please,” she begged, unsure what she was asking for. “Don’t stop.”
“I won’t,” he promised, his voice fierce. He bit her shoulder, a sharp, stinging claim that would leave a mark. “I’m never going to stop.” His fingers found her clit, rubbing tight, frantic circles.
The orgasm tore through her, a raw, shuddering wave that left her limp against the tiles. He followed with a guttural roar, pumping his release deep inside her, his body shuddering against hers.
He held her there for a long moment, both of them breathing heavily. Then, with a final, almost reluctant withdrawal, he stepped back. The water rinsed them clean, but the new marks on her skin and the ache between her legs remained.
He turned off the shower. The sudden silence was deafening. He grabbed a towel, not for himself, but for her. He wrapped it around her shoulders, his movements oddly gentle.
“Get dressed,” he said, his voice back to its usual command, but softer now. “We’re leaving.”
She looked at him, her mind reeling. “Where?”
A faint, dangerous smile touched his lips. “My place. I’m not done with you yet.”