Chapter 6: Claimed
The metallic rasp of the zipper hung in the air, sharp and final. Granit’s cock sprang free, thick, flushed, and brutally hard, veins standing proud against the rigid shaft. Pre-cum glistened at the swollen tip. Vanja’s breath hitched, her gaze locked on the sheer, intimidating size of him. Her hand hovered, trembling slightly, inches from the scorching heat radiating off him.
"Do it," Granit snarled, his voice thick with lust and command. His fingers were still buried inside her, a constant, stretching reminder. "Touch it. Take what you fucking wanted."
Her defiance surged, mingling with the raw, liquid need pooling between her thighs. She didn’t hesitate. Her fingers closed around him. Hot. Heavy. Velvet skin over iron-hard muscle. A strangled groan tore from Granit’s throat as her hand slid down his length, feeling the thick vein pulsing beneath her palm. She squeezed, experimentally, her thumb brushing over the slick head, smearing the pre-cum. His hips jerked forward involuntarily.
"Fuck, Vanja," he gasped, his eyes burning into hers, dark pools of pure, predatory hunger. His fingers withdrew from her cunt with a wet sound, leaving her clenching around emptiness. Before she could protest, his hands clamped onto her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh above her ass. He lifted her effortlessly, her feet leaving the floor as if she weighed nothing. Her back slammed against the cool metal door, the impact jarring her teeth.
He held her pinned there, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, her ruined silk panties a damp scrap caught between them. His cock, thick and insistent, pressed against her soaked entrance. The swollen head nudged her slick folds, parting them slightly. She felt the blunt pressure, the impossible stretch waiting to happen. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her nails biting into the hard muscle of his shoulders through his damp shirt.
"Say my name," he growled, the command rough against her ear. His hips rolled, grinding the head against her clit, sending sparks shooting through her already sensitized nerves. "Say it."
"Granit..." she breathed, the name catching in her throat. It wasn't enough.
He surged forward.
One brutal, powerful thrust. No finesse. No gentle easing. He impaled her in one deep, searing stroke, burying himself to the hilt inside her tight, wet heat.
Vanja’s cry ripped through the room – a sharp sound of shock, pain, and overwhelming pleasure. The stretch was immense, burning, filling her completely. Her inner walls clamped down instinctively around the invading thickness, trying to accommodate him. Her head thudded back against the door, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream.
"FUCK," Granit roared, his own face contorted with primal satisfaction. He held himself deep for a heartbeat, buried to the root, letting her feel every inch of him stretching her wide. The wet, obscene sound of their joining echoed – the slick slide, the tight suction of her cunt gripping him. "Tight little cunt... squeezing me like a fucking vice."
He withdrew almost completely, leaving her gasping at the sudden emptiness, then slammed back in with the same brutal force. Again. And again. His pace was relentless, punishing. Each powerful thrust drove her body back against the unforgiving metal door, the rhythmic thudding punctuating the wet slap of flesh on flesh. His hands gripped her ass, fingers digging in, lifting her slightly with each downward plunge to meet his driving cock, maximizing the depth.
Vanja’s world narrowed to the sensations tearing through her. The searing friction as he pistoned in and out, the hard ridge of his cockhead dragging against her inner walls, the relentless pressure against her cervix. The pain of the initial stretch melted into a deep, throbbing ache that radiated pleasure. Her cries turned into desperate moans, high-pitched and ragged. Her legs tightened around him, her hips grinding down onto his thrusts, meeting him stroke for stroke, seeking more, deeper, harder.
"Say it!" he demanded again, his voice ragged, his breath hot and harsh against her neck. He bit her shoulder, a sharp sting that dissolved into liquid heat. His thrusts became shorter, harder, deeper grinding motions, his pubic bone grinding against her clit with every savage plunge. "SCREAM IT!"
"GRANIT!" Vanja shrieked, the name ripped from her soul. It wasn't just compliance; it was a surrender, a raw acknowledgment of the pleasure tearing her apart. "Oh god, GRANIT! Fuck! Don't stop!" Her body convulsed around him, tightening impossibly, her inner muscles fluttering wildly as another orgasm crashed over her, triggered by the relentless pounding against her deepest spot and the friction on her clit. Juices gushed, soaking his cock and thighs, the wet sounds intensifying.
He groaned, a deep, guttural sound of triumph and impending release. Her climax milked him, pulling him towards the edge. His rhythm faltered, becoming erratic, desperate. He buried himself deep and held there, grinding his hips against hers, his cock pulsing violently inside her. "Vanja... fuck...YES!" Hot jets of cum erupted deep within her, flooding her pulsing channel, thick and searing. He shuddered violently, his arms locking around her, holding her crushed against him and the door as he emptied himself, his hips jerking with each powerful spurt.
They hung there, suspended against the door, panting harshly, slick with sweat, trembling in the aftermath. Granit’s forehead rested against hers, his breath hot and ragged on her face. His softening cock was still buried deep inside her, connected. The air reeked of sex, sweat, and exertion. Distantly, the muffled roar of the departing crowd filtered through the thick walls.
Slowly, Granit lifted his head. His dark eyes, hooded and sated, searched her flushed face, her dazed green-gold eyes. A possessive satisfaction settled over his features. He brushed a sweat-damp strand of hair from her forehead. "Mine," he murmured, the word thick, final.
Vanja stared back, the haze of pleasure slowly clearing. The cool metal against her back, the ache deep inside her, the sticky mess between her thighs – undeniable proof of what just happened. But the old wound, the sting of Basel, hadn't vanished. It simmered beneath the surface, sharpened by the intensity of his possession. Her lips parted. "Basel," she whispered, the single word a challenge thrown into the charged silence.
The name hung between them like a shard of ice in the humid air. Vanja watched the possessive satisfaction drain from Granit’s face, replaced by a flicker of startled recognition, then defensive anger. His softening cock slipped from her, leaving a hot, wet emptiness and a trickle of his release down her inner thigh. The sudden coolness made her shiver violently against the metal door.
"You remember now?" Her voice was low, sharp, edged with years of buried humiliation. She pushed against his chest, forcing space between their sweat-slicked bodies. Her legs trembled as her feet found the floor, the ache deep inside her a stark counterpoint to the fury rising in her throat. "After that? After you fucked me like a stranger against a fucking door?"
Granit’s jaw tightened, his dark eyes blazing. He didn’t move away, his hands still hovering near her hips as if to reclaim her. "Fuck, Vanja," he rasped, the roughness in his voice shifting from lust to frustration. "Don't."
"Don't what?" She shoved his hands away, her own trembling as she tried to pull the torn remnants of her dress over her breasts. The silk clung damply. "Don't remind you that you looked right through me back then? Like I was fucking nothing?" The memory stung, fresh and raw beneath the scent of sex and exertion. "Every damn time. At training, at that café, after the derby win...nothing."
He flinched, a muscle jumping in his cheek. His gaze dropped for a second, then snapped back to hers, fierce and unyielding. "I did notice you," he growled, the admission ripped from him. His hand shot out, fingers digging possessively into the curve of her waist, pulling her half a step closer despite her resistance. His grip was bruising, anchoring her. "You know why I couldn't..."
"Couldn't what?" Vanja hissed, trying to twist free. His hold was iron. "Too scared? Too important?" Her laugh was brittle, devoid of humor. "Nothing changed, Granit. Nothing changed." She spat the words, green-gold eyes blazing defiance into his dark ones. "If you were too scared before..."
"Oh no, fuck that," he snarled, cutting her off. He yanked her hard against him, her bare breasts crushed against his damp, rumpled shirt. His other hand tangled in her dark blonde hair, tilting her head back, forcing her to meet his burning stare. His breath was hot and harsh on her face. "Everything changed." His voice dropped, thick with conviction and a raw vulnerability she hadn't heard before. "I was a stupid boy then." His thumb brushed roughly over her kiss-swollen lips. "I'm a man now." His gaze held hers, unflinching, the possessiveness back, deeper, fiercer. "And I'm not letting you go again."
The declaration hung in the thick air, heavier than the scent of their coupling. Vanja stared up at him, her breath catching. The fury warred with a treacherous flicker of something else – the undeniable heat his words, his touch, still ignited. Her body remembered the brutal possession, the searing pleasure, even as her mind screamed betrayal. She felt trapped between the cold metal door and the furnace of his body, between resentment and the raw, terrifying pull of his claim.
Granit saw the conflict. Slowly, deliberately, he released her hair, his hand sliding down to cup her jaw. His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone, a stark contrast to the violence of moments before. He leaned down, his lips hovering inches from hers. "You feel that?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. "How fucking wet you still are for me?" His hand slid down her body, over the curve of her hip, fingers slipping easily through the slick mess between her thighs. He gathered his own cum mixed with her arousal on his fingers. "Even pissed as hell?" He brought his wet fingers to her lips. "Taste it. Taste us."
A shudder ran through Vanja. Revulsion warred with a dark, undeniable thrill. She turned her head away sharply. "Get off me," she whispered, the tremor in her voice betraying her. She pushed against his chest again, weaker this time.
He didn't move. He watched her, his expression unreadable now, the fierce possessiveness tempered by something watchful, calculating. He wiped his fingers on his own trousers, never breaking eye contact. The distant roar of the crowd outside was a dull echo, a world away from the charged silence of the media room. Slowly, deliberately, he reached down and picked up her discarded panties, the scrap of lace damp and torn. He tucked them into his pocket without a word.
Vanja watched the gesture, a fresh wave of heat flooding her cheeks. It was obscene. Possessive. Final. She pulled her dress together as best she could, the torn fabric gaping. Her legs felt unsteady. She took a shaky step back, putting precious inches between them. The cool air hit her damp skin, raising goosebumps. The ache deep inside her throbbed.
Granit straightened his own clothes, his movements deliberate, his eyes never leaving her. He ran a hand through his dark, sweat-dampened hair. The silence stretched, thick with unsaid things and the lingering electricity of their collision. He took a step towards her, then stopped, as if reconsidering. His gaze swept over her disheveled form, the defiance still sparking in her eyes beneath the confusion.
He nodded once, a sharp, decisive movement. "We're not done," he stated, the words flat, absolute. Not a question. A promise. He turned and walked towards the door leading deeper into the stadium’s private areas, his stride purposeful. He didn't look back.
Vanja sagged against the cold metal doorframe, trembling. The scent of him, of sex, of exertion, filled her nostrils. She pressed her thighs together, feeling the sticky evidence of him inside her, on her skin. Her mind raced – Basel, his forgotten glances, the brutal claiming against the door, the raw confession, the terrifying promise in his eyes. I'm not letting you go again. The echo of his words mingled with the fading roar of the crowd outside. She closed her eyes, breathing hard, utterly alone in the aftermath.
Vanja slid down the cold metal doorframe, her trembling legs finally giving out. The sharp scent of sex and sweat clung to her skin, an inescapable reminder staining her like the sticky dampness between her thighs. Distant cheers echoed through the stadium walls, a hollow counterpoint to the silence choking the media room.
She fumbled for her phone, fingers slippery, dialing Aleksandar. His familiar voice, laced with post-match fatigue, cut through the haze. "What the fuck happened? You vanished." Vanja pressed her forehead against the cool metal, the sting of tears blurring her vision. "I need a ride, Sash. Can’t… can’t explain now. Back entrance."
Alone again, she squeezed her eyes shut, replaying Granit’s words. ‘I’m not letting you go again.’ Possession, not apology. The phantom ache inside her throbbed, a raw echo of his invasion, his release still slick on her skin. Her torn dress felt like a humiliation she couldn’t peel off.
Granit slammed the door to the players' secluded lounge. Silence. No teammates, just expensive leather couches and the lingering adrenaline souring in his gut. He paced, running a hand through his hair, the scent of her arousal still on his fingers. Fuck. Basel. Her eyes, wounded and defiant, burned in his memory. He’d been a fucking idiot back then, blind, focused only on the game, on proving himself, scared shitless of the fierce intensity she radiated even at nineteen.
He pulled out his phone, scrolling past notifications buzzing like angry hornets. Found the contact. Agnessa. His thumb hovered, then stabbed the call button. It rang twice. "Gran? Everything okay? Saw the win." His sister's voice, familiar and grounding.
He leaned heavily against the wall, the cool plaster a stark contrast to the heat still simmering under his skin. Words tangled in his throat. "Nessi," he rasped, the raw admission clawing its way out. "I think… fuck… I think I love her." The silence on the line stretched, taut.
Agnessa’s laugh, warm and knowing, finally broke it. "Well then," she chuckled, the sound easing the tightness in his chest slightly. "Better not scare her away this time, brother."
Relief, edged with a desperate hope, washed over him. He laughed too, a rough, unfamiliar sound. "Yeah. Yeah, okay." He ended the call, pocketing the phone, the torn scrap of Vanja's lace still there. A promise. An anchor. He wasn’t fucking this up again.
Morning light streamed through the towering windows of the Bayern Munich PR headquarters, sharp and unforgiving. Vanja stood poised before the sleek glass table, the picture of icy professionalism in a tailored black suit, her dark blonde hair pulled into a severe knot. She gestured precisely at the projected match analytics, her voice calm, authoritative. "The narrative needs shifting before the Dortmund clash. Fan sentiment analysis shows vulnerability on defensive transitions." Her gaze swept over the assembled marketing heads, crisp, detached. Inside, her nerves were frayed wire.
Granit watched her from the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. He’d arrived early, ostensibly for a sponsor briefing. His dark eyes tracked her every move – the sharp line of her jaw, the controlled sweep of her hand, the way the light caught the gold flecks in her otherwise cool green eyes. She hadn’t acknowledged him, not a flicker. It was impressive. Infuriating. His Vanja, trembling and screaming his name barely twelve hours ago, now radiating glacial competence.
She finished her summation, fielding questions with clipped efficiency. As the team began shuffling papers, Granit moved. He crossed the room silently, weaving through the dispersing suits. Vanja was gathering her tablet, her focus absolute. He stepped close, too close for professionalism, the heat of his body a sudden invasion. His breath was a warm, intimate current against the shell of her ear as he leaned in.
"You're talking about defensive vulnerabilities," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly whisper only she could hear, laced with dark amusement. "And you look so fucking professional." His hand brushed lightly against the small of her back beneath her jacket, a fleeting, possessive touch. Vanja froze, her skin prickling. He felt the minute tremor run through her. "And yet," his lips almost touched her earlobe, his next words a filthy, deliberate rasp, "I can't get the image of you coming on my cock out of my fucking head. Your cunt clenching, milking me dry. That sound you made."
A violent, undeniable blush erupted, scorching its way up Vanja's neck, flooding her cheeks, clashing horribly with her meticulously applied makeup. Her breath hitched, knuckles whitening on her tablet. She didn’t turn. Couldn’t. The raw, explicit memory slammed into her – the brutal thrusts, the searing stretch, the helpless convulsions of her climax around him. Her professional facade cracked, a hairline fracture revealing the chaos beneath.
Granit straightened, a faint, satisfied curve on his lips as he watched the blush spread. He met her furious, embarrassed sidelong glare. The connection crackled, charged with the unspoken filth of the night before and the impossible tension of the sterile morning. He gave her a slow, deliberate look, a silent vow echoing the one he’d made against the door. We’re not done. Then he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there, exposed and trembling, the scent of him and the echo of his words clinging to her skin.