Chapter 14: Jealous Fingers
The bus engine’s low rumble was a constant vibration through the worn leather seat, a dull counterpoint to the frantic rhythm of her heart. Joshua’s hand was still under her skirt, his fingers, slick and possessive, resting high on her inner thigh. The warmth of his palm was a brand. Across the aisle, Elias slept on, his head lolling against the window, completely unaware of the violation happening three feet away.
Joshua didn’t look at her. His gaze was fixed on the passing streetlights that streaked the dark interior with orange and white. His profile was sharp, unreadable. “You’re still trembling,” he murmured, his voice so low it was almost lost under the road noise.
Vanja said nothing. She pressed her knees together, a futile, instinctive gesture of modesty. His fingers flexed, a subtle threat of pressure that made her breath hitch.
“Stop that,” he said, still not looking at her. His thumb stroked a slow, maddening circle on her sensitive skin. “You don’t get to be shy now. Not after the sounds you were making.”
She could feel the wetness he’d coaxed from her cooling on her skin, a sticky testament to her own complicity. Shame warred with a dark, thrilling sense of exposure. He had known. He had seen right through her professional facade to the raw nerve underneath.
“I wasn’t—” she started, her voice a strained whisper.
“You were.” Finally, he turned his head. His eyes were dark pits in the shifting shadows. “Every time he made a run, every time he took a shot. I could feel it. You were so fucking wet for him it was dripping down my fingers.” He shifted his hand, his middle finger finding her entrance again, not pushing in, just resting there, a blunt, claiming pressure. “You like watching him, don’t you? The golden boy. All that raw, untamed energy.”
His words were a violation as deep as his touch. They stripped her bare more effectively than any act of undressing. She squeezed her eyes shut, the notebook digging into her clenched hands.
“Look at me, Vanja.”
She forced her eyes open. His gaze was unwavering.
“Answer me.”
“Yes,” she breathed, the admission torn from her. It was the truth, and he knew it. The fight, the arrogance, the sheer physicality of Elias—it all got under her skin, lit a fuse she tried desperately to ignore.
A slow, cold smile touched Joshua’s lips. It wasn’t a kind expression. It was the look of a man who had just checkmated his opponent. “I know.” His finger pressed inward, just the tip, a promise and a punishment. “But it’s me who has his fingers inside you while he sleeps. Remember that.”
He withdrew his hand completely, leaving her feeling abruptly empty and exposed. He pulled a packet of tissues from his pocket, wiped his fingers with a detached, clinical efficiency, and tossed the used tissue into the footwell. The gesture was so dismissive it felt like a slap.
“Get some rest,” he said, turning his body away from her to stare out the window once more, the conversation clearly over. The shift was jarring. From intimate violator to distant colleague in a heartbeat.
Vanja sat frozen, the heat between her legs a throbbing, aching reminder. The bus swung around a corner, and Elias stirred. He mumbled something in his sleep, his hand sliding down to adjust himself through his track pants, a crude, unconscious echo of the tension humming in the air. She watched the movement, her mouth going dry. Joshua’s words echoed in her mind. You were so fucking wet for him.
The bus finally pulled into the hotel’s underground car park, the sudden silence after the engine cut off feeling deafening. Players groaned, stretching and gathering their bags. Elias blinked awake, running a hand through his disheveled hair. His eyes found Vanja’s immediately, sharp and alert, as if he’d somehow been aware of her the whole time.
“Good nap, Princess?” he asked, a lazy, challenging grin spreading across his face.
Before she could form a retort, Joshua stood, blocking her view. He reached for his bag from the overhead rack, his movements efficient. “Richter. A word about your second-half positioning before you disappear.”
It was a clear dismissal, an order from a senior player to a junior. Elias’s grin tightened, but he nodded, throwing one last, unreadable look at Vanja before following Joshua off the bus.
She was left alone in the back, the scent of their sweat and his cologne and her own arousal clinging to the air. Her legs felt weak as she stood, her skirt a whisper against skin that still tingled from his touch. She gathered her things, her mind a storm of confusion and a dark, coiling need.
The corridor on their floor was quiet, most of the players already in their rooms. She fumbled with her key card, her hands unsteady. The lock clicked green and she pushed the door open, desperate for the solitude of her own space.
She didn’t get it.
A strong arm shot out, wrapping around her waist from behind, and a hand clamped over her mouth, stifling her gasp. The door was kicked shut, plunging them into the dim quiet of her room. She was spun around and pushed back against the door, the wood cool and hard against her spine.
Elias.
His body was a line of heat pressed against hers, his eyes blazing with a fury she hadn’t expected. “What was that?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.
She tried to shove him away. “Get off me, Elias.”
He didn’t budge. He leaned in closer, his nose almost touching hers. “On the bus. You and Kimmich. Don’t think I was completely out of it. I felt the tension. I saw the way you looked when I woke up.” His hand moved from her mouth to grip her chin, his fingers firm. “He touched you, didn’t he?”
The directness of the question stunned her into silence. She just stared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs.
His laugh was a short, harsh sound. “I knew it. That fucking predator.” His gaze dropped to her lips, then lower, to the neckline of her shirt. The anger in his eyes began to morph into something else, something hotter and more possessive. “You let him?”
“It’s none of your business,” she managed, though the words lacked any real force.
“The hell it isn’t.” He released her chin and his hands went to the waistband of her skirt, yanking it down her hips along with her underwear in one rough, decisive movement. The fabric pooled around her ankles. “He doesn’t get to have you first.”
He crushed his mouth to hers, it wasn’t a kiss of affection, but of conquest. His tongue forced its way past her lips, demanding and tasting of mint and rage. One hand fumbled with his own track pants, pushing them down just enough to free his erection, which was already hard and pressing insistently against her stomach.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. “You want the golden boy, Vanja? Here he is.”
He hooked one of her legs over his hip, opening her up to him. There was no preamble, no gentle easing. He drove into her in one single, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
A sharp, choked cry was torn from her throat. She was still slick from Joshua’s fingers, but the sudden, full invasion was a shock. Her nails dug into the muscles of his shoulders as he filled her, stretching her, a painful, perfect fit.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to hers, his body shuddering. “God, you’re tight.” He didn’t move for a moment, just let her feel the entire, rigid length of him inside her. Then he pulled back and slammed into her again, setting a punishing rhythm against the unyielding door.
Each thrust jarred her teeth, rattled the door in its frame. It was raw and frantic, stripped of all pretense. This wasn’t about pleasure; it was about ownership, a claim being staked in the most primitive way possible. His grunts were hot against her ear, filthy, broken words. “This is mine. You understand? This cunt is mine.”
She should have hated it. She should have fought him. But the sheer, animalistic force of him, the raw display of power, ignited something just as primal in her. Her body arched into his, meeting his thrusts with a desperation of her own, her earlier encounter with Joshua only heightening the sensitivity, making every nerve ending scream.
“Elias,” she gasped, her head spinning.
He read the surrender in her voice, in the way her body clenched around him. His hand slid between them, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing hard, fast, circles that were almost cruel in their intensity. “Come for me,” he commanded, his voice guttural. “Come on my cock. Show me who you belong to.”
The pressure built, a coil tightening to breaking point. The friction, the obscene sound of their bodies slapping together, the possessive fury in his eyes—it was too much. Her vision whited out as the orgasm ripped through her, a silent, searing wave that clenched around him, milking his length.
Feeling her convulse around him was his undoing. With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself inside her, his own release hot and pulsing as he groaned her name into the crook of her neck, his body going rigid against hers.
For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing, mingling in the dark space between the door and his body. He was still inside her, still pinning her to the wood. Slowly, he lifted his head. His eyes, no longer furious, were dark and intense, searching hers.
He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. His voice was a low, possessive whisper that sent a fresh shiver down her spine.
“Now he’ll know.”