Chapter 4: Window Fuck
The Uber’s sterile silence was a void after the pub’s roar. Vanja stared out at the blur of London lights, her knuckles white around the phone. Isabella’s video was a brand on her brain. Tilly’s wounded, hopeful face floated behind her eyes, an accusing ghost. She couldn’t go back to the hotel. Not to that quiet room that now smelled of them, of her own betrayal. The hollow inside her demanded filling, not with tenderness, but with a force equal to the storm in her head.
Her thumb moved before her rational mind could engage. A text to the number she’d saved hours ago, after the bathroom corridor. Your offer still open?
Lucas Bergval’s reply was instantaneous. An address in Mayfair. A penthouse code. Come up.
The building was a sleek monolith of glass and steel. The lobby was all cool marble and silent security. The private elevator whisked her upward, her stomach dropping. The doors opened directly into the apartment.
It was a study in curated masculine wealth. Vast, open-plan, dominated by floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a dizzying, postcard view of the city’s glittering spine. The lights were low, highlighting minimalist furniture and clean lines. It felt like a showroom, devoid of the chaotic, lived-in mess of her Munich place with Dino.
Lucas stood by a towering window, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He’d shed his jacket, the crisp white shirt stretched across his broad shoulders. He didn’t smile. He just looked at her, his blue eyes assessing, like he was judging a transfer target’s potential.
“You made good time,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
Vanja stepped out of the elevator, letting her coat slip from her shoulders to the floor. “I don’t like to waste it.”
He set his glass down on a quartz table with a soft click. The sound was final. He crossed the space, not with a lover’s approach, but with the focused stride of an athlete closing in. He stopped just inside her personal space, his gaze traveling from her boots up her legs, over her hips, her chest, to her face. The appraisal was stark, physical.
“Why are you here, Vanja Kongsgard Jakobsen?” he asked.
She met his look, unblinking. “To feel something.”
“And what do you want to feel?”
“Nothing complicated.” She reached for the hem of her sweater, pulling it over her head in one fluid motion. She stood before him in her jeans and a simple bra, the city lights painting her skin in silver and shadow. “Just physics. Force. Reaction.”
A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. “I can work with that.”
His hands came up, not to caress, but to claim. They spanned her waist, his thumbs pressing into the muscles of her abdomen. He was strong—not the wiry, explosive strength of a sprinter, but the dense, powerful strength of a man who threw his weight around for a living. He bent his head and kissed her.
It wasn’t the exploratory kiss from the pub’s corridor. It was a takeover. His mouth was demanding, his tongue pushing past her lips with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. He tasted of expensive whiskey and mint. Vanja kissed him back with equal ferocity, biting his lower lip, sucking it hard. She wanted to cancel out the memory of Tilly’s soft, wondering mouth.
He walked her backward, their mouths locked, until her shoulder blades hit the cool, monolithic glass of the window. The entire city sprawled beneath them, a billion tiny lights. He broke the kiss, breathing heavily, his forehead pressed to hers.
“Look at that,” he murmured, nodding at the view. “All those people. And you’re up here with me.”
“Shut up and fuck me,” Vanja snarled, her fingers scrambling for his belt.
He chuckled, a dark, pleased sound. He made quick work of his own clothes, then hers. His body was a sculpted testament to his profession: thick pectorals, a corrugated abdomen, powerful thighs crisscrossed with faint, white scars. His cock was already hard, thick and heavy, standing rigid against his stomach.
He didn’t lead her to the sprawling, pristine sofa or the bedroom she glimpsed down a hall. He pushed her back against the window, the glass a shocking cold against her bare skin. He lifted her, his hands under her thighs, and she wrapped her legs around his waist automatically. Her back was pressed to the cold, hard surface, suspended over the city. There was no romance in it. It was exposure. Possession.
He guided himself to her entrance, the broad head nudging against her. She was wet, her body’s traitorous response to the raw dominance of the act.
“Tell me you want it,” he growled, his breath hot on her neck.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” she shot back, her voice tight.
“Say it.”
She hesitated. The ghost of Tilly’s whisper—However you want—flitted through her mind. This was the opposite. This was a demand. She leaned forward, her lips at his ear. “Fuck me, Lucas. Just fuck me. I want to feel you tear me apart.”
He drove into her.
The sheer, brutal fullness stole her breath. He was bigger, thicker than she’d anticipated, stretching her with a fierce, burning pressure. A gasp tore from her throat, part pain, part shocking pleasure. He didn’t pause, didn’t gentle. He set a deep, pounding rhythm, his hips slamming her body against the unyielding glass with each thrust. The window vibrated faintly with the impact.
“Oh, fuck,” he grunted, his face buried in her shoulder. “You’re so fucking tight. Like a vise.”
Vanja’s head fell back against the window with a dull thud. Her world narrowed to the savage, piston-like drive of his cock inside her, the cold glass on her back, the hot slide of their sweaty skin. This was what she’d craved. A blunt instrument. A punishment. Something to obliterate the confusing tenderness, to drown out the whispered filth she’d fed Tilly. She matched his rhythm, meeting each thrust with a snap of her own hips, her nails carving half-moons into the hard muscle of his shoulders.
“Is this what you wanted?” he panted, his pace quickening, becoming rougher. “This what you came up here for? To get used like a fucking toy?”
“Yes!” The word was a scream, torn from some deep, damaged place. “Harder! Don’t you fucking stop!”
He obliged. His hands shifted, gripping her ass, fingers digging in, spreading her as he fucked up into her with brutal, upward strokes. The angle changed, hitting a spot deep inside that made lights flash behind her eyelids. A coil, tight and white-hot, began to spiral in her core.
“I’m gonna come,” she warned, her voice ragged, unrecognizable.
“Come on my cock,” he commanded, his own breathing ragged. “Let me feel it. Squeeze that perfect little cunt for me.”
The crude permission, the sheer physical dominance, shattered her. Her climax ripped through her with violent, ungraceful convulsions. Her back arched off the glass, a silent scream on her lips as her internal muscles clamped down on him in rhythmic, desperate pulses. The pleasure was intense, obliterating, and utterly hollow at its center.
Feeling her contract around him tipped him over the edge. With a final, guttural shout, he buried himself to the hilt, his body stiffening as he came inside her, hot jets pulsing deep within. He held her there, pinned between his body and the city, for long moments, both of them shuddering through the aftershocks.
Slowly, he let her slide down. Her legs, wobbly and weak, barely held her. She leaned against the glass, forehead pressed to the cool surface, staring down at the tiny, distant cars. Her body thrummed with raw sensation, used and spent. The hollowness yawned wider.
He stepped back, wiped a hand over his mouth, and walked to the kitchen island, pouring two glasses of water. He brought one to her. She took it without looking at him, gulping it down.
“You’re everything they say you are,” he said, leaning against the window beside her, his gaze on the view.
She didn’t answer. The phone, discarded with her clothes on the floor, began to vibrate. Not a call. A series of rapid-fire text alerts. The sound was an ice pick in the strange quiet.
Lucas raised an eyebrow. “Popular.”
Vanja ignored him. She set the glass down and walked naked across the cool concrete floor, retrieving the phone. The screen was a list of notifications.
Amanda (3)
Where did you go? Tilly is a mess.
Seriously, Vee. Call her.
This isn’t like you.
Tilly (5)
Why did you say that?
What does that mean?
Please talk to me.
I don’t understand.
I’m scared.
The last one, sent just two minutes ago, was a single line: I watched the video.
Vanja’s blood turned to slurry in her veins. Her breath locked in her chest. What video? She hadn’t sent Tilly anything. The only video…
A new message flashed, not from Tilly, but from the Munich number. Marie.
Isabella showed initiative. She thought your little Swedish project should see what a real woman looks like taking what she needs. Seems she found her on socials. Training Monday. Be ready. We have work to do.
The room tilted. The gleaming penthouse, the arrogant man beside her, the entire glittering city below—it all receded into a tunnel of cold, sharp panic. Isabella had sent the video. The raw, degrading, throat-fucking video. To Tilly.
Her mind flashed to Tilly’s face: innocent, eager, blushing with new desire. Then it superimposed the video: Isabella’s streaked mascara, her stretched, spit-slick lips, the grotesque imitation of cock. The two images collided with psychic violence.
“I have to go,” Vanja said, her voice flat and dead.
“Now?” Lucas sounded amused, disappointed. “We’re just getting started.”
She was already pulling on her clothes, her movements jerky, inefficient. “Something’s happened.”
He watched her dress, sipping his water. “The little sister? The footballer?”
Vanja’s head snapped up. “What do you know about her?”
He shrugged. “Amanda talks. Said she’s sweet. Innocent. Not really your type, I’d have thought.” His eyes glinted. “But then, maybe she is. You like them eager to please, don’t you? Easy to corrupt.”
The words hit their mark with terrifying accuracy. Vanja felt seen, flayed open. She yanked her sweater on, not bothering with her bra.
“This was fun,” Lucas said, not moving from the window. “You know where I am. When you want another… physics lesson.”
She didn’t answer. She stabbed the elevator button, her heart hammering against her ribs. The descent felt like falling. The polished steel doors reflected a distorted, pale version of herself—a ghost in expensive clothes, reeking of another man’s sweat and cum, racing toward a disaster entirely of her own making.
The Uber back to the hotel was a nightmare of stillness. She texted Tilly, her fingers trembling. Tilly. Don’t watch it. Don’t. I’m coming. We need to talk.
No reply. The three grey dots didn’t appear.
Amanda’s room was dark. Tilly’s door was closed. Vanja pressed her ear to it. Silence. She knocked, softly at first, then with more force. “Tilly. It’s me. Open the door.”
Nothing.
She used her own keycard on the adjacent room and went straight to the connecting door. It was locked from Tilly’s side. She knocked on it. “Please. Let me explain.”
A sound, then. A muffled, wet sob.
“Tilly…”
“Go away.” The voice was small, shattered. “Just go away, Vanja.”
“I can explain about the video. It’s not what you think.”
“What is it, then?” The voice was closer now, right on the other side of the door. “Is that what you want? Is that what you were thinking about when you were with me? Her… doing that?”
“No.” The lie was ash in her mouth. Because part of it, the darkest part, was true.
Because part of it, the darkest part, was true. The image had been there, flickering at the edge of her conscience while Tilly’s tongue traced her hip bone. Vanja slumped against the door, the solid wood the only thing holding her up. “It’s old. It’s meaningless. She’s trying to hurt me.”
“By showing me?” Tilly’s voice cracked. “Why would that hurt you?”
Vanja closed her eyes. The truth was a boulder in her throat. “Because I care what you think.”
Silence, heavier than before. Then the metallic scrape of the lock. The door opened a few inches. Tilly stood there, backlit by a single bedside lamp. Her face was ravaged, cheeks blotchy, blue eyes swimming. She wore an oversized Tottenham hoodie and nothing else, her bare legs looking fragile. She stared at Vanja, taking in her disheveled hair, the fresh mark Lucas’s mouth had left on her collarbone, the strange, empty look in her eyes.
“You smell different,” Tilly whispered, a fresh tear tracking through the salt on her skin.
Vanja had no defense. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. The room was tidy, a direct contrast to the emotional wreckage within it. Tilly’s running shorts were folded neatly on a chair. “Isabella Rossi. She’s a jouranlist I was with. A few times. It ended badly.”
“She was… she was choking on you.” The words were barely audible, horrifyingly clinical.
“It was a performance.” Vanja’s own voice sounded hollow, detached. “For the camera. For control. It wasn’t real.”
“And what was this?” Tilly’s gesture was small, encompassing the space between them, the memory of Vanja’s mouth between her legs, the whispered filth. “Was that a performance?”
“No.” Vanja moved then, crossing the room in two strides. She didn’t try to embrace her. She just knelt on the floor in front of where Tilly stood, looking up at her, a posture of surrender. “That was me wanting you so much it scared me. That was real. And I ruined it.”
Tilly looked down at her, confusion and hurt warring. “You left. Right after. You just left.”
“I panicked.” Vanja pressed her forehead against Tilly’s thigh, feeling the muscle tense. The scent of Tilly’s skin, clean cotton and sleep, cut through the stale perfume and sex clinging to her. “I’m a fuck-up, Tilly. I don’t know how to do… gentle. I saw how you looked at me and I wanted to eat you alive or run. So I ran. Right into something ugly.”
“Why did she send it to me?”
Vanja lifted her head. The answer was suddenly, glaringly obvious. “She is trying to get me. She is trying to seduce me, or ruin me. She saw I liked your photos. She is jealous.”
Tilly absorbed this, blinking slowly. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “I see.”
“I’m sorry,” Vanja said, the words raw. “Please go to sleep. She won’t do it again.”
“Okay,” Tilly whispered, the fight draining out of her, leaving only a profound exhaustion.
Vanja stood, her knees protesting. She guided Tilly to the bed, pulled the duvet over her. She sat on the edge, watching until Tilly’s breathing evened out into the shallow rhythm of troubled sleep. Only then did she slip out, pulling the door closed with a soft click.
Amanda was in the hallway, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. She’d changed into pajamas. Her expression was unreadable. “Well?”
Vanja walked past her into their shared room, going straight to the minibar. She cracked open a small bottle of vodka, drank it warm. “It’s Isabella Rossi.”
“Isabella… the Italian forward? You slept with her?” Amanda’s eyes widened in dawning understanding. “And she got jealous. Of Tilly?” She let out a short, incredulous laugh. “That’s crazy.”
Vanja nodded, tossing the empty bottle into the bin. “Isabella is crazy. She’s obsessed with me. And, well, don’t be surprised if she sees you as a threat, too.”
Amanda laughed again, a harder, sharper sound. “You always fucked the craziest ones. Remember that Dutch gymnast who keyed your bike?”
A ghost of a smile touched Vanja’s lips, devoid of humor. “Yeah.”
“So what’s the play?” Amanda asked, getting serious. “Restraining order? Call the club?”
Vanja shook her head, staring at the city lights through the window. The hollow feeling from Lucas’s penthouse had returned, now filled with a cold, familiar resignation. “No. That gives it oxygen. I just have to be smarter.” She ran a hand through her tangled hair. “I guess I should just go back to fucking Thomas from time to time. Keep it simple. Uncomplicated.”
Amanda snorted, shaking her head. “Yeah. You should.” There was a long pause. “For what it’s worth, Tilly’s not like the others. She’s not built for your… world.”
The observation landed with the weight of a verdict. Vanja didn’t answer. She just stared out at the night, already feeling the old, isolating walls solidify around her again.