Chapter 6: Reunited
The heavy Mercedes door thudded shut behind Vanja, sealing Hansi inside with the scent of their violence and the echoing finality of her single syllable. Berlin’s damp night air, thick with exhaust and the distant pulse of the city, hit her like a physical blow. She didn’t look back. Didn’t hesitate. The sheer stockings snagged on the curb as she strode towards the main road, the torn silk whispering against her bruised knees with every step. She flagged down the first taxi she saw, its yellow light a beacon in the gloom.
Her penthouse was cold and silent, a stark contrast to the humid chaos of the club and the claustrophobic heat of the car. She bypassed the sprawling living room with its panoramic, glittering view of Potsdamer Platz and headed straight for the sanctuary of her bedroom. The click of the lock behind her felt inadequate. She leaned back against the cool wood, eyes closed, the image of Hansi’s ravaged expression as she’d said “No” flashing behind her lids – a momentary flicker of satisfaction quickly swallowed by a wave of hollow exhaustion. Her throat throbbed where his fingers had pressed. Her body ached, deep and familiar, the pleasant burn of exertion warring with the sharper sting of abrasions from the car’s leather and the residual tremors running through her muscles.
She peeled the ruined silver dress off with clumsy fingers, letting it pool on the deep charcoal carpet like discarded chrome. The dim light from the en-suite bathroom caught the darkening marks on her neck, the faint red pressure lines above her stockings. She avoided the mirror. A long, scalding shower did little to erase the phantom sensations: the grip in her hair, the brutal invasion, the conflicting surge of power and violation. She toweled off roughly, pulled on soft, loose sleep shorts and a thin camisole, craving the simple anonymity of fabric.
Padding barefoot back into the cavernous bedroom, she poured two fingers of expensive bourbon, needing the amber fire to burn away the lingering taste of him. She sank onto the edge of the vast, low-slung bed, the city lights painting shifting patterns on the far wall. The silence pressed in, amplifying the frantic drumming in her chest. She took a long swallow, the liquor a welcome distraction, and reached for her phone. Ignoring notifications – likely Pavlovic’s bewildered texts, perhaps Hansi’s fury – she opened her private photo vault. Scrolled past candids with celebrities, victory podium shots, sponsor galas… stopped on a selfie taken weeks ago. Her, laughing, head thrown back, sun-drenched on a yacht deck in Saint-Tropez. Carefree. Untouchable. The Vanja the world saw. She touched the screen, tracing the image of her own smile. It felt like looking at a stranger.
A sharp, unexpected buzz at the penthouse intercom jolted her. Her heart leapt, then plummeted. Hansi. He wouldn’t. Would he? The buzzer sounded again, insistent. She crossed the plush carpet on silent feet, the bourbon glass forgotten on the nightstand. The security screen flickered to life beside the door. Not Hansi’s harsh angles and furious eyes. It was Marco Reus. His familiar, handsome face was slightly flushed, his usually immaculate dark hair ruffled, a lopsided grin playing on his lips. He leaned towards the camera lens, holding up a bottle of champagne and a greasy paper bag that smelled faintly of currywurst through the speaker.
“Schatzi? You decent? Or at least decent enough for a rescue mission involving questionable street food and bubbles?” His voice, warm and slightly slurred with good cheer, crackled through the speaker, a jarring contrast to the tension coiling inside her.
Relief, unexpected and immense, washed over her, followed by a flicker of annoyance. She wasn’t in the mood. But the alternative – the echoing silence, the ghosts in the room – was worse. She hit the release. “Marco? What are you doing here? It’s past two.”
The elevator ascended with a faint hum. Moments later, he was pushing open her front door, filling the entryway with his presence – the scent of cool night air, expensive cologne, and the unmistakable aroma of fried onions. He took her in, the grin softening into something more observant. His eyes, sharp despite the champagne, flickered over her bare legs, the loose sleepwear, the way she held herself – a fraction too stiffly.
“Saw the lights on. Heard whispers you left Adidas Fest early looking… intense.” He stepped inside, kicking the door shut with his heel. “Figured you might need reinforcements. Or at least a decent kebab.” He held up the bag. “Got your favourite. Extra chili.”
Vanja managed a weak smile, the casual concern hitting her harder than she expected. “Intense is one word for it,” she muttered, turning back towards the living room, suddenly conscious of the bruises hidden by the camisole strap. “Champagne’s unnecessary, Marco. But the kebab… maybe.”
He followed her, dropping the greasy bag onto her pristine glass coffee table. He uncorked the champagne with a practised twist and satisfying pop, pouring frothing liquid into two flutes he’d clearly brought himself. “Unnecessary? Nonsense. Celebrations are always necessary. Even the… ambiguous ones.” He handed her a glass, his gaze lingering on her face. “Rough night with Herr flick?”
Vanja took the glass, the chill seeping into her fingers. She took a sip, the bubbles sharp on her tongue. “Something like that.” She avoided his eyes, focusing on the shifting cityscape beyond the windows. “Old business. Messy business.”
Marco didn’t press. He settled onto the deep sofa beside her, close but not crowding. He opened the paper bag, the scent of spiced meat and fried bread suddenly overwhelming the room’s expensive perfume. “Messy business deserves messy food,” he declared, pulling out a hefty, sauce-dripping kebab. He tore off a chunk of bread, stuffed with meat and salad, and offered it to her. “Eat. Distract the demons with carbs.”
The sheer normality of it, the easy companionship, cracked something brittle inside her. She took the offered messy handful. They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, grease shining on their fingers, champagne bubbles tickling their noses. Vanja felt the rigid tension in her shoulders begin to ease, fractionally. Marco watched her, his expression thoughtful.
“He hurt you,” Marco stated quietly, wiping his fingers on a paper napkin. It wasn’t really a question. His eyes dipped meaningfully towards her collarbone, where the edge of a bruise peeked above the camisole strap.
Vanja stiffened. “It’s complicated, Marco.” She took another gulp of champagne, the alcohol warming her core but doing little for the cold knot in her stomach. “He… he crossed lines tonight.”
“Flick always was good at crossing lines,” Marco murmured, his voice losing its light-hearted edge. He leaned closer, his presence suddenly more focused, more intense. The playful footballer vanished, replaced by someone older, sharper. “He forgets some things shouldn’t be trampled.” His gaze travelled slowly, deliberately, from the bruise on her collarbone down the length of her body, resting for a moment on the faint red marks visible above the hem of her shorts. “Does it still hurt?”
The question, so simply asked, held a different weight. Vanja met his eyes, seeing the shift in him. The easy charm was still there, but layered over something hotter, more predatory. Comfort warred with a sudden, sharp awareness of him as more than just a friend. The bourbon and champagne hummed in her veins, blurring the edges of caution. “Some things hurt,” she admitted, her voice lower. “Some things… just feel too much.”
Marco didn’t reply immediately. He reached out, not touching the bruises, but tracing a feather-light line along her forearm, just above her wrist. His touch was a stark contrast to Hansi’s violence – deliberate, testing, intensely aware. “Too much like what?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.
Vanja shivered. The emptiness, the violation, the adrenaline crash – it all coalesced into a sudden, desperate need for sensation that wasn’t pain. For connection that wasn’t ownership. For something to fill the void Hansi had carved open and then abandoned. Marco’s eyes held hers, understanding and offering. He saw the storm, and he wasn’t running.
“Too much like… noise,” she whispered, the city lights reflecting in her wide, green eyes. “Silence is worse.”
That was all the invitation Marco needed. His hand slid up her arm, over her shoulder, into the hair at her nape. His grip was firm, grounding, yet unlike Hansi’s, it held no anger – only heat and intent. He pulled her towards him slowly, giving her space to refuse. Vanja didn’t. She leaned in, the distance collapsing. His mouth found hers, not demanding conquest, but seeking a different kind of oblivion. It was a deep, thorough kiss, tasting of champagne and spice, warm and insistent. A current of pure, uncomplicated desire sparked, chasing away the lingering ghosts of the corridor and the car.
He pulled back just enough to murmur against her lips, his breath warm. “Let me quiet the noise, Schnellfee.” His other hand slid beneath the hem of her camisole, his palm hot and broad against the skin of her lower back.
Vanja answered by tangling her fingers in his hair, pulling him back to her. This wasn’t about Hansi. This was about the heat pooling low in her belly, the need to feel alive, desired, wanted without the shadow of anger. Marco responded with a low groan, his kiss deepening, turning hungrier. He eased her back onto the plush cushions of the sofa, his body following, settling over hers with a weight that was both comforting and exciting.
His hands were everywhere, mapping her through the thin fabric. He kissed her throat, carefully avoiding the darkening marks Hansi had left, his lips trailing fire down to the neckline of her camisole. He tugged it down, freeing her breasts, his mouth closing over one peaked nipple with a groan of appreciation, sucking gently, then with increasing pressure, his tongue swirling. Vanja arched into the sensation, a gasp escaping her as pleasure, sharp and clean, sliced through the lingering echoes of pain. His hand slid down her stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of her shorts, his fingers seeking the heat between her legs. She was already wet, aching. His touch, skilled and knowing, found her clit instantly. A cry tore from her throat – pure sensation, undiluted.
“Marco…” Her voice was ragged.
“Quiet,” he murmured against her skin, his fingers circling, pressing, finding a rhythm that matched the pounding of her heart. “Just feel.”
He replaced his fingers with his mouth, pushing the shorts down her hips as he moved lower. The sensation of his tongue, hot and relentless, lapping at her, delving deep, was overwhelming. He knew what he was doing, his movements practised and devastatingly effective. Vanja’s hands fisted in the cushions, her hips lifting off the sofa, seeking more. The world narrowed to the point of contact, the building pressure, the slick heat of his mouth. The noises she made were involuntary, high and desperate. All thought, all memory, was burned away in the white-hot intensity.
He brought her to the edge with his mouth, then pulled back, leaving her gasping, trembling on the precipice. His eyes, dark with desire, met hers. He unfastened his jeans, freeing his erection, thick and straining. He positioned himself at her entrance, the head nudging her slick heat. “Look at me,” he commanded softly, his voice rough.
Vanja opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. There was lust there, yes, but also a focused concentration, a shared intensity. He pushed in slowly, filling her completely, a deep, stretching burn chased immediately by profound relief. He groaned, a sound of pure pleasure, his head dropping for a second before lifting again, his eyes never leaving hers. “Christ, Vanja…”
He began to move. Not with Hansi’s punishing fury, but with a powerful, controlled rhythm. Deep, measured thrusts that hit a spot deep inside her with unerring accuracy. Each stroke was deliberate, designed to draw out sensation, to build the fire slowly and relentlessly. Vanja wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him deeper, meeting his thrusts with equal fervour. The friction was exquisite, the fullness perfect. She raked her nails down his back, feeling the muscles bunch and flex under his shirt. He captured her mouth again, the kiss messy, hungry, stealing her breath.
The rhythm built, becoming faster, harder, yet still controlled. Marco’s breath came in harsh gasps against her neck. Sweat beaded on his brow. Vanja felt the pressure coiling again, tighter, hotter, a different kind of tension – a pure, unadulterated climb towards release. She cried out, the sound swallowed by his kiss. He shifted slightly, angling his hips, hitting a new, devastatingly sensitive spot. White light exploded behind her eyes. Her body arched violently, every muscle clenching, wave after wave of pure ecstasy crashing through her, wringing a sobbing gasp from her throat.
Her climax triggered his. He buried his face in her neck, his movements becoming frantic, stuttering. A deep, guttural groan vibrated through him as he emptied himself into her, his body shuddering with the force of his release. He collapsed onto her, his weight a warm, comforting anchor, his breath hot and ragged against her skin.
They lay tangled on the sofa for long moments, the only sounds their slowing breaths and the distant hum of the city. Vanja felt boneless, sated, the frantic energy of the night finally dissipated, replaced by a deep, liquid warmth. Marco shifted, rolling slightly to his side, pulling her with him, spooning her against his chest. He pressed a soft kiss to her temple, his arm draped possessively over her waist.
“Quieter now?” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction.
Vanja didn’t answer immediately. The noise was gone. The anger, the violation, the hollow ache – silenced under a thick blanket of physical exhaustion and temporary satisfaction. But beneath the warm haze, a different awareness prickled. Marco’s arm around her. His scent on her skin, mingling with Hansi’s phantom traces. The champagne bottle, half-empty on the table. The greasy paper bag. This wasn't resolution. It was a pause. A very pleasant, complicated pause.
She rested her head against his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart. “For now,” she whispered, closing her eyes. The city lights continued their silent dance on the ceiling, indifferent. The silence felt different now. Not empty. Just waiting.
The silence stretched, thick with city light and spent breath. Marco’s arm was a warm, possessive weight around her waist, his heartbeat steady against her back. Vanja stared at the shifting constellations of Potsdamer Platz reflected on the high ceiling, the deep, liquid warmth of release already cooling inside her, leaving a familiar, hollow echo. Hansi’s phantom fingers seemed to brush the bruises on her throat. The champagne fizz had gone flat. Marco shifted, nuzzling the nape of her neck. “Mmm. Better?” His voice was sleep-rough, satisfied.
"Better," she lied, her own voice thin. The temporary oblivion was fading fast, replaced by a restless churn. The pleasant ache between her legs was already morphing into a different kind of throb – not pain, not exactly. A need. Insistent. Unmet. His hand rested low on her belly, his thumb idly tracing circles just above the waistband of her shorts. Each slow stroke felt like a spark against dry tinder. She pressed back slightly into his solid warmth. He hummed, a low vibration against her spine.
"Good." His hand slipped lower, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin beneath the elastic. Vanja’s breath hitched. It wasn’t gentle exploration this time; it was a knowing touch, reigniting embers she thought were banked. He knew. He felt the subtle tension returning to her muscles, the slight arching of her back. "Still noisy in there, Schnellfee?" he murmured, lips grazing her shoulder.
Her hand shot back, gripping his wrist. Not pushing him away. Pulling him lower, pressing his fingers harder against the damp fabric already clinging to her core. "Shut up, Marco." The command was rough, ragged. A demand stripped of playfulness. She needed the roar again. The obliterating wave. Not the quiet. Never the quiet.
He understood the raw edge in her voice. His answering chuckle was dark, appreciative. "Demanding tonight." He rolled her onto her back in one smooth movement, pinning her wrists lightly above her head against the soft cushions. His eyes, no longer sleepy, scanned her face – the flushed skin, the dilated pupils, the tight set of her jaw. His gaze dropped, lingering on the fading marks Hansi had left, a flicker of something cold passing through them before vanishing. He leaned down, his breath hot on her ear. "Tell me what you want."
The directness punched through her. No games. No pretense. Just the raw transaction of need. "More," she breathed, the word scraping out. Her hips lifted off the sofa, seeking friction, seeking him. "Harder."
A predatory grin touched his lips. "That I can do." He released her wrists, his hands instead gripping her hips, fingers digging into the firm muscle of her thighs. He yanked the flimsy shorts down her legs, tossing them aside. His own jeans were shoved down just enough. No preamble. He thrust into her, deep and immediate, filling the aching emptiness with a single, brutal stroke. Vanja cried out, a sharp, startled sound swallowed by the vast room.
He didn’t ease in. This was not the measured rhythm of before. This was a piston, driving into her with relentless, powerful force. Each impact jolted her body, shoved her up the cushions. His grip on her hips was iron, controlling the angle, the depth. Her fingers scrabbled against the sofa back, seeking purchase. The world blurred into sensation: the slap of skin, his ragged gasps, the slick heat where their bodies joined. Pain and pleasure twisted together, inseparable. She welcomed the burn, the stretch. It felt like erasure. A brutal scrubbing of the night’s violation.
"Look at me," he growled, his voice strained. Her eyes flew open, meeting his fierce gaze. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "See who's fucking you." It was a claim. A reminder. Not him. Me. She held his stare, defiant, even as her body bowed under the onslaught. "Yes," she gasped, the word ripped from her throat with each driving thrust.
He shifted, hooking one of her legs over his shoulder, opening her wider, driving impossibly deeper. The angle changed, hitting a raw nerve center. Pleasure detonated, white-hot and shattering. Her vision whited out. She screamed, a raw, animal sound that echoed off the glass walls. Her body clamped down around him in violent spasms, milking him, demanding his surrender.
He roared, his rhythm fracturing into desperate lunges. His release slammed into her, hot and pulsing, a final, possessive claim. He collapsed forward, bracing himself on his arms above her, his breath sawing in and out. Vanja lay utterly spent, trembling, tears she hadn’t realized were forming leaking from the corners of her eyes. The roar had been deafening. Blissfully deafening.
Marco lowered himself slowly, rolling them both onto their sides, facing each other on the wide sofa. He brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead, his touch unexpectedly gentle now. His eyes searched hers, the intensity replaced by a weary satisfaction, a hint of concern. "Noise gone?" he asked quietly, his thumb tracing the track of a tear.
Vanja closed her eyes. The silence rushed back in, vast and echoing. But it felt different now. Scoured clean. For a moment. Her body hummed, every nerve ending alive and raw. She felt hollowed out, yet paradoxically full – filled with him, with the brutal intensity, with the temporary victory over the ghosts. She opened her eyes. Marco watched her, waiting. The city lights painted shifting patterns across his face.
"Not gone," she murmured, her voice hoarse. She reached out, her fingers tracing the hard line of his jaw, slick with sweat. A different kind of hunger sparked, low and dangerous. Her gaze dropped pointedly. He was already stirring again against her thigh. A slow, predatory smile touched her lips, echoing his own earlier expression. "Just... changing channels." Her hand slid down, wrapping around his renewed hardness, feeling the jump of his pulse beneath her palm. She squeezed, deliberate, testing. "Your turn to be noisy, Schatzi."