Chapter 9: Vanja's legs tremble around Roman's shoulders as he laps at her swollen clit, two fingers pistoning inside her dripping cunt while his other hand brings a spoonful of melting vanilla ice cream to her lips - 'Take it all, malyshka,' he growls before slamming his cock home, making her scream around the pickle clenched between her teeth.
The morning light cut across the tangled silk sheets, illuminating the evidence of their night. An empty pint container of ice cream lay upturned on the nightstand. A half-finished jar of cornichons sat beside it, the brine pale in the early sun. Vanja stirred, the unfamiliar weight of the diamond catching the light and scattering prismatic dots across Roman’s sleeping face.
He was on his back, one arm thrown possessively across her waist even in sleep. She studied him—the sharp line of his jaw, the surprisingly soft set of his mouth. The man who could reduce a billionaire to tears over a balance sheet, who had bought a medical chain to erase a paper trail, who fucked her with a desperate, worshipful fury. Her husband-to-be. The father of her child. The concept was too vast, too terrifying to hold in the quiet morning.
She carefully extricated herself, his arm tightening for a second before falling away. The cool air raised goosebumps on her naked skin. Padding to the bathroom, she caught her reflection. Her blonde hair was a wild mane. A faint, bruise-like mark bloomed on her neck. Her breasts felt heavier, the blue veins more prominent beneath her skin. She placed a hand low on her abdomen, still flat, and felt nothing but the ghost of his fervent touch from the night before.
The transfer budget argument that had precipitated the tears, the sex, the pickles, felt trivial now. It wasn’t about money. It was about territory. He’d questioned her judgment on a midfielder’s valuation, his tone slipping into the cold, analytical boardroom voice that shut everyone out. She’d seen red. The pregnancy had made her emotions volatile, a fact that enraged her more than his criticism. She’d snapped, hurling statistics like knives, and when he’d remained implacable, the furious tears had come—a betrayal by her own body. He’d watched them fall, his façade cracking into horror before he’d simply scooped her up, silencing her protests with his mouth, carrying her to this bed and dissolving the argument with his tongue between her legs.
Now, in the clarity of day, the problem remained. She was the manager. He was the owner. And she would be damned if she became a trophy wife with a tactical clipboard.
She pulled on one of his dress shirts, the crisp cotton swallowing her frame, and walked to the sleek desk by the window. The unopened envelope lay where she’d left it yesterday before the fight. Her name was typed on the front. The return address was a private medical practice in Zurich.
“You’re thinking too loudly.”
His voice was sleep-roughened. She didn’t turn. She heard him rise, the sheets shifting, his bare feet on the hardwood floor. He came up behind her, his naked body warm against her back, his arms looping around her waist, his hands splaying over the slight, early curve. He nuzzled her hair.
“Is this it?” he asked, his chin gesturing toward the envelope.
“The results of the full prenatal workup. Genetic screening. Everything.” Her voice was flat.
“Open it.”
“I’m scared.”
The admission, so quiet, hung in the air. He stilled behind her. He turned her gently to face him, his eyes searching hers. The usual impatience was absent, replaced by a focus so absolute it was disarming.
“Why?”
“Because it makes it real. A person. With potentials and… and problems.” She looked away. “And because once we know, you’ll… manage it. You’ll start buying paediatric hospitals and commissioning cribs forged from asteroid metals. You’ll try to manage me.”
He tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I am trying, Vanja. Trying not to. It is… not a natural state for me.” A faint smile touched his lips. “The midfielder. You were right. His xG against high-press systems is mediocre. I was being a prick.”
Her eyes widened. An apology? From him? It was more unsettling than his rage.
“Open the envelope,” he said again, softer. “Whatever it says, it’s ours. Not a problem to solve. A fact to face. Together.”
His use of her phrase, the one from the jet—together—undid her. She took a sharp breath, slid a finger under the flap, and tore it open. A single sheet of high-quality paper. She scanned the dense medical jargon, her mind translating automatically. Heartbeat, strong. Measurements, normal. Genetic markers…
Her breath hitched.
“What?” Roman’s grip tightened.
“No markers for the conditions we screened for.” She looked up, tears of sheer relief welling. “And… it’s a girl.”
The change in his face was instantaneous, profound. The sharp, calculating angles softened. His sky-blue eyes went wide, then impossibly bright. A stunned, breathless laugh escaped him. “A girl.”
“A girl,” Vanja repeated, a real smile breaking through.
He kissed her then, a deep, joyful kiss that tasted of morning and relief. He pulled back, his forehead resting against hers. “A little tyrant. She’ll run us both ragged.”
“She’ll have your stubbornness and my impatience. God help the world.” Vanja laughed, a watery sound.
The joy vibrated between them, a live wire. It transformed, swiftly, into a different kind of energy. The fear was gone, replaced by a celebratory, primal need. His hands on her waist grew possessive, hot through the thin cotton of his shirt. He walked her backwards until her legs hit the edge of the massive desk.
“We should celebrate,” he murmured, his mouth trailing down her neck to the open collar of the shirt.
“We have a board call in ninety minutes,” she gasped, even as her head fell back.
“Fuck the board.” He unbuttoned the shirt slowly, exposing her skin inch by inch. When it hung open, he pushed it off her shoulders, letting it pool on the floor. He just looked at her, naked in the morning light, his gaze heating her skin more than the sun. “My magnificent, brilliant, impossible wife. The mother of my daughter.”
He dropped to his knees before her, his hands sliding up her thighs, pushing them apart. He didn’t bury his face between her legs as he had the night before. He worshipped her. He pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other. He traced the faint, new line running vertically below her navel with the tip of his tongue. His large, capable hands cupped her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples, which peaked into tight, sensitive buds.
“So beautiful,” he breathed, the words vibrating against her stomach. “Fuck, you have no idea.”
He finally moved to her core, but slowly. He exhaled, warm breath against her curls, then used his tongue in a long, flat, torturously slow stroke from her entrance to her clit. She jerked, her hands flying to his hair. He did it again. And again. Not frenzied, but deliberate, savoring. He lapped at her folds, drinking her in, his hands gripping her hips to hold her still as she began to tremble.
“Roman… please…”
He ignored her, maintaining the maddening, leisurely pace. He sucked her clit into his mouth, applying just enough pressure to make her cry out, then released it, blowing gently on the wet, sensitized flesh. He was playing her, orchestrating her ascent with cruel, exquisite precision. He slid two fingers inside her, curling them, finding a rhythm that matched the lazy circles his tongue was now making. The dual sensation, the slow build, was unbearable. Her orgasm gathered like a thunderhead, distant then overwhelming.
“Come in my mouth,” he ordered, his voice a guttural rumble against her. “For her. For us.”
The command, the connection he drew, shattered her. She came with a broken sob, her hips bucking against his face as waves of pleasure radiated out from her core, blinding and sweet. He stayed with her through it, gentling his touch, licking her softly as she pulsed around his fingers.
Before the last tremor had even subsided, he was standing, lifting her onto the hard, polished surface of the desk. Documents and a sleek laptop were shoved aside with a reckless sweep of his arm. He positioned her at the edge, her legs hooked over his hips. His cock, thick and flushed, nudged at her slippery entrance.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice strained with control.
She forced her eyes open, meeting his intense blue gaze. He pushed inside, not in a single thrust, but with a slow, inexorable pressure that stretched and filled her completely. He seated himself to the hilt and held there, buried deep, his body trembling with the effort of his restraint.
“You,” he gasped, “are my greatest victory. My only meaningful acquisition.” He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that touched her very soul. “This,” he grunted, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in with devastating fullness, “is mine. You are mine. Tell me.”
“I’m yours,” she choked out, the words not a submission but a mutual claim. Her heels dug into the small of his back, urging him deeper, faster.
He obeyed, his pace shifting, becoming more powerful, more demanding. The desk rocked with their force. Each thrust was a punctuation mark, a declaration. He leaned down, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss, tasting herself on his lips. The mix of their sweat, the salty-sweet aftermath of her orgasm, the raw scent of sex—it was an intoxicating perfume of union.
His hand slipped between them, his thumb finding her clit again. The overstimulation was sharp, almost painful, before it tipped back into unbearable pleasure. A second climax, sharper and more intense, ripped through her, clenching around him like a fist.
With a roar that was part triumph, part surrender, he followed her. His thrusts lost their rhythm, becoming frantic, deep punctuations as he emptied himself inside her, his body jerking with each pulse. He collapsed forward, bracing himself on his hands above her, his forehead damp against hers, their ragged breaths mingling.
They stayed like that for long moments, joined, the sun warming their sweat-slicked skin. Slowly, he softened and slipped from her body. A trickle of their mingled release followed, a warm testament on her inner thigh.
He lifted her gently from the desk, cradling her against his chest, and carried her to the rumpled bed. He fetched a warm, wet cloth from the bathroom and cleaned her with a tenderness that made her throat tight. Then he pulled her close, her back to his front, his hand settling once more on her stomach.
“A girl,” he whispered again into her hair, as if trying the shape of it.
The peace lasted perhaps three minutes.
“We’re still not overspending for Carvalho,” she said into the silence, her voice sleepy but firm.
He snorted, a puff of air against her neck. “We are if the medical flags his knee. My money. My risk calculus.”
“My midfield. My calculus overrules yours.” She threaded her fingers through his where they rested on her belly. “You conceded I was right.”
“I conceded I was a prick. Not that your financial oversight is infallible.” He nipped her shoulder. “The call is in an hour. We’ll let the numbers argue.”
“And if the numbers are ambiguous?”
“Then we fight. And then,” his hand drifted lower from her stomach, his fingers brushing through the damp curls between her legs, making her gasp, “we negotiate. Just like this.”
She laughed, a genuine, free sound, and swatted his hand away even as her body hummed in response. The unopened envelope, now read and understood, lay discarded on the desk. The future was still a moving ground, tectonic and uncertain. But the fault line now ran directly between the two of them, and for the first time, she wasn't afraid of the quake.
But the fault line now ran directly between the two of them, and for the first time, she wasn't afraid of the quake. The first trimester passed in a blur of tactical meetings and discreet morning sickness. She managed both with the same fierce privacy, citing migraines when the nausea forced her to retreat, drilling set-pieces until her voice went hoarse to compensate for the secret she carried. Roman watched her like a hawk, his interventions subtle—a nutritionist suddenly added to the staff, her schedule quietly padded with ten-minute buffers. She allowed it, biting back her independence, because the fatigue was a concrete enemy. At the fourteen-week scan, she went alone. A point of stubborn principle. The cold gel on her abdomen, the darkened room, the sonographer’s polite chatter—it all felt routine until the probe settled. The professional’s cursor moved, measurements clicking on the screen. A silence bloomed, different from the focused quiet of moments before.
“Well,” the sonographer said, her voice shifting into careful neutrality. “There’s the first heartbeat. Strong and clear.”
Vanja smiled at the rhythmic whoosh-whoosh flooding the room. Her baby.
“And there,” the sonographer said, moving the wand slightly, her smile becoming something else entirely, “is the second one.”
The world did not tilt. It simply split into a before and an after. Vanja stared at the screen, at the two distinct, pulsing sacs. Two sets of flickering, tiny chambers. “You’re joking.”
“I never joke about this, Mrs Abramovic. See for yourself.” The woman pointed, tracing two separate outlines. “Baby A, and Baby B. Fraternal, by the looks. One of each, if you’d like to know.”
Vanja’s hand flew to her mouth. The air in the room turned to syrup. Two. All the fatigue, the disproportionate swelling, the sheer, consuming volume of her need for sleep—it explained everything. It changed everything. A laugh, sharp and unhinged, escaped her. Then, immediately, a bolt of pure terror. Roman. The club. The Champions League. Her body. She was leaving the interim title behind, the board had confirmed her permanently after the pregnancy leak, but this… this was a siege. “You’re sure?”
“One hundred percent.”
She walked out of the clinic clutching the printed images, the black-and-white moonscapes with their twin ghosts. She called Roman from the car. “The scan. It’s done. You need to see. Now.”
He was in his office overlooking the training ground when she entered, still in his training kit. “Migraine better?” he asked, not looking up from a financial report.
“No.” She tossed the ultrasound photos onto the spreadsheet. He glanced down, annoyance melting into confusion, then a slow, dawning comprehension that washed the color from his face. He picked one up, his fingers rigid. He looked from the image to her flat stomach and back again. The silence stretched, tense and electric.
“Two,” he finally said, the word a solid thing in the quiet room.
“This is crazy,” she breathed, sliding into the chair opposite him, her energy gone. “Two. A boy and a girl.”
He stared at the sonogram, his expression unreadable. Then a smile, not the joyful burst from the first revelation, but something slower, deeper, more fundamentally shocked, spread across his face. It held wonder, a flash of male pride, and a calculus of logistics so rapid she could almost hear it. “Yeah,” he said, almost to himself. “Two.”
“I’ll be the size of a small planet in three months,” she stated, the strategic part of her brain already mapping the collapse of her physical authority. “The press, the players… they’ll see a liability before they see a coach.”
“You’ll be on medical leave. Effective immediately.” His tone brooked no argument. It was the owner speaking.
“Like hell I will.” She leaned forward, palms on his desk. “You hire me to break ceilings, then you bench me at the first real test? No. We adapt.” A plan, ruthless and clear, formed as she spoke. “Mike takes more first-team training. He’s ready. I manage from the tech booth, from the office. I’m available for strategy, for reviews, for the big talks. But I won’t be pacing the touchline at eight months pregnant with twins. That’s a circus, not a leadership.”
He watched her, the owner receding, the man—her man—returning. “And the final months?”
“I’ll be here. On screens. In their ears. And they will know,” she said, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper, “that while I am building a dynasty inside me, they will be building one on the pitch. Or they will answer to me.” She stood, the decision hardening her. “Call the senior squad and staff. Meeting room. Now.”
Thirty minutes later, she faced them. Her hair was up, her blazer tailored but loose. She didn’t smile. The ultrasound photos were tucked away. Roman stood at the back, a silent pillar. She saw the sidelong glances at her waist, the poorly concealed curiosity.
“Right. Two announcements,” Vanja began, her voice carrying easily in the hushed room. “First, the scan was today. We’re having twins.” A ripple of surprised congratulations moved through the room. She cut it off with a raised hand. “Second, and listen carefully because this is the only time I’ll say it: I will be the size of a small planet in three months.”
A nervous chuckle from a young defender.
“So,” she continued, utterly deadpan, “Mike will work directly with you and me. I’ll be available for analysis, video sessions, and tactical planning. And of course,” she paused, letting her dark green eyes scan each face, “you know what to do.”
She leaned forward, gripping the podium, her expression transforming into something deadly serious. “We win everything this year. The Premier League. The FA Cup. The Champions League. Everything.” Her voice was low, but it carried the weight of a vow. “Or help me God, I will personally ensure every single one of you spends next season running drills in the freezing rain at a lower-division club you’ve never heard of. Am I understood?”
The silence was absolute. Terrified. Respectful. It was the silence she needed.
Later, in the dim sanctuary of their bedroom, the weight of the day crushed her. The bravado evaporated, leaving raw, trembling nerves. Roman found her sitting on the edge of the bed, still in her clothes, staring at the wall. He didn’t speak. He knelt before her, slowly removed her shoes, her trousers, his hands firm and steady. He peeled her blazer away, then her silk shirt. The cool air hit her skin. His hands settled on the gentle slope of her belly, his touch unbearably gentle.
“A small planet,” he murmured, his lips brushing her navel.
“I’m scared, Roman.” The admission was torn from her.
“I know.” He looked up, his blue eyes fierce. “So am I.”
He laid her back on the bed, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that tasted of shared fear. It wasn’t gentle. It was a confirmation of existence, a desperate grounding. He stripped his own clothes away, his body a familiar landscape of muscle and intent. He kissed down her throat, over the swell of her breasts, his tongue circling her nipples until she arched, a sharp gasp escaping her. He moved lower, his hands spreading her thighs with a possessiveness that made her ache.
His tongue lashed her clit, not with precision, but with a hungry, devouring pressure. He fucked her with his mouth, his nose buried in her, his groans vibrating through her core. He was claiming her, reminding her—and himself—that she was here, solid, his. The climax hit her like a panic attack, a convulsive, blinding release that left her sobbing. He surged up her body, his cock, thick and urgent, nudging at her soaked entrance.
“Look at me,” he growled. She did. He pushed inside with a single, brutal thrust that stole her breath. He filled her completely, a solid, anchoring weight. “This is us,” he rasped, pulling out and slamming back in, the bedframe protesting. “This is how we face it. Together.” He set a punishing rhythm, each deep drive a defiance against the chaos waiting for them. She clawed at his back, meeting him thrust for thrust, their sweat-slicked skin sliding together. The fear transmuted into a frantic, physical need to fuse, to become one entity against the coming storm.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he demanded, his voice ragged, his hips piston-firing.
“I’m yours,” she choked out. “Yours. Now fuck me harder. Don’t you dare stop.”
He obeyed, his control shattering. The slap of skin, their ragged grunts, the ripe, wet sound of him plunging into her—it was raw, obscene, and perfectly honest. He crushed her to him, one hand tangling in her hair, the other gripping her ass, tilting her to take him even deeper. Her second orgasm ripped through her, a raw scream tearing from her throat as her walls clenched violently around him. With a final, broken shout, he came, pulsing hot and deep inside her, his body shuddering as he emptied himself.
They collapsed, a tangled mess of limbs and spent urgency. He stayed buried within her, his face pressed into the damp hollow of her neck. Their hearts hammered a frantic, slowing tattoo against each other’s ribs. The future was a double-edged sword hanging over them. But here, in the sweat and the silence and the cooling mess between them, they had carved out a fortification. For now, it was enough.