Chapter 10: Sunrise Submission
The first rays of dawn painted Munich in liquid gold, bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows and spilling across the silk sheets. Vanja surfaced slowly, consciousness returning in heavy, unwelcome waves. Her body cataloged the damage before her mind fully engaged: the deep, dull ache between her thighs, the sharp twinge in her hip where his grip had left finger-shaped bruises blooming purple-yellow, the stiffness in her neck. The unfamiliar warmth. The crushing weight.
Manuel’s arms were locked around her waist like steel cables, one massive forearm snug beneath her breasts, the other pinning her hips flush against him. His breath, warm and steady, fanned the damp hair at her nape. And pressed insistently against the cleft of her bare ass, thick and rigid even in sleep, was his cock.
Nausea warred with a sharp flare of unwanted heat deep in her belly. The memories slammed back: the hallway wall, the brutal penetration, her own furious climax on the floor; the later claiming in bed, his sleep-slurred "love" and the rough, possessive taking from behind. His tears. His broken apologies at her feet. The shower. It was a sickening carousel of violence, sex, and desperate vulnerability she couldn’t stop.
She tried to shift, just an inch, to ease the pressure on her bruised hip. The iron bands tightened instantly. His sleep-heavy body molded even closer, forcing her spine into the hard wall of his chest. A low groan vibrated against her shoulder blade. Then his teeth sank into the muscle where her neck met her shoulder – not playful, not hard enough to break skin, but a firm, claiming bite. Possessive. A shudder ripped through her, equal parts fear and treacherous arousal.
His hand slid down from her hip, fingers rasping over the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, pushing relentlessly upwards. He found her center without hesitation. She was already wet. Slick heat greeted his probing fingers, a humiliating betrayal orchestrated by her traitorous body. He grunted, a sound of sleepy satisfaction, and two thick fingers pushed inside her, curling upwards, finding that spot with unerring, infuriating accuracy. "Ungh," she gasped, back arching involuntarily against him. Her inner walls clenched around his intrusion, slickness gushing.
"Always fucking ready," he mumbled against her shoulder, his voice thick with sleep and lust. His fingers worked her ruthlessly, pumping hard and fast, scissoring slightly to stretch her, his thumb finding her clit and grinding tight circles. Pleasure, sharp and undeniable, sliced through the residue of disgust. "Fuck you," she hissed, trying to buck him off, but his arm clamped down harder, his fingers buried deep, working her with brutal efficiency. His cock throbbed against her ass.
"Need this pussy," he growled, withdrawing his soaking fingers. He shoved her thighs apart with his knee. The blunt, swollen head of his cock pressed against her slick entrance, demanding. "Open."
She was panting, her body screaming with conflicting signals. "No, Manuel—" The protest was weak, swallowed by the sensation as he pushed forward, forcing himself into her tight, wet channel. "God!" she cried out as he stretched her, filled her to the hilt in one long, relentless slide. He bottomed out, buried deep, groaning into her hair. "Fuck yes... tight fucking cunt..."
He didn't wait. He pulled back almost all the way, then slammed home. Again. Hard. Fast. Setting a punishing rhythm from the first thrust. No tenderness. Just raw, desperate need. His hand snaked around her hip, fingers finding her clit again, pinching and rubbing hard in time with his brutal plunges. "Take it," he grunted, his breath hot and ragged in her ear. "Take my cock, you fucking gorgeous bitch." The insult, flung amidst the animalistic fucking, sent another jolt through her – anger and a sick thrill.
The wet slap of skin, his harsh grunts, her own choked whimpers filled the sunlit room. He fucked her with the single-minded intensity of a man possessed, each deep, hard stroke dragging against her sensitized walls, hitting her cervix. Pain and pleasure blurred into a terrifying crescendo. Her body was betraying her utterly, clenching around him, pulling him deeper, the friction coiling that unbearable pressure low in her belly. She hated him. She hated how good it felt. Her hips rocked back, meeting his thrusts, a helpless moan escaping her lips.
"That's it," he panted, fingers working furiously on her clit. "Fucking milk my cock. Gonna make you scream." His thrusts became wilder, losing rhythm, just raw, pounding need. The coil snapped. Her orgasm tore through her, violent and shattering. She cried out, a raw, broken sound, as her inner walls convulsed wildly around his pounding cock, waves of electric pleasure washing away thought. "Fuck! Vanja!" he roared, his own control shattering. He slammed into her one last time, hilting himself, and came with a guttural shout, cock pulsing hard and deep, flooding her with scalding heat as she clenched and pulsed around him.
He collapsed on top of her, crushing her into the mattress, his breath sawing in his chest, sweat dripping onto her back. They lay like that for long minutes, sticky, spent, the air thick with the smell of sex. Slowly, the crushing weight lifted as he rolled off. Vanja gasped in air, trembling, the aftershocks still twitching through her. She didn't look at him. She couldn't.
Silence stretched, broken only by their ragged breathing. Then, the mattress shifted. She heard his bare feet pad across the polished concrete floor towards the open-plan living area. She lay still, staring at the golden light on the ceiling, feeling his cum leak out of her onto the silk sheets. Disgust settled like a stone in her gut. Minutes crawled by. The clatter of pans came from the kitchen. The smell of coffee bloomed in the air, rich and incongruous.
Slowly, feeling like her bones were made of lead, she pushed herself up. She grabbed his discarded t-shirt from the floor – it smelled like him, sweat and sex – and pulled it on. It hung to her mid-thigh. She padded silently into the living area.
Manuel stood at the sleek kitchen island, his back to her. He was wearing only low-slung grey sweatpants, the powerful muscles of his back and shoulders shifting as he cracked eggs into a bowl. The bruise on his forehead stood out lividly in the morning light. The split on his lip was puffy. A pang, unwanted and sharp, pricked her.
He sensed her. He turned. His eyes, clearer now than last night, swept over her in his t-shirt, lingering for a heartbeat on her bare legs, before meeting hers. There was no arrogance there now. Just exhaustion. A deep, hollowed-out look. And something else she couldn't quite name. Shame? Hope? He looked away quickly, back to the eggs, whisking vigorously. "Coffee's on," he said, his voice rough.
She walked to the massive espresso machine, poured a large black coffee into a heavy earthenware mug. She leaned against the counter, the cool stone biting through the thin cotton of the t-shirt. She watched him. The efficient movements. The concentration on making fucking scrambled eggs. The absurd normalcy of it after the violence, the raw sex, the tears, the confessions. Her hip throbbed.
He poured the eggs into a sizzling pan. The sound filled the quiet apartment. The city hummed far below, bathed in golden light. He flipped the eggs with a spatula, added a sprinkle of salt. He didn't look at her.
Vanja sipped her coffee, the bitterness sharp on her tongue. She looked past him, out to the balcony. The sliding door was open a crack, letting in the cool morning air and the distant sounds of the city waking. Her medals hung on the far wall, gleaming dully.
"Aren't you planning to leave?" The words were out, flat and cold, shattering the fragile domestic silence. She didn't look at him.
He froze. The spatula hovered over the pan. His broad shoulders tensed. He didn't turn around. Seconds stretched, thick and heavy.
Slowly, he lowered the spatula. He turned off the gas. The sizzling died. He braced his hands on the countertop, head bowed for a moment. Then he turned to face her fully. His expression was unreadable, a mask holding back a storm. His green eyes, bloodshot but intensely focused, locked onto hers.
"Do you want me to?" His voice was low, quiet, but it resonated in the vast, sunlit space. It wasn't a challenge. It was a question heavy with the weight of the hallway, the bed, the floor at her feet, the tears. Heavy with everything. He held her gaze, waiting. The silence screamed. The scent of coffee and cooked eggs hung in the air between them, absurdly mundane, obscene against the tension crackling like live wires.
The scent of coffee and cooked eggs hung in the air between them, absurdly mundane, obscene against the tension crackling like live wires. Vanja stared into her mug, the dark liquid reflecting the fractured light, her knuckles white around the ceramic. Manuel remained frozen, his question hanging like a guillotine blade: Do you want me to? The silence stretched, thin and brittle, amplifying the distant hum of Munich waking far below her penthouse balcony.
Her bruised hip throbbed. The ache between her thighs was a dull, insistent reminder of his brutal possession only minutes ago, the wet heat of his cum still leaking onto her inner thighs beneath his oversized t-shirt. She remembered the hallway wall, the tearing towel, the raw penetration; the later claiming in bed, his sleep-slurred words, the rough taking from behind; the shower where he’d wept apologies onto her skin. Disgust warred with a confusing, treacherous pull deep in her gut.
“Yes,” she breathed, the word escaping before she could cage it. It wasn't loud, barely more than a whisper, but it shattered the silence like glass. “Stay.” She couldn't look at him, focusing instead on the steam curling from her coffee.
Manuel moved instantly. He crossed the space between them in two long strides, the cool air swirling around his bare torso. His large hands, the same hands that had pinned her, bruised her, worked her body with ruthless efficiency, framed her face with startling gentleness. His thumbs brushed the faint shadows beneath her eyes. His gaze, intense and searching, held hers captive. There was no triumph there, only a profound, weary relief.
He didn't speak. He lowered his head slowly, giving her time to pull away. She didn't. His lips met hers, not demanding, not claiming, but soft. Tentative. A stark, shocking contrast to the biting, bruising kisses of the night. It was warm, lingering, tasting faintly of toothpaste and the ghost of whiskey. A tremor ran through her, part confusion, part unwanted surrender to this unexpected tenderness. He deepened the kiss slightly, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips, seeking permission she didn’t deny, a slow, searching exploration that felt dangerously intimate after the violence.
He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, his breath warm on her skin. “Okay,” he murmured, his voice thick. “Okay.” He kissed her forehead, then her temple, his lips lingering on the tender spot where his teeth had marked her shoulder earlier. A shiver, different this time, traced her spine.
He stepped back, his hand sliding down to gently squeeze hers before releasing it. He turned back to the kitchen island, the domestic scene reassembling itself. He scooped fluffy yellow scrambled eggs onto two plates, added crispy bacon, slices of avocado. He slid one plate across the cool stone counter towards her, along with cutlery. “Eat,” he said, his tone softer now, almost pleading. He poured her fresh orange juice.
Vanja picked up a fork, the metal cool against her fingers. She took a hesitant bite of eggs. They were perfectly cooked, creamy, seasoned just right. The simple act felt surreal. She ate slowly, watching him devour his own food with the focused intensity of an athlete refueling. The silence now was different, charged but softer, filled with the clink of cutlery and the distant city sounds drifting in through the balcony door left ajar.
He finished first, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture incongruously boyish on the powerful goalkeeper. He leaned his elbows on the counter, watching her finish her avocado slice. The morning light caught the healing split on his lip, the bruise on his forehead, the faint scratches she’d left on his shoulders and back. Evidence of their collision.
“Vanja,” he began, his voice low and serious. He traced a pattern on the countertop with a fingertip. “Tonight. Dinner. With me.” He looked up, meeting her eyes directly. “Properly. Somewhere quiet. Where we can… talk.” He gestured vaguely, encompassing the apartment, the rumpled bed visible through the doorway, the charged history clinging to the air. “Not… this.”
Vanja stared at him. A startled laugh burst from her lips, sharp and unexpected, echoing slightly in the minimalist space. It held disbelief, a trace of bitterness, but also a flicker of something else – amusement? Intrigue? She wiped her mouth with a napkin, shaking her head slightly. “Dinner? After this?” Her gesture mirrored his, encompassing the wreckage of the night and morning. “You think dinner fixes… any of that?”
Manuel didn’t flinch. He held her gaze, the green eyes steady. “No,” he admitted bluntly. “Nothing fixes last night. Or this morning. But maybe…” He paused, searching for the words. “Maybe we start something else. Something not born in whiskey and slammed against a wall.” He leaned forward slightly. “Say yes.”
She looked down at her empty plate, then out at the city bathed in golden light, the spires of the Frauenkirche piercing the skyline. The absurdity was monumental. The legendary goalkeeper, bruised and asking her out after fucking her raw against her hallway wall and again at dawn. Her body still hummed with the aftershocks of his possession, her skin marked by his hands and teeth. Yet, the pull was undeniable, a dangerous magnetism beneath the disgust and confusion.
A slow, wry smile touched her lips, surprising even herself. She met his waiting eyes. “Fine,” she said, the word casual, almost flippant, belying the turmoil beneath. “Dinner. Why the fuck not?” She pushed her plate away. “But you’re paying. Expensively.”
The wry twist of Vanja’s lips felt brittle, a mask over the churning mess inside. “Expensively.” Manuel’s answering nod was curt, relieved, his gaze dropping briefly to the faded purple bruise blooming on her hipbone, stark against her pale skin where his t-shirt rode up. He pushed away from the counter, the scrape of the stool loud in the charged quiet. “Seven. I’ll text the address.” He grabbed his discarded clothes from the hallway floor – the same spot where her towel had ripped, where his cock had first slammed into her unprepared pussy. He dressed quickly, efficiently: jeans zipped, t-shirt pulled over the constellation of scratches she’d left on his shoulders and back, the bruise on his forehead a dark badge.
He paused at the door, hand on the sleek chrome handle. He didn’t look back. “Shower’s running,” he stated, a practical observation that felt obscene. Then he was gone. The heavy door clicked shut with finality. The sudden silence was immense, pressing in, filled only by the distant hum of Munich waking and the faint, insistent hiss of the shower from her en-suite. Vanja sagged against the cool countertop, the stone leaching the residual heat from her skin. The scent of him – sweat, sex, expensive soap – clung to the oversized t-shirt she wore, a sickeningly intimate shroud. Disgust curdled in her stomach, thick and sour. She remembered the brutal claiming against the hallway wall, the raw thrusts at dawn, his tears wetting her shoulder in the shower, the desperate apologies whispered onto her skin. Yet, beneath the revulsion, a treacherous pulse throbbed low in her belly, echoing the deep, bruised ache between her thighs where his cum was still leaking out, sticky and warm. Her clit felt swollen, hypersensitive against the cotton of his shirt.
She pushed off the counter, the movement jarring her sore hip. The penthouse felt cavernous, sterile despite the morning sun gilding the cityscape beyond the windows. Her gleaming medals mocked her from the wall. She stalked towards the bathroom, peeling off the t-shirt as she went, letting it fall onto the polished concrete floor. Steam billowed from the open en-suite door, thick and humid. She stepped into the cloud, the hot water hitting her skin like needles. She leaned her forehead against the cool tile, letting the water sluice over her back, trying to scour away the feel of his hands, his teeth, his cock. Her fingers traced the bite mark on her shoulder – already darkening into a deep purple crescent. She pressed hard, welcoming the sharp pain. It was real. Grounding. Unlike the confusing tangle of fury and unwanted arousal coiling inside her.
Her hand slid lower, over the swell of her breast, her thumb brushing a peaked nipple. A jolt shot through her. Fuck. She was still keyed up, her body humming with residual tension, a live wire despite the exhaustion. Her fingers drifted down her flat stomach, through the damp curls, finding her swollen, slick folds. She gasped as her fingertips brushed her clit, sending sparks up her spine. The ache intensified, a deep, clenching emptiness that had nothing to do with Manuel Neuer and everything to do with her own relentless, furious need. She hated him. She hated how he’d made her come screaming against the hallway wall, how her traitorous cunt had clenched around him at dawn. She hated herself more for wanting it again, right now.
“Fucking bastard,” she hissed into the steam, her voice raw. Two fingers plunged inside herself, curling hard, seeking that spot he’d found with such infuriating ease. Her other hand worked her clit in tight, furious circles. It wasn’t gentle. It was punishment. Reclamation. She fucked herself hard, fingers pistoning, the wet sounds loud in the tiled enclosure, echoing the brutal rhythm he’d set against her just an hour ago. She imagined the friction was scraping him out, erasing his touch, his scent, his fucking apologies. But her body betrayed her again. Pleasure, sharp and undeniable, built rapidly, coiling tighter and tighter. Her back arched off the tile, water streaming down her face. “Oh god… fuck… yes…” The orgasm ripped through her, violent and blinding, tearing a ragged cry from her throat. Her knees buckled; she caught herself against the wall, trembling violently as waves of aftershock pulsed through her core, leaving her gasping, empty, and strangely more unsettled than before. The emptiness felt deeper now.
She stayed under the spray until the water ran lukewarm, then cold. Shivering, she stepped out, wrapping herself in a thick, pristine white towel. She avoided the mirror. Dressing was automatic: black leggings, a loose tank top, running shoes. Her body felt hollowed out, scraped raw, yet the restless energy remained, buzzing beneath her skin. She needed to move. To run. To push her body until thought dissolved into pure, punishing exertion. She grabbed her keys, phone, and water bottle. The gleaming medals on the wall caught her eye again as she passed. World Champion. Twice over. She’d conquered tracks, hurdles, expectations. Why did one broken goalkeeper leave her feeling so fucking unraveled? She slammed the penthouse door behind her, the sound echoing in the empty corridor. The elevator doors slid open. She stepped in, pressing the button for the ground floor with unnecessary force. The city awaited, vast and indifferent. She’d run until her lungs burned and her legs screamed. Until she was just Vanja Jakobsen again, nothing more. The elevator descended, a smooth, silent drop. Her reflection in the mirrored walls looked pale, determined, haunted. She bared her teeth at it. Bring it on.