Chapter 1: Home
The key turned in the lock. Manuel Neuer pushed open the door to Dino’s apartment, expecting the usual post-training clutter or maybe Dino himself sprawled on the couch. Instead, the warm, sweet scent of caramelizing sugar and frying batter hit him first. Then, the sight.
She stood at the stove, her back mostly to him. Tall. Blonde hair pulled up in a messy knot, escaping tendrils curling against her neck. She wore Dino’s Bayern Munich jersey – number 19 – the red fabric loose on her frame but not loose enough. It stopped mid-thigh, leaving impossibly long, toned legs bare. The jersey’s thin cotton clung slightly where she moved, outlining the powerful sweep of her shoulders, the defined muscles of her arms as she flipped a pancake. But it was the front view he couldn’t tear his eyes from when she half-turned, startled by the door.
The jersey draped, but didn’t hide. Her breasts were full, high, pressing against the fabric. The cool air of the apartment, or perhaps the sudden awareness of being watched, made her nipples harden into distinct, tempting points that visibly strained against the red material. Fuckable. The word slammed into Manuel’s brain with visceral force. She looked utterly, devastatingly fuckable standing there in Dino’s shirt, bare-legged, wielding a spatula.
His gaze travelled down, lingering on the smooth expanse of thigh revealed by the jersey’s hem, then snapped back up to her face. Wide-set dark green eyes, startled and holding a flicker of something else – awareness? – met his. High cheekbones flushed pink. Full lips parted slightly. She was stunning. Athletic beauty radiating a disarming warmth, even in surprise.
Manuel felt a familiar, insistent tightening in his groin. Half-hard already, just from looking. He cleared his throat, the sound rough. “Dino here?”
Her blush deepened, spreading down her neck. She looked flustered, her eyes darting from his face – taking in his height, the breadth of his shoulders under his own training jacket, the sharp lines of his jaw – down to his chest and quickly away again. He saw her swallow. “Oh,” she breathed, her voice softer than he expected, accented pleasantly. “No. He’s… out. Training extra, I think?” She gestured vaguely with the spatula. “I’m Vanja. Dino’s cousin. Vanja Jakobsen.”
Recognition clicked. Of course. The pictures Dino showed off constantly. The news snippets. Vanja Jakobsen. The sprinting prodigy. World Champion. European Champion. Training relentlessly for Munich. The Olympics were buzzing around her name. And she was young. Eighteen and a half, Dino bragged, not even nineteen. Everyone knew who she was. The sheer potential radiating off her was almost tangible, humbling even for someone used to elite athletes.
“Manuel,” he said, stepping fully into the apartment, closing the door behind him. The air felt charged, thick with the scent of pancakes and something else – her skin, maybe? Clean sweat? He kept his eyes locked on hers, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. “Dino’s teammate.”
She rolled those incredible dark green eyes, a flash of amusement replacing the fluster. A spark of personality. “Neuer,” she stated flatly, turning back to the stove with a slight, deliberate sway of her hips. “I know.” She flipped another pancake onto a growing stack. “World’s best goalkeeper. Hard to miss.” There was a teasing challenge in her tone.
He moved closer, drawn like a magnet. The kitchen island separated them, but he leaned his forearms on it, invading her space. The jersey rode up slightly higher on her thigh as she shifted. He could see the curve of her ass beneath the thin fabric. His cock throbbed, fully hard now, pressing insistently against his jeans. He didn’t bother hiding it. His gaze raked over her again, lingering on the outline of her nipples, the smooth skin of her legs. “Making pancakes, Vanja Jakobsen?” His voice was lower, rougher.
She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes flickering down his body, pausing briefly at his crotch. A fresh wave of pink washed over her cheeks, but she held his gaze. “Seemed like the thing to do.” She shrugged, a movement that made her breasts shift enticingly beneath the jersey. “Hungry?”
“Starving,” Manuel murmured, his eyes darkening. He pushed off the counter and walked around the island, closing the distance between them. He didn’t touch her yet. Just stood close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body, smell the vanilla and sugar mixing with her own clean, athletic scent. He saw the pulse flutter rapidly in her throat. Her breathing hitched. “You look… distracting in that jersey.”
Vanja turned fully to face him, spatula forgotten in her hand. Her green eyes were wide, pupils dilated. Nervous, yes, but also curious. Aroused? He could see it in the flush, the slight parting of her lips, the way her gaze kept dropping to his mouth. The sheer magnetism of him – famous, powerful, undeniably attractive – combined with the sudden, illicit tension was overwhelming. “It… it was clean,” she stammered, a weak defense.
Manuel reached out slowly. Not for her face, not yet. His large hand settled on her hip, just above the hem of the jersey. His thumb brushed bare skin. She gasped softly, a tiny sound that went straight to his cock. Her skin was impossibly smooth, warm. He slid his hand up her side, feeling the toned muscle beneath soft skin, tracing the curve of her waist. The jersey offered no resistance. His other hand came up, fingers brushing the side of her breast, feather-light, just beside where her nipple strained against the fabric.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his own control fraying. Her breath came in shallow pants now. He saw the tremor run through her. Not fear. Anticipation. Need. He leaned down, his lips hovering inches from hers. “You feel even better than you look.”
He didn’t wait for permission. His mouth crashed down onto hers. Hard. Possessive. Her lips were soft, yielding instantly. She made a muffled sound against his mouth, part surprise, part surrender. Her free hand flew up, the spatula clattering to the floor, forgotten. Her fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.
Manuel groaned into her mouth, his tongue demanding entry. She opened for him, her tongue meeting his with a hesitant eagerness that sent fire through his veins. He kissed her deeply, hungrily, tasting the faint sweetness of pancake batter on her lips. His hands were everywhere now. One slid up her back, pulling her flush against him. He could feel the hard points of her nipples digging into his chest through their clothes. His other hand slid boldly down, over the curve of her ass, squeezing the firm muscle beneath the jersey. She arched into him, a low moan vibrating against his lips.
He broke the kiss, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her jawline, to the sensitive spot below her ear. She gasped, her head falling back. “Manuel…” His name was a breathy sigh.
“Yeah,” he growled against her skin, nipping lightly. His hands gripped her ass, lifting her effortlessly. Vanja instinctively wrapped her long legs around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back. The movement hiked the jersey up, exposing the smooth skin of her lower belly, the curve of her hip. Manuel carried her the few steps to the large refrigerator, pressing her back against the cool stainless steel. The contrast of cold metal against her heated skin made her gasp again.
He ground his hips against hers, letting her feel the hard length of his erection straining against his jeans, pressing directly against the thin cotton covering her core. She whimpered, her hips rolling instinctively against him, seeking friction. Her hands clutched at his shoulders.
“Need to feel you,” Manuel rasped, his voice thick with lust. His hands slid under the hem of the jersey, pushing it up past her hips. His fingers encountered smooth skin, then the elastic edge of simple cotton panties. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and yanked them down her legs in one swift motion. They pooled around one ankle. He didn’t bother removing them fully.
Vanja’s eyes flew open, wide with shock and intense arousal. “Manuel! What are you–”
He silenced her with another fierce kiss, his hand sliding between her legs. She was already wet. Soaking. Hot silk against his probing fingers. He groaned, the sound primal. “Fuck, you’re ready,” he breathed against her lips. He traced her slick folds, finding her swollen clit. He circled it slowly, deliberately, watching her face contort with pleasure. Her hips bucked against his hand. “Yes… oh god, yes…”
He slid one finger inside her, then two. She was tight, clenching around him instantly. He pumped his fingers slowly, curling them to find that sweet spot inside her. Her breath hitched, her moans turning louder, less controlled. Her head thumped back against the fridge. “Manuel… please…”
He knew what she was pleading for. He withdrew his fingers, slick with her arousal. His own hands were shaking slightly as he fumbled with the button and zipper of his jeans, shoving them and his boxers down just enough to free his cock. It sprang out, thick and hard, the head already glistening. He gripped himself, stroking once, twice, his eyes locked on hers – dark green pools clouded with desperate need.
He positioned himself at her entrance, the blunt head nudging against her slick folds. He held her gaze, saw the flicker of apprehension mixed with raw hunger. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough.
She did. Her eyes locked onto his, wide and dark.
Manuel thrust forward, hard and deep, burying himself inside her in one powerful stroke.
“FUCK!” Vanja cried out, her back arching sharply off the fridge, her nails digging into his shoulders. Her inner muscles clenched around him like a vice, impossibly tight, impossibly hot. “Oh GOD!”
He held himself deep for a moment, savoring the exquisite pressure, the feel of her stretched around him. She was panting, her eyes squeezed shut, her face a mask of overwhelmed sensation. He withdrew slowly, almost completely, feeling every ridge, every clench of her cunt, then slammed back in, harder this time.
“Yes!” she gasped, her eyes flying open, meeting his again. “Fuck me! Harder!”
He needed no further encouragement. Manuel Neuer, renowned for his control on the pitch, surrendered completely to the raw, driving need consuming him. He gripped her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh above the jersey’s hem, anchoring her against the fridge as he began to fuck her in earnest. Deep, powerful thrusts that drove her body back against the metal with each impact. The rhythmic thud of flesh against steel mingled with their harsh breathing and the slick, wet sounds of his cock pistoning in and out of her dripping cunt.
Vanja clung to him, her legs locked around his waist, meeting his thrusts with desperate rolls of her hips. Her moans were constant now, low and guttural, punctuated by sharp gasps when he angled himself just right, grinding against her clit on the downstroke. Her breasts bounced freely under the loose jersey with each powerful drive of his hips. He could see her hard nipples rubbing against the fabric.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, his rhythm faltering for a second as her inner walls clenched down on him again. “So fucking wet… taking my cock so good…” He leaned forward, capturing her mouth again in a messy, biting kiss. His hand slid between their bodies, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing hard, fast circles against the swollen nub.
Vanja screamed into his mouth, her body convulsing. Her cunt clamped down on him in rhythmic pulses, milking his cock. “Manuel! I’m… I’m coming! Oh FUCK!” Her back arched wildly, her head thrown back, exposing the long line of her throat. He felt her orgasm ripple through her, tightening her inner muscles unbearably around his shaft.
The sensation tipped him over the edge. With a guttural roar that echoed in the kitchen, Manuel drove into her one last time, hilting himself deep as his own climax ripped through him. Hot pulses of cum erupted inside her, jetting deep into her clenching cunt. He held himself buried, grinding against her as he emptied himself, shuddering with the intensity of his release.
For a moment, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the faint sizzle of the forgotten pancake batter burning on the stove. Manuel rested his forehead against hers, his body still pressed against hers, his softening cock still nestled inside her warmth. Vanja’s legs slowly unwound from his waist, trembling as her feet touched the floor. She leaned heavily against the fridge, her eyes closed, her chest heaving.
The smell of burnt pancakes began to overpower the scent of sex. Manuel slowly pulled out, a slick trail connecting them for a second before he tucked himself back into his jeans. Vanja winced slightly, pressing her thighs together. Her jersey was rucked up around her waist, her panties still tangled around one ankle. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen, her hair escaping its knot.
Manuel reached out, gently pulling the jersey hem down to cover her. His touch was surprisingly tender now. She flinched slightly but didn’t pull away. She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. The raw hunger was gone, replaced by a dazed confusion, a hint of shock, and something else… a profound vulnerability.
He opened his mouth, maybe to say something – an apology? An explanation? A promise? But before he could speak, Vanja pushed herself away from the fridge, her movements stiff. She bent down, snatched her panties from her ankle, and stuffed them into the pocket of the oversized jersey. She wouldn’t look at him.
“I… I should go,” she mumbled, her voice hoarse. She walked unsteadily past him, heading towards the hallway where the bedrooms were, leaving Manuel standing alone in the kitchen amidst the smell of sex and burnt pancakes, the silence suddenly deafening.
The click of her bedroom door shutting echoed like a gunshot in the sudden quiet. Manuel stood frozen in the kitchen wreckage. The faintest scent of vanilla and sex lingered, overpowered now by the acrid stink of charred batter smoking on the stove. His heart still hammered against his ribs, a wild drum solo refusing to quit. He glanced down. A dark, wet spot bloomed on the crotch of his jeans where he’d tucked himself away. Her. Christ.
He blinked, reality crashing back in with the force of a missed penalty save. Dino. He was supposed to pick up Dino. Training. He was astronomically fucking late.
His phone buzzed violently in his pocket, the vibration jolting him. He fumbled it out. Kimmich. Shit.
"Josh," he answered, his voice rough, scraping like gravel.
"Wo zum Teufel bist du, Manu?" Kimmich's voice crackled, sharp with impatience. "Bus leaves in ten. Dino’s doing his nut. Says you were picking him up?"
Manuel ran a hand over his face, feeling the prickle of stubble, the ghost of her nails on his shoulders. He turned away from the hallway, from her closed door, the image of her bare legs under that jersey flashing behind his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, sorry. Got... held up. Something happened." The understatement of the fucking century. "Be right there. Five minutes." He hung up before Kimmich could ask.
He didn't move immediately. Leaned both hands on the cool countertop, head hanging. The silence pressed in, thick and strange after the raw sounds that had filled the kitchen minutes ago. He could still feel her. The shocking heat of her. The impossible tightness as she clenched around him, screaming his name. The way her back arched off the fridge, those long legs locked around his waist, the red jersey rucked up, her breasts bouncing free beneath it every time he slammed into her. Fuck.
A slow, incredulous grin spread across his face, sharp and feral. Fuck yes, something happened. The best goddamn sex of his life happened. Unexpected, explosive, against a fucking refrigerator. With the prettiest, most electric woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Who just happened to be Dino’s eighteen-year-old cousin. The Olympic sprinting phenom. Vanja-fucking-Jakobsen.
He pushed off the counter, the grin fading into a grimace as the logistics slammed home. Dino's cousin. Oh, this was a fucking minefield. But the memory surged back, overpowering caution: her dusky skin flushed, her green eyes dark and desperate, riding him hard, demanding more, taking more. The slick, obscene sound of his cock plunging into her wet cunt, her high whimpers turning into guttural cries. He’d emptied himself so deep inside her, felt her pulsing around him as he came. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He needed to focus. Right now. Training. Dino. He grabbed his keys off the counter where he’d dropped them, the burnt pancake smell making his stomach turn. He didn't look back at her door as he left, pulling it shut with a soft click.
---
Behind the thin bedroom door, Vanja stood frozen, her back pressed against the wood. Her ears strained. The low rumble of his voice on the phone. The click of the front door. The heavy silence that followed. He was gone.
Her legs gave out. She slid down the door until her ass hit the carpet, pulling her knees up tight to her chest. Dino’s oversized jersey, the red fabric she’d thought was safe, anonymous, smelled like him now. Musky, male, mixed with the faintest trace of expensive cologne and something else… something primal and unmistakably sexual. Her skin burned everywhere he’d touched her. Her lips felt bruised, swollen. Between her legs was a deep, persistent ache, a raw, liquid awareness. She was sticky. Sore. Utterly fucked.
She pressed her forehead to her knees, a strangled sound escaping her throat. Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. She did not just have sex with Manuel Neuer. Manuel fucking Neuer. World Cup winner. Bayern legend. In her cousin’s kitchen. Against the goddamn fridge. Like some desperate hookup in a cheap club. Her face flamed, mortification a physical heat rolling through her.
The details were a brutal, sensory overload. The cool steel against her back. The shocking strength of his hands lifting her. The rough fabric of his jeans scraping her inner thighs. The sheer, overwhelming size of him stretching her, filling her so completely she thought she’d break. The way he’d stared right into her eyes as he pushed in, unrelenting. "Look at me." And she had. She’d watched his jaw clench, seen the raw hunger in his eyes as he started to move, driving into her with a power that stole her breath, that made her scream. He’d made her come hard, embarrassingly fast, her body clamping down on his cock like a vise, helpless against the onslaught. And he’d come inside her. Deep. Pulsing. Filling her. She could still feel the wetness leaking out.
Panic spiked, sharp and cold. The Pill. Thank fuck. She was religious about it. For training, for control. Thank fuck for that small, merciful sliver of control in this out-of-control disaster. But still. Fuck. Manuel Neuer. Dino’s teammate. Her cousin's teamate and friend. A man nearly a decade older. The implications crashed down like falling bricks. What if Dino found out? What if anyone found out? Her coach? The federation? The fucking tabloids? ‘Olympic Hopeful Fucks Star Keeper in Cousin’s Kitchen’?
She remembered his terse phone call. "Something happened." Oh, he was late alright. Late because he was balls-deep in her, making her come so hard she saw stars, groaning as he emptied himself into her. She’d felt the powerful flex of his hips, the shudder that ran through him. He was late because of that.
Vanja buried her face in the soft fabric of Dino’s jersey, breathing in the damning scent of sex and Manuel Neuer. The silence of the apartment pressed in, heavy and accusing. Outside, the muffled sounds of Munich waking up felt like they belonged to another planet. She was adrift. Mortified. Aching. And terrifyingly aware that the man who had just wrecked her, body and composure, would be seeing her cousin in approximately five minutes.