Chapter 7: Bedroom Domination
The cool marble imprint lingered on Vanja’s cheek, a stark contrast to the furnace heat radiating from Manuel’s body pressed against her back. Their ragged breaths slowly synced in the sudden quiet of the apartment, the only sound the distant hum of Munich at night and the frantic drumming of her own heart finally slowing. His arms tightened around her waist, pulling her closer still, his lips brushing the damp skin at her temple. The diamond and emeralds of her ring pressed into her palm where her hand rested against his forearm.
"Christ," Manuel murmured, his voice rough, sandpaper against silk. He nuzzled the sensitive spot behind her ear. "You wrecked me, Goldilocks."
A shaky laugh escaped her. "Pot, kettle." She tilted her head back against his shoulder, meeting his gaze. His eyes, usually so sharp and assessing on the pitch, were dark, heavy-lidded, sated. Yet beneath the exhaustion, something primal still simmered. The victory, the proposal, the raw claiming on the kitchen counter – it wasn't enough. Not yet.
He shifted, his softening cock slipping further from where it had rested against her thigh, leaving a cooling trail of their mingled release. His hands slid down her hips, then under her thighs. Before she could react, he hoisted her up effortlessly, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. Her medals swung wildly, clinking softly against his damp jersey.
"Manuel!" she gasped, clinging to his neck. "What—?"
"Bed," he stated, his voice low and thick with intent. He carried her through the sleek living room, past the gleaming trophies catching the city lights, ignoring the discarded champagne bottle rolling near the plush sofa. The hallway was dim, illuminated only by the faint glow from the bedroom doorway.
He didn't lay her down gently. He tossed her onto the vast expanse of the king-sized bed. She bounced once, the breath knocked out of her for a second, her blonde hair fanning out on the charcoal grey sheets. Before she could push herself up, he was on her. Kneeling between her legs, his hands rough on her hips, dragging her towards the edge of the mattress. His eyes burned down at her, devouring the sight of her sprawled before him – flushed skin, breasts still heaving beneath the crumpled Bayern top, legs parted where her leggings and underwear remained tangled around her ankles.
"Fuck, look at you," he growled, his voice dropping to a guttural rasp. "Still dripping." His thumb swept through her slick folds, gathering wetness, then pressed firmly against her swollen clit. Vanja arched off the bed with a sharp cry, her hands flying to grip the sheets. "So fucking responsive." He leaned down, his breath hot against her inner thigh. "Still hungry?"
"Yes!" The word tore from her, desperate. "God, Manuel, please..."
"Please what?" He nipped the tender skin of her thigh, making her gasp. "Tell me."
"Taste me," she begged, writhing. "Fuck, taste me again!"
He didn't need telling twice. With a groan that vibrated against her skin, he buried his face between her thighs. It wasn't gentle exploration; it was devouring. His tongue was broad, flat, and relentless, licking a hot, wet stripe from her soaked entrance all the way up to her clit. He circled the aching bud with firm, demanding pressure, then flicked it rapidly with the tip of his tongue. Vanja cried out, her hips lifting off the bed, seeking more, deeper. He gripped her ass, fingers digging in, holding her open, holding her still for his assault. He plunged his tongue deep inside her, fucking her with it, the wet, sucking sounds obscenely loud in the quiet room. Then he drew back, sucking her clit hard into his mouth, applying rhythmic pressure that sent electric shocks straight to her core.
"Oh fuck! Ja! Genau da!" she screamed, her back arching impossibly. Her fingers twisted in the sheets, knuckles white. "Don't stop! Don't fucking stop!" He growled against her, the vibration adding another layer of torturous pleasure. He alternated – deep, probing thrusts of his tongue, relentless circling of her clit, sharp nips with his teeth on her inner lips that made her gasp and buck. He feasted on her, drinking her down, his groans mingling with her ragged cries. The pressure built again, terrifyingly fast, a coiled spring ready to snap. "Manuel! I'm gonna... I'm gonna come!"
He pulled back just enough to look up at her, his chin glistening wetly. His eyes were black pits of hunger. "Come," he commanded, his voice thick. "Come all over my fucking face."
The command, the raw possessiveness in his gaze, tipped her over. Her orgasm slammed into her, a brutal, convulsive wave that ripped a raw, guttural scream from her throat. Her body bowed off the bed, trembling violently as pleasure detonated through every nerve ending. He held her hips down, his tongue still working her clit mercilessly, prolonging the spasms until she collapsed back onto the sheets, gasping, utterly spent, her vision swimming.
Before she could even catch her breath, his hands were on her again. Roughly, he flipped her onto her stomach. She barely had time to register the cool sheets against her overheated skin before he hauled her hips up, kneeling behind her. One hand gripped her hip bone, fingers digging in, the other guided the thick, hard length of his cock, already slick with her arousal and his own pre-come, to her dripping entrance. He rubbed the broad head against her swollen folds, teasing her sensitive flesh, coating himself in her wetness.
"Manuel..." she whimpered, pushing her hips back instinctively, seeking the pressure, the filling stretch she craved.
"Tell me," he demanded, his voice tight with strain. "Tell me you want it."
"I want it!" she cried, her voice muffled against the sheet. "Fuck me! Please, fuck me hard!"
With a guttural roar, he slammed into her to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Vanja screamed into the mattress, the sudden, deep penetration stealing her breath. He was thicker, harder than before, stretching her impossibly tight after her climax. He didn't pause. He withdrew almost completely, the drag agonizingly slow, then drove forward again with piston-like force, burying himself deep. He set a punishing rhythm immediately, each powerful thrust rocking her entire body forward, forcing her to brace her forearms against the mattress to keep from sliding. His hips slapped against her ass with sharp, stinging impacts.
"Fuck! Yes! Harder!" she chanted, her voice cracking. Her fingers clawed at the sheets, bunching the expensive fabric. The angle was deep, impossibly deep, each thrust hitting a spot inside her that sent sparks exploding behind her eyelids. "Oh God! Right there! Fuck me right there!"
He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her sweat-slicked back, one hand sliding around to roughly pinch her nipple through the fabric of her top, twisting it. "Take it," he growled against her ear, his breath hot. "Take every fucking inch. My champion. My fiancée." His other hand gripped her hip tighter, pulling her back onto his cock with bruising force. "Feel how deep I am? Feel how fucking owned you are?"
"Yes!" she sobbed, the dual sensations – the deep, relentless pounding and the sharp pain-pleasure on her nipple – pushing her towards another dizzying peak. "Yours! All yours! Fuck! Don't stop! Make me come again!"
"Gonna come?" he snarled, his thrusts becoming faster, harder, losing any semblance of rhythm, pure animalistic drive. "Gonna come on my cock like a good little slut?"
"Yes! Fuck! Yes!" The crude word, spat with such possessive heat, ignited her. Her inner muscles clenched desperately around his driving length. "Make me! Make me come!"
He reached between her legs, his fingers finding her clit again, swollen and hypersensitive. He rubbed hard, fast circles, perfectly timed with his brutal thrusts. The overload was instantaneous, catastrophic. Her vision whited out. A scream tore from her throat, raw and ragged, as her body convulsed violently around him. Her inner walls clamped down on his cock in frantic, fluttering spasms.
Feeling her clamp down, hearing her desperate, broken cries, shattered his control. With a final, guttural roar that seemed to shake the room, he slammed into her one last time, burying himself impossibly deep, and held. His cock pulsed violently inside her, jet after hot jet of his release flooding her depths as he shuddered, his entire body rigid against hers. He collapsed forward, his weight pressing her down into the mattress, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps against her skin.
They lay like that for long moments, tangled, spent, slick with sweat and sex. The only sounds were their slowing breaths and the distant city hum. Vanja felt utterly boneless, liquefied. Manuel’s softening cock slipped out of her, followed by a warm gush of their mingled fluids onto the sheets. He shifted slightly, rolling onto his side and pulling her with him, wrapping his arms around her, spooning her trembling body against his chest. His lips brushed her shoulder, her neck, gentle now, almost reverent.
"Jesus, Vanja," he breathed, his voice hoarse, his hand smoothing her tangled hair back from her damp forehead. His fingers traced the outline of the ring on her hand resting near her face. "What you do to me..."
She nestled deeper into his embrace, the aftershocks still trembling through her limbs. The scent of sex, sweat, and him filled her nostrils. Outside, Munich glittered, indifferent. Inside, cocooned in his heat, the diamond heavy and cool against her skin, the world felt impossibly far away. The roar of the stadium, the flash of cameras, Granit’s shadow – it all faded into a distant hum. Here, now, claimed and claiming, she felt a fierce, exhausted peace. His breath evened out against her neck. Her eyelids grew heavy. Tomorrow would come crashing in. But for tonight, wrapped in the scent of victory and Manuel Neuer, she slept.
The scent of victory, sex, and Manuel’s skin lingered even in sleep, a comforting musk woven into the grey sheets. Vanja awoke slowly, the pale Munich dawn bleeding light around the heavy blackout curtains. A strange, insistent nausea churned deep in her gut, sharp and unfamiliar. She pressed a hand to her abdomen, frowning. Too much champagne? Too much... everything?
She barely made it to the ensuite bathroom. Kneeling on the cool tile, she retched violently, emptying her stomach into the pristine porcelain bowl. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Footsteps sounded behind her. Manuel appeared, instantly alert, crouching beside her. "Vanja? Shit. You okay?" He gathered her sweat-damp hair back, his touch unexpectedly gentle. "Food poisoning? The stadium hot dogs were dodgy as fuck." He grabbed a washcloth, running it under cold water and pressing it to the back of her neck.
"I don't know," she gasped between heaves, trembling. "Felt fine last night until... just now." The nausea subsided, leaving her shaky and hollow. She leaned back against him, his solid chest a welcome anchor. His hands smoothed over her bare stomach, his brow furrowed with concern, the massive Champion's League ring glinting dully on his finger beside her own dazzling engagement ring.
Weeks bled into a grueling rhythm of training and suspicion. The nausea became a relentless companion, striking most mornings with brutal efficiency. Vanja’s toned physique felt different, subtly heavier, her breasts tender. Her Olympic training schedule intensified, each punishing sprint feeling marginally harder, her breath catching sooner. She ignored the whispers in her mind, focusing on the track, on Munich looming. But the missed period was impossible to dismiss.
One stifling afternoon, she stood in Manuel’s sleek, minimalist bathroom, staring at the plastic stick. Two bold pink lines. The world tilted. Pregnant. The word echoed, vast and terrifying. Eighteen. Olympic season. The fastest woman alive? A choked sound escaped her. She sank onto the cold edge of the bathtub, the test clutched in her trembling hand, the diamond and emeralds digging into her palm. How? When? Munich? The kitchen counter? The brutal claiming on the bed? It didn't matter. The result was terrifyingly real.
She found Manuel in the kitchen, assembling sandwiches with intense focus, the way he strategized a defensive wall. Bayern training gear clung to his damp skin. He looked up, a question forming, then froze at her expression. She didn't speak. Just held out the test. His gaze dropped. The silence stretched, thick and electric. He took the stick, his large fingers dwarfing it. His jaw clenched, then relaxed. A slow, incredulous smile spread across his face, transforming the usual intensity into pure, stunned joy. He looked up, his eyes alight.
"Goldilocks..." he breathed, stepping forward, crushing her to him. "Fucking hell. A baby?" He laughed, a rough, joyous sound, burying his face in her hair. "Our baby." Relief flooded her, mingling with the residual fear. His reaction was everything. She clung to him, the rigid lines of his body against hers a fortress against the unknown. He kissed her fiercely, possessively, his hands sliding down to cradle her still-flat stomach. "My champion," he murmured against her lips, his voice thick. "Carrying my champion."
The kiss deepened, fuelled by adrenaline and a sudden, fierce hunger. His tongue plunged into her mouth, demanding, claiming. His hands slid under her thin running top, palming her breasts, thumbs finding her hardened nipples. She moaned, arching into him, the fear momentarily forgotten under the surge of raw desire his touch ignited. His erection pressed insistently against her hip through his track pants. She reached down, cupping the thick outline, squeezing. He groaned, grinding against her hand.
"Need you," she gasped, pulling his shirt up, desperate to feel his skin. "Now. Like the final. Hard."
He spun her around, bending her over the cool marble island countertop – a brutal echo of their first night here. Her medals clattered against the stone. His hands pushed her running shorts and underwear down roughly. He kicked his own track pants off. The broad, blunt head of his cock nudged her slick entrance, already wet for him. He slid in with one smooth, powerful thrust, filling her completely. Vanja cried out, fingers scrambling on the marble. He set a relentless pace immediately, hips slamming against her ass, the slap of skin loud in the modern kitchen. "Fuck, you feel incredible," he growled, leaning over her, biting her shoulder. "My pregnant champion. Taking my cock so fucking good."
"Yes! Harder!" she begged, pushing back against him, meeting his thrusts. The angle was deep, perfect. Pleasure coiled tightly in her core. "Own me! Fuck me!"
Vanja gasped, her knuckles white on the cold marble, as Manuel drove into her with relentless force, his hips hammering against her ass. "Fuck yes, just like that," she choked out, the countertop vibrating beneath her, her medals clinking a frantic rhythm against the stone. His hand snaked around her hip, fingers finding her swollen clit, rubbing tight, demanding circles that made her vision blur.
"Gonna make you come again," Manuel growled, his breath hot and ragged against her neck, his thrusts deepening, each one hitting that perfect, devastating spot. "My pregnant little speed demon... fuck..." He bit her shoulder, a sharp, possessive sting that sent fresh lightning through her core. "So fucking tight... soaking my cock..."
The sudden, sharp buzz of the apartment intercom sliced through their ragged breaths and the wet slap of skin. Vanja froze mid-arch, a strangled gasp escaping her. Manuel cursed, low and vicious, his rhythm faltering for only a second before resuming, even harder. "Ignore it," he ground out, his fingers working her clit faster. But the buzzing persisted, insistent, followed by a muffled voice through the speaker – Joshua Kimmich’s familiar, slightly impatient tone demanding entry.
"Scheiße," Vanja hissed, panic flashing through her arousal. Manuel groaned, a sound of pure frustration, and reluctantly slowed, pulling almost entirely out of her slick heat, leaving her achingly empty. He grabbed a dishtowel, roughly wiped his glistening cock, and yanked his track pants up, the outline still prominent. Vanja scrambled, yanking her shorts and underwear up her trembling legs, her face burning. She frantically smoothed her hair and pulled down her top, turning just as Manuel pressed the entry release.
The door clicked open moments later. Joshua strode in, whistling, carrying a bottle of expensive-looking whiskey. "Figured we'd toast the..." His words died as his eyes landed on them. Vanja stood rigidly by the counter, her cheeks flaming crimson, trying desperately to look casual. Manuel leaned against the sink, arms crossed, radiating barely contained tension. The air crackled – thick with the unmistakable scent of sex, sweat, and her arousal. Joshua’s gaze darted between them, taking in Vanja’s disheveled hair, her flushed skin, Manuel’s predatory stillness, and the utterly disarranged kitchen. His eyes lingered on Vanja, wide with startled comprehension, then flicked down, then back up, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face.
Manuel pushed off the sink, his voice low, almost conversational, but with an edge that commanded attention. "Komm rein, Josh. Perfect timing." He gestured towards the living area, his gaze never leaving Joshua’s. Vanja felt exposed, raw, every nerve ending screaming under Joshua’s intense stare. He hadn’t moved from the doorway, his eyes still locked on her, the smirk deepening into something appreciative, almost awed.
Joshua took a single step forward, his voice dropping to a husky whisper meant only for Vanja, but loud enough to carry in the charged silence. "Fuck..." He breathed, his gaze tracing the outline of her body, lingering where Manuel’s hands had just been. "You are so fucking beautiful... taking him like this." His words, raw and explicit, weren't leering; they held a stunned admiration, acknowledging the raw power and vulnerability he’d glimpsed. Vanja felt a treacherous, involuntary pulse of wetness between her legs at the blunt admiration, the blatant acknowledgement of her desire, her surrender.
Manuel heard it. Saw the slight tremor that ran through her, the way her pupils dilated further. A low, possessive groan rumbled deep in his chest, primal and satisfied. "Ja," he murmured, more to himself than anyone, his eyes burning into Vanja.