Chapter 9: Vanja kneels before Sebastian's exposed cock as he flips through incriminating photos on his phone, his grip tightening in her hair with each swipe. 'First you'll take me down your throat, then you'll spread those perfect legs for every player who scores tonight,' he growls, shoving her face into his groin as Nigel watches wide-eyed from the doorway.
The freedom felt thin, like a layer of ice over a deep, dark lake. Dino’s lawyers, two men in suits that cost more than Vanja’s PhD stipend for a year, had met with Sebastian in a neutral office in Frankfurt. The conversation, Dino relayed later, had been brisk and merciless. There was no contract with Kovac, only a gentleman’s agreement—and Dino’s lawyers were no gentlemen. They presented Sebastian with a choice: dissolve the retainer with Vanja, with full confidentiality and no financial penalty to her, or face a convoluted but potent lawsuit involving harassment, data privacy, and the potential for very public, very salacious details to emerge. Sebastian, ever the pragmatist, had chosen the path of least resistance. He’d shredded the paper with a tight, professional smile. “A miscalculation,” he’d called her. “Best ended cleanly.”
Vanja stood on the rooftop terrace of Dino’s penthouse, the wind whipping her red hair across her face. She held the torn pieces of her own copy of the contract, which she’d collected from her old apartment. The city below was oblivious. She let the fragments go, watching them flutter and dive like confused birds before disappearing into the Munich dusk.
She was free. The word echoed hollowly.
The elevator chimed inside. She heard Dino’s footsteps, quick and light, on the polished concrete. He came out onto the terrace, still in his training gear, a light sweat glistening on his temples. He saw her, saw the empty space where the papers had been, and his shoulders dropped an inch, a tension released.
“It’s done,” he said.
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
He walked to her, his eyes searching her face. “He won’t bother you again. Neither of them will.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I made it known,” Dino said, his voice dropping. “In ways the lawyers couldn’t. To Kovac. To anyone who might have gotten ideas.” There was a dark finality in his tone that made her shiver. This was the other side of his protectiveness, not the gentle cousin but the man who operated in the shadowed corridors of a billion-euro industry.
She turned to face him fully. “What did you do?”
“Enough.” He cupped her cheek, his thumb rough against her skin. “You’re out. That’s all that matters.”
But it wasn’t. The exit was clean, but the room she’d left was still stained. The memory of Sebastian’s clinical touch, of Kovac’s proprietary gaze, of her own calculated degradation—it was a film over her skin no legal document could wipe away. She saw it in Dino’s eyes too. The victory was there, but beneath it churned a furious, unsettled energy. They had won the battle, but the war was inside them now.
She leaned into his touch, then turned her head and pressed a kiss to his palm. A silent thank you. Then she stepped back, her gaze steady. “I need to get out of this city for a night. Just a night.”
He frowned. “Where?”
“Frankfurt. Nigel’s there. He’s been… worried.”
A flicker of something like jealousy crossed Dino’s face, instantly replaced by understanding. Nigel was safe. Nigel was outside of all this. He nodded slowly. “Go. I have an early training. We’ll… we’ll figure out the rest when you get back.”
The Frankfurt hotel Nigel had chosen was boutique and absurdly chic, all muted tones and indirect lighting. He opened the door to his suite and engulfed her in a hug that smelled of expensive hair product and unconditional friendship. “You look like hell wrapped in a very expensive bow,” he murmured into her hair.
Vanja managed a weak laugh. “It’s been a month.”
He poured her a large gin and tonic without asking and listened. She told him everything, the words tumbling out in a chaotic flood—the contract, the sky box, the loading bay, the lawyers, Dino’s furious reclamation. She left nothing out. Nigel didn’t flinch. He sipped his drink, his expressive face moving through shock, anger, and finally, a deep, sad empathy.
“Oh, honey,” he sighed when she finished, her voice raw. “You’ve been playing with nuclear waste and calling it glitter.”
“I know.”
“And your cousin… he’s in love with you.”
“I know that too.”
“And you’re in love with a beautiful, complicated, possibly quite violent football star who also happens to be your cousin. Which is, and I say this with love, a Serbian telenovela level of problem.”
Vanja put her head in her hands. “What do I do, Nigel?”
He was quiet for a long moment. “You breathe. For one night, you stop being the genius analyst or the tragic mistress or the redeemed lover. You’re just Vanja. My friend who makes terrible choices about men but excellent choices about shoes.” He stood up. “And to that end, we are going downstairs to the bar, you will have two more of these, and we will find some harmless, pretty thing to flirt with for my own amusement. No decisions. No drama. Just… air.”
It was what she needed. The bar was all low-slung velvet chairs and the quiet clink of glass. They talked of nothing: his work, a new art exhibition, the ridiculousness of German reality TV. For two hours, the weight lifted. She laughed, a real laugh that felt strange in her throat. Nigel did indeed flirt with a handsome bartender, making her grin.
It was past midnight when she returned to her own room, a smaller suite on the floor below. The calm from the bar began to evaporate in the silent, elegant space. The bed was too large. The city lights outside felt accusatory. She stripped to her underwear and stood at the window, the gin buzzing softly in her veins.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Dino.
Can’t sleep. You?
She typed back. No. Hotel room too quiet.
His reply was immediate. Room number.
Her heart stuttered. You’re in Munich.
I’m in the lobby.
She stared at the message. Then she walked to the door and opened it. He was there, leaning against the wall opposite, still in the same clothes from the terrace, a small duffel bag at his feet. He looked wired, restless, his eyes shadowed.
“How?” was all she could manage.
“Drove. Couldn’t sit in that empty penthouse.” He pushed off the wall, his gaze intense. “I needed to see you. To know you were real. That this is real.”
He stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him. The hotel room, moments ago a capsule of lonely silence, was now charged, the air compressed by his presence. He didn’t touch her. He just looked, his eyes roaming her body in the sheer lace bra and panties, the view of the city framing her like a dangerous painting.
“You’re free,” he said, the words a low vibration.
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I’m free.”
He closed the distance then, but slowly, giving her every chance to turn away. He stopped inches from her. She could smell the night drive on him, the clean sweat, the hint of petrol. His fingers came up to trace the strap of her bra, then down, over the swell of her breast, his thumb brushing her nipple to a hard peak through the lace. A shuddering breath escaped her.
“This is mine,” he whispered, not a question, but a ritual affirmation. “All of it. No contracts. No deals. Just you. And me.”
“Yes,” she breathed.
His control snapped. He kissed her, a consuming, desperate kiss that tasted of coffee and autobahn speed. It was different from the night before. Less angry, more hungry, a need to connect rather than overwrite. His hands were everywhere, mapping her as if for the first time. He pulled her roughly against him, his erection hard and insistent against her stomach.
“I need to be inside you,” he growled against her mouth, his hands gripping her ass, squeezing the soft flesh. “I need to fuck you in this clean, anonymous room where none of them have ever been. I need to make you scream so loud you forget the sound of their voices.”
His filthy words lit a fuse in her core. She clawed at his shirt, pulling it over his head, her nails scraping down the hard planes of his back. He unhooked her bra with a quick, practiced twist, and her breasts spilled free. He bent his head, taking one nipple deep into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue circling the peak. She cried out, her fingers tangling in his dark hair.
“Dino, please…”
He walked her backward toward the bed, shedding his jeans and boxers, his cock springing free, thick and flushed. He pushed her down onto the crisp duvet, following her down, his body a heavy, welcome weight. He kissed her stomach, her hips, then hooked his thumbs in the sides of her panties and dragged them down her legs. He spread her thighs wide, his gaze burning on the wet, exposed core of her.
“Fucking perfect,” he muttered, lowering his head.
His tongue was a rough, devouring heat. He licked her from entrance to clit in one long, slow stroke, then circled the sensitive bud, his pace relentless. He pushed two fingers inside her, curling them, finding a rhythm that made her hips buck off the bed. He added a third, stretching her, the faint burn eclipsed by the shocking pleasure. He fucked her with his mouth and fingers, a ruthless, intimate assault designed for one outcome.
“Come on my tongue,” he ordered, his voice muffled against her. “Come for me, Vanja. Let me taste it.”
The command, the obscene intimacy of it, shattered her. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and blinding, her back arching, a raw, guttural moan tearing from her throat. He drank her in, his tongue working her through the convulsions until she was trembling and oversensitive.
Before she could recover, he moved up her body, his cock nudging at her soaked entrance. He looked into her eyes, his own black with desire. “Look at me,” he said, pushing the head inside. She gasped, her body still fluttering from the first climax. He pushed deeper, inch by inexorable inch, filling her completely. The stretch was exquisite, a full, aching possession.
He began to move, a deep, steady rhythm that was almost tender in its intensity. He braced himself on his elbows, his face inches from hers. “This is what free feels like,” he whispered, thrusting gently. “Right here. My cock in your cunt. No one between us. No one owning you but me.”
Tears welled in her eyes. He kissed them away. “I love you,” he said, each word a thrust. “I don’t care about the past. I don’t care about the fucked-up way we started. I love you.”
He shifted, pulling her leg up over his shoulder, changing the angle. The next thrust drove the breath from her lungs, hitting a spot so deep and perfect she saw stars. “There,” he grunted. “That’s it. That’s my spot.”
He fucked her harder, faster, the bed beginning to thump against the wall in a steady, rhythmic beat. The sounds were lewd and beautiful: the slick slap of skin, his ragged grunts, her high, pleading cries. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper, meeting every thrust with a roll of her hips.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his rhythm becoming erratic, brutal. “I’m gonna fill this perfect pussy up. Mark you from the inside. You want that?”
“Yes!” she screamed, her second orgasm building, a coiling tension about to snap. “God, yes, Dino, please!”
With a final, savage thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, his body locking as he came. A hoarse shout tore from his throat, and she felt the hot, pulsing release flood her depths. The sensation triggered her own climax, a wave of pleasure so intense it was almost painful, clenching around him, milking every last drop.
He collapsed, his weight crushing her into the mattress, both of them slick and heaving. The room smelled of sex and sweat and them. Slowly, he rolled to the side, pulling her with him, keeping himself sheathed inside her. They lay tangled, hearts hammering against each other.
Outside, Frankfurt glittered, indifferent.