Chapter 7: Jealousy & Consequences
The rain in Amsterdam was a soft, persistent veil, blurring the canal lights into smears of gold on black water. Vanja sat in the sleek restaurant, the glass ceiling offering a cinematic view of the weeping sky. She wore a dress of charcoal grey, simple, expensive, a uniform of detachment. Across the table, Mats Visser, the Ajax striker, smiled with the easy confidence of a man who had never been told ‘no’ by a woman in his life.
He was handsome in a predictable, sculpted way—broad shoulders, a jawline that looked chiseled from granite, eyes the color of a shallow sea. He had asked her out with a directness that was almost charming, and she had said yes for reasons she was still dissecting. Control, perhaps. A public demonstration of moving on. A fuck she could analyze and discard, with no phantom taste left on her tongue.
“So, the famous Vanja Jakobsen,” Mats said, his English lightly accented. He poured more wine into her glass without asking. “They say you speak nine languages. Say something dirty in Russian.”
Vanja took a slow sip. “They also say you have a first touch like a falling anvil. Should I ask for a demonstration?”
He laughed, a loud, booming sound that turned heads. “I like you. You’re not like the others. All they want to talk about is my contract or my car.”
“I’m interested in your movement off the ball,” she said, keeping her tone professional, a slight challenge in her gaze. “Your diagonal runs are intelligent. But you check back too often. You don’t trust the pass will come.”
He leaned forward, his interest sharpening from carnal to professional. For a moment, they were just two tacticians. He described a play, his hands sketching lines in the air between them. Vanja countered, pointing out the spatial awareness of a defender he’d underestimated. It was a dance she knew, and she led. She felt a flicker of the old power, the pure, clean power of the mind.
Then his hand found her knee under the table.
It was a casual invasion, his large, warm palm sliding up her thigh, pushing the fabric of her dress. The conversation didn’t stop. He was still talking about the false nine role, but his thumb was now drawing slow circles on her inner thigh. Vanja’s breath hitched, not from pleasure, but from the audacity. She didn’t move. She let him. This was the script, wasn’t it? The price of the demonstration.
Her eyes, scanning the room as if considering his tactical point, caught a flash of emerald at the bar.
Sophie.
She was perched on a stool, a cocktail in front of her, watching them. Not hiding. Her expression was unreadable from this distance, but her posture was coiled, intent. She had followed her. Or known about the date. Of course she had.
A bolt of pure, white-hot anger shot through Vanja. It was followed immediately by a darker, more thrilling current. Sophie was seeing this. Seeing Mats’s hand under the table, seeing Vanja allow it. The private shame became a public performance.
Mats’s fingers crept higher. “You’re not wearing tights,” he murmured, his voice dropping, the football talk abandoned.
“Is that a problem?” Vanja said, her eyes still locked on Sophie’s distant figure.
“It’s a fucking revelation.” His fingertips brushed the edge of her underwear. Vanja felt a treacherous dampness bloom. Her body, ever the traitor, was responding to the crude touch, to the danger, to Sophie’s watchful eyes. She clenched her thighs, trapping his hand for a second. He chuckled, low in his throat.
“See something you like?” he asked, misreading her tension.
“Perhaps.” She finally looked at him, letting a slow, calculated smile touch her lips. “Your place or mine?”
His apartment was a monument to modern masculine wealth. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a leather sofa the size of a boat, a professional kitchen untouched by cooking. The only personal items were framed jerseys and a massive gaming setup. He didn’t bother with lights; the city’s glow poured in, painting everything in monochrome.
He pushed her against the cold glass of the window the moment the door closed, his mouth coming down on hers. It was possessive, hungry. She kissed him back, matching his intensity, her hands fisting in his shirt. This was what she wanted. A simple, physical transaction. A reset.
He ripped her dress in his haste, the sound of tearing fabric obscenely loud. He didn’t seem to care. He filled his hands with her breasts, his mouth hot and wet on her skin. “Fuck, you’re even better than I thought,” he grunted, biting her shoulder.
Vanja reached for his belt, her fingers efficient. She freed his cock, already thick and fully hard. She stroked him, her grip firm, and he groaned, his head falling back. “You want it?” he panted.
“I want you to shut up and fuck me,” she said, the crudeness feeling like armor.
He turned her around, bending her over the back of the sleek sofa. Her torn dress was around her waist. He pushed her underwear aside and entered her in one brutal, deep thrust.
Vanja cried out, her forehead pressing against the cool leather. He was big, stretching her, a blunt, filling ache. There was no preamble, no tenderness. He set a punishing rhythm immediately, each slam of his hips driving her forward. The force of it, the sheer physicality, was a narcotic. It obliterated thought. She couldn’t think of Sophie, of Pep, of tactics. There was only this pounding, the slap of skin, his grunts in her ear.
“Take it,” he growled, one hand tangling in her hair, pulling her head back. “Take all of it, you brilliant bitch.”
The vulgarity sparked something. Her own orgasm gathered, swift and shocking, coiling low in her belly and detonating without warning. It ripped through her, a silent, convulsing wave that made her knees buckle. He held her up, fucking her through it, his pace never faltering.
When she came down, he was still going. He pulled out, spun her around, and lifted her onto the wide arm of the sofa. He hooked her legs over his arms, driving back into her wetness, this angle even deeper. Vanja wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on as he pistoned into her. She was raw, sensitive, every nerve ending screaming. A second climax built, this one slower, hotter, spreading from her core like molten lead.
“That’s it,” he hissed, watching her face. “Come again. I want to feel you milk my cock.”
The command, the clinical observation of her own body’s response, pushed her over. She came with a choked sob, her inner muscles fluttering wildly around him. This time, he followed her. His thrusts became erratic, brutal, and he emptied himself inside her with a long, guttural groan, collapsing his weight onto her.
They stayed like that for a moment, slick with sweat, breathing in ragged unison. Vanja’s mind, the blank void of pleasure, began to repopulate. The first thought was not of Mats, but of the look on Sophie’s face at the bar. The second was a cold, clear assessment: he was technically proficient, powerfully built, and utterly forgettable.
He pulled out, disappearing into the bathroom. Vanja slid off the sofa, her legs unsteady. She found her torn dress, holding it against her. The city lights twinkled, indifferent.
He returned, wearing boxers, and handed her a towel. “You’re incredible,” he said, a post-coital smirk on his face. “We should do this again. Maybe before the derby. For luck.”
Vanja wiped herself clean, the towel coming away stained. “Maybe,” she said, her voice flat.
The transaction was complete. She dressed as best she could, the torn dress a humiliating costume. He walked her to the door, gave her a perfunctory kiss. “I’ll call you.”
She knew he wouldn't.
The night air was cold on her heated skin. She walked, not towards her hotel, but aimlessly along the canal. The physical satisfaction was already curdling into a hollow emptiness.
The physical satisfaction was already curdling into a hollow emptiness. She walked for an hour, the torn dress a whisper against her thighs, until the chill forced her into a taxi. Back in her sterile hotel room, she showered until her skin was raw, but the memory of his hands felt etched into her.
Two days passed in a blur of tactical meetings and video analysis. The memory of Mats Visser had faded to a grimy smear, a concluded experiment. Then her phone buzzed on the training pitch, an unknown Dutch number lighting up the screen.
She answered, her voice clipped. “Jakobsen.”
“It’s Mats.” The connection was crisp, his tone different—softer, lacking the performative boom. “I want to see you again.”
Vanja stared at a youth player miscontrolling a pass, her mind scrambling. “What?”
“Your place or mine?” he said, then quickly amended. “No, wait. I want to take you out.”
A disbelieving laugh escaped her. “Take me out?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” She could hear the shrug in his voice. “I’m not an animal. Mostly.”
Against the cold logic in her head, she heard herself agree. “My place is Copenhagen. Yours is here.”
“Then here. Tonight. I’ll pick you up.”
He collected her in a modest, unmarked car, not the flashy Lamborghini she’d expected. He wore jeans and a simple wool sweater, his hair still damp from a shower. He drove them to a small frites stand nestled by the Vondelpark, the air fragrant with fried potatoes and mayonnaise.
“This is your idea of a date?” Vanja asked, taking the warm paper cone he handed her.
“The best one,” he said, leading her into the park’s deepening twilight.
They found a bench overlooking a pond. The food was simple, greasy, perfect. He wasn’t looking at her body; he was looking at the ducks, at the sky, at her eyes when she spoke. He laughed at her story about a player who’d tried to bribe her with a puppy, and the sound was different—an honest, unguarded rumble that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
She studied his profile in the fading light. “You are beautiful,” she said, the observation clinical, yet not unwarmed.
He turned, a fry paused halfway to his mouth. “So are you. But you already know that.”
They ate in comfortable silence for a moment. “You are twenty-one,” she stated. “What’s next in your career? After Ajax?”
“Ajax was my dream,” Mats said, dusting salt from his fingers. He looked at the water, his youthful certainty touched by something heavier. “A boy’s dream. And now I’m here.”
“And now?” she pressed.
“I got offers.”
“Of course you did.” She smiled, a real one, feeling the starch of her professional persona soften.
He leaned in then, not for a conquering kiss, but to press his lips gently to the corner of her mouth, tasting of salt and potato. It was shockingly intimate. “What about you?” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. “The famous Vanja. What’s next for you?”
She looked away, towards the darkening water. The question echoed in the hollow place the last month had carved out. “I’m staying until the end of the season. I want them to win something tangible.” She paused, the next admission feeling like a stone dislodged. “Then I might leave.”
He nodded as if he understood the weight of it. He took her empty fry cone, his fingers brushing hers. “Come on,” he said, standing. “I’ll drive you back.”
In the car, the atmosphere had shifted. The previous transaction in his apartment felt like it belonged to two other people. He walked her to her hotel lobby, his hand a light, steady pressure on the small of her back.
“Can I come up?” he asked, his voice low.
She met his gaze. This wasn’t the same invitation. The hunger was there, but it was patient, layered with something that asked permission. She thought of the torn dress, the cold glass, the hollow aftermath. She thought of the park bench, and his honest laugh.
“Yes,” Vanja said, and led him to the elevator.
The elevator doors slid shut, sealing them in a silent, mirrored cube. He didn’t push her against the wall. He didn’t grab her. He simply looked at her reflection, his hands in his pockets, and said, “I liked talking to you.”
In her room, the austerity felt different with him in it. The city lights bled across the ceiling. He stood by the window, his silhouette against the glass, and she approached him not with hunger, but with a slow, gathering curiosity. She reached for the hem of his sweater, and he raised his arms, letting her pull it off. His chest was a landscape of muscle and old, faint scars. She traced one, a pale line along his ribs.
“Cleats,” he said, his voice a rumble under her fingers.
She unbuttoned her own shirt, let it fall. His eyes tracked the movement, but his breathing remained even. When she stood before him in just her underwear, he didn’t pounce. He cupped her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones, and kissed her. It was deep, exploratory, a conversation without words. His tongue moved against hers with a patience that felt like reverence.
He lifted her, not with a grunt of effort, but with a smooth, sure strength, and carried her to the bed. He laid her down as if she were something fragile. He removed the rest of her clothes, then his own, with a deliberate slowness that made her skin hum with anticipation. When they were both naked, he didn’t immediately enter her. He lay beside her, propped on an elbow, and just looked.
“What?” she whispered, feeling strangely seen.
“Memorizing,” he said, and then his head dipped to her breast.
His mouth was hot and wet and unbearably soft. He took her nipple gently between his teeth, then soothed it with his tongue, his hand cradling the weight of her. A sigh leaked from her, a sound of pure, unfiltered pleasure. He kissed a trail down her stomach, his stubble a delicious friction. He hooked his hands under her knees, spreading her, and looked at her cunt with the same focused intensity he’d given the ducks in the pond.
“Fuck, Vanja,” he breathed, the curse sounding like awe.
Then he buried his face between her legs.
This was not a prelude. This was an event. His tongue was broad and flat, licking a slow, devastating path from her opening to her clit. He didn’t flicker or dart; he worshipped. He licked into her, tasting her deeply, his nose nudging her clit with each stroke. One hand came up to press against her lower belly, anchoring her as she arched off the bed. The other hand slid under her, fingers digging into the flesh of her ass, holding her open for his mouth.
“Mats,” she gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair, not to guide him, but to hold on.
He hummed against her, the vibration shooting straight to her core. He found a rhythm, a relentless, wet, circling pressure that built a coil of pleasure so tight she thought it might snap her in half. He slipped two fingers inside her, curling them, finding a spot that made her cry out sharply. He fucked her with his fingers while his tongue worked her clit, and the dual sensation, the thoroughness of it, dismantled her.
Her orgasm approached not as a spike, but as a rising tide. It swelled, inevitable, consuming. She came with a broken sound, her hips bucking against his face, her thighs trembling around his head. He didn’t stop. He drank from her, gentling his tongue as she pulsed, coaxing every last shudder from her.
When she finally stilled, boneless, he crawled up her body. His cock, long, hard and thick, rested against her thigh. He kissed her, and she could taste herself on his lips, salty and musky. It was intimate in a way the fuck against his window had never been.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice rough.
She opened her eyes. His were dark, pupils blown, but his gaze was steady. He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head nudging her slick folds. He pushed in, an inch, then retreated. Again. A slow, maddening invasion. She wrapped her legs around his waist, heels digging into his back, urging him deeper.
He sank into her completely, a long, deep slide that made them both groan. He was so deep she felt him in her throat. He stayed there, buried, his forehead against hers, their breath mingling. “This,” he said, and it wasn’t a word, it was a confession.
Then he began to move.
This was love-making. It was a slow, rolling grind of his hips, a deep, connected friction. Each withdrawal was a loss, each return a homecoming. He kissed her eyelids, her temples, the corner of her mouth. He whispered things in Dutch she didn’t need to understand—the tone was everything, a low, reverent stream against her skin. She met his rhythm, rising to meet him, their bodies finding a syncopated beat that had nothing to do with conquest.
She came again, a softer, fuller wave that rolled through her, squeezing him tightly. He murmured her name, his pace faltering. He followed her over, his release a hot, pulsing flood inside her, his body shuddering with the force of it. He collapsed onto her, his weight a warm, welcome anchor.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their slowing breath. He softened inside her. He nuzzled her neck. “Okay?” he mumbled.
“Yeah,” she breathed. “Okay.”
They dozed, a tangle of limbs. She woke to the feel of his hand stroking her hip in the dark. The digital clock read 2:17 AM. The tenderness in the air had solidified into something else—a restless, gathering energy. The memory of the first time, the violence of it, echoed in the quiet room. It was a ghost that demanded appeasement.
He shifted, and she felt him hardening again against her thigh. This time, when he kissed her, it wasn’t soft. It was hungry, possessive. The animal was back, but now it was an animal she knew, one she had tamed and could now unleash.
“Turn over,” he said, his voice a graveled command.
She did, on her hands and knees. The sheet was cool beneath her palms. He knelt behind her, his hands gripping her hips, his thumbs pressing into the dimples of her lower back. He didn’t guide himself in. He just positioned the thick head of his cock at her entrance, still wet from their love-making and his spend, and pushed.
He filled her in one relentless thrust, a reclamation. A grunt was punched from his chest. “Christ, you’re still so tight.”
This was fucking. It was deep, hard, and purposeful. Each drive of his hips slammed her forward, a brutal, perfect piston stroke. The earlier tenderness was gone, burned away by a raw, carnal need. The sound was obscene—the wet slap of skin, the creak of the bed frame, his ragged curses.
“You take it so good,” he growled, one hand fisting in her hair, pulling her head back so her spine arched. “This what you needed? This what you thought about after I left you that first time?”
“Yes,” she hissed, the word torn from her.
“You were fucking empty after, weren’t you?” He drove into her, his balls slapping against her clit with each impact. “I could feel it. You were a shell.”
She couldn’t answer. Pleasure, sharp and serrated, was building again, fed by the brutality, by the truth of his words. He was right. She had been hollow. This, now, was filling her with something else—something dark and real and undeniable.
“You’re not empty now,” he snarled, his pace becoming frantic, punishing. “I can feel you. You’re gripping my cock like a fucking vise. Come on. Come for me. Squeeze me dry.”
The vulgarity, the sheer physical domination, tipped her over. Her third orgasm was a convulsing, violent thing, a silent scream that locked her muscles and blinded her. He fucked her through it, his own control shattering. With a final, gut-deep roar, he plunged as deep as he could go and came, his hot release jetting into her, a possessive claim.
He stayed there, lodged inside her, both of them dripping sweat and shaking. Slowly, he pulled out. The cool air hit her wet skin. He fell onto his back beside her.
The silence returned, but it was different. Charged. Sated in a way that went beyond the physical.
After a while, he got up. She heard the bathroom light, the rush of water. He returned with a warm, damp cloth and cleaned her with a surprising gentleness, wiping the mess from her thighs. He tossed the cloth aside and pulled the duvet over them both, drawing her back against his chest. His arm was heavy across her waist.
“I have training at seven,” he said into her hair, his voice already slurred with sleep.
“So do I,” she murmured.
He held her tighter. Neither spoke of tomorrow, or next week, or the end of the season. There was just the warm dark, the weight of his arm, and the profound, complicated silence between the making of love and the act of the fuck, both now living inside her.