Kai• ros | Julian Brandt

10.

I felt his hands on my hips. They copied my silhouette. From top to bottom, across my entire waist. He mapped my body, as if through his fingertips he was writing every single detail into his memory. All this accompanied by stealthy kisses. One to my lips, which he gently bit. The other on my chin, which he rubbed against. And a million more on the delicate skin of my neck, which he showered with reddish spots.

He possessively pressed me to himsself, crushed me with his touches.

His scent hit my nose. The mixture of fresh citrus gel and predatory masculinity robbed me of my senses. About all the rationality that whispered to me the senselessness of our actions. With each of his kisses or passionate touches, the voice of rationality weakened, waned in intensity until it was completely lost in the maelstrom of lust that bound us both.

His hands wandered under the hem of the Dortmund jersey I was wearing. His cold touch sent shivers down my bare skin. A pleasant tingle, traveling along my spine, making me close my eyelids slightly.

The energy between us was magnetic, unfortunately more undeniable.

His warm breath tickled the crease of my neck. Through the collarbone to the earlobe, where it was attached.

"Unpleasant," a small kiss landed under my ear "inaccessible," another "uptight" and another one "but so fucking beautiful."

His words made my heart beat faster. It was like I'm running a marathon. And I just stood, caught in the arms of the man who I thought about just a little while ago, as the most arrogant of them all.

I entwined my fingers in his soft blonde hair, which was still damp from the shower he had taken after the match. They were a kind of salvation that prevented me from completely losing myself in his presence. I clung to them, hoping that once my own legs betrayed me and could no longer support me under the onslaught of his touch, it would be a piece of him that would prevent my fall.

His palms traveled lower. They traced my hips until they finally found their place on my ass. They caressed it, squeezed it. They did not hesitate for a moment.

A moan escaped my lips, accompanied by his name, "Julian,"

I felt his lips stretch into a pleased grin on my heated skin. A grin followed by a light chuckle. Typically boyish chuckle. Full of egoism and self-pride.

It was strange how quickly the energy between us could change. A few minutes ago, we could barely come up with each other's names. A little later he kissed me greedily and I returned all the kisses with the same hunger, if not even more.

"You should stop me," he breathed close to my face "before there's no going back."

His words made my eyelids flutter open.

Our gazes locked automatically, they absorbed each other intensely, like so many times before. His eyes were no longer empty. They played with a whole range of emotions. A small grain of frustration still shone in them, but it was suppressed in the back by the curiosity of discovering a new, so far unexplored territory.

"The real question is, do you really want to stop him, Carlotta?" my conscience spoke to me. The annoying, stupid super ego that always appeared when no one was interested in his presence and advice.

Should I stop him? Definitely yes! After all, it was Julian Brandt, the arrogant blond football player who made my life miserable just with his existence. One of the many BVB players with whom I was strictly forbidden to start anything.

Did I want to stop him? Absolutely not! After all, I loved spontaneity. I lived by it, and it was impulsiveness and impetuousness that created my whole life. They gave it the right spice, feverishness.