19. Baptism Of Vodka
Baptism Of Vodka
The drive back is a blur, headlights strobing across the dash. His hand grips the wheel steady, tight, while mine knots in my lap. Every few seconds my fingers twitch, aching to reach across the console.
The boldness I had in the back seat feels like it belongs to another life.
The door clicks open, my heels scrape pavement, his hand presses the small of my back as we walk in.
His place is quiet, lit only by a single lamp in the corner, Zosia’s toys tucked neatly into bins.
The ghost of her laughter clings to the walls, innocence pressed against the heat between us.
My heart rattles like it wants out of my chest.
I set my purse on the couch, hear the tremor in my own voice. “So…”
“So,” he echoes, leaning on the kitchen door like he needs it to hold him up.
The silence stretches, taut, unbearable. His eyes search mine, mine dart away, nerves colliding with want and fear. I tug at my sleeve, wishing I could claw back the bravado I had hours ago.
It’s all here now, the history, the family, the weight of years and the edge of desire. One of us just has to break first.
“Want a drink?” Dominik asks, pushing off the door at last. His voice sounds steadier than mine feels, but his hand flexes once against his thigh, like he’s wringing out nerves.
I laugh, shaking my head. “That depends, do you have vodka?”
His mouth curves in relief, almost smug. “Vodka? You insult me. Of course I have vodka. Polish vodka, none of that Russian water.” He pretends to spit on the ground.
“Thank god.”
We drift into the kitchen, the silence shifting with each step, tension loosening into something more playful. He sets out two shot glasses.
“Do you need something mixed, like a child,” he teases, pouring clear liquid, “or are you a fully grown woman?”
I tip mine back in one smooth go, the burn racing down my throat, warmth flooding in. “I was raised in a house with Piotr, I’ll drink you under the table.”
He leans on the counter, eyes bright. “Or on top of it is fine too.”
Another shot, another pour, my cheeks heating from more than vodka. “We should at least make a game of it, like a question answered per shot. If you don’t answer, you take two.”
He squints, mock suspicion. “You want me drunk? Now I’m worried.”
I kick my shoes off with a clatter and climb onto his kitchen stool, perching higher so I can look him dead in the eye. “Get comfortable, Nowicki. This is going to be fun.”
Dominik slides the next shot across the counter, his eyes glinting. “Alright, doktorka, first question.”
I smirk. “You’re starting? Brave.”
He pretends to think, then leans a little closer. “Favorite color?”
I snort, tossing back the vodka. “That’s what you’re leading with?”
“I’m easing you in,” he says, pouring another with exaggerated care. “You want me to ask what turns you on right away?”
Heat sparks up my neck. I mutter, “Blue.”
“Blue,” he repeats softly, pocketing the answer like it’s gold. “Good. My turn.”
“Easy one first,” I warn. “Favorite food?”
He shrugs. “Anything mama makes. Rosó?, bigos. Real stuff, none of that boxed garbage.”
I grin. “You’re making me hungry.”
He watches me tip back the next shot, and then asks casually, “Favorite flower?”
The question disarms me, my fingers toy with the glass, smiling despite myself. “Lilies.”
He nods, thoughtful. “Lilies.”
“You’ve missed your chance,” I tease. “First date’s almost over.”
The warmth grows in my chest, the air charged with more than vodka, and before I can stop myself, the words slip out:
“How did you meet Zosia’s mother?”
The question drops like a stone. Dominik stills, thumb rubbing the rim of his glass. His smile fades. He takes a slow sip before answering.
“At a party. One of those good nights, I was acting cocky. Lena loved that. She was fun, wild… intense. I didn’t see it, that she struggled so much. Mentally. Maybe I didn’t want to.” His jaw tightens, then eases. “It wasn’t love. Not like—” He stops, swallows. “It just wasn’t.”
My throat closes. I stare at him, ache swelling in my chest, guilt for asking tangled with something fiercer, anger on his behalf, respect that he shoulders it so steadily.
“When we found out she was pregnant, I said I'd make it honest. Do the Catholic thing, get married. She didn't want it. She left about a year after Zosia was born,” he adds softly. “Said she wasn’t built for it, for being someone’s wife, a mother. Found some businessman and left. Then it was just me.”
I knock back another shot, the burn quick enough to hide the sting in my eyes.
Dominik manages a faint smile. “Best thing she ever gave me, though. My little girl? I wouldn’t change it.”
I look at him then, at the man who held everything together when others would have folded. My chest aches so hard it feels like something is breaking open. At this moment, I don’t know if I’ve ever wanted anyone more.
I reach across the counter, fingers brushing his hand. “That’s what you get for listening to Piotr, letting him drag you to those parties. Should’ve known better.”
He laughs, but it’s more exhale than sound. The silence stretches until I wonder if I’ve pushed too far.
Then he speaks, voice low. “He thought I was just lusting after his kid sister, like a trophy I guess, so he always tried to set me up with other girls. Parties, church, whatever. But when I asked him this time, he told me I had to chase it. Said I kept looking at other girls hoping they were you, or something stupid like that.” His mouth twists, trying to brush it away, but the words hang there, too naked to hide.
I slide off the stool before I can think twice, vodka running through my veins. In two steps I’m pressing him back against the fridge. His eyes widen just as my mouth finds his, rough and intent, like I’m proving him right. Telling him without words that he was never stupid at all.
He stiffens, then groans into me, hands gripping my waist, pulling me in like he’s been waiting an eternity for this exact collision.
The kiss spirals, hungry, reckless. His hands roam my hips as though he’s been given permission to finally take what he’s always wanted.
When he lifts me, it’s easy, and the strength of it sends heat rushing through me.
He sets me on the counter, the jolt vibrating through me, making every nerve ending alive.
We fumble, frantic, too many clothes in the way.
He pushes my dress up, I tear at his belt.
Fabric and leather resist, but not for long.
My underwear vanishes with one impatient tug, lost to the kitchen shadows.
His belt clatters free, knocking a shot glass.
Vodka spills across the counter, sliding over my hand and dripping onto the floor.
He notices, freezes for half a second, eyes flicking to the mess. “The bedroom was my plan,” he manages, chest heaving. “More romantic.”
I grab his face with wet fingers, drag him back to me. My breath is hot against his mouth. “Fuck the bedroom,” I whisper, ragged, certain. “I’d rather drown in vodka than have you stop again.”
That’s all it takes. His eyes darken, something inside him catching fire. When I free him, he’s already hard, pulsing, the heat of him rising to meet my hand. I skim him once, teasing, and he groans, raw and unguarded. Then he drags me flush against him and thrusts inside.
We both cry out, the sound torn open, like this is the first real thing either of us has ever felt. I wrap my legs around his waist, taking him deeper, sick of distance, sick of waiting. His breath shudders against my neck, his grip on my thighs iron-tight, holding me there.
“Harder,” I gasp against his ear. “Don’t hold back, I won’t break.”
He listens, his body answering with every relentless surge, strength poured into each thrust like he’s driving the air from my lungs, rolling and teasing until every nerve is lit with fire.
The rhythm is raw, consuming, every collision a test of how much I can take.
Together we’re caught between moans and sighs, every sound an admission neither of us can take back.
Every movement I make seems tuned to him, pushing him toward the edge then drawing him back, wringing out every tremor, every gasp. My nails dig into his shoulders, his hand brands the back of my thigh, both of us desperate, not ready to let it end but powerless to slow it.
“You—this. Jak ty cudownie (How wonderful you feel)—” His voice is fractured, words failing as the pace breaks him down. I kiss him, swallow the rest, my legs cinching tighter, keeping him locked inside me.
“Za dobrze (Too good),” I moan, helpless. “Trzymaj mnie mocniej. (Hold me tighter.)”
Something in him unravels at that, wild and unstoppable.
His hand fists in my hair, tugging my head back to bare my throat, his teeth scraping before he bites, not cruel or gentle, just claiming, marking.
His hips pound harder, steadier, and when his mouth crashes back to mine I kiss him like I’ll drown without it.
Then it happens, I break, the sound ripped out of me, guttural, helpless, my body clenching around him in surrender.
His groan answers mine, rough and undone, and then heat surges between us as he gives in, both of us shuddering together.
I don’t let go. I keep him with me, moving through every last wave until I collapse trembling under his hands, my mouth still chasing him in the dim lights of his kitchen.
Everything collapses to my shaking body and the weight of him still pinning me to the counter.
I cling to his shoulders, breath ragged, both of us shivering through the aftershocks.
For a long moment the kitchen is silent except for the sound of us panting, laughing under our breath like we can’t quite believe what just happened.