“Easy one first,” I warn. “Favorite food?”
He shrugs. “Anything mama makes. Rosól, 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 everwantedanyone 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 throughme. 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 mythigh, 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.
