Chapter 33: Shottssssa
The safe, warm bubble of Joe’s lap popped when Alexa hooked her hands under Svet’s arms with surprising strength. “My turn with her! C’mon, poolside calls. It’s tropical horror night or something.”
Svet let herself be hauled up, the world tilting pleasantly. The alcohol was a warm, fuzzy blanket wrapped around her thoughts. She shot Joe a wobbly smile over her shoulder. “Duty calls.”
He gave her a slow nod, his eyes cautious. “Don’t drown.”
The balcony was cooler, the salt air cutting through the indoor haze. Tiki torches fought a losing battle against the ocean breeze, their flames guttering. Someone had put a playlist of vaguely spooky surf rock on a Bluetooth speaker. Alexa thrust another cup into her hand—something dark and fizzy. “Okay, spill. How are you doing? For real.”
“I’m fine. He’s… he’s a fortress.” Svet took a sip. Rum and Coke. Classic. “Emily hates me.”
“Emily hates everyone who has something she wants. Which is, like, oxygen and attention. Don’t sweat it.” Alexa waved a dismissive hand. But her eyes were scanning the room behind the glass door.
Svet followed her gaze. Emily had moved. She was now perched on the arm of the sectional, not next to Joe, but angled toward him, leaning into the circle of his conversation. Her laugh was a sharp, silver bell cutting through the masculine rumble. She placed a hand on Diego’s shoulder for balance, but her gaze, bright and predatory, was fixed on Joe. And Joe, polite, soft-spoken Joe, was listening to a story Edwin was telling, his eyes down on his beer bottle, unaware of the laser focus aiming his way.
A cold trickle, sharp and sobering, traced Svet’s spine. The fuzzy warmth of the rum receded. There it is. The old, familiar script. The beautiful interloper. The distracted man. The slow, quiet erosion of her place. Her chest felt tight.
She must have made a sound, a tiny inhale, because Alexa squeezed her arm. “Hey. Don’t.”
“I’m not,” Svet muttered, but the lie was ash in her mouth. She felt transparent, her insecurity a visible stain on her dress.
Then, as if he’d felt the chill from twenty feet away, Joe looked up. Not at Emily. Through the glass, directly at Svet. He saw the shot glass in her hand, the stiff line of her shoulders, the way her free hand was clenched at her side. He saw the fear she couldn’t hide.
He stood up.
It wasn’t a dramatic, movie-hero rise. It was just Joe unfolding himself, a mountain deciding to move. He murmured something to Edwin, placed his beer on the table, and walked toward the balcony. Emily’s smile didn’t falter, but it solidified, becoming a decorative mask.
He didn’t go to Emily. He didn’t even look at her. He pushed the sliding door open and the surf rock swelled for a moment before being swallowed by the indoor noise. He walked right up to Svet, who was still frozen, the cup cold in her hand.
Without a word, he turned her gently by the shoulders so her back was to his front, mirroring their position on the couch. He wrapped his arms around her, his big hands locking over her stomach, pulling her snug against him. He was a wall of heat, blocking the wind, blocking the view of the party inside. Then he dipped his head, his lips finding the sensitive skin just below her ear.
He trailed a series of slow, deliberate kisses along the side of her neck. Not performative, not rough. Tender. Claiming. A silent conversation on her skin. You. Only you.
A shuddering breath escaped Svet. Her eyes fluttered closed. The cold anxiety melted, replaced by a different, hotter tension. She was drunk, and his mouth was warm, and the scrape of his stubble was sending electric currents straight down to her core.
“You shouldn’t do that,” she whispered, her voice thick. It was half-protest, half-plea.
He hummed against her skin, the vibration resonating through her. “Do what?” He didn’t stop. His lips traveled to the curve where her neck met her shoulder.
“That. It’s… I’m drunk.” She was tipping her head to the side, granting him better access, even as she protested.
“I know.” He straightened then, but stayed leaned over her, his chin resting on the top of her head, his arms still a solid band around her. He was a canopy, a shelter. “Drink your drink.”
Obediently, she lifted the cup and took a sip. He remained, a silent, immovable presence wrapped around her, ignoring the chatter from the other people on the balcony, utterly focused on the woman in his arms. He had created a bubble of pure, tangible security. Anyone looking—and she knew Emily was looking—would see only this: him enveloping her, his posture one of absolute possession and protectiveness.
Alexa, after a beat, grinned and turned back to her own conversation, giving them the illusion of privacy.
Svet leaned back into him, letting the solid reality of his body ground her. The fear was still there, a tiny, shriveled thing in the shadows, but it was powerless against this. Against him. He had seen it, and he had walked across the room to kill it.
“I can feel you thinking,” he murmured into her hair.
“It’s loud in there,” she said, nodding toward her own skull.
“I know.” He squeezed her once, gently. “Ready to go soon?”
She nodded, the motion small against his chest. The party’s noise now felt intrusive, grating. The only sound she wanted was his voice, his breath, the steady thump-thump of his heart against her back. “Yeah. I’m ready.”
They went back inside, his hand a steadying anchor on the small of her back. The living room had coalesced into one large, noisy circle, bodies sprawled across every available surface. Edwin scooted over on the sectional, making a space for them that was really only big enough for one of Joe.
Joe sat first, his frame swallowing the cushions, and pulled Svet down sideways beside him. Her hip pressed against his thigh, her side flush against him from shoulder to knee. He kept his arm around her, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her sleeve. The conversation was a drone of football strategies, gossip about a coach, and someone’s failed fantasy league draft.
Svet nestled into his side, the alcohol wrapping her brain in a soft, insulating wool. The sharp edges of the room bled into a pleasant haze. The only thing in focus was Joe. The low timbre of his voice as he added a comment to Edwin about a zone coverage. The way the corded muscle in his forearm shifted under her cheek. The clean, soap-and-salt scent of his skin cutting through the stale party air.
Her thoughts melted into a single, warm impulse. He was talking about leverage, his voice a calm, steady rumble she felt more than heard. She turned her face into the worn cotton of his t-shirt over his shoulder and pressed her lips there. A soft, closed-mouth kiss.
He didn’t pause his sentence. His hand just squeezed her arm gently.
Emboldened by the rum and the sanctuary of him, she let her mouth wander. A kiss to the side of his neck, just above his collar. The skin was warm. She felt him swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing against her lips. Then his jawline, the rough texture of late-night stubble scratching her mouth in the most satisfying way.
He was finishing his thought, “…so the tackle has to commit earlier, or it’s a free rush.” His words were steady, but the rhythm had slowed.
She kissed his cheek, just beside his mouth. Her head was swimming, all her senses funneled into the map of his skin. The conversation around them seemed to fade into a distant hum. He turned his head the slightest fraction, his sentence trailing off.
He looked down at her, his brown eyes dark and questioning, a small, curious smile on his lips.
She didn’t smile back. She just surged up, one hand curling into his shirt for balance, and stuck her tongue between his lips.
It was fast. A little sloppy. Just a swift, wet slide of intimacy that bypassed all preamble.
He froze. For a half-second, there was pure, unguarded shock in his expression. Then a low, rough sound escaped his throat, a laugh of pure surprise and delight. His arm tightened around her like a vice.
In one smooth motion, he hooked his other arm under her knees and hauled her fully into his lap, arranging her sideways so she was cradled against his chest. The entire room whooped. Diego let out a long, loud catcall.
“Damn, Alt!” someone laughed.
Joe ignored them all, his body curving around hers, creating a private world in the middle of the crowd. He looked down at her, his amusement softening into something hotter, more intense. “You’re drunk,” he murmured, his mouth so close it brushed hers when he spoke.
“I am,” she agreed, her words slurry. She looped her arms around his neck, playing with the short hairs at his nape. “You’re comfy.”
He chuckled, the vibration passing from his chest into hers. “We’re leaving.” It wasn’t a question.
“Okay.”
He moved her off his lap with effortless strength, keeping one arm firmly around her shoulders as he stood. “We’re out,” he announced to the room, his voice leaving no room for debate.
“Aw, party poopers!” Alexa yelled, but she was grinning, giving Svet two enthusiastic thumbs-up from across the room.
Emily was silent on the arm of the chair, watching with a polished, vacant smile that didn’t touch her eyes.
He guided her through the tangle of legs and discarded cups, his broad back cutting a path. The noise of the party muffled as they entered the sterile, cool hallway leading to the stairs. Her heels caught on the first step, a clumsy stumble.
“Nope,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet hallway. In one fluid motion, he bent and hooked an arm behind her knees, the other supporting her back, lifting her against his chest as if she weighed nothing.
“Joe!” she squealed, but it was a whisper-squeal, her arms instinctively looping around his neck. The world tilted, the geometric patterns of the wallpaper blurring as he took the stairs two at a time with a steady, rhythmic thump of his footsteps. “Put me down, you ogre.”
“Absolutely not,” he said, not even breathing hard. “You’re a trip hazard. Liability.” A grin played on his lips as he nudged their bedroom door open with his foot. “Gotta protect the team’s investment.”
He didn’t dump her on the bed, but lowered her slowly, letting her slide down the front of his body until her toes brushed the floor. The room was dark, lit only by the moon-washed ocean outside the window. The distant thump of music was a ghost of sound here.
He kept his hands on her hips, steadying her. “There. Safe and sound.”
“Boring,” she declared, swaying toward him. Her fingers found the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it free from his jeans. The cotton was warm from his skin. “We left the party. That’s our one job. Be unsound.”
He caught her hands, stilling them, and brought them to his mouth, kissing her knuckles. His eyes were soft in the gloom. “You’re smashed, Svet.”
“I am perfectly poised.” She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his sternum. “And I want you. Right now.”
He let out a long breath, a sigh that was half-laugh. His hands came up to frame her face, tilting it up to meet his gaze. “I know you do.”
“So?” She pushed up onto her toes, aiming for his mouth, but he held her gently at bay.
“So, you’re a screamer.”
The statement landed in the quiet room, blunt and undeniable. A burst of laughter escaped her, honest and surprised. “I am not!”
“You absolutely are.” His thumb stroked her cheekbone, his expression tender but factual. “The walls in my apartment are concrete, and Mrs. Giannopoulos downstairs still bangs on her ceiling with a broom. We are in a beach house with literal cardboard walls. Emily’s room is next door.”
The reality of it, the practical, hilarious logistics, cut through the alcohol fog. A fresh wave of giggles shook her. She saw it—Emily’s perfect, horrified face pressed against the other side of the drywall. The image was absurd, and devastating. “Oh, god.”
“Yeah.” He smiled, pulling her close so her laugh was muffled against his chest. “So, as much as I want to, and trust me, I do,” he said, his voice dropping, “we’re not giving that woman a free show.”
He kissed the top of her head, then her forehead. His lips were gentle, a soft counterpoint to the frustration coiling low in her stomach. He kissed the tip of her nose, making her cross her eyes. He kissed her closed eyelids, each one, his breath warm on her skin.
“This is worse,” she mumbled, but she tilted her head back, giving him access.
“Is it?” He trailed his mouth along her jaw, down the column of her throat, his lips barely grazing her skin. He unzipped her dress slowly, the sound loud in the quiet, and pushed the straps from her shoulders. It pooled at her feet, a puddle of black silk. He kissed her collarbone, the swell of each breast over her lace bra, his touch reverent, exhaustive.
He sank to his knees on the thick carpet, his hands sliding down her sides to grip her hips. He pressed his mouth to her stomach, just above the line of her underwear. A shudder ran through her. This was agony. This was perfection.
“I love you,” he said, the words murmured against her skin, a vibration she felt in her bones.
Her breath hitched. The last of her defenses, the ones the vodka had blurred but not destroyed, crumbled to dust. She sank her fingers into his short, thick hair. “I love you, too.”
He looked up at her, his face stark with emotion in the silver light. “Say it again.”
“I love you.” It was easier this time, a truth unlocking.
He stood, gathering her up and laying her back on the cool duvet, following her down. He covered her body with his, a welcome, crushing weight, and claimed her mouth in a deep, searching kiss that tasted of beer and him and forever. When he broke for air, moving to kiss the sensitive spot below her ear, he breathed the words into her skin. “I love you, Svetlanna.”
She arched against him, her body singing everywhere his lips touched. “I love you, Joe.” It became a mantra, a quiet exchange punctuating each new kiss, each sigh. They carved the words into each other’s skin with lips and whispered promises, building a private cathedral in the dark, while the distant ocean and the ghost of the party played a faint symphony outside their door.