Chapter 35: Nighty night
The music shifted, the bass deepening into something slow and syrupy. A familiar synthesized pulse thumped through the floorboards. "Low" by Flo Rida began to seep from the speakers, its beat primal and insistent.
A collective groan-turned-cheer rose from the room. Diego whooped. Someone turned the volume up.
Svet felt the tequila in her veins, a liquid warmth that made everything softer, bolder. The weight of Emily's pettiness, the intensity of her own confession on the deck—it all melted under the thrumming bassline. She was here, in Joe's arms, and he was looking at her like she'd hung the moon.
She gave him a slow, languid smile, then pushed herself up from the couch. The world tilted pleasantly. She caught herself on the edge of the coffee table, her hips already finding the rhythm. She wasn't a great dancer, but she had rhythm, and the tequila had sanded off her inhibitions.
With her back to Joe, she let the music take her. It was a silly, exaggerated grind, a parody of the song's intent. She swayed, rolled her shoulders, and let her hands slide down her own thighs. She glanced over her shoulder, catching his eye. His gaze was dark, fixed, the brown of his irises almost black.
Alexa cat-called, laughing. "Get it, Svet!"
Svet laughed too, throwing her head back. The room blurred at the edges. She bent forward, placing her hands on her knees, and began to twerk. It was clumsy, utterly unserious—a few bouncing, playful shakes of her hips to the beat. She was making fun of the song, of the situation, of herself.
But when she looked back at Joe again, the laughter died in her throat.
He wasn't smiling.
He was staring, utterly still, a predator locked onto movement. The softness was gone, burned away by a heat so intense it stole the air from her lungs. The noise of the party—the whoops, the singing, the clinking of bottles—faded into a dull buzz. There was only the music and his eyes.
In one fluid motion, he stood. He was a monolith unfolding. He didn't say a word. He just closed the distance between them in two strides, his hand wrapping around her wrist. His grip wasn't rough, but it was absolute, a cable of intention.
He pulled her toward the staircase. She stumbled, her feet tangling, but he caught her, his other arm hooking around her waist and lifting her clean off the ground. He carried her the first few steps until her shoes found the treads.
"Joe—" she started, a giggle born of surprise and tequila.
"Upstairs. Now." His voice was a low, grating command she'd never heard before. It didn't brook argument. It vibrated through her, pooling low in her belly.
He half-guided, half-dragged her up the steps, his body a solid wall behind her. The music from below faded, replaced by the sound of their breathing and the frantic hammering of her heart. He shouldered open the door to their borrowed room, the one with the gauzy curtains and the rumpled bed that still smelled of them.
The door slammed shut, cutting off the last remnants of the party. The room was quiet, lit only by the moonlight through the window, painting everything in shades of blue and silver.
He backed her against the door, his body caging hers. His hands framed her face, his thumbs tracing her jawline. His breath was hot on her lips. "You have any idea what you were doing down there?"
"Having fun?" she breathed, her own voice unsteady.
His mouth crashed down on hers. This wasn't like the kisses on the beach. This was claiming, desperate. His tongue plunged into her mouth, tasting of tequila and lime and him. She moaned into the kiss, her hands flying up to claw at his shoulders, his neck. He tasted like possession.
He broke the kiss, panting, his forehead pressed to hers. "You're mine," he growled, the words raw and guttural. "You understand? Mine."
"I know," she whispered, her own need a sharp, twisting thing inside her.
His hands dropped from her face, moving with a brutal efficiency. He grabbed the hem of her dress and pulled it up, up, over her head in one swift motion. The cool air hit her skin, raising goosebumps. He looked his fill, his eyes devouring her standing there in just her simple cotton bra and panties.
Then his hands were on her ass, kneading the soft flesh, pulling her hard against him. She could feel the rigid outline of his erection through his jeans, a thick, insistent pressure against her stomach. A jolt of pure lust shot through her.
"Fuck," she hissed, arching into him.
He spun her around, pressing her front against the cool wood of the door. His body covered hers completely, a furnace at her back. One hand fisted in her hair, gently but firmly tilting her head to the side. His other hand slid down her stomach, past the waistband of her panties. He didn't tease. His fingers parted her folds, finding her slick and ready. He groaned, a rough, shattered sound in her ear.
"So wet. For me." He pushed two fingers inside her, a sudden, delicious invasion.
She cried out, the sound muffled against the door.
He worked his fingers in and out, a slow, brutal rhythm. "You were dancing like that," he muttered, his lips against her ear, his voice thick with want. "Shaking that perfect ass. And everyone was watching. But you were looking at me."
She pushed back against his hand, her hips rocking, seeking more. "Joe, please..."
He withdrew his fingers. She heard the jingle of his belt, the rasp of his zipper. Then the blunt, hot head of his cock was pressing against her entrance, nudging through her wetness. He let go of her hair, his hand instead sliding around to cover her mouth.
He leaned in, his voice a dark, thrilling whisper. "You told me you were a screamer. Scream now, and everyone downstairs knows I'm fucking you. Knows you're mine."
He didn't wait for an answer. He sheathed himself inside her in one relentless thrust.
The force of it drove a choked, gasping sound into his palm. He was so big, so deep, stretching her exquisitely, filling her completely. He held still for a moment, buried to the hilt, letting her adjust, letting the shockwave of sensation roll through them both. She felt every trembling muscle in his thighs pressed against hers.
Then he moved.
He fucked her against the door with a driving, animalistic pace. Each thrust was a declaration, a punctuation mark driven home by the slap of his skin against hers. The door rattled in its frame. Svet’s vision blurred. The hand over her mouth was the only thing containing the raw, broken sounds tearing from her throat.
He bent her forward slightly, changing the angle, and she saw stars. A coil of tension, white-hot and unbearable, tightened deep within her.
"That's it," he grunted, his breath coming in harsh bursts. "Take it. Take all of me."
His free hand slid around her hip, his fingers finding her clit. He rubbed rough, frantic circles, and the coil snapped.
Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and convulsing. She screamed into his hand, the sound stifled but full of raw, shuddering release. Her inner muscles clenched around him, a vicious, milking pull.
It undid him. With a final, deep thrust, a ragged groan tore from his chest. He buried his face in her neck, his big body shuddering as he emptied himself inside her, hot and pulse after pulse.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the roar of blood in their ears. The door felt cool against her cheek. His weight, heavy and spent, was a comfort.
Slowly, he loosened his hand from her mouth, placing a soft, open-mouthed kiss on her shoulder instead. He withdrew from her, and she felt the sudden, shocking emptiness. He turned her gently, pulling her into his arms.
They slid down the door together into a heap on the floor, a tangle of limbs in the moonlight. He held her tightly against his chest, his heart a frantic drum against her back.
"Jesus," he whispered into her hair, his voice wrecked.
She couldn't speak. She could only nod, her fingers laced with his over her stomach.
After a few minutes, his breathing evened. He nuzzled her hair. "You okay?"
She found her voice, hoarse and small. "The door's gonna have a dent."
A rumble of laughter vibrated through his chest. "Worth it."
They sat in the quiet dark, the faint pulse of the music below now a distant, irrelevant heartbeat. The world had narrowed to this room, this patch of floor, this man whose scent was now woven into her skin.
"I meant it," he said quietly. "What I said."
"I know," she whispered. She twisted in his arms to face him. In the dim light, his face was all planes and shadows, softened by satiation. She touched his cheek. "I'm yours."
He captured her hand, kissing her palm, then her wrist, his lips tender on the frantic pulse there. The violent passion had burned itself out, leaving behind a deep, quiet certainty that felt more solid than the house around them. Downstairs, the party went on. But up here, there was only this: the salt on their skin, the echo of their joining, and the profound, unspoken truth that something had been sealed tonight. Not just a claim, but a covenant.
Not just a claim, but a covenant. They stayed there on the floor until their breathing slowed and the sweat cooled on their skin. Joe shifted, lifting her effortlessly as he stood, carrying her the few steps to the bed.
He laid her down on the rumpled sheets, his gaze tracing her body in the moonlight. "I wanna see you," he said, his voice still rough. "All of you."
He stripped off his own clothes, letting them fall to the floor. Then he knelt on the bed, his hands starting at her ankles. He massaged the muscles of her calves, her thighs, his touch reverent. He bent and placed a kiss on the inside of her knee, then her hip, the curve of her stomach. He was mapping her with his mouth, a slow, devout pilgrimage.
When his lips finally brushed the blonde curls between her legs, she gasped. He didn’t dive in immediately. He just nuzzled her, breathing her in, his big hands spreading her thighs wider. "You smell like us," he murmured, the words hot against her sensitive skin. "Like you’re mine."
Then his tongue found her.
It was a long, slow, luxurious lick from her entrance to her clit. She cried out, her hands fisting in the sheets. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, burying his face in her pussy without hesitation. He ate her like a man starving, his tongue fucking deep inside her before circling her swollen clit with relentless, slick pressure.
"Joe… fuck…" she whimpered, her hips bucking off the bed.
He groaned against her, the vibration tipping her closer to the edge. He slid two fingers back inside her, crooking them, and her back arched violently. "Right there," she sobbed. "Don’t stop."
He didn’t. He fucked her with his fingers, relentlessly stroking that spot inside her while his tongue worked her clit. The dual sensation was overwhelming, a coiled spring of tension winding tighter and tighter in her core. She could feel the heat pooling, a pressure building unlike anything before.
"I’m gonna… something’s happening," she choked out, her voice strangled with panic and pleasure.
"Let it happen," he ordered, his voice muffled against her. "Come on my face, baby. Soak me."
His permission shattered her last thread of control. The orgasm didn’t crest; it erupted. A guttural, tearing scream ripped from her throat as her body convulsed. A hot rush of liquid gushed from her, soaking his chin, his mouth, his neck. He drank her down, lapping at her through the waves, his fingers never slowing, milking every last pulse from her until she was a trembling, sobbing wreck.
He crawled up her body, his skin slick with her release. He kissed her, letting her taste herself on his tongue. She could feel his cock, an iron brand against her thigh.
"Need to be inside you again," he gasped against her lips. "Now."
He positioned himself at her entrance, his eyes locking onto hers. There was no hand over her mouth. No attempt to stifle her. Only a fierce, proud challenge in his dark gaze.
He thrust home.
The force drove another scream from her lungs, loud and unfettered. It echoed off the walls, surely bleeding through the floorboards to the party below. He didn’t care. He set a brutal, pounding rhythm, the bed slamming against the wall in a steady, protesting drumbeat.
"You hear that?" he grunted, each drive of his hips punctuating his words. "Let them hear. Let them know who you belong to."
She was beyond words, reduced to a chorus of sharp cries and shattered moans. Every snap of his pelvis lit her nerves on fire. He was hitting so deep, stretching her so full, worshipping her with the sheer, physical wreckage of his body. He leaned down, capturing her nipple in his mouth, sucking hard as he pistoned into her.
The new sensation tipped her over another edge. She came again, a sharper, tighter climax that clenched around him like a fist. Her scream was raw, ragged, bouncing around the room.
"Fuck, Svet," he snarled, his control snapping.
His rhythm became erratic, desperate. He fucked her through her orgasm, chasing his own. With a final, deep plunge, he buried himself to the root and roared. It was a raw, animal sound of release. She felt the hot, pulsing flood of him filling her up, and she whimpered, oversensitive and completely shattered.
He collapsed, rolling to his side and pulling her with him, keeping them joined. They were both dripping with sweat, breathing in ragged, broken sync. Distantly, the music below had stopped. For a beat, there was only the sound of the waves.
Then, faintly, a slow clapping started from downstairs. A single voice, Diego’s, yelled up, "Hell yeah, Alt! We heard the whole goddamn symphony!"
Joe’s chest shook with silent laughter against her back. He pressed a kiss to her damp shoulder. "Told you," he whispered, his voice saturated with a satisfied, masculine pride that should have annoyed her but instead made her stomach flutter.
She had no voice left to answer. She simply curled her hand over his where it rested on her stomach, lacing their fingers together. His other hand came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek. His breathing slowed, deepened. Within minutes, the heavy, even rhythm of his sleep surrounded her.
Svet lay awake in the dark, listening to the ocean, feeling the solid weight of him at her back. The covenant thrummed between them, silent and absolute, written in sweat and screams and the salt-sting on their skin.