Page 40

The walk back from the shooting range to our sanctuary passed in charged silence.

Luka moved beside me, each step graceful yet tense, maintaining a deliberate gap between us as if testing whether I'd bridge it.

My fingers twitched, aching to reach across that space, but instinct told me he needed to make the next move.

The air between us crackled with unspoken words, heavy from the weight of his confession at the range.

I'd misunderstood him so fundamentally. In my professional caution, I'd completely missed what physical intimacy truly meant to him.

Not escape or avoidance, but the exact opposite: presence, choice, reclamation.

The one arena where he'd fought to establish complete autonomy after having so much taken from him.

The realization humbled me. For all my training in trauma response, I'd projected my own framework onto his actions and missed something essential about who he was .

When we reached our sanctuary, Luka immediately checked the security system, a ritual he performed without fail each time we returned, regardless of the Acropolis's supposed security.

"All clear," he said, turning to face me. "We're alone. Safe, for now."

Tension lingered between us. "I'm going to wash up. Then maybe we can figure out dinner?"

He nodded, already reaching for his phone. "I'll see what's available for delivery."

We fell into our evening routine easily. I headed to the bathroom, washing the smell of gunpowder and metal from my hands. When I came out, Luka remained engrossed in his phone, scrolling through delivery options.

I moved to the kitchen, suddenly restless.

Opening the refrigerator, I pulled out ingredients for a simple salad to accompany whatever Luka ordered.

The methodical process of washing and chopping vegetables soothed me, the rhythmic motion of the knife against the cutting board creating a meditative distraction from my racing thoughts.

I was so absorbed in the task that Luka's sudden presence jolted me. Heat radiated from his body behind mine, close but not quite touching. The knife stilled in my hand as every nerve ending snapped to attention.

"Food's ordered," he murmured, his breath caressing my neck, sending shivers racing down my spine. "They said it'll be about an hour. They're making everything fresh since it's that place on the east side that does everything from scratch."

I nodded, my throat suddenly dry, pulse quickening as I resumed chopping, though my fingers trembled slightly. For a moment, he simply hovered there, the space between us electric, loaded with possibility .

Then his hands claimed my hips. He eliminated the distance, his chest pressing firmly against my back, solid and warm. His scent engulfed me—gunmetal and sandalwood mingled with something uniquely Luka, something primal and dangerous that triggered an immediate response low in my belly.

His lips brushed my neck, barely there yet leaving fire in their wake. "Is this distracting you?"

I set the knife down carefully, hands bracing against the counter as I leaned back into his touch. "In the best possible way."

His lips pressed more firmly against my neck, trailing a path from just below my ear down to the junction of my shoulder. One hand slid from my hip to my stomach, fingers splaying wide across my abdomen. My eyes drifted closed, head tilting to give him better access.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he confessed. "About this."

His hand moved higher, sliding under my shirt. The contact electrified me, his calloused fingers creating delicious friction against my skin. He explored every inch, taking his time as if we had all the hours in the world, not just the stolen moments before our food arrived.

I turned in his arms, needing to see his face. The raw hunger in his eyes made my breath catch, but there was something else there too, an openness I'd rarely glimpsed before. His hand remained beneath my shirt, now pressed against the small of my back, keeping me close.

"Fuck, look at you." His free hand came up to trace my jawline, thumb brushing across my lower lip in a touch so gentle it seemed impossible from someone capable of such violence. "I could stare at your face for hours and not get bored. It's fucking unfair."

Before I could respond, he leaned in, replacing his thumb with his lips.

His mouth pressed against mine, firm but not demanding, the initial contact just a warm press of lips.

Then he tilted his head slightly, fitting our mouths together more perfectly as his hand slid to the back of my neck, holding me steady.

The first gentle sweep of his tongue against the seam of my lips sent a shiver through me, and I opened to him without hesitation.

The kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against mine in a slow, thorough exploration that made my knees weak and sent blood rushing south.

My body responded to his touch eagerly, embarrassingly so.

There was nothing hurried about it. Every movement felt deliberate, sensual, as if he were learning the shape and taste of me.

He tasted faintly of coffee and something distinctly his own that I was already addicted to.

His body pressed closer, the solid wall of his chest against mine, one strong thigh slipping between my legs as he backed me gently against the counter. When his thigh pressed up, making contact with my rapidly hardening cock, he let out a growl of satisfaction. He smiled against my lips.

The hand at the small of my back splayed wider, pulling me more firmly against him until I registered the hard line of his cock against my hip. A soft groan escaped him, the vibration passing from his mouth to mine as I sucked lightly on his lower lip.

I responded eagerly, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of his head, the other gripping the solid muscle of his shoulder. His hands too became more exploratory, roaming from my lower back up to my shoulder blades, then down to my hips, each caress leaving a trail of heat beneath my clothes.

He broke the kiss only to trace a path along my jaw to my ear, his breath hot against my skin as he whispered, "I've been thinking about this all day."

A shiver ran through me at the raw honesty in his voice. When his teeth grazed my earlobe, I let out an embarrassingly needy sound that would have mortified me in any other context. But with Luka, somehow, embarrassment disappeared. Only the burning need for more remained.

His mouth found mine again, hungrier now but still maintaining that control that spoke of his desire to savor every moment. One of his hands slipped beneath my shirt again, this time sliding up my chest, thumb brushing over my nipple in a touch that sent a jolt of pleasure straight to my cock.

"Fuck, Vince," he breathed against my lips. "The way you respond to me..."

He was right. It had never been like this with anyone before.

Not with Todd, not with any lover I'd had.

Where those encounters had been pleasant enough, sometimes even exciting, this was a full-body, soul-deep reaction that bypassed my usual careful restraint.

The way my body sang under Luka's touch, the way I craved more without reservation or overthinking…

It was new territory, thrilling and slightly terrifying.

I drowned in sensation, in the heady knowledge that this dangerous, complex man wanted me with such intensity.

Each touch resonated like reverence, each kiss a confession.

I surrendered completely, letting him guide us, trusting him implicitly in a way that would have terrified me had I analyzed it.

But analysis escaped me now. There existed only Luka, only this moment, only the crescendo of desire building between us.

"You know what I realized at the range?" Luka asked, his teeth grazing my bottom lip.

"What?" I managed, still dizzy from his kisses.

"That I've been too fucking gentle with you." He pulled back slightly, studying my face with an intensity that made my cock twitch. "I want to show you the real me. Not the watered-down version. "

I swallowed, recognizing after our conversation at the range exactly what he offered. Not just sex, but a glimpse into the core of what intimacy meant to him—control, choice, power claimed rather than surrendered.

"Yes," I said, the word leaving me in a breath.

A wolfish smile spread across his face, confident and hungry. He took my hand in his, then squared his shoulders and set his jaw in an exaggerated manner. "Come vith me if you vant to live," he said in the worst Arnold Schwarzenegger impression imaginable, complete with flexed biceps.

I burst out laughing, the sound surprising even me after the intensity of the moment. "That's truly terrible."

"What, you don't think I have a future in voice acting?" he replied with a wink. "But it got you to laugh. I like that sound."

"Just don't quit your day job," I advised. "Although, wait, your day job is killing people, so maybe do pursue voice acting instead. The world would be safer."

He tugged me toward the hallway, his grip firm but not forceful. "Seriously though, bedroom. Now. I have plans for you, doc."

"Ooh, plans," I teased, following willingly. "Should I be worried that your plans for me involve the same meticulous attention you give to your murder missions? Because I'm not sure if that's terrifying or hot."

"Definitely both," he replied, eyes dancing with mischief. "Best prepare to be thoroughly debriefed, Dr. Matthews."

"Was that a pun? Did the deadly assassin just make an underwear pun? I think I'm in love."

In the bedroom, he released my hand and moved to the dresser, opening a drawer and retrieving something I couldn't quite see. When he turned back, he held a sleek black blindfold that looked professional-grade, clearly not improvised for the moment but part of a collection he already owned.