Page 33 of Unbearable Attraction
Because some arguments were worth having, especially with people who mattered enough to fight with instead of simply dismissing.
And Luka definitely mattered, even when he was being an overbearing, protective pain in the ass.
22
LEENAH
The workshop door stood slightly ajar when Leenah arrived, warm light spilling into the November darkness along with the familiar scent of cedar shavings and wood polish. She could see Luka inside, his broad shoulders tense as he worked over a piece of oak with more force than precision, each stroke of his chisel carrying the frustration she'd left him with hours earlier.
Her anger had cooled during the walk from her cottage, but it hadn't disappeared entirely. She was still furious with him for pushing past her boundaries, still resentful of the way he'd demanded answers she wasn't ready to give. But underneath the anger was something deeper, more honest: the uncomfortable knowledge that he'd been right about everything.
She knocked softly on the doorframe, and he looked up, his eyes holding a mixture of surprise and wariness that made her heart clench with regret.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," he said quietly, setting down his tools.
"I wasn't sure either." She stepped inside, pulling the door closed behind her. "But we need to talk."
"About the ritual you're planning?" His voice carried no accusation, just tired resignation. "Or about the fact that you'd rather risk your life than trust me with the truth?"
The gentle observation hit harder than any angry words could have. "Both, I guess."
Luka moved closer, close enough that she could see the exhaustion in his features, the way their fight had carved new lines of worry around his eyes. "I'm sorry for pushing you. For making demands instead of asking questions."
The apology she hadn't expected caught her off guard. "I'm sorry for shutting you out. For making you feel like your concern didn't matter."
"It's not about my feelings mattering," he said softly. "It's about yours. About the fact that you'd rather face unknown dangers alone than risk depending on someone who might let you down."
The accuracy made her throat tight with emotions she'd been avoiding. "You were right, you know. About the ritual being dangerous. About me planning something stupid."
"I don't care about being right." Luka's voice dropped. "I care about you coming home safe."
"Luka," she whispered, stepping closer until she could feel the heat radiating from his skin.
"Yeah?"
Instead of answering with words, she reached up and pulled his mouth down to hers.
The kiss was everything their first had been and more—hungry, desperate, full of everything they'd both been holding back. He tasted like coffee and determination and something uniquely him that made her pulse race with want. His lips were rough and gentle all at once, demanding and giving in equal measure.
His hands settled on her waist with obvious hesitation, as if he was afraid she might pull away again. But she was done pulling away, done pretending that the fire between them was something she could ignore or control.
"Don't stop," she breathed against his mouth. "Please don't stop."
That seemed to break the last of his restraint. He pulled her against the solid warmth of his chest as he deepened the kiss that made her knees weak. She could feel his heart hammering against her palm, could taste the desperation in his kiss that matched her own.
"Leenah," he groaned, her name a prayer on his lips as she pressed kisses to the column of his throat. "Are you sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything," she replied, meaning every word. This felt right in a way nothing ever had before, like coming home after years of wandering.
His hands found the zipper of her jacket, sliding it down with careful movements that spoke to his reverence for this moment, for her. When the fabric fell away, followed by her sweater, his amber eyes darkened with an hunger that made heat pool low in her belly.
"You're beautiful," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion and desire.
Before she could respond, he was lifting her, cradling her against his chest like she was something fragile he’d carved with his own hands—something breakable, irreplaceable. Leenah’s breath hitched as he carried her up the worn wooden stairs to the loft above his workshop. The scent of cedar followed them, wrapping around her like a memory. His body was heat and muscle beneath her fingertips, the flannel brushing her bare arms as she clung to him.
She pressed kisses along his jaw, slow and lingering. “You always smell like the forest after rain,” she murmured against hisstubble. He groaned in response, the sound vibrating through his chest and into her bones.
The bedroom welcomed them with warm shadows and silvery moonlight spilling across honey-colored floors. The curtains—soft gauze—fluttered slightly in the draft, adding movement to the stillness. The bed, wide and low, stood like an invitation. A haven. He set her down beside it with careful, reverent hands, as if he didn’t trust the ground to keep her safe.
