Page 35 of Thor

For a few breathless moments, I let myself get lost in the sensation—the contrast of his soft lips and rough beard, the solid warmth of his chest against mine, the faint groan that rumbled through him when I tentatively placed my hands on his shoulders.

Then reality crashed through the haze of desire. This was Thor Eriksson. Sergeant-at-Arms of the Heavy Kings MC. My client, technically. The man assigned to protect me. A biker with a dangerous reputation and a life so different from my carefully structured existence that it might as well be another planet.

And I was kissing him on his front porch where anyone—Crusher at the driveway, Wiz patrolling the perimeter—might see.

Panic flooded through me. I stepped back, my fingers lightly touching my tingling lips. "I—I can't—"

Thor didn't pursue me, didn't try to pull me back into his arms. He simply stood there, his expression calm despite the heat still evident in his eyes.

"It's okay," he said quietly. "No rush."

No rush. Not 'forget it happened' or 'this was a mistake.' Just . . . no rush. As if he understood that I needed time, that this was complicated for reasons beyond the obvious.

I nodded, unable to form words, and turned toward the door. Thor followed, his boots heavy on the wooden porch. Inside, the cabin felt different somehow—smaller, more intimate—the air between us charged with new awareness.

Thor drifted to the kitchen without a word about our kiss, moving with the same easy confidence he always displayed. I hovered uncertainly in the living room, caught between the desire to retreat to the guest room and the stronger pull to stay near him.

"Hot chocolate?" he asked, already retrieving milk from the refrigerator. "Or chocolate milk, if you prefer that instead?"

The question stopped me cold. Not coffee, which we'd shared each morning. Not tea, which I'd mentioned liking. Specifically hot chocolate or chocolate milk—the two beverages I most associated with my Little space. The drinks I kept stashed in my secret closet at home, along with my sippy cups and coloring books.

It couldn't be a coincidence. His careful study of my reaction, the specific offer—it was deliberate. He knew, or at least suspected, and he was offering acceptance in the most gentle way possible.

"Hot chocolate would be nice," I said, my voice hushed with emotion.

Thor nodded, pulling a saucepan from a cabinet with practiced ease. I watched, transfixed, as his massive hands moved gracefully around the kitchen—measuring milk, breaking pieces from a chocolate bar, adding a pinch of salt, whisking with deft movements.

He could have used powdered mix. I would never have known the difference or complained. Instead, he was making it from scratch, taking his time, focusing entirely on creating something perfect for me.

"We don't have marshmallows," he said, sounding genuinely disappointed. "Next supply run."

Something warm and unfamiliar bloomed in my chest—not just attraction or desire, but a deeper feeling I wasn't ready to name. I moved to the kitchen island, perching on a stool to watch him work.

"Thor," I said softly. "What are we doing?"

He looked up from the steaming saucepan, his blue eyes steady. "Making hot chocolate."

"You know that's not what I mean."

A slight smile touched his lips. "I know." He poured the rich, dark liquid into two mugs, sliding one toward me. "But sometimes it's best to take things one step at a time."

I wrapped my hands around the warm mug, inhaling the sweet scent. "And what's the next step after hot chocolate?"

"That depends on you," he said, leaning against the counter. "No rush, remember?"

I took a sip, the chocolate rich and velvety on my tongue. It was perfect—not too sweet, complex with hints of vanilla and something spicy I couldn't identify.

"This is good," I said, inadequately.

Thor's eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. "Thanks."

We drank in comfortable silence, the tension between us transformed into something softer, less urgent but no less powerful. I studied him over the rim of my mug—the strong lines of his face, the careful way he held his own mug as if afraid of crushing it with his strength, the thoughtful set of his mouth.

I didn't know where this was going. Didn't know if it could go anywhere, given the complications of our situation. But sitting in his kitchen, drinking hot chocolate he'd made from scratch, with the memory of his kiss still warming my lips, I allowed myself to feel something dangerously close to hope.

"Thank you," I said quietly.

"For the hot chocolate?"

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