Page 34 of Thor

"Cute," he remarked, his tone matter-of-fact, neither mocking nor condescending.

He held it out to me, and as I reached to take it, our fingers brushed. The contact was brief, a whisper of skin against skin, but it jolted through me like an electric current.

I hastily stuffed everything back into my purse, breaking the moment before it could stretch into something I wasn't prepared to explain. The unicorn keychain disappeared into an inside pocket, safely out of sight but not out of mind.

"Thanks," I murmured, not meeting his eyes as I straightened up.

Thor rose to his full height, towering over me again. The vulnerability I'd glimpsed seemed to recede, replaced by his usual stoic expression, though something lingered in his eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or understanding.

"We should head back," he said, his deep voice casual. "Getting hungry."

I nodded, grateful for the change of subject. "I could eat."

As Thor wheeled the motorcycle toward the garage, I trailed behind, my mind racing. What had he seen in that moment? What had he thought about the unicorn? About me? The questions circled endlessly, making me dizzy with speculation.

The keychain was just a keychain, I told myself. Plenty of grown women had cute accessories. It didn't necessarily reveal anything.

But the way Thor had handled it—with such care, as if recognizing its importance—suggested otherwise. And that word—princess—echoed in my mind, taking on new layers of meaning.

My Little side, usually so carefully contained, stirred restlessly at the memory of his voice saying that word. It wanted to emerge, to be seen and acknowledged. The thought was simultaneously terrifying and deeply tempting.

I watched Thor's broad back as he secured the motorcycle in the garage, his movements efficient and practiced. I tried to reconcile all the versions of him I'd discovered—the feared enforcer, the skilled craftsman, the patient teacher, and now, possibly, someone who could see and accept the hidden parts of me.

It was too much to process. Too dangerous to hope for.

Thor walked in silence, his stride measured to accommodate my shorter steps. I snuck glances at his profile—the strong line of his jaw partially hidden by his beard, the slight furrow between his brows that suggested deep thought. What was he thinking? Judging me? Planning how to politely ignore what he'd seen?

At the porch steps, I felt Thor's light touch on my elbow. "Mandy."

My name in his deep voice sent a shiver down my spine. I turned, finding him uncomfortably close, his blue eyes intense and questioning. He towered over me, but there was nothing threatening in his posture—just a focused attention that made me feel like the only person in the world.

"That ride . . ." He paused, searching for words, which seemed unusual for a man who typically spoke with such certainty. "You were different. I've never seen you like that."

My breath caught. "Different how?" My voice came out small, vulnerable.

"Free." The word hung between us, simple but profound. "Unguarded. I've never heard you laugh like that before."

I swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. It was true—I rarely let myself experience pure, uncomplicated joy. Even in my Little space at home, alone and safe, there was always a part of me on guard, afraid of discovery.

"I don't get many chances to . . . just enjoy things," I admitted, surprised by my own honesty.

Thor's steady gaze held mine, seeing too much. "While you’re here, I want you to enjoy yourself. Think of it as a vacation. You should. You deserve that freedom. "

His calloused thumb gently traced my cheekbone, the touch so light it might have been my imagination. "The woman who color-codes spreadsheets and the woman who just laughed on that motorcycle—they're both you. Both equally important."

The words hit me with unexpected force. My entire adult life had been about compartmentalizing—keeping Mandy the accountant completely separate from Mandy the Little. Never allowing those worlds to touch, convinced that one would contaminate the other. Yet here was Thor, calmly stating that both sides were not just acceptable, but important.

In that moment, I felt seen in a way I had never experienced before. Not just observed, but understood. Recognized. His eyes held no judgment, no confusion—just a quiet acceptance that made my throat tight with emotion.

"How do you . . ." I started, then stopped, afraid to ask how he knew, afraid to acknowledge what he might have guessed.

Thor's head dipped toward mine, moving with deliberate slowness, giving me every chance to pull away. I didn't. Instead, I rose on tiptoes to meet him, my body making a decision my mind was still debating.

Our lips met with an unexpected tenderness. His beard brushed softly against my skin, the sensation both foreign and thrilling. His mouth was warm, gentle, nothing like the bruising force I might have expected from a man of his size and reputation. He tasted faintly of coffee and something uniquely him.

His large hands cradled my face with a confidence that both comforted and unnerved me. They were capable hands—hands that had built his beautiful home, restored motorcycles, and likely done violence in defense of his club. Yet they held me with such care, as if I were something precious and easily broken.

The kiss deepened slowly, his tongue meeting mine in a cautious exploration that made heat pool in my belly. One of his hands slid to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, cradling my head. The other moved to my waist, spanning it easily, holding me steady as I swayed toward him.

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