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Shaking my head, my stomach gurgling answers for me. “Usually I’d say an hour, maybe even ninety minutes. But considering how hungry I am, let’s say thirty.”
He chuckles. Outstretching his hands toward me, he waits for me to put the glass down and take his hands before helping me to my feet. My legs are a little wobbly, but nothing I can’t handle. I think.
He doesn’t move, just stands waiting for me to find my footing. “How are you feeling?”
“My butt hurts.”
The smile he gives me in response is bright enough to power the lights throughout his house. “Good. I like that.”
I do too. He walks behind me to the bathroom, his huge presence filling the doorway as I turn to face him. “You want me to help you in?”
I glance at the height of the side of the bath. The proud, independent woman in me wants to shoo him away and tell him I can do it myself. But the pain in my butt, and the exhaustion weighing down my limbs tells me I could end up on my face. Drowning with my pride at the bottom of his tub.
“I can cover my eyes if you need me to.”
Laughing, I shake my head. “You saw every inch of me last night, Thor.”
He shrugs. “Doesn’t mean you want me to see any inches of you today, kitten.” His fingers skim what has to be a blush blooming in my heating cheeks.
I take off the over-sized t-shirt he put me in to sleep last night and toss it onto the floor before he essentially picks me up and eases me into the hot, bubbly water that smells amazing. He kisses my hair before handing me my phone. I have no idea where the hell it spent the night, or how it’s fully charged, but he seems to have thought of everything. “I’ll be right back with a bottle of water.”
I could absolutely get used to this. The tenderness and attentiveness of this man is unparalleled. It’s unsurprising that he has a great reputation in the kink world. He comes back with two bottles of water.
“Room temp for now, the colder one will warm up throughout your bath. I’d like you to have both drank by the time you’re dry and come downstairs.”
“Yes Sir. I’ll drink the water.” I blow him a kiss before opening the tepid water and taking a drink.
“Good girl. I’ll see you downstairs. Coffee?”
“Black. Like my soul.”
He shakes his head, but doesn’t answer me. I have about thirty unread messages on my phone in the Sub Club chat. When I get done telling the girls the cliff notes from the night before, they’re both demanding we get together for a full dirty debrief. They want every painstaking detail. I don’t blame them. It’s what we do. I’d want the juicy gossip on every single orgasm from either of them if the tables were turned. And I’ve gotten them in the past. We know the good, the bad, and the ugly from each other’s sex lives. Ride-or-die.
When I get out of the bath forty minutes later, my skin is hot, sweaty, and wrinkly. There’s a towel on the warmer that I could easily wrap about myself twice and still have fabric leftover. Where the fuck does this man find giant-sized towels?
On the bed, he’s opened my overnight bag and laid out my clothes, and a tube of lotion I didn’t bring with me. I’ve never been so taken care of. Much less by someone I barely know, who just wants something physical, no strings between us.
By the time I get down to the kitchen, I’m salivating. The smells permeating the house are just... I can’t even put words to how delicious everything smells.
“Any allergies? I should have checked before I started.”
I walk up behind him to steal a strip of bacon resting on the paper towels. “No allergies. And I love food. I didn’t get this ass from eating celery.”
He scowls at me over his shoulder, frying pan in one hand, spatula in another. “You’re lucky my hands are full or I’d spank you for that kind of shitty self-talk, Addison.”
His voice is hard, punctuated with gritted teeth and a muscle feathering in the side of his face. Dude is pissed.
The doorbell rings, breaking the silence and our stare down. “I’ll get it.” I need to create some space between us so he can’t torch me with his eyeballs.
When I pull open the door, my stomach drops. A young boy, maybe ten or twelve years old stands in front of me surrounded by bags at his feet. He’s clutching a giant Chewbacca Squishmallow pillow. I only know because my niece has one as well.
There’s no way this kid isn’t related to Thor. He has the same wild blue eyes, the same shaped chin, and his hair is the same color. Despite the screaming voice in my mind telling me this kid is Thor’s kid, I hold onto some kind of hope that maybe he’s his younger brother. Or a nephew... cousin... something.
“Hi there.” I step toward him, he steps back so I stop moving. “Can I help you?”
Wordlessly, he hands me over a piece of paper in his trembling hand. Part of me knows I have no business at all accepting the paper, or reading it, but the curiosity burns so deep in my gut that I shamefully accept the page and unfold it.
Dear Thor,
