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His hand enveloped mine completely, warm and calloused. He squeezed my fingers to demonstrate the motion.

"Right hand: front brake and throttle." He positioned my right hand, rotating it slightly. "Twist toward you for more power. Away from you to slow down. Careful with it. Gentle."

I nodded, hyperaware of his breath against my ear.

"Left foot: gear shift." He tapped my left boot. "Down for first, then up for each higher gear. Neutral is between first and second—half a click up from first."

My head was swimming with information, my body tense with the unfamiliar position and Thor's nearness.

"Right foot: rear brake." He guided my right foot to a pedal. "Use both brakes together, always. Front does most of the work, but rear keeps you stable."

"There's so much to remember," I said, my voice tight with anxiety.

"Your body will learn," Thor replied, his deep voice resonating against my back. "Muscle memory kicks in fast."

He stepped back slightly, but kept one hand on the handlebar. "We'll just practice starting and stopping today. When I tell you, squeeze the clutch, press the starter button with your right thumb, and give it a little throttle. Just a tiny twist."

I took a deep breath, trying to remember all the controls. Clutch, throttle, brakes, gears. Too many things to coordinate at once.

"Ready?" Thor asked.

"Not even slightly," I admitted.

His low chuckle surprised me. "Do it anyway."

I squeezed the clutch lever, pressed the starter button, and gave the throttle a timid twist. The engine sputtered, then died.

"More throttle," Thor instructed. "Don't be afraid of it."

I tried again, giving it more gas this time. The engine roared to life with a rumble that vibrated through my entire body. I jumped, nearly dropping the bike, but Thor's steady hand kept it upright.

"Easy," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the engine. "It responds to your energy. If you're nervous, it knows."

"That's not helpful," I shot back, my knuckles white around the handlebars.

"Breathe," he said, and demonstrated with an exaggerated inhale. "The bike is an extension of you. Trust it."

I forced myself to take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. The engine's vibration changed, settling into a smoother rhythm as if it sensed my effort.

"Good," Thor said, and I felt absurdly pleased by the approval in his voice. "Now, still holding the clutch, put it in first gear. Left foot down."

I pressed down with my left foot, feeling the gear engage with a solid click.

"Perfect. Now, very slowly, start to release the clutch while giving it a little throttle. Find the friction point where the engine connects to the wheels."

I did as instructed, gradually releasing the clutch. The bike lurched forward violently, then stalled. I put my feet down quickly, heart pounding.

"Too fast on the clutch, not enough throttle," Thor said, without a hint of impatience. "Try again."

We repeated the process five more times. On the sixth attempt, I found the right balance—the motorcycle moved forward smoothly, carrying me a few feet before I panicked and squeezed both brakes, bringing it to an abrupt halt.

"I did it!" The disbelief in my voice made Thor smile—a real smile that transformed his rugged face.

"You did," he agreed, something like pride warming his voice. "Again. This time, go a little farther before you stop."

By the tenth attempt, I was able to get the bike moving and ride in a wobbly straight line for about twenty feet before stopping. The sense of accomplishment was ridiculously disproportionate to the actual achievement.

"Now try turning," Thor suggested. "Lean your body slightly in the direction you want to go. The bike follows your weight."

The first turn was terrifying—I went too slow and turned the handlebars too sharply, nearly tipping over before Thor steadied the bike with a hand on my shoulder.

"Body position," he reminded me. "And a little more speed actually makes it easier."

After several more attempts, I managed a complete circuit of the clearing—starting, accelerating slightly, making four uneven turns, and returning to my starting point. Thor walked alongside me the entire time, close enough to help if needed but giving me space to feel the bike's movements.

"Want to try second gear?" he asked after I completed my third circuit.

My nerves had given way to excitement. "Show me."

He demonstrated the shifting motion, then stepped back to let me try. The transition to second gear was smoother than I expected, and suddenly I was moving faster, the wind rushing past my helmet.

For a brief, glorious moment, I understood the appeal—the freedom, the connection between body and machine, the rush of controlled power. I made another circuit, faster this time, my turns becoming more fluid as I gained confidence.

Thor's expression had changed, his usual stoic mask replaced by something that looked almost like delight as he watched me. When I finally stopped the bike and turned off the engine, my hands were shaking with adrenaline and my face hurt from smiling beneath the helmet.

"What do you think?" he asked, helping me off the bike.

"It's . . ." I struggled to find words that wouldn't reveal too much of my excitement. "It's not terrible."

Thor laughed—a genuine, unguarded sound that I'd never heard from him before. "High praise from Mandy Wright, CPA."

I removed the helmet, feeling my hair tumble free in a copper cascade. Our eyes met, and something passed between us—a shared moment of simple joy that transcended our complicated circumstances.

"Thank you," I said quietly. "For teaching me."

His expression softened in a way that made my chest tighten. "It was a pleasure. You're a natural."

I knew he was exaggerating, but the pride in his voice felt real. This all felt real. Without thinking—without my usual careful calculation of every action—I swung my leg over the bike, set down the helmet, and threw my arms around his waist. "I did it!" The words burst from me with childlike enthusiasm.

Thor's body tensed at the sudden contact. For a terrifying second, I thought I'd made a terrible mistake. But then his powerful arms wrapped around me, returning the hug with careful pressure. His leather vest creaked slightly as he moved, and beneath it, I felt the solid warmth of his chest.

The awkward press of my helmet against his chest reminded me of our height difference—I barely reached his shoulder even stretching up. I should have pulled away immediately. The professional, compartmentalized Mandy would have stepped back, apologized for the inappropriate contact, restored the proper distance.

Instead, I lingered, absorbing his warmth, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my cheek.

When I finally pulled back to look up at him, something in his ice-blue eyes stole my breath. The hardness had melted away, replaced by a softness and warmth I'd never seen before. It was like looking at an entirely different person—or perhaps the real person beneath the intimidating exterior.

"You did great, princess," he said in a deep, protective tone that sent an electric shiver racing down my spine.

Princess.

The word resonated somewhere deep inside me, in the carefully hidden place where my Little side lived. I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came out. His massive hand moved to my shoulder, steadying me as though he sensed my sudden unbalance.

"You okay?" he asked, concern creasing his brow.

"Yeah," I managed, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. "Just . . . adrenaline, I guess."

His thumb traced a small circle on my shoulder, probably meant to be comforting, but it sent sparks cascading through me. We stood like that for a long moment, too close, the air between us charged with something I wasn't ready to name.

Then reality intruded in the form of my purse, which had been hanging from my shoulder and chose that moment to slip free. It hit the ground between us with a thud, contents spilling onto the dirt.

"Shit," I muttered, dropping to my knees to gather the scattered items. Lipstick. Keys. Phone. Wallet. And—my heart stopped—my unicorn keychain.

Not just any unicorn keychain. This one had a sparkly horn and rainbow mane, its plastic body worn smooth from years of worried touches during stressful meetings or difficult phone calls.

Thor crouched beside me, helping gather my belongings. His large hands moved with surprising gentleness, collecting items and placing them carefully in my purse. Then he picked up the unicorn keychain, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.

I froze, watching his face, waiting for confusion, judgment, or worst of all, pity. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. This wasn't how I wanted anyone to discover this side of me—especially not Thor.

But his expression showed none of those things. He simply studied the colorful plastic figure for a moment, his thumb gently tracing the sparkly horn.

"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.

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?"

I met his eyes, letting him see my vulnerability for once. "For seeing me." Both sides of me, I meant. All of me.

Thor's expression softened in a way that transformed his entire face, making him look younger, gentler. "Always," he promised.