He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Some people are good at spreadsheets. Some people are good at…other things.”
I shake my head, half mortified, half fascinated. “That’s…oddly specific.”
“Only because I’ve been asked before,” he says with a grin in his voice. “But I promise, Luna—I’m not just a number. I’m also very creative.”
“Uh-huh.” I raise an eyebrow, even though he can’t see it. “You soundveryproud of yourself, Thor.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
I sip my tea, trying to play it cool. “I mean, Iamintrigued. Strictly from an academic standpoint, of course.”
“Of course,” he says. “Purely educational.”
8
FAITH
The night drifts on like a dream I don’t want to wake from.
My friends come and go from the knot-tying lesson in the other room, their laughter echoing faintly through the walls. Meanwhile, back in the loud room, a new scene is playing out.
This time, it’s the brunette who was patiently waiting her turn earlier. She’s up on the padded stool now—sandy blonde hair, black collar, big breasts, glasses, and a huge grin that never leaves her face.
Her bottom is already purpling.
She’s not as resilient as the first woman—she squeals louder, kicks more, flinches with every blow—but she doesn’t stop smiling.
I watch the same man work her over with various tools from his bag: a flogger, a rubber paddle, some kind of flexible plastic rod that makes a sharp, whippy sound through the air.
“Is she bleeding?” Thor murmurs beside me.
I lean closer, squint. “Nah, I think that’s just a blood blister.”
He laughs softly. “You say that like it’s totally normal.”
I chuckle too—because he’s right. At the start of the night, I was watching this like a car crash: horrified, unable to look away. Now… I’m just curious.
Maybe even a little turned on.
I shift my hand to adjust my tea and accidentally bump into his.
He doesn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers slide into mine like it’s nothing.
But it’s not nothing.
It’s everything.
My heart stutters. I feel it in my throat, my chest, the pit of my stomach. Never in my life have I been this attracted to a complete stranger.
Let alone a stranger wearing a serial killer mask.
We sit like that, hand in hand, watching in silence.
Eventually, the scene winds down. The man drops his tools. The brunette rises slowly, stretching and smiling like she just left a spa, not a spanking session.
“Thank you for the experience,” she says, voice breathy but glowing.
Experience.
