Thor kicked his boots off and fell, soused and socked, into bed beside her. The RV rocked, and Jane set her hand to the corner, held her laptop to her chest, and rode it out like a seasoned sailor. Beached upon the blankets, his shoulder pressed hard against her thigh, he smiled up at her. His hair stuck out in a tangled halo about his ear.
"Jane Foster," he rumbled. "Doctor Professor Jane Foster, born of Fosters. Hello, Jane."
The ruddy skin about his eyes creased, and he looked at her with unbearable softness. Jane felt a hotness rising in her chest. She bit her lip that she wouldn't laugh, and said,
"Hello to you, too. Thor, son of Odin. God of Thunder."
She said this carefully, as he had said her titles, and his smile deepened. That dimple peeked through his beard. With a bone deep sigh, one which gusted hot across her hip and called up electrical shots in her skin, he wriggled deeper into the blankets. Gently, she tucked a flyaway bit of hair behind his ear, then rested her hand on his sunburnt nape.
"Did you have fun scaring the frat boys?"
"Yes," he said with satisfaction. He caught her hand and brought it around to his mouth. "I defeated five of their men in combat, and I have partaken of the boilermakers and the whiskeys and the strawberry daiquiris."
He kissed her fingertips one by one, his lips slick and his beard scratching her skin. Jane leaned back from her laptop and watched him as he worked studiously; she felt as if she'd laugh if she looked away, as if all her giddiness at the nearness of him would rip out of her and leave her gutted and cold, devoid even of numbers and the movement of stars.
"I like strawberry daiquiris," he told her thumb as he moved to kiss the first knuckle. "They're sweet, but they kick, too. We don't have any drinks like that in Asgard. Nothing sweet. Your people are very gifted." His lips parted on the first knuckle of her third finger; his tongue found the little folds of skin.
She went to pull her knees to her face and found her laptop sliding to the floor. Jane dove for it, and caught it, and closed it and set it down where it would not die a terrible, meaningless death. Thor, grinning, followed her hand.
"You taste like salt," he accused her. "You've been eating peanuts."
She turned her face from him and sniffed. "It's a free country. I can eat salted peanuts if I want."
He licked a wet stripe up the backside of her ring finger. Jane clapped her free hand to her mouth and tried, without success, not to snort. His teeth flashed whitely at her.
"Salt," he said, "and sugar. What have you been eating, Jane Foster?"
She lowered her fingers to her chin. "Why don't you find out?" she asked, arch.
"A challenge!" He clasped her fingers in his own; the old, deep calluses rubbed over her knuckles. His thumb fit her palm and she curled her fingers to embrace it. "Very well. I accept."
Thor bent to her hand, his hair thick and shining against his neck. She'd a moment as he made ardent love to her littlest finger when she could not quite believe he was really there, filling her bed with his broad shoulders and square hips, his long legs hanging off the edge. She reached out and set her hand upon his bristled cheek; she felt his smile, how the muscles in his cheek pulled tightly, the coarse drag of short hair against her skin, all in her fingers. He smelled of beer and strawberries and sweat and the deep burn of hot sun, and his jeans rasped as he shifted his legs.
Her chest stuck. He was here.
"I missed you," she said softly.
He laughed. "I was only at the bar," he said to the back of her hand.
He looked up to her over her wrist, and the sudden, violent blue of his eyes caught her heart. The little folds at the corners of his eyes eased. Lightly, he kissed the curve of her wrist. His breath was warm, his lips soft, and the touch of his hand grounded her as she thought she might float off.
"But I missed you, too." Another kiss, dropped in the crease between her thumb and forefinger. "Every minute."
She felt her smile as something blooming in her face, like a flower opening or a sun rising.
"I don't think that's really possible," she said. "Every minute? Do you realize how many minutes there are in just one day?"
He rolled up onto his shoulder and brought her hand to his chest. He squinted at her, and in the muted light his eyelashes glimmered as if gilded.
"You would call into question the honor of Thor Odinson? The man who commands the storms?" He gestured wildly. "Who calls down the lightning?"
Jane screwed her mouth up and nodded. "Yeah, that's, that's about right."
Thor groaned and fell back against the blankets, her hand folded at his heart. "Unjust," he swore, "unjust. I bite your thumb at you, Jane Foster." And he lifted her hand to his mouth and nipped her thumb, not hard, but sharp.
She shrieked and swatted his shoulder. Laughing, he let go of her hand, and she pushed him away from her, her fingers spread across his chest. Thor snuck his arm around her waist and pulled her with him. His palm cupped her hip. He bussed her cheek and licked her jaw and chased his tongue with his teeth, and Jane slapped his shoulder again and said, "Down, boy."
He kissed her earlobe and whispered, "As you command," and he rose. Jane slid onto her back; her hair fell dark before her eyes. As she reached to card it from her face, his hands met hers. Her hair parted; he shone above her; in the parting, he kissed her warmly on her mouth. His tongue touched her teeth.
"Oh, ugh," she said. She made a face. "You taste like beer."
With vast solemnity, he nodded; then he kissed her again. Into her mouth, he said, "Let's see what I can do to change that."
In summer, nights were warm, and she'd worn only boy shorts and a t-shirt to bed. His hands dropped to her waist. He tasted of beer and vodka, but strawberries, too, and his mouth was soft, the rolling of his tongue easy and sweet. Jane dragged on his tongue and ran her fingers through his hair; her nails scraped along his nape. Thor slipped his thumbs beneath her waistband.
"I missed you."
It spilled out of her; she hadn't meant to say it again. His fingers on her thighs stilled.
Four months ago he'd come down to Earth again in a cloud of light and dust and roaring thunder, and he'd looked at her through the thinning storm and said, "You found me, Jane Foster." Now he leaned over her, his mouth red, his brow bared as she clutched his hair in her hands. His eyes, so very, painfully blue, swallowed the world.
"I'm sorry," she said. She attempted a smile. Her heart ached. "I just--I really, really missed you."
He did not look away from her, even as he bent to kiss the point of her chin.
"Jane," he said. He kissed her throat, then the dip in her clavicle. His eyelashes fell pale against his cheeks. "If I were a poet," he told her chest as he drew her shirt down, "I would compose an edda of your acts." He dropped a kiss between her breasts.
Her breath caught on her tongue. His shoulders rolled; he bowed. His fingers slid beneath her shirt and he pulled it up to expose her narrow, brown belly. A shiver ran through her, like a bolt from her toes to the tip of her nose.
"Jane Foster, who saved Thor, son of Odin." A little kiss left in her navel. "Jane Foster, who remade the Bifröst and opened the worlds. Who saved Yggdrasill, and--" He broke off to peel her shorts from her hips; there, he kissed the little crease high on the inside of her thigh. "Who ate all the salted peanuts."
She laughed, and as he kissed the opposite crease, his beard scratched her shaking thigh.
"Oh," she gasped, "that tickles."
He cupped her knees and ran his cheek up her thigh. Her legs closed about his shoulders, and she said, "No, no, don't do that, I can't--" and threw her head back and laughed again.
"Jane Foster," he noted, "of the sensitive thighs." He nuzzled the thin curls twisting between her legs. His breath trickled warm over her. "I think I might keep that to myself."
She reached down and touched his brow, her fingertips light on his temple. "Please do."
"I intend to," he said, smiling so his brow wrinkled; then he pressed his mouth to her.
He ran his tongue between her folds--his teeth flashed over her clit, a delicate nip, his tongue swift to follow--and Jane's fingers spasmed at his brow. His thumbs bit into the sides of her knees; he held her legs steady. Jane drew breath and swallowed.
"There," she said. Heat unspooled in her legs, her belly, her tightening chest. "Please. Right there, like that."
Thor moved between her legs, his shoulders rising, his head bowing, and as his fingers ghosted up then down her thighs again, he licked into her. The breadth of his back, bowing, the vastness of Thor bent to her: Jane combed her fingers through the hair at his brow and thought names. His beard, that rasped over her thighs, the labia majora. His tongue parted and slid down the labia minora, then flicked up again to cradle the clitoral glans; his teeth caught at it.
He turned his head; his cheek rubbed her thigh, and Jane laughed. Thor's lips pressed into her skin--he smiled--and he turned his head again, chasing after the other thigh as he worried her clit with his tongue. His shoulders shook and in their shaking shook her, too, and Jane tightened her legs about him; she twisted her fingers in his hair; she held him to her. A pressure in her belly picked at her, and she wanted to laugh; she wanted to drag Thor against her and kiss him and never let him go, and she wanted to laugh. He groaned. Jane closed her eyes against the coming heat, the shock building in her crooking toes.
"Thor," she whispered. "Thor. Thor. Oh, my god. Oh, god. Thor, god, please--"
His chuckle rattled through her--his teeth pinched her clitoris--and she lit, arching, breathless, laughing.
Jane settled, her heart trembling. Thor mouthed his way up her belly; her shirt momentarily confounded him. She draped her hands over his shoulders, then he was at her throat; he lipped her jaw. She petted his nape and said, lazily, "Do you want to--?" She pressed her thigh between his legs.
He exhaled against her ear. A deep shudder ran through him.
"No," he said. Softly he kissed her ear. "Not now." He pulled at her shirt and Jane lifted her arms that he might strip it from her. Bare, she made to cross her arms over her breasts, then Thor pulled his own shirt off and fumbled with the clasp of his jeans.
"Wait. Here, let me--"
She brushed his hands aside. He shuddered again, then he pushed her hands away and rose; away from the alcove, he shed his pants.
When he slipped into bed beside her he was naked and hot, and he was hard against her hip. Jane turned to face him. Her hair showed dark on the pillow they shared.
She touched his jaw. "Are you sure?"
Thor pressed his hand to hers. He traced her thumb, and he looked at her, his eyes so bright, his face flushed, and he said, "Just this." He stretched his arm about her and drew her, unresisting, against him. His chin settled upon her head; his hand stilled at the small of her back. His shoulders filled the alcove, his scent her lungs; he filled the world. The way he'd looked at her, it was as if he thought she reached the stars. His arm tightened around her.
"Just this," he said again.