Page 12 of His Holy Chaos

I take a deliberate sip of my coffee, buying time to consider my response. I'm telling this stranger things I wouldn't normally share on a first meeting, and that realization sits uncomfortably in my chest. But something about his attention, his focus, makes the words come easier than they should. "I've been in the scene longer than you've been alive, probably."

He laughs. "I told you I'm twenty-eight, not eighteen. Unless you started in your teens, I doubt that's true."

"Fine. Twenty-five years," I admit. "But it's been... intermittent."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning it's not something I engage in constantly. I've had arrangements with submissives in the past, but they've been brief. Contained."

Jude's eyebrows rise slightly. "Contained. That's an interesting word choice."

"It's accurate," I say, feeling suddenly defensive. "I maintain strict boundaries between my everyday existence and kink."

"They're not separate worlds," Jude counters, leaning back in his chair. It's absurd how good he looks, the way two pronounced dimples show up when he smiles, one in each cheek. Infuriating.

"You seem to have given this considerable thought."

"I've been in the scene since I was twenty, and not intermittently." He shrugs. "And I've known I was a submissive since before I knew what the word meant. It's part of me. Not something I turn on and off. Recently, I spent a long time wondering if I could just go vanilla. Kink started making me disgusted. I even understood vanilla couples for a while. But let's not talk about that. We should be discussing cool stuff. For example, if you'd like to do a scene with me."

"No," I say, more harshly than intended. I soften my voice. "I mean that we're fundamentally incompatible. You're young, impulsive, by your own admission, you showed up at my church after meeting me once. That indicates a level of spontaneity that doesn't align with how I conduct my relationships. I definitely don't do brats. You know that."

"Or all that you said indicates persistence and creativity," he counters, leaning forward again. "Qualities a good submissive should have."

"Jude, listen. You're attractive, intelligent, and I'm sure you're an excellent submissive for someone. But I'm fifty-three years old. I have established routines, responsibilities. I don't have space in my life for someone who…"

"…who what? Challenges you? Makes you feel something unexpected?" His interruption should irritate me, but instead, it cuts to something uncomfortably accurate.

"Who needs more than I'm prepared to give," I finish. "A Dom/sub relationship requires commitment, consistency, time. I'm not in a position to offer those things."

Jude takes another sip of his cappuccino, leaving a faint trace of foam on his upper lip that he catches with his tongue. The gesture shouldn't be distracting, but I find my eyes following the movement.

"You're making a lot of assumptions about what I need," he says. "Maybe I'm not looking for a 24/7 dynamic. Maybe I just want to play occasionally with someone as attractive and smart as you."

"Is that all you want?" I ask, skeptical.

His eyes drop to the table for a moment, the first show of something less than absolute confidence I've seen from him. "I don't know what I want long-term," he admits. "But I know I want to explore whatever this is between us. It's fucking electric. Don't tell me you don't feel it."

"There is nothing between us," I say, but the words sound hollow even to my own ears.

There's something. I know it even as I deny it.

"Liar," he says softly, without malice.

I set my cup down. "Even if there were some... mutual interest, it wouldn't work. We live in different worlds."

"Same world, different neighborhoods," he counters. "And I have a car. And a bike."

His persistence chips at my resolve. I find myself studying the way the café's low lighting catches in his almost-white hair, turning it to burnished gold in places. The way his throat moves when he swallows. The long fingers wrapped around his cup, elegant despite chipped black polish on two nails.

"The age difference…" I begin.

"Ah, fuck it. Who cares?" he cuts in. "We're both adults. I'm old. And mature."

"Says the kid who stalked me to my church," I point out.

He grins, unrepentant. "Well, it worked, didn't it?"

I shake my head, caught between exasperation and amusement. "You don't give up easily, do you?"