Page 34 of His Holy Chaos

"There you go," I murmur, and I feel him shudder at the gentleness of my voice contrasted with the relentless sting of my hand. "There's my good boy."

A sound escapes him. Something raw and aching that isn't quite a moan and isn't quite a sob. I keep spanking him, but I ease up slightly, letting the strikes become more rhythmic, more grounding. His breathing steadies into something deeper, slower.

His ass is burning under my palm now, and my palm is burning too, but I ignore it. He's gone quiet except for these soft, breathy sounds, almost like he's floating, and I recognize it. Subspace. Or at least the edges of it.

I give him a few more. Slow, each one with intention. And then I stop.

My hand rests on his heated skin, and he flinches at even that gentle contact before pressing back into my touch, seeking it, craving it. I rub slow circles across the marks I've left, feeling the raised warmth under my fingertips. His breathing is shaky, his body trembling in small aftershocks.

"Color?" I ask again, softer this time.

It takes him a moment. When his voice comes, it's wrecked. Hoarse and small and nothing like the sharp-tongued brat who opened the door twenty minutes ago.

"Green," he whispers. "So fucking green."

I let out a breath. My hand continues its slow, soothing path across his skin, and I feel him melt further into me, boneless and trusting. Completely undone. This chaotic, reckless, infuriating boy is surrendered and soft and trembling across my lap.

"You did so well," I tell him. "You took that beautifully, Jude."

He makes a small, broken sound at his own name. Then he giggles and says, softly, but still bratty: "I told you, I've taken a billion spankings before. This is nothing."

"Brat," I say, chuckling.

We stay like that for a long time. The breeze from his window cools the sweat on both our skins. Somewhere in the apartment, I hear Noa turn on music. Something like reggaeton.

I don't rush him. I don't move him. I just stroke his burning skin and let him come back to himself at his own pace, because this, this quiet aftermath, is just as important as everything that came before it. Maybe more.

Eventually, he stirs. His head turns, and I catch a glimpse of his face. Flushed and damp, his lashes clumped together, his lips swollen where he must have bitten them. But his eyes, when they find mine, are clear and bright and shining.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," I say back, and I can't help it. I'm smiling.

"That was…" He trails off, blinking slowly. "Yeah. That was."

"Eloquent," I say, and he laughs.

"Shut up," he mumbles, but there's no bite to it. There's nothing but softness in him right now, and I find myself wanting to protect him fiercely, irrationally, with everything I have.

"Let's get you up," I say gently. "Slowly."

I help him ease off my lap, guiding him carefully until he's sitting beside me on the bed. He winces as his raw skin makes contact with the sheets and immediately shifts onto his hip, hissing through his teeth.

"Ow," he says, with the most indignant look on his face, as if the soreness has personally offended him.

"That's the point," I say dryly, and he snorts.

I reach for the glass of water on his nightstand - there is one, miraculously - and hand it to him. He takes it, drinking deeply without me having to tell him this time, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. When he lowers the glass, he looks at me with those impossible honey eyes, and there's a vulnerability there that I suspect very few people get to see.

"Thank you," he says. Quietly. Sincerely. No bravado, no deflection.

"You're welcome," I say.

And there he goes again, the brat returning, but this time he's playful and happy, not bitter at all.

"You know, usually I'm made to thank my Doms. I don't normally do it on my own. You really do something to my head."

"Don't worry, I'll make you beg for other things," I say, and once again he seems surprised I know exactly what to say to him. I kiss his forehead, and he rests his head on my shoulder, exhaling deeply, the kind of exhale that comes after a long cry. I love this version of him, and I silently vow to bring him here as often as I can, because I know he loves it too.