Page 35 of His Holy Chaos

Chapter 18. Ford

His hand finds my thigh. Just resting there. He's looking at me with those wrecked honey eyes, still glassy at the edges from subspace, and there's a question in them that he doesn't need to voice because I already know the answer. I already know because my body has been answering it since I laid the first strike across his skin.

"Jude," I say, and it comes out low, almost a warning.

"Don't you dare ask me if I'm sure," he murmurs, and his fingers curl.

"I was going to ask where you keep your condoms."

Something lights up across his face: surprise, then delight, a flash of bratty defiance, and then something hungrier. He leans over to his nightstand and winces when the movement pulls at his raw skin. I love seeing him like that. He yanks open the drawer, pulls out a strip of condoms and a bottle of lube, and drops them on the bed, giving me that beautiful, mischievous smile.

"Preparedness," he says, with a grin that's trying very hard to be cocky but keeps trembling at the edges. "Boy Scout motto."

"You were never a Boy Scout."

"How do you know that, Mr. Dom? Not all Boy Scouts become Doms, you know, even though they'd love to make us all like that."

"Because no troop leader in America could have survived you."

He laughs. Lively, so free. I reach for him, cup the side of his face with my hand, the same hand that just spent ten minutes painting his skin red, and he leans into it immediately, his eyes fluttering half-shut. His cheek is warm. His stubble is soft, barely there, more like blond peach fuzz. I run my thumb along his lower lip.

"Lie back," I tell him.

He does. He shifts onto the bed properly, hissing again, and I know he's playing it up.

"Oh, poor, poor thing," I say with fake sympathy, and he seems to love it even more. He settles on his back with his white t-shirt still rucked up around his ribs. White is beautiful on him, making his bleached hair even lighter, but then I think about how he looks in every other color and decide he looks good in anything. I can see his stomach, the fine trail of blond hair below his navel, the way his cock is already hard and flushed and curving toward his hip. He's not shy about it. He lets me look, lets me take my time the way I did before the spanking, and I watch the flush creep down his chest under my gaze.

I stand and pull my shirt over my head. I'm not twenty-eight anymore. I'm diligent about the gym, every day, but my body carries history. The way he's looking at me, though… like I'm something sacred… makes me feel like none of that matters.

"Jesus Christ, fucking hell, you're going to fucking murder me," he breathes.

"Language," I say, and he grins up at the ceiling. He loves when I correct him, and it's the cutest fucking thing in the world.

I undo my belt, and I watch him react to it: a full-body shiver. Brats and belts always go together. I file that reaction away for later. I push my jeans and boxers down together, stepping out of them, and when I straighten up, he's propped himself on his elbows to stare, his lips parted, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

"You're staring," I tell him.

"Hell yeah, I am. It's not my fault a literal sex god is standing in front of me," he says. I feel my cheeks go hot with the praise. That little thing, always getting to me. Fortunately, he doesn't seem to notice. "Get over here. Please. Daddy, please."

There it is. That word in that voice, layered with need and trust and something close to devotion. The thing that first got to me. Even more than those gorgeous eyes. It hits me hard.

I climb onto the bed, settling between his legs, and the first press of skin against skin, my chest against his, my hips between his thighs, draws a sound out of both of us. His arms come up around my neck immediately, pulling me down, and when our mouths finally meet, it's not the first kiss I might have expected. It's deep and filthy and desperate, his tongue sliding against mine, his teeth catching my lower lip. He kisses like he does everything else: with his entire chaotic, reckless, beautiful self, holding nothing back.

I brace my weight on one forearm and slide my other hand down his side, over the jut of his hip, around to the heated skin of his ass. He whimpers into my mouth when I squeeze. The skin is still burning, still tender, and the pain-pleasure of it makes him arch up against me, grinding his cock against my stomach.

"Easy there, little boy," I murmur against his lips, smiling.

"I don't want easy," he whispers back. "I want you."

I pull back just enough to look at him. He looks ruined already. He looks like the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I reach for the lube.

He watches me slick my fingers, his thighs falling open wider, his body already offering itself before I've even asked. I press one finger against him, just pressure, and he exhales shakily, his head tipping back.

"Look at me," I say, and his eyes snap back to mine. "Don't you dare look away."

"Yes, Daddy," he says, and I'm still getting used to how that word on his lips makes me shiver.

I press inside, slow, and he moans. Fuck. It's low, unhurried, and it undoes something in me. He pushes back against my finger, wanting more.