Page 40 of His Holy Chaos

"I used to be a theatre kid," I tell him, slightly out of breath, my chest heaving. "Of course I know how to dance and sing." I let that land, watch it register behind those eyes. "Told you there are many things you don't know about me."

Something shifts in his face. Not just attraction. Something closer to fascination.

"Clearly," he says, and his voice is low and warm and carries an undertone that makes my stomach flip. "You continue to surprise me, puppy."

"Get used to it," I say, feeling myself blush at the pet name, and Noa grabs my hand again and pulls me back before Ford can respond.

“Me Porto Bonito” started. I know the song: it's about someone who did whatever they wanted but would drop it all if their partner asked. I sing to Ford and wink. I'm not sure if he understands the Spanish, but it feels like he does.

The music keeps going. Song after song. Noa is relentless, his energy inexhaustible, dragging me through turns and breaks and improvised footwork that we've invented together over dozens of nights just like this one. I let myself be carried by it, the joy of movement, the familiarity of Noa's rhythm against mine.

But I keep looking at Ford. I keep finding his eyes. He's leaned back now, arms crossed over that broad chest, one ankle hooked over the other, watching us in open awe.

The music pounds. Noa laughs. My skin burns and my heart hammers and the kitchen smells like garlic. I spin. Noa pulls close and our bodies move together. I catch Ford's eye again. He's smiling so deeply it makes him look like a kid on Christmas morning.

Eventually Noa reclaims his papas and I start the dishes. He cooks, I clean, that's the deal. But now I'm dancing alone, putting on a show for Ford. I know how to move my hips, how to seduce, how to provoke with my body. I'm sweating and I can barely breathe, my lungs on fire, but it's all worth it. He looks at me like I'm the most delicious thing he's ever seen.

Chapter 20. Ford

The elevator opens directly into the penthouse. Extravagant but terribly convenient. Jude steps out behind me and goes quiet, and I watch his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows as his eyes sweep across the space. He's been here twice before, but he still isn't used to it.

The city sprawls below us. Inside, the penthouse is warm. It is, in many ways, the opposite of the apartment we just left. The one with the peeling contact paper and the Monstera and the roommate who dances merengue while making eggs.

"Holy shit, I can't get over this fucking place," Jude says, because of course he does.

"We'll have to do something about that language of yours. Maybe keep a tally. Every bad word is a day of orgasm denial," I say, not entirely joking. He looks at me, exasperated, with his mouth open and his big honey eyes.

"Can't I trade? One bad word, one spanking?"

"Of course not. You love spankings. This is meant to teach you a lesson," I say. "I want to discuss our dynamic now. Preferences, limits."

"Yes, Daddy," he says. He's a good boy when he wants to be. "But where's Angel? With your mom?"

"She's at my townhouse. I don't live here. I just come here when I need a break."

"Oh." He gets quiet again. Studying me. I can see the gears turning behind those eyes. "That day when I came to apologize," he says carefully. "Were you at home? Did you come just for me?"

"Yes."

"You arranged all of that. For me."

It's not really a question.

"Yes," I say. "I wanted to hear what you had to say."

His mouth does something complicated, a smile that starts cocky and ends vulnerable. Then the brat facade is back. He's looking like he won a war.

"You love me!" he exclaims. I'm taken aback for a second, but I don't want to turn this into a whole emotional thing.

"Don't look so smug."

He laughs, loud, and I'm glad for it. "I'm just saying."

"With the smuggest expression possible," I say, but I'm smiling. "Come sit down, you little rascal. We have things to discuss."

I settle into the corner of the sectional, and what happens next is so natural it surprises me: Jude sits on the floor, at my feet, his back against the base of the couch, his shoulder resting against my calf. He does it with ease.

I let my hand drift to his hair. His eyes close.