Page 43 of His Holy Chaos

Jude goes for the large and extra-large, and I watch him evaluate each one. He never concentrates this hard on anything that isn't kink. He sits in one, legs crossed, bouncing experimentally, in the middle of the aisle.

"Come on, puppy," I say, but I'm laughing. He never fails to make me laugh. I swear I laugh so much when I'm with him that my face hurts.

"This one, Daddy!" Jude announces, louder than necessary, but I don't care. Let other people hear and stare. The bed he chooses is fluffy, large, and blue.

"Get out of the display model," I say, but I'm already lifting the boxed version from the shelf below it. I set it in the cart.

The collar section is next.

"This will only be for play. I'll order a stainless steel 24/7 collar for you. It's safer."

"Can it be a chain with a lock?" he asks, already bouncing. "It looks punk rock. People don't ask that much about it, but it still shows ownership."

"Sure, sweetheart, that sounds like an amazing idea," I say and kiss his temple.

I take my time choosing the play collar, running my thumb along buckles, testing the weight of different leathers. My fingers stop on a collar near the middle of the display: simple, bourbon-colored leather, supple and thick, with a brushed silver buckle and a D-ring. No studs, no embellishments. I hold it up to Jude's throat. Not touching, just close.

"Do you like it, puppy?" He nods, quick and eager, and I pet his head. "Good boy."

I add it to the cart, along with a matching leather leash. Jude insists on a water bowl with a paw print on it and a rope toy that he claims is for "authenticity." I suspect it's because it caught his eye and he wanted it. I let him have it. I let him have all of it.

At the register, a teenager with a nose ring and a bored expression scans our items without comment until she reaches the collar. She glances at us, glances at the cart.

"My pet sheds a lot," I say, deadpan.

Jude chokes on a laugh. The cashier decides she's not paid enough for this and finishes the transaction in silence. I pay with my card and carry the bags to the car, and Jude is buzzing beside me the entire walk across the parking lot.

We drive back to the penthouse, bags in the trunk. Inside, I slide the bed into the corner of the study, under the desk. It fits like it was measured for the space. I place the water bowl nearby, filled. The rope toy goes in the corner of the bed. When I turn around, Jude is standing in the doorway. He's watching me with an expression I haven't seen on him before. Still. Completely, utterly still. He's nervous. For all his boasting about experience, he's nervous now.

I pick up the collar.

"Come here, puppy," I say.

He crosses the room without a sound. Stands in front of me. His eyes are huge. I bring the collar to his neck. I thread the buckle slowly, giving him time to feel each second of it. He's soft and pliant.

"Strip. On the bed," I tell him. "On your back."

He complies without a word.

I open the nightstand drawer. Inside are items I purchased earlier this week, before I even knew for certain he'd say yes, because something in me knew anyway. A stainless steel chastity cage. A bottle of lubricant. A set of keys, one for me, one spare for emergencies.

Jude's eyes track the cage as I lift it from the drawer. His expression shifts from desperate to bright and hungry.

But first.

I set the cage on the nightstand, in his line of sight. Let him look at it. Let him think about it.

Then I settle onto the bed beside him and trail my hand down his chest, over the flat plane of his stomach. I take my time. My fingers trace the crease of his hip, the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, everywhere except where he wants me, and I feel his breath change.

"Daddy…"

"Patience."

I wrap my hand around him. He's already hard, and he makes a whiny, needy sound when I touch him. I stroke him slowly, my grip firm but not nearly enough to finish anything. My thumb swipes over the head on each upstroke, spreading the slick that's already gathering there, and his hips stutter upward, seeking more.

I give him more. Briefly. My pace increases just enough to make his breathing go ragged, to make his hands fist in the sheets, to make the muscles in his thighs tense and tremble. Just when the tension in his body reaches that precipice, that shimmering edge where one more stroke would send him over, I stop.

My hand lifts away. He makes a sound like I've physically wounded him.