Chapter 7. Jude
I lead Jude to the parking lot behind the church, already questioning my decision.
I can't believe I'm so easily convinced by those honey pleading eyes.
As I unlock my car, I catch Jude's appreciative glance, the corner of his mouth curling into that infuriating smirk.
Something about that expression makes my stomach tighten.
Irritation, I tell myself, nothing more.
Then, probably knowing that would drive me insane, he reaches into his bag and unwraps a chocolate bar, casually, making me wince.
"Nice ride," he says, running his fingers along the hood as he rounds to the passenger side.
"Please don't eat that in my car," I say, pointing to the bar, more sharply than intended.
He puts it back in his bag, but the smirk only widens. "Sorry, Daddy," he whispers, just loud enough for me to hear.
The word sends an unwelcome heat through my chest. I clear my throat. "Get in."
Jude settles into the passenger seat with a contented sigh, running his hands over the dashboard in a way that seems deliberately provocative.
"Your address?" I ask, starting the engine and adjusting the temperature.
"Oh…" he pauses, those honey-colored eyes still scanning the interior of my car, before stopping on my gaze.
His eyes are smiling, that little brat. He probably knows he's charming and that he could get anything he wants with that look on his face.
"I'm starving. Would you mind stopping somewhere for coffee first? I didn't have breakfast."
I glance at the dashboard clock: 11:12 AM. I have nothing scheduled until 2:00, when I'm meeting my financial advisor for our quarterly review. Still, extending this impromptu chauffeur service seems inadvisable, especially given my recent obsession with him.
But of course, I can't bring myself to let him go, so I just sigh.
"I know this amazing place just two blocks from here," he says, still going for the kill. "Best cappuccino in the city. Five minutes, tops. Pleeeease, will you let me go hungry? Because I'm really, really hungry! I woke up so early just to see you."
I should refuse. I should drive him straight home and end whatever game he's playing. Instead, I hear myself say, "Five minutes."
His smile broadens into something genuine, like a kid on Christmas morning, and again I want to kick myself for falling into those eyes.
"Turn left at the light," he directs, and against my better judgment, I follow his instructions.
The café he chooses surprises me. It's not some hipster establishment with mismatched furniture and baristas with excessive tattoos, but a discreet, elegant place I've passed dozens of times without entering. A brass sign reading "Bliss" hangs above the door.
"You know this place?" I ask as I parallel park with precision, using only one hand. I do that mostly because I see how he can't stop staring at me. I don't hate how it makes me feel.
"I know all the good places," he says with a wink.
Inside, the café is refined with dark wood, leather chairs, and low soft lighting. A handful of people sit at scattered tables, most working quietly on laptops or reading. Classical music plays. The smell is fantastic.
Jude approaches the counter, ordering a cappuccino with an extra shot and a dash of cinnamon. When the barista turns to me, I order black coffee, Ethiopian single-origin. When Jude reaches for his wallet, I wave him off and hand over my credit card.
"I'm not so ungracious as to make you pay for it."
"Ungracious," he repeats, that smile playing at his lips again. "I love your vocabulary. So prim and proper. Thank you."
I'm not sure if I'm being mocked, but something in his tone suggests genuine appreciation rather than sarcasm. We take our drinks to a corner table partially secluded behind a large potted fern.
"You're very good, you know," Jude says after his first sip. He closes his eyes briefly in appreciation of the coffee. When they open again, they fix on mine.
"At what?" I ask.
"Directing. The choir. You have this... authority that makes everyone want to please you." His fingers trace the rim of his cup. "It's compelling to watch. Maybe I am wrong about your dominance. Still undecided."
The compliment catches me off guard, despite the dominance comment. "Thank you. I've been doing it for twelve years."
"It shows." He leans forward slightly. "Is that longer than you've been in the scene?"
I lower my voice. "This isn't an appropriate venue for that conversation."
"We're just two guys having coffee," he says, amusement in his eyes. "No one knows what we're discussing."
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?"
"No. See, I told you I'm a good sub. I'm persistent and can endure a lot."
"A masochist," I correct. He laughs and takes his coffee to his lips.
"A masochist indeed," he agrees.
I drain the last of my coffee, using the action to compose myself.
"We will never play together, Jude. I'm sorry if that disappoints you.
It's not you, sweetheart. It's me," I say, softly.
Way softer than I thought possible. He opens his mouth to say something, but I don't give him the chance.
"I'm old and I'm… boring, like you said.
You like clubs and parties, getting drunk, you have a ton of friends.
I'm just a lonely wolf who likes routines and structure.
I have nothing to offer you. I don't have the time or a place for this in my life. I'm sorry."
I know I sound way more vulnerable than I'm ever ready to be, and that surprises me. My mom would be proud, I think, bitterly.
He sets his empty cup down and leans forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on his interlaced fingers. He has that mischievous smile as usual.
"Jeez, you really think you know me. Arrogant much? You're wrong about all you think I want. Okay, Mr. Dom. If that's the case," he asks, "why did you accept coming here with me?" He winks and I find myself momentarily speechless.
I open my mouth to respond, then close it again.
Any answer I could give would either be a lie or an admission I'm not prepared to make.
What would I say? I'm trying to convince myself not to give you a chance because I know you'll turn my world upside down?
The realization settles uncomfortably in my chest. I'm attracted to him.
There's no denying. To his brazen confidence, his quick mind, even his maddening persistence.
"We should go," I say finally, standing and collecting our empty cups. "I'll take you home now."
"Nah. It's okay. Thanks for the coffee. See you later, Mr. Dom," he says. He gets up and he's out the door before I can say anything else. I sigh a long sigh.