Crossing Lines Chapter 16

**Noah**

Let’s get one thing clear: I wasn’t saying yes.

I wasn’t submitting.

I wasn’t agreeing to anything except maybe… considering the possibility of asking some questions. For information purposes only.

Right.

But if I was curious—if I was even *remotely* open to hearing him out—it was only because he’d made it sound so… not like the porn version of BDSM I’d seen in movies. And honestly? That version always looked like it required a safe word, a chiropractor, and maybe an ambulance.

This?

This felt different. Controlled. Intense. Powerful.

Also… fuck me, the man *smelled* like control.

Still. I wasn’t saying yes.

I just didn’t say no.

And I *might’ve* looked at him like he’d invented fire and offered to teach me how to roast marshmallows on it. But that was just… curiosity. Normal, totally platonic, academically interested curiosity. Except that, for some anatomically rebellious reason, my growing cock was not getting the *platonic* memo just yet.

So when he gave me that slow, approving nod like I’d passed some invisible test, I didn’t let it go to my head.

Much.

He stood up—graceful like a damn panther in a tailored suit—and walked to the drawer by the desk.

I watched him move. Sue me.

The way his muscles flexed under his shirt, the precision of his posture… it did things to me. Irrational things. Things that didn’t feel very straight.

He took out a folder. Thick. Neat. Dark blue. Fancy-ass paper.

“Next,” he said, placing it gently on the table between us, “you read this.”

I blinked. He couldn’t be serious.

Spoiler: He was.

“It’s a contract,” he continued. “Non-binding for now. You don’t sign anything tonight. You take it with you. You read all of it. You study it if you have to. And you come back with questions—real questions.”

I stared at the folder like it was going to sprout legs and climb up my shirt.

A contract. For *this*. For *me*.

I was pretty sure my soul left my body for a second.

He didn’t flinch. “It outlines expectations. Hard limits. Soft limits. Safe words. Responsibilities—yours and mine. You’ll see my structure, my protocol, my rules. What’s negotiable. What isn’t.”

Holy shit! He brought up the safe word part…! This was as fun as it was unsettling. 

Let the record show that I still hadn’t moved. Still hadn’t said yes.

But I *was* breathing shallowly.

My pupils might’ve been blown wide.

And my brain? Yeah… it was somewhere between “*run away screaming*” and “*rip your clothes off and beg for discipline.*”

God help me, a part of me hoped there’d be a sex chapter.

“Knowledge is power, Noah,” he said, locking eyes with me like he could see the storm in my head. “I won’t take control from you—you’ll give it to me. But only if you understand exactly what that means.”

Let it also be known I didn’t touch the folder.

But I *wanted* to.

Not because I was convinced. Not because I was ready.

Because for the first time in forever, someone was offering me something that wasn’t bullshit. Something dangerous and terrifying… but maybe exactly what I’d been looking for without realizing it.

Also? If this “not-only-sexual lifestyle” didn’t somehow end with me on my knees for him, begging for things I didn’t even have names for yet… I was going to be very, very disappointed.

So yeah.

I stared at the folder like it was a grenade wrapped in silk.

Because maybe… it was.

I took it in the end.

Of course I did.

And for the next four—no, maybe five—*definitely six* hours, I read that thing cover to cover like my entire existence depended on it.

Let’s be clear: I didn’t understand half of it. But I read it. Thoroughly. With Google open, incognito tab enabled, and one hand occasionally slapping my own forehead.

By the time I was done, I’d picked out my safeword (“Mercy”—because it was short, obvious, and also how I felt by page twenty), learned that there was a whole magical world of letting go and letting someone else do all the thinking—which was a dream come true for me—, and realized I’d probably need a glossary and a support group just to survive the soft and hard limits sections.

Which, by the way, I left mostly blank.

Not because I didn’t *have* limits.

But because… vocabulary.

Scat?

Gorean?

Sounding—*as in being too quiet or not quiet enough??*

Mummification?? 

Not kidding now. It actually said that.

*This shit was real???*

And then came all the acronyms…

TPE.

CBT.

SPH.

ABDL….

And, my personal favorite right back at them: *WTF.*

That was not a kink but my honest reaction to the whole document.

Still… I couldn’t stop reading.

It was detailed. Clear. Honest.

There were rules. Protocols. Boundaries. Expectations.

And *somehow*, it made me feel… safe. Like someone had actually thought this through. Like I wasn’t stepping into a trap but into something structured. Something with real meaning.

So help me God, I was gonna do this.

Worse things I’ve tried, honestly. (Looking at you, expired protein shakes and that one night I spent in a Walmart parking lot waiting for a girl who never showed.)

And this?

This wasn’t just about sex or control or being weird.

This was about *him*.

If it meant getting closer to Mr. A—Coach Mercer—*Aiden*—or whatever the hell he was calling himself tonight…?

Then yeah.

I was in.

I was so in.

****

I knocked on his door just before sunrise.

The folder was in my hand, pressed flat against my thigh like it might catch fire if I held it wrong.

He opened it in one smooth motion, like he’d been standing on the other side waiting.

I didn’t wait for an invitation—I just shoved the folder toward him.

“I read it,” I said, trying not to sound breathless. “All of it.”

His eyes narrowed as he took it. “And?”

“I want in.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

Shit.

I hadn’t rehearsed this part.

“I’ve thought about it,” I said, trying to find the line between cool and desperate. “And this whole… trust and freedom thing? Kinda appealing. Might dig this whole submission deal, honestly.”

I shrugged, forcing a smirk. “Plus, if I can get mind-blowing pleasure without all the exhausting seducing and dating and pretending I care about someone’s dog… what’s not to like?”

He didn’t laugh.

Didn’t even smile.

Instead, he stepped back into the room and set the folder down—without looking at it.

“Go get some sleep,” he said flatly. “You’re obviously not ready. We’ll talk football in the morning.”

“What?” I blinked.

“You’re out, Noah. I made a mistake.”

My stomach dropped.

“You don’t take this seriously,” he continued. “This isn’t fantasy. It’s not a shortcut to orgasms or a way to skip small talk. And it sure as hell isn’t for guys looking to flirt with power and run the other way when it gets real.”

He turned away like that was it. Like the conversation was over.

But I didn’t move.

Not this time.

No sass. No deflection. Just… me.

“I *need* this.”

He didn’t turn around.

“I’m tired,” I said softly. “I’m so fucking tired of being the one who has to have it all together. The strong one. The smart one. The good son, the perfect athlete, the guy who never breaks. I’m tired of performing. Of pretending. Of needing nothing.”

My throat tightened. “I need someone to take control… because I don’t know how to do this on my own anymore. So please…” I swallowed hard. “Train me.”