Crossing Lines Chapter 22

**Noah**

Just when I thought I couldn’t recover from what I’d taken as cruelty, Aiden did something I never expected from a man like him.

He explained himself.

Not with excuses or some patronizing speech, but with quiet, steady conviction. He told me why he’d pushed me so hard. Why he’d called me out. Why the punishment mattered. And instead of making him seem soft or unsure, it made me trust him more.

It made me respect him in a way I didn’t know I could.

That kind of vulnerability? That kind of belief in me?

It left me reeling. Almost giddy.

He believed in me enough to make me better. To make me great. And for the first time in a long time, I could trust that someone saw who I could be—and wasn’t afraid to push me there.

So when he said, “Go shower, meet me by the parking lot when you’re done,” something flipped in my stomach.

A stupid little hope flared.

Fantasies I didn’t even know I’d been holding onto rushed forward.

A shared shower. Wet skin. A kiss pressed to my throat under the water. A reward for the way I’d taken everything he’d thrown at me and stood tall through it.

Instead, he sent me off—alone.

The locker room was empty by then, echoing and still. I made a point to leave the door cracked and used the first stall by the entrance, just in case…

Just in case he changed his mind. Just in case he showed up. Just in case those fantasies were more than just some messed-up daydream from a boy too far gone.

But the door never opened.

The water ran down my shoulders, and the silence stayed heavy.

He never came.

And what bothered me wasn’t the fact that he didn’t—it was the fact that I wanted him to.

That I’d stood there in the steam, listening for footsteps that never came, heart pounding like I was about to be caught.

Why the hell had I wanted that?

Why had I wanted him to find me like that—vulnerable, exposed, waiting?

And more than that… why had it hurt so much that he didn’t?

I dried off quickly, got dressed even faster, and left with my hair still damp, that stupid ache still curling in my chest. I told myself I didn’t care. That it didn’t mean anything.

That it was just a test.

Another one of his games.

But when I stepped outside and saw him leaning against that black SUV, arms crossed, sunglasses hiding his eyes as the sun started to dip behind the trees… I nearly stopped breathing.

He looked like a different man out here.

Not Coach. Not even my Dom.

Just Aiden. Still, commanding as hell—but somehow more... *human*. Like the world didn’t get to touch him out here. Like this was the one place he let himself breathe.

He opened the passenger door without a word, and I got in.

The ride was quiet for a while, but not in a bad way. His hand rested casually on the gearshift, close enough to graze my leg whenever we hit a bump, and my brain was already doing somersaults again.

“Where are we going?” I finally muttered.

He glanced at me, then back at the road. “My house.”

I took a breath, suddenly as terrified as I was excited. “I thought you’d want me away from your private life.”

“You are now my private life, Noah,” he said. “You’ll learn that.”

God, I wanted to.

We drove for nearly twenty minutes, past the edge of town, until the roads narrowed and the trees grew thicker—secluded, quiet, nothing but open fields and dense woods.

And then I saw it.

A wide, low house with dark stone walls and massive windows. A tall gate at the end of a gravel drive. No neighbors. No noise. Just space and silence and power.

His domain.

Holy shit, being a baseball star paid more than I thought.

He punched in a code and the gate opened smoothly. We rolled up the drive, past trimmed hedges and a small fountain, to the front of the house.

“Every weekend,” he said quietly. “From Friday evening until Monday morning, this is where we’ll head to. No distractions. No one watching. Just you, me, and the work we have ahead.”

I swallowed hard. “Yes, Sir.”

Inside was somehow even more intense.

There was no clutter, no mess. Everything was clean, elegant, intentional. A huge fireplace flanked by leather chairs. Trophies and certificates lined one wall—proof of everything he’d built. Another wall was covered in books, floor to ceiling. And on a side table, nestled like something precious, sat a worn football—signed, scuffed, clearly important.

He lived here.

He thrived here.

And now… I was here too.

He set down his keys, turned to face me. “I’m going to shower. While I’m gone, I want you to wait for me.”

I blinked. “Wait?”

He stepped closer. “The way I taught you. Kneeling. Good posture. Ready to serve. I want to walk out and find you exactly as you should be.”

That word again—should. It lit something in my chest.

“Yes, Sir.”

He didn’t smile, but his hand brushed my jaw, just once, before he walked away.

I stood there for a second too long, my whole body vibrating. Then I moved to the spot just in front of the fireplace, dropped to my knees, and folded my hands behind my back.

Knees shoulder-width apart. Back straight. Head slightly bowed.

I waited.

And I knew—this was just the beginning.

The wait stretched long enough for my muscles to start aching. But I didn’t move.

I didn’t want to.

I wanted to be exactly where he left me. I wanted to prove I could obey, that I could give him this. Even if my knees throbbed and my back stiffened, the anticipation was worth every second.

And when he returned, it was all I could do not to gasp.

He was a vision—showered, clean-shaven, polished in a way that made him look like something pulled from a noir film and dropped into real life. His silk bathrobe hung open at the front, revealing his sculpted chest, the soft trail of dark hair that led down from his sternum, the defined ridges of his abs. His skin looked warm and smooth, the water still clinging to his collarbone like dew. His hair was swept back, still damp, glistening.

And his scent…

It hit me the moment he stepped closer—something subtle, clean, masculine. Like cedarwood and smoke. I had no idea what it was, only that I wanted to drown in it.

He moved like the air around him bent to make way. Each step quiet, confident. His eyes caught mine—and I nearly forgot how to breathe.

God.

I might not have *called* myself gay, but this? This wasn’t about labels. This was about beauty. Power. Perfection.

He was built like a god and carried himself like one too, and I… I was nothing but a mortal on my knees.

He didn’t speak at first. Just moved to the shelf near the fireplace and selected a vinyl with practiced ease. I watched as he slipped it from its sleeve, set it on the record player, and lowered the needle.

Smooth jazz crackled softly to life, the kind that made your skin tingle—slow, rich, full of promise. Something like *Miles Davis* or *Chet Baker*, though I wasn’t sure. All I knew was the sound melted into my bones.

He came toward me then, eyes heavy with something that made my breath catch.

He touched my cheek—just a graze of his fingertips, like a whisper. Then, with fluid grace, he sank into the recliner and crossed one leg over the other.

His voice came quiet. Deep. Velvet.

“Undress for me.”