Crossing Lines Chapter 68

**Aiden**

My mouth opened. Nothing came out. For once in my life, I didn’t have a single word ready.

The hall went quiet for a beat as a couple of girls glanced over—lingered—and I felt the ground shift under me. Their eyes dragged down his chest—those goddamn sexy nipple rings, across the lines of his abs, and my blood spiked so fast it made me dizzy.

Like I had the right. Like I had the fucking right to care.

One of them actually had the nerve to saunter up, leaning into him with a giggle, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered something that had my hands curling into fists before I even realized it. My jaw locked tight. Who the hell was she? Did he call her here? Was he lining up replacements already—girls to wipe me out of his system?

The thought tore through me, sharp and ugly, and for a second I wanted to put my fist through the wall behind her head.

But Noah shifted, patient, calm. He nudged her gently away, voice low. “Sorry, babe. Think I’ve got a stomach bug. Probably shouldn’t get close to anyone.”

She pouted, bottom lip caught between her teeth. He barely gave her a glance as he tipped his chin toward me instead. “Coach came to check on me.”

The casual weight of it hit me square in the chest, knocking loose every excuse I’d rehearsed.

“I brought back your bike,” I managed, my voice rougher than it should’ve been. “It’s fixed now.”

“Awesome.” He nodded like this was just another normal Saturday, no firestorm under the surface, no contract torn to pieces between us. “Let me get dressed. I’ll be right out.”

Before I could answer, he ducked inside, the door shutting in our faces.

The girl lingered for a beat, tossing her hair, shooting me a look that dared me to explain myself. I didn’t. Eventually, she rolled her eyes and wandered off with her friends, leaving me alone with the pounding bass and my own spiraling thoughts.

I should’ve left. I told myself to leave. My feet wouldn’t move.

The latch clicked, the door cracked open again, just enough for a sliver of his face to appear. His eyes swept the hall, quick and cautious, before locking on me.

And then, in one sharp motion, his hand shot out, gripping my wrist.

Before I could breathe, he yanked me inside and slammed the door shut behind us.

The air in the room felt too tight, too warm, like it belonged to someone else, and I had no business breathing it. My eyes darted anywhere but him at first—anywhere to ground myself. The place was neater than I expected for a dorm. Laptop open on the desk, a couple of books stacked beside it. Poetry, of all things. Of course. Because just when I thought I had Noah Blake figured out, he had to throw in another curveball.

A few empty cups of instant noodles sagged in the trash, the kind of garbage that probably fueled him when I wasn’t there to take care of him. No proper fuel, no discipline off the field—Christ, I should’ve been tearing into him for that, but then I reminded myself this was all my fault. He had counted on me. and I had let him down.

My gaze landed back on him.

Still barefoot. Still only a towel around his waist. The fabric clung to him like it was fighting a losing battle against gravity. His chest rose and fell too quickly, nipples pierced and gleaming under the dim light, droplets tracing paths down tanned skin and over the carved lines of muscle I shouldn’t have been staring at. His hair was damp, blond strands plastered to his forehead, sliding against the line of his neck. He looked too young, too beautiful, too goddamn dangerous.

And then his eyes met mine.

Not boyish. Not soft. They burned. Accusing. Hungry. Hurt. And the weight of it broke something in me—I had to look down to pull air into lungs that didn’t want to work.

“Noah, I’m really—”

The apology never made it out.

He crossed the space in two strides, his hand catching my shirt like he’d been waiting his whole life to drag me closer. His mouth crashed against mine—hard, defiant, the kind of kiss that wasn’t asking but *taking*.

Every thought I’d rehearsed, every lecture about boundaries and danger and professionalism, disintegrated under the press of his lips. My pulse roared in my ears as he kissed me again, hungrier this time, his teeth grazing, tongue demanding, heat pouring off him until there was nothing left in the room but Noah and the parts of me I couldn’t control.

I should’ve stopped him. I should’ve shoved him back and told him we couldn’t do this here—couldn’t do this *anywhere*. But my hands betrayed me, fisting in the damp towel at his waist, holding him closer instead of pushing him away. His kiss tasted like fury and need and something terrifyingly close to devotion, and I was drowning in it.

Because no matter how many times I told myself this couldn’t happen, Noah wasn’t giving up the chase.

And God help me, I wasn’t sure I wanted him to.

Noah’s hands worked their way under my shirt, and I felt the fire burning as our bare skin pressed against each other. He pulled my shirt up over my head before lowering his lips to one of my nipples, flickering it with his tongue. My body shuddered when he pushed the waistband of my pants and boxers down my legs, lowering himself to my cock. I stepped out of my pants but pulled Noah up and against the door, pinning him to it with my body.

“I owe you an explanation for my actions, but first, I would like to apologize,” I whispered against his ear.

My hands slid under his arms, catching his wrists and pinning them above his head, flat against the door. His body jolted at the contact, but he didn’t resist. God, he never resisted. He gave me everything I asked for and more. I bent low, kissing him again, then dragging my mouth down his throat, tasting the salt of his skin, tracing the line of muscle to his chest.

One of his nipples was already hard beneath the loop, a perfect target. I caught it between my teeth, tugging just enough to draw out a moan that vibrated straight through me. My free hand skimmed lower, undoing the towel in one flick. It fell useless to the floor, and I wrapped my fingers around his cock—hard, hot, perfect. The sound he made damn near undid me.

I stroked him slow, deliberate, watching his head tip back against the door, his mouth falling open in surrender. I wanted to memorize him like this—stripped, trusting, wrecked.

I let go of his wrists, and for a moment he didn’t move, like he wasn’t sure he could. Then I slid down, kissing my way along the ridges of his abs, nipping at his hip bone, savoring every sound he gave me.

I wasn’t the man who got down on his knees. I was the one who took—who had his cock worshiped while others knelt. But ever since the first time I’d tasted Noah, I’d been hooked. The weight of him on my tongue, the clean heat of his skin, the way his scent filled my head until nothing else existed. Every tug of his fingers in my hair, every sharp breath as his hips stuttered forward—Christ, it was intoxicating. His taste spread across my tongue, slick and addictive, and I swallowed it like it was the only thing keeping me alive.

For weeks I’d wanted this again. And now here I was—not Mr. A, but Coach Mercer—on my knees for my own player, about to suck my student ten meters from a scandal that could end us both forever.