Crossing Lines Chapter 77

**Noah**

Ever since last night—since that scene, since the most humiliating, insane, and fucking exciting thing I’d ever done in my life—I couldn’t stop thinking.

Coming all over Master Hale’s hands… Jesus. The memory made my stomach twist and my skin crawl, but also heat in places I didn’t want to admit. It felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal. A betrayal of the trust I’d given Aiden, of the boundaries I thought we had.

And yet… it hadn’t been. Because he was right there, pleasuring me and allowing me to be pleasured by someone else---which really was kinda selfless. Aiden was with me, over me, commanding me, telling me I was safe. And I had trusted him. With my whole damn heart, I had trusted him. The fear, the shame—it had all burned away in the fire of knowing that, even though I would've given him anything he wanted, he had chosen *my* pleasure. And that I was completing the performance by surrendering to the pleasure, not fighting it.

I hadn’t been focusing on Hale—no matter how stupidly sexy the man was. No. My eyes, my mind, everything was locked on Aiden. My god. My owner. If anyone else touched me, it was only because he allowed it. Because he wanted it. Because he wanted me. That was the only reason I could take it—enjoy it even.

But afterwards? Instead of proud, he’d seemed… different. Withdrawn. Distant.

Did I do something wrong by letting it happen? Did I fuck up by accepting Hale’s touch? Was Sir mad that I came in another man’s hand—even though he gave the permission? Was it some kind of test I failed?

And how the hell could I even be obsessing over that when the real question should’ve been: what the fuck did I just do? I’d been naked in front of a crowd of strangers, strapped down, whipped until I cried, then touched until I came in another man’s hand. And here I was, worried that Aiden might be upset with *me*?

I should’ve been furious. At him. At myself. At my fucked-up head and the way I was slipping deeper into this madness every second. But I wasn’t. All I could think about was him. The way he looked at me after that scene, the way he held me after. The way he let me go this morning without a word—without a kiss.

He hadn’t kissed me before I left, and I felt like the biggest goddamn pussy for being butt-hurt about it. But I was. I hated myself for it, but I was.

That was how I started my day.

Dragging myself into college with my head a mess. Conflicted, ashamed, still aroused, terrified. If anyone ever knew… if a single rumor of what I’d done got out… it would all be over. My reputation, my image, my football career—gone. And yet here I was, obsessed, compliant, fucked in the head, willing to throw it all away for him.

Worse, I was scared I’d ruined it already by getting off to that man, and I was damn angry that he allowed it to happen in the first place. Angry he didn’t kiss me. Angry, and scared, and completely out of my mind.

*****

By the time I made it to the gym, I was already cracking inside my own skull. The last thing I needed was Keon and Miguel waiting for me outside the locker room like a couple of goddamn hawks.

“Where the hell were you Saturday night?” Miguel asked, smirking. “You went to shower before joining us at the party, and then, poof. Houdini act. By Sunday morning, nobody had heard from you.”

My stomach lurched. Shit. They’d noticed. Of course they had.

Keon’s eyes narrowed, sharp and focused like always. The guy missed nothing. “Yeah,” he drawled. “One second you’re there, next you’re gone. You’ve been pulling vanishing tricks a lot lately.”

Fuck. I had to watch for Keon, the Sherlock Holmes of the damn team. He’d sniff me out if I wasn’t careful.

So I shrugged, forcing a laugh that sounded way too loud in my own ears. “Yeah, uh… I met up with someone.”

Miguel’s eyebrows shot up. “Ohhh. That girl from the party that was following you? Cindy?”

“Yeah,” I said quickly. My mouth was already running faster than my brain. “Yeah. Just, you know. Nothing serious. Just hung out.”

Keon’s smirk was sharp, but he didn’t push. “Nice. Cindy is cool. Why don’t you invite her over after practice? We’re having a drink, planning homecoming. You can bring her by.”

My stomach twisted tighter. Great. Perfect. Awesome. Lie your way in, lie your way out. “Yeah, I’ll… I’ll check with her,” I muttered, hoping that would shut him up.

Practice was worse.

Aiden was all business, and God, he was on fire... No hint of softness, no trace of the man who’d held me wrapped in blankets just hours ago. His voice was clipped, sharp, cutting through the team like a whip.

“This is your last week before the season begins,” he barked, pacing in front of us as we took a knee. “Your last chance to prove you belong here. College rhythm is back—classes, practices, games. This week you give everything you’ve got, or you don’t belong on my field.”

Silence. Every player’s eyes locked on him.

He kept going, relentless. “Next Sunday, we have the donors' dinner. Do you understand what that means? The men and women who keep your program alive, who put you in facilities that rival the NFL’s, who fund your scholarships and your futures—they’ll be there. They expect to meet athletes who are sharp, professional, charming. They expect to see men who represent this school with pride. You’ll dress like professionals. You’ll act like professionals. And you’ll answer every question with intelligence and respect.”

The weight of his words pressed down, even on me. Especially on me.

“And after that,” he said, his voice dropping lower, harder, “you play your first game of the season. Scouts, football experts, the people who decide your futures will be watching. This week is no nonsense. No excuses. No screwing around.”

The air was heavy, tense. He looked everyone of us in the eye before nodding. “Now get your asses out there.”

Practice was brutal. Coach pushed us harder than ever, barking orders, demanding perfection, and making us run the same drills until my legs felt like they’d snap in two. Sweat stung my eyes, my lungs were on fire, and still he wasn’t satisfied. Every mistake, every hesitation, I paid for double.

By the time he blew the whistle, I was dead on my feet. I hung back, waiting for the locker room to clear out. I helped toss gear back into storage, stalling until the noise of my teammates faded. When the showers were finally empty, I slipped in alone, hoping they’d be gone by the time I was out. The water was hot, pounding against my skin, washing away the sweat but not the thoughts clawing at my brain.

I was just stepping out, drying my hair with my only towel, when the door creaked.

Miguel.

He froze mid-step, eyes wide. My heart stopped as I realized what he was staring at—my back. My thighs. The angry red marks striping my skin, fresh and undeniable.

“What the hell…” Miguel’s voice cracked, shocked and sharp. His gaze shot up to mine. “Who the fuck did that to you?”