Crossing Lines Chapter 82

**Noah**

By the time Saturday evening came around, I was a bit of a wreck. Apart from the talk—which I was still determined to override by proving myself—Friday night had been a lot of what I needed. Takeout Chinese—yes, *Chinese*—and wait for it… we ate it on the couch. Like we broke every rule in one night. Well, *he* did. I’ve been eating on couches my whole life, unless my dad was home for dinner and we awkwardly sat at the table together in silence. But eating next to him, watching a dumb movie, laughing until my ribs hurt, leaning against him like normal people—apart from the fact that I was naked—was the closest thing to a “date” we’d ever had.

And to top it all off? He decided to be *merciful*.

We cleaned up the kitchen together after, me drying dishes while he stacked them. I was buzzing with contentment… and guilt. By the time we went to bed, I couldn’t hold it anymore.

I grabbed the riding crop from its hook on the wall and carried it over, laying it in his hand before kneeling at the foot of the bed, forehead low, presenting myself.

He tilted his head, brow arched. “And what is this?”

My throat went dry, but I forced it out. “I earned two, Sir. One for cursing earlier. And the other… for kissing you without permission.”

His eyes glinted in the dim light, but his voice came steady, smooth. “Tempting.”

He leaned in, pressing the crop flat against my chest before tossing it onto the bed behind me.

“But I can think of a better punishment this time.”

Before I could breathe, he shoved me backward, pinning me against the mattress, his weight heavy over me. His mouth crashed against mine, rough and claiming.

The punishment was simple, brutal: mind-blowing sex that wrecked me completely—without letting me release. Not once.

I would’ve rather had double the strikes. Hell, triple. Anything but that slow torture of being edged into madness and denied, left shaking and begging until my throat was raw. And he knew it.

But still—when it was over, when he wrapped me in his arms and tucked me close against his chest—I didn’t care anymore. The ache between my legs was nothing compared to the calm that settled over me. Just curling into him, safe and claimed, was more pleasure than any release could give.

And just like that, my peace was back.

********

Saturday morning rolled in with our usual rhythm—grooming, breakfast, the quiet little rituals that had already started to feel like ours. Only this time it was lighter. Softer.

I couldn’t help thinking he was trying to overcompensate for whatever the hell was coming that evening.

We swam in his pool to beat the heat, his strokes precise and smooth while I mostly splashed around, trying not to drown. He smirked every time I lost a lap. Then we dried off in the sun, lazy and unhurried, like we didn’t have a clock ticking over our heads.

Later we played Scrabble at the kitchen table. He won—of course he did, the smug bastard—but not before I tried to argue that “yo” and “bruh” were actual words. He raised a brow and handed me the dictionary without saying a thing.

Lunch was easy, both of us in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, stealing bites off each other’s plates. Afterward we sat side by side, listening to some soft music drifting from the speaker while I pretended to read and mostly just watched him, broad shoulders relaxed for once.

It almost felt normal. Too normal. The weight in my chest only grew heavier as the day dragged on, but it wasn’t until evening that the tone shifted. He came to me in the bedroom, gaze steady.

“Help me dress,” he said.

The outfit was unmistakable—the Dominium side of him, every buckle and clasp and gleaming line of leather. My hands shook a little as I fastened the straps across his chest, the harness snug, the polished vest fitting like armor.

When he was finished, he caught my chin with two fingers. “Shower. Thoroughly. Then wait for me here.”

I swallowed hard, the words sticking in my throat, but nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

And for the first time all day, the illusion of peace shattered.

“Lay down,” he said, his voice low, steady. Not harsh—but the kind of tone that made my stomach flip, anyway.

I climbed onto the bed, heart hammering, and lowered myself to the sheets. My palms were sweaty. My throat dry.

“Open your legs.”

*Fuck.*

I tried to breathe evenly as he went to the drawer and pulled out a small black box. My nerves spiked. It wasn’t big, but the way his fingers lingered on it made my chest tighten. He set it down next to me, the letters *CB* glinting on the lid.

When he opened it, my heart slammed harder. *No fucking way...*

Inside was… yeah. I knew exactly what it was. A plastic casing shaped for one thing only, with a ring at the bottom. A cage.

“I hope you won’t be fighting me on this.”

My dick twitched in sheer panic. “No, Sir,” I rasped. My voice didn’t even sound like me.

He caught my cock by the base, his hand warm and commanding, and started guiding me into the casing. It took some… awkward maneuvering, twisting and fitting in ways that made me want to crawl under the sheets and die. By the time he secured the ring at the base, my balls trapped between ring and cage, I was biting the inside of my cheek to stay quiet.

Click.

The padlock snapped shut, tiny but absolute. My cock was locked in plastic, caged like some medieval torture experiment.

I stared at the ceiling, breathing through my nose. The pressure was uncomfortable, alien. Every part of me screamed humiliation.

But then his voice came low, deliberate: “You might think this is about torture. It isn’t. This is about protection.”

My eyes flicked up at him, confused.

He smoothed a hand over my chest, down to my stomach, gentle. “No one touches what’s mine. Not again. Not ever.”

The words hit me harder than the cage.

He saw the question in my face, because his jaw tightened and his voice grew quieter. “That night with Hale—I let him touch you, yes. Because I believed you needed it. Because I believed a bold introduction to the man who owns that world would help him see your worth, see that you belonged there beside me.”

My chest ached, heat rising behind my eyes.

“But that was for me to decide alone, and I see now… it shouldn’t be. Not like that. You are mine, Noah. Not a toy to display, not a prize to pass around. You are my submissive. And I swear to you—no third will ever lay a hand on you again without our consent. Both of us.”

I swallowed hard, the cage suddenly less about humiliation and more about… safety. Possession.

“Thank you, Sir,” I whispered, because I didn’t know what else to say.

“Good boy.” His hand slid into my hair, firm but comforting, grounding me.

But moving—fuck—was awkward. Walking with this thing on was going to be a nightmare. The weight, the pressure—it made my groin feel like the center of attention in the worst possible way. Every nerve ending screamed aware.

He smirked at my awkward shuffle and tapped the cage with one knuckle, soft but deliberate. “Remember, this isn’t punishment. This is me keeping what’s mine untouchable. You understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” My voice cracked but I meant it.

“Good. Now get cleaned up. Presentation matters.”

The words landed heavy, the cage already rubbing every step I took as I got up, my skin prickling. I tried to remind myself: this wasn’t about pain. It wasn’t about Hale. It was about him. Sir.

And I’d rather carry this weight than ever again feel someone else’s hands on me.