Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 145

Chapter 145

The rush of water hammered down my back as I worked him with my mouth, eager and unrestrained, wet and messy. When I gagged around him, he jerked sharply, the guttural sound reverberating through the steamy space—raw, filthy, and utterly perfect. The louder I became, the more his pulse quickened, each throb growing stronger beneath my touch. My fingers slipped behind him, teasing and probing into his tight heat until a sharp cry escaped his lips, his entire body trembling with need.

“Sir—I’m close,” he breathed, voice breaking, desperate, certain I would drag this out, make him wait.

But tonight was different. Tonight, I pushed harder. I slid a third finger inside, my free hand roaming to cup and fondle his balls. I hollowed my cheeks, taking him deeper, my movements relentless until his thighs began to quiver uncontrollably.

“Ahh, fuck!” His body convulsed, and hot, thick cum flooded my mouth—bitter, unmistakably his.

I didn’t pause. I pulled back just long enough to spit his release down the crease of his ass, then jerked myself once before positioning myself again.

“Hold on, baby,” I growled low, rubbing my cock through the slick mess, coating myself thoroughly. Then I plunged in hard.

Noah gasped sharply, arching his back, already pliant from my fingers. He bent forward, pressing his hands flat against the cold tile wall, pushing his ass back toward me, silently begging for more.

I drove into him fast and unrelenting, each thrust hitting his prostate with precision. His cries grew louder, raw and desperate, as if I were tearing him apart from the inside out. The shower echoed with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, the rhythmic slap of water, and the ragged noises escaping his throat.

I handed him a towel and grabbed one for myself, the sting of hot water still buzzing on my skin. He swallowed down the bottle I pressed into his hand, and for once, I said nothing. The silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable—it was full, heavy, grounding.

Eventually, we found ourselves sprawled across the bed, damp towels cushioning us from the sheets, the television flickering through the lingering steam clinging to my skin. A late-night sports recap played in the background—commentators discussing the upcoming season, naming players to watch, futures already being shaped.

I let the noise wash over me, one arm tucked behind my head, my chest finally slowing from the chaos we’d created in the shower. I knew it wouldn’t be long before his name came up—praised, analyzed, lifted to a level where the world would want a piece of him. And with every cheer, every headline, every congratulatory pat on the back, there would be the reminder that I was just a college coach—ordinary, grounded—compared to the grand stage waiting for him.

For now, I clung to the quiet. To the weight of the room, the hum of the television, the simple comfort of having him here beside me. The glory, the distance—it would all come soon enough.