Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 45

Chapter 45

Noah

Why on earth had I climbed into that car after the way he’d completely ignored me all day? After the silent guilt trip, the cold shoulder, and then the outright rejection in the showers—as if I were some overeager freshman trying to sneak into the wrong cafeteria table. It made no sense to me at all.

I had clearly hit a new low on my personal scale of self-destruction.

Rock bottom? No, I was still digging deeper.

Back home, mistakes weren’t brushed under the rug—they were confronted head-on.

My father had been a football coach. Old-school, alcoholic, and brutally violent.

If I dropped a pass, he forced me to run drills until I threw up. If I talked back, I got slapped across the face. If I stayed silent, he’d just dig in with words that cut deeper than any bruise.

His discipline was loud, harsh, and painfully personal.

But Aiden? He’d clearly chosen a different path with me—one of rejection and silence.

And somehow, that hurt far worse.

It wasn’t even anger driving me anymore. Just this sick, desperate craving I couldn’t shake.

I hated how badly I still wanted his approval—how even after everything, some masochistic part of me clung to the hope that he might see me not just as a project or potential, but for who I already was. Flaws and all. Like I was something worth shaping… something worth holding onto.

The drive home had been deathly silent. Not the kind of silence that’s comfortable. Not even the awkward kind. No, this silence was nuclear.

He didn’t glance at me once. No clenched jaw. No clipped commands. Just cold indifference—and it was driving me crazy.

Now, inside the house, the door clicked shut behind us with the finality of a prison cell. I stood frozen in the hallway, trying to talk myself out of yet another terrible decision.

I knew the rules: strip, kneel, wait for instruction… or break the rules and face the consequences.

And as tempting as a flogging sounded right now—really, what’s another bruise or two to add to the collection?—my current emotional state didn’t exactly scream “handle me with impact toys.”

But here was the real problem: I needed to confront him.

Badly.

And as much as I hated to admit it, there was something inherently ridiculous about starting a fight while standing there completely naked, dick out, looking like a Greek tragedy played out in adult film.

It would have been a hell of a scene, though. Submission and Fury: A Tragicomedy in One Act.

I exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over my face. This was stupid. All of it. Still… I began unbuttoning my shirt—apparently, I was committed to this madness.

My jeans hit the floor next, then my briefs. And because I was a glutton for punishment in every sense, I sank down onto my knees and laced my fingers behind my back like the good little submissive he clearly didn’t want right now.

I guess fighting on my knees would have to suffice.

I wasn’t expecting a trophy for Best Submissive Under Pressure, but come on… He knew I was angry. And he knew I knew he was angry too—though I still didn’t understand why. Not really.

The least he could do was acknowledge whatever the hell had crawled up his ass instead of pretending nothing was wrong.

That’s what I wanted—to demand answers—but if I opened my mouth without permission, I’d be in even deeper trouble. So I waited, watching, hoping for a flicker of emotion. Some kind of reaction.

Nothing.

He walked right past me—dropped his keys on the table, kicked off his shoes by the door. Not a single glance. No “good boy,” no scolding, no trace of last night’s simmering disapproval behind those storm-gray eyes.

Jesus.

I was trying—I really was. But by the time he had me trailing him around the house like some naked, lost intern in Dom Bootcamp, something inside me started to fray.

My chest tightened. My jaw ached from clenching. I was grinding my teeth so hard I was seconds away from needing a dental plan. The worst part? He saw it all. He saw the way my hands trembled, the way I blinked too hard, breathed too fast—my whole body on the edge of snapping and throwing the ice bucket across the room.

Finally, just as I reached for the stupid drink tray again, he turned toward me, calm as ever.

“Stop.”

I froze mid-move, muscles locked.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes boring into mine. “Noah, you’re one huff and puff away from getting punished,” he said smoothly. “And as much as I think you deserve it for last night, I’m still angry, and I won’t punish you angry.”

A pause. A deliberate one. Just long enough to make me squirm.

You’re angry? I would have broken every rule and talked right then if he hadn’t cut through my thoughts.

“You have permission to speak freely. Say what you’re dying to let out. But I’d advise you to watch your tone very carefully.”

There it was.

Permission.

Disguised as mercy. Coated in threat.

And damn, did it light the fuse.