Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 67

Chapter 67

Aiden

The days that followed slipped by in a peculiar haze—intense yet strangely personal, structured yet unexpectedly tender. It was a rhythm I hadn’t anticipated, one that caught me off guard with its quiet intimacy.

Noah had returned to training with a newfound discipline that was sharper, more focused. He moved with an awareness of his own body that hadn’t been there before, anticipating my instructions before I even voiced them. His posture corrected itself without my prompting, and there was a subtle shift in the way he carried himself—as if he was beginning to believe he had something to prove, but not to me or anyone else. To himself. Witnessing that subtle transformation was thrilling in a way I hadn’t expected.

But our time together had evolved beyond mere obedience. Training sessions turned into long conversations—about everything and nothing all at once. He talked about the books he loathed in high school, the disastrous attempt at baking a cake with his sister that nearly destroyed their microwave. His stories were chaotic, sometimes unexpectedly heartfelt, always brimming with energy and life.

What caught me off guard most was how much he noticed. My obsessive attention to detail in the kitchen didn’t earn the teasing I’d braced for. Instead, he asked questions—genuine curiosity shining in his eyes. He wanted to understand.

He was especially fascinated by jazz. I watched him begin to identify songs by ear, his recognition growing with each passing day.

“That one’s Coltrane, right, Sir?” he asked one morning, towel draped around his neck, hair still damp from the shower.

I raised an eyebrow, mildly impressed. “Good ear. That’s Blue Train.”

His face lit up with a grin as if he’d just scored a goal. “It just sounds like him. Deep, moody… kinda like he’s telling a story.”

I fought back a chuckle.

Sometimes, he’d probe into my past. The questions came fast and furious, almost overwhelming. If I ever let him run wild, he’d make a damn fine reporter—or a hyperactive chatterbox. Unfortunately for him, I usually kept him in check. But whenever I relaxed the reins, his curiosity spilled over.

“What’s your favorite movie?”

“Don’t have one.”

“Why jazz?”

“Why not.”

“Is that… a nipple clamp?”

“Yes.”

“What was your first Dom like?”

That one I let slide.

“Why did you become a Dom?”

“Because I never wanted to feel powerless again.”

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

“Watch your language,” I said, stepping inside behind him.

“Right, sorry, Sir. I mean… holy refined craftsmanship.”

I fought back a smirk. “This room isn’t just for punishment. It’s for exploration. Control. Freedom.”

He turned slowly, absorbing every detail. “So, like a very expensive adult playground?”

“In a way, yes.”

He approached a piece in the corner cautiously—the swing. “Is that what I think it is?”

“That depends on what you think it is.”

He looked at me with mock innocence. “A sex swing? For aerial acrobatics and stress relief?”

I couldn’t help but smile at his playful tone. “Something like that.”