Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 87

Chapter 87

Aiden

The weekend following that damn party, I made a silent vow to myself: Noah wouldn’t just charm his way into every situation, especially not into my bed. But damn it all, not being with him that night nearly tore me apart. Never before had I wanted someone as fiercely as I wanted him then. Every rule I had felt like a frayed wire, sparking dangerously close to snapping.

Then came the nipple piercing. It was a common, edgy way to “mark” a submissive—some used tattoos, others even worse methods during the trial period as a test of loyalty, a symbol of control over their sub. I opted for something milder. A playful ornament, a challenge, and, in our current situation, my brilliant little plan to remind him that flashing our private life around wasn’t an option. But the next day at practice, my heart nearly stopped when I caught the faint outline beneath his compression shirt. He was wearing it like a badge of honor. I had to toss a spare T-shirt over his chest before the whole team got a full view. This kid’s stubbornness was going to be the death of me.

Did he really not get that there was one line we couldn’t cross?

From that point on, keeping my distance felt like a full-time job—and I was so damn unqualified for it. Every boundary I set, he’d step right up to it, then look at me like he’d found his new favorite spot to linger.

By midweek, he showed up at my door carrying a grocery bag and that grin—the one that made me want to ground him forever.

“Don’t worry, Sir. I want to make up for yesterday. That dinner was a disaster, I know. Tonight? I’m cooking something that won’t require first responders.”

“Not turning my kitchen into a training camp,” I warned.

“Too late,” he said, as I took the bag from his hands before he could break every rule. “I’m gonna impress you, Sir.”

Honestly, the moment he peeled off his shirt with that cocky, bright smile and padded off to prepare my drink and put on some music, I was already impressed. By his body, sure. By that tempting grin and the way his hips swayed, making ‘domestic’ feel like the most sinful thing ever. But mostly, I was impressed with myself—for not tackling him before he even touched a pan.

He cooked with the same intensity he brought to football—measured, precise, laser-focused. When garlic hit the butter, the whole house smelled like heaven instead of hell for once.

“You actually followed a recipe,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

“Three recipes. Plus two videos. And one rant thread from some lunatic called Spatula Daddy—he’s now my mortal enemy.”

I couldn’t help but smirk. “Remind me to block your browser.”

“After I wow you,” he shot back.

He plated chicken piccata like we were hosting the mayor. I took a bite, prepared to lie if I had to. But I didn’t need to.

“Not bad,” I said, which coming from me might as well have been fireworks exploding.

He exhaled and grinned so wide it made something inside me feel stupidly light. “Not bad like ‘not terrible,’ or not bad like ‘actually good’?”

“Come here.” When he crawled closer, I fed him a piece of chicken.

His eyes closed with a soft moan as he savored the bite. “This is good.”

Just watching him like that—eyes shut, lips parted—made me wish those sounds were coming from my cock in his mouth instead.

Which, honestly, they usually were. He was getting so damn skilled at that, I rarely sent him home without using that mouth. Sometimes I let him stroke himself while doing it. Sometimes—if he’d been particularly good—I’d stroke him myself or finger his ass in the shower. He’d fall apart so beautifully I wanted to ruin him every single time.

I craved him—his presence, his attention, his touch—almost as much as I feared them. Because they were becoming a drug I couldn’t quit.

Turning back to my meal, I noticed Noah already kneeling at my feet, his head resting on my thigh like he belonged there. Without thinking, I threaded my fingers through his hair. Before I knew it, his lips were brushing against my groin, and I was seconds away from pulling him up and devouring his mouth.

“No, it’s fine.” I lied like a guy sitting on a landmine. “What’s up?”

He shifted nervously. “It’s about Noah.”

My heart skipped a beat. Cold sweat trickled down my spine. “What about him?”

“He’s been… off lately. Withdrawn. Secretive. Always rushing out after practice, never tells us where he’s going, and—well—he’s avoiding sharing showers or changing around us. The guys are worried. I think he might be… self-harming, maybe? Or involved in something bad.”

My chest tightened painfully. “I’ll check on him,” I said, too carefully.

“I want to help if he’s in trouble. But he won’t answer my texts, won’t hang out anymore. I thought maybe you could…”

“He’s probably just homesick or dealing with family stuff… Or maybe he’s dating someone. But I’ll reach out. Thanks for telling me.”

Keon nodded, turning to leave. Then his gaze caught something in the side yard.

“Hey… isn’t that Noah’s bike?”

A wave of ice water ran down my spine. My mouth went dry. I stood frozen.

Keon frowned. “Coach? What’s going on?”

And just like that, I realized how easily everything could slip away.