Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 19

Chapter 19

By the time I finally finished reading, I had already chosen my safeword—“Mercy.” It was short, unmistakable, and perfectly captured how I was feeling by page twenty. I discovered an entire fascinating world where surrendering control and letting someone else handle all the decisions wasn’t just possible—it was a dream come true for me. But as I reached the sections on soft and hard limits, I realized I might need a whole glossary and maybe even a support group just to survive the terminology.

Which, honestly, is why I left most of those sections blank.

Not because I didn’t have boundaries.

But because… the vocabulary was overwhelming.

Scat? Gorean? Sounding—as in being too quiet or not quiet enough? Mummification?

I’m not joking. Those words were actually there.

This stuff was real? People actually did this?

Then came the acronyms, one after another.

TPE. CBT. SPH. ABDL…

And my personal favorite, my internal reaction to the entire document: WTF.

That wasn’t a kink—it was my honest response to the whole thing.

Still, I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

The guide was detailed, straightforward, and brutally honest.

There were rules, protocols, boundaries, clear expectations.

And strangely, all of it made me feel safe. Like someone had really thought this through. Like I wasn’t walking into a trap, but stepping into something structured, something meaningful.

So help me God, I was going to do this.

—

Worse things I’ve tried, honestly. (Looking at you, expired protein shakes and that one lonely night I spent parked outside a Walmart, waiting for a girl who never showed up.)

But this? This wasn’t just about sex, control, or being weird.

This was about him.

If joining this meant getting closer to Mr. A—Coach Mercer, Aiden, or whatever name he was using tonight—then yeah.

I was all in.

I knocked on his door just before the first light of dawn. The folder was clutched in my hand, pressed flat against my thigh as if it might burst into flames if I gripped it wrong.

He opened the door smoothly, like he’d been waiting on the other side for me.

“What?” I blinked, stunned.

“You’re out, Noah. I made a mistake.”

My stomach sank.

“You don’t take this seriously,” he continued. “This isn’t fantasy. It’s not a shortcut to orgasms or a way to skip small talk. And it sure as hell isn’t for guys who want to flirt with power and then run away when it gets real.”

He turned away like the conversation was finished.

But I didn’t move.

Not this time.

No sarcasm. No deflection. Just me.

“I need this.”

He didn’t turn around.

“I’m tired,” I said softly, my voice breaking. “I’m so fucking tired of always being the one who has to have it all together. The strong one. The smart one. The good son, the perfect athlete, the guy who never breaks. I’m tired of performing, of pretending, of needing nothing.”

My throat tightened. “I need someone to take control… because I don’t know how to do this on my own anymore. So please…” I swallowed hard. “Train me.”