Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 228

Chapter 228

Aiden

It had to be well past two in the morning when the relentless pounding jolted me awake.

My heart hammered wildly as I blinked against the darkness, tangled in the cold sheets wrapped around my legs. The last thing lingering in my mind was a dream—vague, heavy, faceless—a kind of nightmare that shakes you to your core without revealing why. Then came the sound again, sharp and urgent, slicing through the haze and pulling me fully awake.

Someone was knocking at my door.

Still groggy, I fumbled through the shadows, a flood of half-formed thoughts crashing in my mind. At this hour, only two scenarios made sense—neither one good.

Either it was the college board, here to drag me out for questioning, accusing me of abuse of power or sexual coercion…

Or it was Noah.

I opened the door, and the first thing that hit me was the biting cold air. Then, standing there, was him.

Noah—helmet in hand, his blond hair wild and untamed, shirt hanging open despite the chill, smelling of beer and that same damn cologne that still haunted my sheets. His eyes—bright, defiant, heartbreakingly reckless—locked onto mine as if nothing had ever changed between us.

The sight sobered me faster than any slap could.

A tangled mix of fury, relief, and disbelief churned deep inside my chest.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” I hissed, grabbing his collar before anyone could see us.

He stumbled inside, a soft, slurred laugh escaping him—sharp enough to cut through the tension.

“I missed you too, Coach,” he murmured, voice low and thick with something far more dangerous than alcohol.

I slammed the door shut behind him, nerves blazing, and stepped back outside into the cold just long enough to wheel his motorcycle into the garage. If anyone spotted it parked outside—God help me.

When I returned, the house was unnervingly quiet.

And then I saw him.

Naked, kneeling on the floor by the couch—the same way he used to when he craved my attention, when he was mine in every sense. His head bowed, breath unsteady, every inch of him trembling on the knife’s edge between submission and defiance.

For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. The sight of him—bare skin taut, muscles coiled, waiting—hit me like a punch to the gut. My blood thundered in my ears.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I managed to say, though the voice sounded foreign, rougher.

He lifted his head, eyes glassy but resolute. “You told me to walk away,” he said softly. “I did. And it feels like dying.”

I should have thrown him out right then.

But instead, I just stood there—furious, terrified, utterly undone.

He remained on his knees as the words finally burst from me. “And then you went and did another stupid thing,” I said, sharper than I intended. “Riding a motorcycle in the middle of the night, half drunk? Are you trying to kill yourself—or me? And put your damn shirt back on!”

I tossed his clothes at him. He caught them with a crooked smile, sliding the shirt back on.

For a long moment, silence hung heavy between us, thick as smoke. Then Noah tilted his head, that dangerous smirk curling his lips—wicked, knowing.

“Yeah, you might want to walk away,” he said softly, “because it’s that kind of proposition.”

My chest tightened painfully. God help me, he knew exactly how much that look unraveled me. His grin wasn’t just tempting—it was sinful. The kind of look that stopped thought cold and turned reason to ash. My pulse hammered in my neck, and I was frozen—unable to move, to breathe, or even to find words to send him away.

He stepped closer, voice dropping to a husky whisper that slid beneath my skin. “Let’s pretend we got drunk celebrating tonight’s win,” he said. “Let’s say we don’t know what we’re doing. So, in that mess of confusion, you can take out all that anger—all that frustration—on the only person who can actually handle it. Handle you. Only tonight.”

I wanted to say no. I really did. But my resolve had already been chewed up and torn apart, and his words pulled me under, unraveling every thread I’d clung to since the night we ended.

My throat tightened painfully. “Only tonight?” I asked, hating how rough and uncertain it sounded.

He nodded, eyes locked on mine. “Only tonight.”

Then, slowly, torturously, he began unbuttoning his shirt. One button. Then the next. Each one a test of my self-control. His gaze never wavered, daring me to stop him, daring me to break first.

By the third button, I was barely breathing. By the fourth, I was done pretending.

The exhaustion, the craving, the aching void left by missing him crashed over me like a tidal wave. I crossed the room in three long strides, grabbed him by the open shirt, and tore it the rest of the way open—buttons scattering across the floor like shattered glass.

Before he could even exhale a word, I had him pinned against the wall, my mouth crashing down on his, the taste of him flooding back like something I’d been starving for.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sane. It was everything I’d been trying desperately not to feel—and it burned hotter than the hell I was trapped in.