Chapter 45
Noah
Why the hell I got in that car after the way he ghosted me all day, guilt–tripped me without saying a damn word, and then rejected me in the showers like I was some overeager freshman trying to sit at the wrong table in the cafeteria… was completely beyond me.
I had obviously reached a new low on my self–destruction scale.
Rock bottom? Please. I was digging.
At home, mistakes weren’t ignored–they were handled.
My dad was a football coach. Old–school, alcoholic, and violent as hell.
If I fumbled a pass, he made me run drills until I puked. If I talked back, I got a backhand. If I didn’t? He’d just dig in with words that bruised deeper than anything else.
His kind of discipline was loud, cruel, and always personal.
But Aiden? He’d clearly chosen a different method with me–rejection and silence.
And somehow… that hurt more.
It wasn’t even rage driving me anymore. Just this sick, pathetic craving I couldn’t shake.
I hated how much I still wanted his approval–hated that even after everything, some masochistic part of me still held out hope he’d look at me not just as a project, not just for my potential, but for what I already was. Flaws and all. Like I was something worth training… Something worth keeping.
The ride home had been silent. Not the comfortable kind. Not even the awkward kind. No, this silence was nuclear.
He didn’t glance at me once. No gritted jaw. No clipped commands. Just… cold indifference, and it was driving me insane.
Now we were inside, the door clicking shut behind us with the finality of a cell block, and I just stood there, frozen in the hallway, trying to talk myself out of a poor life choice. Again,
I knew the rules. Strip, kneel, wait for instruction… Or break the rules and face the consequences.
And as much as a flogging sounded delightful right now–really, what’s angther bruise or two to spice up the collection—my curent 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 just something inherently spid about picking a fight while standing there completely naked, dick out, looking like a pornographic Greek tragedy.
It would’ve made a hell of a scene, though. Submission and Fury: A Tragicomedy in One Act
1/3
22:35 Sat, Feb 7 0 B
Chapter 45
179
I huffed out a breath, scrubbing a hand over my face. This was dumb. All of it. Still… I started unbuttoning my shirt–apparently, I was doing
this.
My jeans hit the floor next. Then my briefs. And, because I was a glutton for punishment in every sense of the word, I sank to 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 your knees would have to do.
I didn’t expect an award for Best Submissive Under Pressure, but come on… He knew I was angry. And he knew that I knew he was angry too- though I still didn’t know why. Not really.
The least he could do was address whatever the hell had crawled up his ass instead of pretending nothing was happening.
That’s what I wanted to do–demand answers–but if I opened my mouth without permission, I’d be in even deeper shit. So I waited. Watching.
Hoping for a flicker of emotion. Some reaction.
Nothing.
He walked right past me–keys dropped on the table, shoes off by the door Not even a glance. No “good boy,” no scolding, no trace of last night’s disapproval simmering behind those storm–gray eyes.
He moved like I was invisible, and when he finally spoke, I almost jumped
“Get up. Come with me,” he said flatly.
I obeyed.
Naked. Humiliated. Somewhere between wanting to scream and begging for attention–punishment, praise, anything.
He stopped at the little bar in the corner of the living room, the same one’d barely noticed before, and reached for a crystal glass.
“You’ll prepare this for me from now on,” he said, sliding over a small recipe card in his perfect, controlled handwriting. Gon. Tonic, Ice. Wedge of lime. Cold glass only.
I blinked. What? A drink?
“Every day, when I walk in. No reminders. No excuses.”
I nodded stiffly. “Yes, Sir.”
He handed me a thin book. A Pocket History of Jazz.
“This too. Read a chapter a day. I expect you to know what to play, how to set a mood. Music isn’t background noise–it’s intention. You’ll
learn what mine is.”
You gotta be shitting me…
He walked to the corner and adjusted the lights with a remote. “Warm, to indirect. No overhead glare. Ambience matters.”
I followed like an obedient idiot, my pride bleeding out one step at a time Every part of me screamed to protest–this isn’t why I came back herë -but I kept my mouth shut, Barely.
2/3
22:35 Sat, Feb 7 DB.
Chapter 45
He showed me how to fold the linen napkins. How to lay them without visible creases. Where to keep the bar towel, the coasters, the tray.
Noah Blake, quarterback and professional humiliation sponge.
Jesus.
I was trying–I really was. But by the time he had me following him around the house like some naked, lost intern in Dom Bootcamp, something in me began to fray.
My chest was tight. My jaw hurt from clenching it. I was grinding my molars so hard, I was seconds from needing a dental plan. The worst part? He knew. He saw it building. The way my hands were shaking, the way I was blinking too hard, breathing too hard, my whole body a twitch away from throwing the ice bucket across the goddamn 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 are a huff and a puff away from getting punished,” he said smoothly. “And as much as I believe you deserve it for last night, I am angry still, and I won’t punish you angry.”
A pause. A deliberate one. Just long enough for me to squirm.
You are angry? I would’ve talked now, breaking every rule, if he would’ve not 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 a threat.
And fuck, did it light the fuse.
Comments
22
2 Write Comments
SHARE
Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
