Chapter 137
Aiden
When I put the option on the table, I was betting on a no.
In my head, the best version of us was simple–stolen glances across
practice, the occasional shower when the building was empty (not in
my office with the director ten feet away–Jesus, Noah), and weekends
that were just ours. Sometimes hard and dark, the way he craved.
Sometimes soft enough to feel like we’d slipped into a life we had no
business wanting. Keep our heads down, keep him focused, keep
winning. College doesn’t last forever; I wouldn’t always be his coach.
When he was a top NFL player, miles from this campus, we could
reassess. Maybe I follow a year later when no one remembers who I
- am. Maybe the world has shifted enough by then that two football
players holding hands on a Tuesday doesn’t turn the sky red.
That was the hope. That was the illusion I fed myself.
And if he still wanted a taste of all the other things, I’d rather give
him a safe door to knock on than watch him batter a window and fall
through the glass.
By the time the sun dipped, his nerves were riding high enough I
could feel them across the room. He tried to sit casually on the edge
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of my couch; his knee gave him away. Tap, tap, tap. The pulse at his
throat, the tell.
I knew he’d been chewing on it all day. The way he hovered close but
never quite touched me, the way his eyes slid off mine whenever I caught him looking–it was only a matter of time before it broke out.
So I called him over. “Here,” I said, patting the thick rug in front of
- me.
He hesitated, shoulders tight, like a kid waiting for judgment. Then
he sank down to his knees, guilt already carved into his face.
I let my hand rest at the back of his neck, thumb brushing the sharp
line of his jaw, guiding his gaze up to mine.
“Breathe,” I murmured. “You’re safe. Say what you need to say.”
His throat worked as he swallowed. His hands clenched against his
thighs, trembling, and my own pulse kicked hard in answer–hope,
dread, grief, all of it coiled together in my chest.
Finally, his voice cracked out, low and rough. “I thought that… maybe -just for now, while everyone’s on us–I don’t know, if we really need to… save face or something…” He broke off, eyes darting away before snapping back to mine, desperate. “Maybe it’d be better if we were
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open to… other possibilities.”
The words gutted me, even though I’d known they were coming.
“Nothing with feelings. Nothing with emotion. Just enough to blend
- in. To deviate attention, you know?” he said, like he was writing at
police report instead of asking me to split my heart in half.
“And I’m not doing this because of Lexie’s dad,” he added quickly.
“But it helps–to have a cheerleader pretend girlfriend. Keep people
content. You know?”
He was doing what he always did when he was afraid–stacking logic
between us like sandbags.
It hit like a slap anyway.
I kept my face calm. If there’s one thing the field taught me, it’s how
to bleed without making a sound.
“Very well,” I said, and the words tasted like steel. “Then we begin
now. I’ll amend the contract in writing. No feelings, no secrets,
complete transparency. Safe sex, immediate debrief, aftercare with
- me. Clear?”
His eyes flicked, relief and something like panic tangled together.
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“Clear.”
“Good.” I exhaled slowly, forced my voice back into neutral. “Dinner
first.”
We ate quietly. He tried for small talk–Keon’s guitar, Miguel’s
eyeliner, the new lifting schedule–and I answered, but the words fell like stones in a still pond and disappeared. The whole room hummed
with what neither of us wanted to say out loud: this is going to hurt.
When the plates were drying in the rack, I turned to him. “Go shower,
groom yourself, and put on your club outfit.”
He swallowed. “Yes, Sir.”
“And then come help me dress.”
He moved like he was walking into a weather front–chin up,
shoulders squared, heart nowhere near as sure as his legs.
Upstairs, water thundered, steam curling under the bathroom door.
He had a way of leaving the scent of coconut behind wherever he
went; it clung to the hallway, to me. I laid out what I knew the club
would appreciate: a black leather thong with tiny rhinestones that
matched his collar and the long coat he would wear over it.
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When he came out, towel at his hips, hair damp, eyes too bright, he was beautiful enough to make me hate the world for being what it is.
“You’ll look at me when I speak tonight,” I said, fastening the small band at his wrist. “You’ll use your safeword if you need it. You’ll remember you’re not proving anything to anyone.”
“Yes, Sir.”
I dressed at the wardrobe: crisp black, open throat, a jacket that made me look like I belong where the lighting is low and the rules are lower. He stepped in behind me without being asked, slid my cuff up, worked the fastener through with careful fingers. My boy had two modes: feral and reverent. I took both like medicine.
“Breathe,” I said softly.
“I am.”
“Liar.”
His mouth twitched. It was almost a smile.
“Listen carefully,” I said, fastening the last button on my jacket. “Tonight, I won’t need permission to arrange or proceed with anything that falls under what we agreed. You will, however, always
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have the right to stop a scene or refuse it. If that happens–if you call
it or walk away–that element becomes a hard limit in the contract.
It’ll be eliminated altogether. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir,” he answered quickly, though I could see the nerves flicker in his eyes. “Sir, can I–I mean, could I ask you to…” His voice caught, eyes flickering with that mix of need and conflict that nearly broke
me in half.
“Talk, baby boy. What is it?” I asked, even as a part of me prayed he’d say forget it, let’s stay home, just us, no one else… and that he’d let this
whole absurd plan die before it ever started.
His gaze locked on mine, pleading. “Can you please… kiss me?”
His request, while not what I expected, made my heart skip a beat and
my chest ache. I bent, claiming his mouth with all the hunger I’d been swallowing down. For a moment, it was just us again–no
contracts, no masks, no stages waiting.
And then I pulled back, my thumb brushing his lip where I’d bitten. “One last kiss,” I whispered, “before everything changes.”
I studied him in the mirror, the coat draped over his bare frame, the collar gleaming at his throat. If he thought this new freedom was going to be easy, if he thought it would all swing one way, he might as
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well face reality from day one–before anything was written and set in
stone.
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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.
