Aiden
I’d never been more proud of him. Not when he’d scored on the field,
not when he’d stood up for himself against his teammates, not even
when he’d knelt at my feet for the first time. Nothing compared to
this. My chest ached with it–this overwhelming need to hold him, to
kiss him, to keep him in my arms forever.
God, I was so fucked.
Backstage, away from the roar of the crowd, he was everything. Mask
gone, his soft curls damp with sweat, his body trembling but warm as
he curled against me under the heavy blanket. Still deep in that
precious, fragile haze they called subspace–soft, needy, trusting in a
way that tore through me. He clung to me like I was air, his face pressed into my chest, his fingers bunching at my shirt like he’d fall
apart if he let go.
He stirred after a while, blinking up at me with glassy eyes. “Hey, baby
boy… Here you are.” I kissed his forehead, his eyelids, nose, cheeks,
and down to his beautiful lips, dry now from the high. I reached for a
bottle of water and held it for him as he drank in small gulps, then set
it aside when his hands shook too much.
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“Did I… did I do good?” He whispered, his voice so small it nearly
broke me.
My heart melted, my throat tightening around the rush of feeling. I
cupped the back of his head, kissed his temple. “You were perfect, my
boy. You did so good for me.”
His lips parted, his breath shaky. “How good?”
I kissed him. His lips, his jaw, down the line of his throat. “So good,” I
murmured against his skin, tasting the salt of sweat and tears. “So
fucking good.”
When he let out a sound that was half sigh, half sob, I gently asked
him to turn over. He obeyed, still pliant, trembling under my hands. I
reached for a small tube of soothing oil, available for after scene care,
working it slowly into the heated skin of his ass, his thighs, each
mark a memory of discipline that deserved attention. My touch was
steady, reverent, even as my eyes fixed on the sight of him spread
open before me.
I parted his cheeks, my fingers brushing between them, and felt the
twitch that made my cock harden instantly. He turned his face away,
burying it in his arms, flushed and shivering.
The door opened.
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Hale entered, his presence filling the small room with the same
gravity it had commanded in the hall. “Is he well?” he asked.
“He’s fine,” I answered without looking up, my hand firm as I stroked
the oil along Noah’s stretched skin. “He just needs comfort. And
care.”
I didn’t stop. I wouldn’t hide what was mine.
Noah shivered, overwhelmed, his body tense under my hand–but he
didn’t fight. He didn’t ask me to stop. He surrendered, even to the
shame of being exposed like this. I slid a finger inside him with the
oil, stroking, massaging, giving him more than healing–giving him
his reward. His breath hitched, his body writhing under me, the fight
draining away as I worked him open.
Tears still streaked his cheeks when he reached blindly for my hand. I
gave it to him, let him clutch it tight while my other fingers moved
inside him, coaxing, caressing.
“You took your punishment so well in public, my boy,” I whispered in his ear, curling over him, my breath hot against his skin. “Why should it matter if someone watches you take your reward? Let me take care
of you now.”
A broken sound left him as he clung to me harder. His body bucked
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into my hand, shame twisting with need until it consumed him.
And then–Hale moved.
Noah gasped, stiffening, when another hand slid between his body
and the couch. Hale’s. He wrapped his strong fingers around Noah’s
cock, stroking in rhythm with mine.
4
Noah’s wide, tearful eyes met mine, panicked and undone. I pressed him down gently, steadying him. “Stay with me,” I murmured. “You’re
safe.”
His body betrayed him–shaking, thrusting helplessly into Hale’s grip as I worked him from inside, our touches in perfect synch. He sobbed,
panting, his whole body trembling on the edge.
At my word-“Now, my boy“-he broke. His hips bucked wildly, his body giving in completely as he came hard into Hale’s hand, collapsing with a cry that tore from his chest.
When it was over, he was spent, overwhelmed, his body shaking with exhaustion and confusion, his face wet with tears. I gathered him
close, wrapping him back in the blanket, holding him against me as
the world fell away again.
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The rest of the night passed in silence.
The ride home, the stillness in the car. Noah leaned against the
window, wrapped in his coat, quiet in a way that made every mile feel
longer. My hand ached to reach for him, but I didn’t. He needed to
process things and make sense of them.
Later, in bed, I held him close. He curled into me without a word, his
body soft but tense, his breath deep but uneven. I kept him there,
wrapped in my arms, listening to the sound of him breathing as
thoughts I couldn’t silence gnawed at me.
Had I gone too far?
He’d trusted me. He’d given me everything tonight—and I’d laid him
bare in front of strangers. I’d let Hale touch him. I’d told myself it
was for his growth, for his strength. But lying awake with him pressed
so close, all I felt was the sharp edge of concern. Regret took my sleep
from me, left me staring into the dark, holding him tighter as if my
arms alone could make it right.
Morning came too fast.
I was careful, quiet. Gave him space, though every part of me wanted
to cling. I made breakfast, set it out, asked him to sit with me before
he left. He obeyed, still silent, still watching me with those
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unreadable eyes. He ate without a word, and I mirrored his silence,
hoping the calm would soothe instead of widen the gap between us.
When it was time, he stood, lingering by the door. He stopped in front
of me, hesitant, so close I could feel his breath. Inches from saying
something. Inches from pulling me back–or cutting me open.
I waited. My chest pounded. Fear clawed at me that he was about to
say it–that he regretted me, regretted this, regretted everything we
had.
So I looked down instead. My voice low, steady, pretending I wasn’t
breaking. “I’ll see you in practice.”
And then I let him leave.
Hoping I hadn’t just ruined everything.
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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.
