14. Crossing Lines #3
My pulse roared in my ears. My knees felt weak.
I pressed myself against the wall beside the door, trying to ground myself, but the pressure only made things worse.
My cock throbbed, desperate for friction, and I hated myself for how badly I wanted to touch it.
Just a moment. Just enough to take the edge off.
But I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
I wouldn’t let myself cross that line.
Even though everything inside me screamed for release.
Through the narrow crack in the door, Rowan’s face came back into view.
His eyes were closed, brows drawn in concentration or pleasure—I couldn’t tell which.
He looked like he was worshiping the man beneath him.
Like this act wasn’t just sex, but something sacred.
His cheeks were flushed, lips swollen, spit slicking his chin and pooling at the base of the other man’s cock.
I imagined what it would feel like to have him look up at me like that. To feel that mouth—those lips—wrapped around me, hot and wet and eager. I imagined fisting my hands in his hair and pulling him deeper, hearing him choke and moan and want it.
I bit down hard on my knuckle to keep from groaning out loud.
My hand drifted toward my belt, fingers hovering, shaking.
No. No, no, no.
I couldn’t touch myself. I couldn’t make this worse.
But I also couldn’t look away.
The man gasped—sharp, almost startled—and then his voice: “Fuck, baby, just like that… ”
Rowan moaned around him, and I felt that sound like a punch to the chest.
My control splintered.
I slid my hand over my zipper, not unbuckling—just pressing, applying enough friction to keep from losing my mind. It didn’t help. It only made things worse. My cock throbbed under the pressure, slick with precome, demanding attention I refused to give.
Rowan pulled back again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked up at the man with something dangerously close to affection. His voice was low, teasing.
“Wanna come in my mouth, or should I ride you?”
I nearly stumbled backward.
The image that sentence painted was too much—him, on top, taking what he wanted, grinding down until his body swallowed someone whole. Until he came undone around them, loud and messy and absolutely fucking glorious.
My hand dropped to my side, curled into a fist again.
I didn’t deserve this. I shouldn’t be here.
But I couldn’t unsee it now. Couldn’t unknow it.
I’d seen Rowan in a thousand lights—drunk and grieving, sharp-tongued and self-sabotaging, curled into himself with sadness too big to name.
But I’d never seen this.
His joy. His power. His beauty.
I wanted it. All of it.
And that was the worst sin of all.
The bed creaked again. They were moving—repositioning. Rowan climbed into the man’s lap, facing him, and the angle shifted just enough that I caught a flash of his ass as he guided the man’s cock to his entrance.
My heart stopped.
He was slick already. Prepped. I hadn’t even seen him do it. Had he done it before? Was he always this ready, this practiced?
The thought made my blood heat.
He lowered himself slowly, steadily, until he was fully seated in the other man’s lap. His mouth fell open, his head tipped back, and I heard him moan . Loud. Unfiltered. Desperate.
I gripped the wall so hard my fingers hurt.
Rowan started to move, slow and deliberate, fucking himself on the stranger’s cock like he owned every inch of it.
His body undulated with a fluid grace that didn’t look real.
He was flushed, sweating, lips parted in silent gasps.
His cock jutted out, hard and leaking, bouncing with every roll of his hips.
I wanted to touch it. I wanted to taste him.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek, hard enough to draw blood.
The metallic tang grounded me—but only just. The image burned behind my eyes: Rowan, hips grinding down, chest slick with sweat, thighs straining with effort.
The man beneath him looked like he was unraveling, fingers digging into Rowan’s hips as if anchoring himself to something holy.
Rowan moved faster now, head thrown back, a low moan spilling from his lips. His rhythm was hypnotic—each thrust more desperate than the last, the slap of skin a filthy metronome echoing through the quiet apartment.
And then the man said it.
“Fuck—call me Daddy.”
The words hung in the air like a gunshot. I stopped breathing.
Rowan froze for a fraction of a second, then looked down at him, lips curving in a slow, obscene smile. “Yeah?” he breathed, voice wrecked from pleasure. “You want that? ”
“Say it,” the man groaned, gripping his ass and thrusting up into him. “Let me hear it.”
Rowan leaned forward, bracing himself on the man’s chest, his voice dropping into something low and honeyed. “Fuck me, Daddy.”
I jerked back like I’d been slapped.
The word echoed in my head, ugly and perfect and ruinous.
Daddy.
He’d said it with no hesitation. No fear. No shame. Just want—raw and shameless and drenched in arousal.
It wasn’t about me. I knew that. The man under him wasn’t anything more than a body. A placeholder. But still, the sound of it—Rowan’s voice saying that word—broke something inside me. Cracked me open from the inside.
I fumbled for my belt, all pretense of restraint gone. My cock sprang free, already wet at the tip, and I wrapped my hand around it with a groan that I barely managed to stifle behind clenched teeth.
This was sick. Disgusting.
I couldn’t stop.
Inside, Rowan was riding that man like he meant to leave claw marks on his soul. I could see the strain in his thighs, the arch of his back, the way his mouth hung open around breathless moans.
“Harder,” Rowan panted. “C’mon, Daddy, give it to me.”
My knees nearly gave out. I pressed my shoulder to the wall, palm pumping in a rhythm that matched his. My breath came in harsh, uneven pants, my whole body trembling from the sheer force of arousal and shame colliding like tectonic plates.
I didn’t want this. I shouldn’t want this.
But I did .
God help me, I did.
I watched Rowan dig his nails into the stranger’s chest, watched his head tilt back as he rode him harder, more frantically. “You gonna come?” he whispered. “You wanna fill me up?”
“Christ,” the man gasped. “You feel so good—don’t stop.”
They were close. I could tell. The air in the room was thick with it—sweat, heat, want. Rowan was making these soft, broken sounds with every bounce, and I matched him beat for beat, stroking faster, harder, spit-slick and aching.
He reached between them and grabbed his own cock, jerking it in tandem with the thrusts. It didn’t take long. With a choked cry, he came, spilling hot across the stranger’s stomach. His whole body shook with it, muscles locking as he cried out?—
“Fuck, Daddy— fuck ? — ”
I came.
Hot and sudden, shameful and sharp. I bit down on my hand to smother the sound, but it didn’t matter. I felt it everywhere—white-hot release crashing through me, buckling my knees, dragging me under like a wave I hadn’t seen coming.
My vision went white at the edges. I slumped against the wall, chest heaving, come dripping over my fingers.
And all I could hear was Rowan’s voice in my head.
Daddy.
The sound of it wrecked me.
Because no one had ever said it to me like that.
Not with that kind of hunger. Not with reverence and filth braided into one breathless moan.
I stood there for too long, heart racing, guilt closing in like a noose. My jeans were open, my hand sticky, the taste of my own shame thick in the back of my throat. My skin prickled with sweat, the air too hot, too still. I needed to leave. Clean up. Pretend this never happened .
But I couldn’t stop staring.
Rowan had collapsed onto the man’s chest, lazy and sated, his fingers tracing idle patterns across sweaty skin. He looked so fucking content. Loose-limbed and unguarded and utterly unlike the boy who slammed doors and flinched from kindness.
And I wanted him all over again.
Not just his body.
I wanted that version of him. The one who smiled. The one who gave himself without fear. The one who looked like love had never broken him.
I wiped my hand on the inside of my shirt and zipped my jeans with trembling fingers. My legs barely held me as I backed away from the door.
The hallway was dark, quiet, but it didn’t soothe me. I felt raw. Unmade. Like a man who’d glimpsed the edge of something he wasn’t meant to survive.
I’d crossed a line. Not just once—but fully, shamefully, without a single honest excuse.
And the worst part?
It felt like a relief.
I knew, then, that this wouldn’t be the last time.
Because I’d seen the truth now.
Rowan wasn’t just beautiful.
He was mine —in some deep, twisted part of me that had always known he didn’t belong to the world, not really.
He belonged to the ache. To the silence between us. To the part of me that still believed love was something you earned by suffering.
And I would suffer.
I already was.