The orchestral music in the background shifted to a low, rhythmic cello suite, a sound that felt like blood thrumming through a vein. The studio was a pressure cooker of amber light and heavy, vanilla-scented air.
"You're still too rigid, Liam," Noah whispered, his voice a velvet blade. "A partner isn't a rugby ball. You don't grip him. You cradle him."
Noah stepped into Liam's shadow, his chest brushing against the President's sturdy back. He didn't just place his hands; he mapped Liam's body. Noah's palms, damp with sweat, slid slowly up Liam's ribs, his thumbs grazing the undersides of Liam's pectoral muscles through the thin compression gear. It was a touch that lingered far beyond the needs of a ballet correction—a touch that was intentionally, provocatively perverse.
"Feet in fifth," Noah commanded softly.
As Liam attempted the position, Noah dropped to his knees behind him. It was a move designed to shatter Liam's composure. From that low vantage point, Noah's hands slid down Liam's thick, powerful thighs, his fingers digging into the sensitive inner muscles. He wasn't just checking alignment; his thumbs were tracing slow, deliberate circles higher and higher, brushing against the dangerously tight fabric of Liam's leggings.
"You're shaking, Captain," Noah purred, his breath hot against the back of Liam's leg. "Is the Iron King's throne starting to melt?"
Liam's jaw was locked so tight he felt the bone groan. His eyes were fixed on the mirror, watching the pale, beautiful dancer kneel at his feet like a worshipper—or a predator. The sight of Noah's delicate fingers against his own massive, dark-clad thighs was a visual poison. It was erotic, forbidden, and it was tearing Liam's identity to shreds.
"Stop," Liam choked out, his voice a ragged, guttural sound.
"Stop what?" Noah asked innocently, though his hands moved even higher, his palms cupping the heavy curve of Liam's glutes with a possessive, firm squeeze. "I'm just checking the muscle engagement. You're so… dense, Liam. So much heavy, beautiful muscle. I wonder what it sounds like when you finally let out a real groan instead of those pathetic little growls."
Noah stood up abruptly, sliding his body flush against Liam's back, reaching around to lock his fingers over Liam's stomach. He pulled Liam back, forcing the larger boy to feel every lithe, lean inch of his body. Noah leaned his head on Liam's shoulder, his lips grazing the shell of Liam's ear.
"Tell me, Mr. President," Noah whispered, his hand sliding down to the waistband of Liam's leggings, his fingers hooking into the elastic. "When you're in your big, lonely house at night, do you think about the girl next to you in class? Or do you think about the way I look when I'm dripping with sweat in these tight clothes?"
That was the final thread. Liam snapped with the violence of a breaking bone.
Liam didn't just move; he exploded.
He spun around with a roar, his hands—bruised and massive—slamming into the mirrors on either side of Noah's head. The glass shuddered, echoing the violent heartbeat thudding in Liam's chest. He trapped Noah against the cold, reflective surface, his massive body looming over the dancer like a storm cloud.
"You want to play, Noah?" Liam hissed, his face inches from Noah's, his breath coming in jagged, desperate hitches. "You want to see what happens when the 'Iron King' loses his mind?"
Liam's eyes were no longer cold; they were dark, ravenous, and completely unhinged. He reached down, his hand catching Noah's jaw with a grip that was half-caress, half-command. He forced Noah's head back, exposing the elegant, sweating length of his throat.
The air between them was gone. It was just heat, friction, and the scent of two bodies pushed to the brink. Liam's gaze was fixed on Noah's mouth—those mocking, pink lips that had been taunting him for three years.
Liam leaned in, his body crushing Noah into the glass. He felt the softness of Noah's chest against his hard, athletic ribs, the contrast of their bodies sending a jolt of pure, erotic electricity through his spine. Liam's hand moved from Noah's jaw to his hair, his fingers tangling in the blonde locks, pulling just enough to make Noah let out a soft, sharp gasp.
"You've been begging for this," Liam growled, his voice dropping to a low, lethal register that made Noah's knees weak. "You've been picking at me, touching me, trying to find the crack in my armor. Well, congratulations, Valentine. You found it. It's wide open."
Liam's face lowered until their noses brushed. He could feel the humidity of Noah's breath, the way Noah's pulse was hammering like a trapped bird in his throat. Liam's lips were a hair's breadth from Noah's—so close that a single, shallow breath would have closed the gap.
Every rule of the academy, every "Presidential" duty, every straight-edged expectation Liam had ever lived by was dead. There was only the weight of Noah's body, the slickness of their sweat, and the agonizing, primal need to claim the boy who had ruined him.
Liam's eyes flickered shut. He tilted his head, his mouth hovering over Noah's, his mind screaming for him to just take what he wanted.
But at the last possible second, as his lips grazed Noah's upper lip—a touch so light it was almost a hallucination—Liam's body rebelled. The years of him being the straight guy didn't disappear; they flared up in a final, desperate act of survival.
Liam ripped himself away, his boots skidding on the marley. He stumbled back toward the center of the room, his chest heaving, his face a mask of absolute, horrified shock. He looked at his hands as if they belonged to a stranger—a monster.
"Liam…" Noah breathed, his voice trembling, his body still pressed against the mirror, looking utterly undone and beautiful in the amber light.
"No," Liam whispered, his voice cracking. "Don't. Don't say my name."
He didn't grab his bag. He didn't say goodbye. Liam turned and fled the studio, his heavy footsteps sounding like a retreat. He burst through the double doors, the cold air of the hallway hitting him like a physical blow.
He ran. The Student Council President, the Rugby Captain, the Iron King—he ran like a coward through the darkened halls of Saint Jude's. He didn't stop until he reached the bathroom, where he splashed freezing water onto his face, his reflection in the mirror looking back at him with a gaze that was no longer his own.
He had almost done it. He had almost kissed a boy. He had almost kissed Noah.
And as Liam leaned over the sink, his breath coming in broken, sobbing hitches, he knew the worst part wasn't that he had almost lost control.
The worst part was that he wanted to go back and finish what he started.