LOGINRYDER'S POV The doorbell chimes echo into the silence of the porch, a sharp sound that cuts through the cool evening air. Ryder stands on the welcome mat, shoulders hunched under the weight of a game lost and a mood soured by something he can’t quite name. He waits, counting the seconds as they drag by. No footsteps. No shout of ‘coming!’. The house remains dark and still. He sighs, the sound rattling in his chest, and turns on his heel, ready to retreat into the night and find solace at the bottom of a bottle somewhere else. The latch clicks. The door swings open before Ryder can take a step. There he is. Adrian. He stands in the doorway, framed by the yellow light of the hallway. He is shirtless, his skin pale and smooth, the definition of his abs catching the shadows in a way that makes Ryder’s mouth go dry. A pair of low-slung sweatpants hangs off his hips, leaving very little to the imagination. Adrian’s lips are pushed out in a full, exaggerated pout, a look of pure ann
RYDER'S POV The scent of cinnamon and burnt sugar clings to the air, a cloying, sweet perfume that signals his mother’s presence long before he sees her. Ryder steps into the foyer, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him, and immediately the aroma wraps around his throat like a chokehold. He doesn’t call out a greeting. He doesn’t pause to kick off his sneakers by the mat. Instead, he grips the strap of his backpack until his knuckles turn white and marches up the stairs, each step a dull thud against the carpet. He reaches his room and twists the lock, the metal latch sliding into place with a sharp snick. Only then does he let the bag slide off his shoulder, hitting the floor with a heavy thud. He toes off his shoes, not bothering to untie the laces, and kicks them into the corner. The silence of his room does nothing to quiet the storm raging in his skull. Bankruptcy. The word tastes like ash. His parents had lost everything, decided to hide the crumbling foundation o
RYDER'S POV He spots them immediately—his parent, standing near the registrar’s desk like they own the institution given his father’s usual business posture, they might as well. Ryder's father Austin wears a sharp, charcoal suit that strains slightly at the shoulders, his posture rigid and commanding. And Ryder's mother Angel draped in a silk blouse that clings to her curves, scans the crowd with eyes that have always seen too much and too little at the same time. Ryder stops a few feet away, his brow furrowing deep enough to cause a headache. He checks his phone again—no missed calls, no texts. Nothing. He shoves the device into his pocket, the leather case smacking against his thigh. "What are you doing here?" Ryder asks, his voice cutting through the ambient noise. He doesn't move to embrace them, his hands remaining clenched at his sides. "Why didn't you call before flying back to the country? You don't just show up." Austin turns slowly, his face a mask of hardened jud
RYDER'S POV The fluorescent lights of the lecture hall hum with a low, headache-inducing buzz, but Adrian ignores it, his focus entirely on the whiteboard behind him. He writes a passage from The Picture of Dorian Gray, the squeak of the marker against the board the only sound in the room for a moment. He keeps his eyes strictly on the text, refusing to scan the rows of seats, refusing to let his gaze drift to the back corner where he knows Ryder sits. The air in the room feels heavy, thick with the scent of old paper and the faint, lingering smell of Ryder’s cologne that Adrian swears he can still detect from across the room. He turns to face the class, smoothing down the front of his tweed jacket. His posture is rigid, a forced composure that disguises the sharp, throbbing ache radiating from his ass. Every slight shift of his weight sends a jolt of sensation through him—a raw reminder of the night before. He can still feel the phantom stretch of Ryder’s thick cock, the relentl
ADRIAN'S POV Brutal, unfiltered morning light slices through the gap in the blinds, striking Adrian’s face with the force of a physical blow. He groans, a low, guttural sound dragging from his throat, and brings a hand up to rub the sleep from his eyes. His head throbs, a dull, rhythmic pounding that matches the ache settling deep in his bones. He tries to shift, to roll away from the sun assaulting his eyelids, but his body refuses to cooperate. A heavy weight pins him to the mattress—an arm draped possessively over his chest, a muscular leg entangled with his own. The events of the previous night crash down on him, not as a vague fog, but as a vivid, high-definition replay. The scent of stale sweat, musky cologne, and the distinct, coppery tang of sex hangs heavy in the air. Adrian freezes, his breath catching in his throat. He knows exactly whose arm this is. He knows exactly whose leg is trapping him. Ryder. His student. The star hockey player. Adrian turns his head slowly
Ryder reaches out, grabbing Adrian’s wrist. He yanks hard, pulling Adrian forward. Adrian stumbles, falling to his knees on the rug between Ryder’s spread legs. But Ryder isn’t done. He drags Adrian up, pushing him backward until the backs of Adrian’s knees hit the mattress. Ryder pushes him down, flipping him over so that he lies on his back with his legs hanging off the edge of the bed. Adrian is confused, his mind still foggy with pleasure. He opens his mouth to ask what Ryder is doing, but the words die in his throat. He feels it—hot, damp air ghosting over his most private place. Ryder’s breath fans across his hole, a teasing, impossible sensation. Adrian stops breathing. His entire body goes rigid, his eyes widening in shock. He stares up at the ceiling, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He is exposed, vulnerable, and completely at Ryder’s mercy. Ryder face level with Adrian’s most private place. The hole is pink and puckered, twitching slightly in th
RYDER'S POV Rain hammers against the roof of the taxi, a relentless, rhythmic drumming that matches the pounding in Ryder’s skull. He sits in the backseat, water dripping from the soaked hem of his jeans onto the expensive leather upholstery. The driver shoots a nervous glance in the rearview m
ADRIAN POV Adrian’s palms pressed against Ryder’s chest, the friction of the cotton shirt grounding him even as his heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He pushed, not with force, but with the trembling urgency of a man waking from a deep sleep. Ryder’s lips were warm, tasting fain
RYDER'S POV Ryder leans back against the headboard, the sheets pooling low around his hips, exposing the sharp V-lines of his abdomen and the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath the fabric. He watches Adrian scramble around the room. A smirk tugs at the corner of Ryder’s mouth, slow and pred
ADRIAN'S POV The neon sign above the club entrance buzzes with a dying, electric hum, casting a flickering pink glow over the damp pavement. Adrian steps out into the cool night air, the bass from inside still thumping a heavy rhythm against his ribcage. He spots Ryder immediately. The hockey







