Chapter 1: The Morning After.

LENNON 

Leonard's leg felt like lead as he climbed the stone steps to the lecture hall. Every muscle in his body ached in a way that was both foreign and humiliatingly familiar. It was a deep, intimate soreness that pulsed with every step. 

He had showered twice this morning, scalding hot, then ice cold, trying to scrub away the evidence of last night.

The marks on his hips were already blooming into bruises shaped like fingerprints. The bite on his shoulder throbbed beneath his hoodie. And lower, he still felt stretched open, claimed like his body had been rewritten in someone else's handwriting.

He told himself he was fine. He was not fine. He was everything but fine.

The double doors loomed ahead. He was late, and the thought of those cold grey eyes flicking to him in disapproval made his stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with fear. He slipped inside just as the clock hit 9:34. 

The hall was already full, 200 students hunched over laptops and notebooks. Lennon kept his hood up, head down and beelined for the back row, his and Archer's usual spot.

The moment Lennon sat down, he thought he should have known better. Firstly, his raging storm of a best friend, Archer, was not there to distract him. And secondly, from the place he sat, it was like having a perfect view of the podium where Damien Grayson stood.

He was dangerously breathtaking. Black suit, crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled once to reveal strong forearms inked with swirling black lines that disappeared beneath expensive cotton. His hair was pushed back a few strands falling forward like he'd drawn impatient fingers through it. And his eyes were unmistakably on Lennon. They didn't move, not once. Not even for the first thirty minutes of lecture that felt like an eternity.

Then, as if the universe had smiled upon him, Archer walked into the hall with a shit-eating grin and headed straight for the seat right next to Lennon.

The moment Archer settled down, he leaned into Lennon's space and said, “I don't know if you noticed but 10 o'clock, that daddy Grayson is literally eye fucking you in front of the whole class.”

Lennon's breath punched out of him. His face went up in flames. 

"Shut up," he whisper yelled at Archer. 

"Make me," he replied, eyes sparkling. Lennon elbowed him so hard he wheezed and stared at the notebook on his lap for the rest of the lecture.

Lennon squirmed. He couldn't help it. His thighs pressed together under the desk, trying to ease the sudden throb between them. He was half hard and mortified. His notebook remained blank.

He was too busy remembering: the rug under his knees, the blindfold, that voice. 

Fuck. 

When the lecture ended, students surged toward the doors. 

Archer had hurriedly left as well, saying that he had other engagements. 

Lennon stayed rooted, knuckles white around the edge of his desk. He told himself he'd wait until the room emptied, then he'd bolt. 

He didn't bolt. 

Grayson closed his laptop with a soft, deliberate click. 

“Mr. Kessler.”

Lennon's head jerked up. Grayson was watching him with the faintest tilt of his head. Like a wolf deciding whether the rabbit was worth chasing. 

“A word.” 

It wasn't a request. 

The last students trickled out and left them both alone. 

Him, Lennon Kessler, was alone in the lecture hall with his hot professor, Damien Grayson. 

Lennon thought the day couldn't get worse. 

Silence stretched. Lennon stood on shaky legs and made his way down the aisle. Each step felt like walking toward a guillotine. When he reached the front, he stopped a safe three feet away.

Grayson didn't let him keep it. 

He stepped forward once, twice, until Lennon had to tip his head back to hold eye contact. Up close he smelled like cedar and something musky. 

“You were late,” Grayson said, almost softly. 

“I… Sorry, traffic.” That was a lie. Grayson's gaze dipped to Lennon's mouth, then lower, lingering on the faint red mark peeking above his collar. When he spoke again, his voice was... deeper. 

“Traffic,” he repeated in an almost amused tone. “Interesting.” 

Lennon's heart slammed against his ribs. “I'll make sure it doesn't happen again, Professor.”

“See that you do,” Grayson said, then paused, his eyes flicked back up, pinning Lennon in place. 

“You seem distracted today, Mr. Kessler. Everything all right?” 

Lennon opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. 

“I'm fine,” he managed a bit too quickly, voice cracking like a fourteen year old’s. Grayson’s lips curved, not quite a smile, but it made Lennon weak in the knees. 

“Are you?” he murmured. “You look...” His gaze dragged down Lennon's body, again slow and unnerving, “uncomfortable.” 

Lennon's knees nearly buckled. “I'm good,” he lied again. 

“Great, perfect, I should...” He gestured vaguely toward the door. Grayson didn't move, didn't even step back, just watched him with that unnerving patience. 

Lennon's eyes betrayed him then, flicking down before he could stop himself.

And froze. 

The front of Grayson's slacks was stretched tight, the unmistakable ridge of a hard om straining against his pants, thick and obvious. 

Lennon's breath caught so sharply it hurt. No, no way, it was just biology. Or maybe Grayson had gotten a text from some girlfriend, some hot colleague, some... 

His brain short-circuited. Because Grayson just shifted just slightly and the movement made the fabric pull tighter, outlining every inch. 

Lennon's mouth went dry. He jerked his gaze up, cheeks burning. Grayson was watching him with unblinking intensity. Something dark and knowing flickering behind storm-grey eyes. “Something wrong, Mr. Kessler?” Grayson asked softly. 

Lennon shook his head too fast. No, I'm fine, he stuttered. Grayson's gaze dropped deliberately to his own crotch, then back up, the corner of his mouth twitching. 

Heat flooded Lennon's face, his chest, his dick. He was rock hard himself now. Trapped behind denim, and the idea that Grayson could see it didn't seem to deter his dick. 

Lennon's knees nearly gave out when Grayson leaned in, just enough that his next words brushed the shell of Lennon's ear. 

“Run along now, Mr. Kessler. I wouldn't want to get in the way of your debaucheries.” 

Lennon made a strangled sound. Grayson pulled back, expression cool and composed, as if he hadn't just set the entire room on fire. He gathered his laptop, slid it into a leather satchel and started for the door. 

At the threshold, he paused, not turning around. “See you on Wednesday, Mr. Kessler,” he said over his shoulder. “Try not to be late again.” The door clicked shut. Lennon stood rooted to the spot, shaking, cock throbbing painfully against his zipper. Debauchery. Professor Damien had just used the word. While rock ha

rd. 

Lennon dragged both hands through his hair and whispered to the empty room, voice cracking: “Fuck.”