All Chapters of Professor Grayson's Favorite sin: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

LENNON Lennon woke up feeling like he’d been hit by a truck. His head pounded like someone used a sledgehammer on it, his throat scratchy and body heavy, like every muscle was turned inside out and left to dry.He rolled over slowly and immediately regretted it.The ache in his ass flared; the pain was sharp and hot, it felt deep in his bones, a throbbing reminder of yesterday’s events. Images flashed in Lennon’s mind. Damien’s hand on his ass, him struggling to remember how to count. The sting of each slap, the burn, the dizziness. He buried his face in the pillow and bit back a whimper.It took him five whole minutes to get himself up from the bed but to him it felt like a lifetime, struggling not to put too much pressure on his ass.He loved the ache. He really did. It made him feel like he was there in the present and not just floating through space.He loved more that Damien was the one who gave him this. He didn’t want to give in to his intrusive thoughts and ask Damien

LENNON The hallway after third period was too loud for Lennon’s liking—lockers slamming, people yelling, sneakers squeaking on tile. They distracted Lennon from his daydream where he was in Damien’s office, doing things that had nothing to do with studying.Lennon felt he was being too sex-driven, but he wasn’t sure. Surely, thinking about sex all the time didn’t make you sex-driven. Right? He kept his head down, hoodie up, trying to squeeze his way past all the people without being noticed. He’d not seen Archer the whole day. He could take a number of guesses, but couldn’t be too sure of where Archer would be in that moment.Lennon made it to the stairwell, then stopped there. He could have sworn he heard his name in a hush-hush tone. “Kessler, right?” “He thinks he’s fooling anyone.” “…always in Grayson’s office.” “…we all know what goes on in there.” Lennon’s face burned, his legs almost giving out right there. He recognized that voice. Tyler Voss’s voice. The

LENNON The lecture hall felt smaller than usual, like the walls had crept in closer just to watch Lennon lose his mind. He sat in his seat, trying—and failing—to focus. Lennon tried. God knows he tried so hard to focus on literally anything else, but Damian’s voice floated from the podium and settled directly in his chest, making it flutter and skip erratically. This was bad. This was distracting. When had being in the same vicinity as Damian completely destroyed his ability to focus? Lennon knew the answer: it had all started the day he walked into this lecture hall late and came face-to-face with the man that was Damian Grayson.Damian himself didn’t exactly look like he was doing perfectly. His eyes flicked to Lennon’s every few seconds. Lennon could tell, just from the look in those eyes, that Damian would also rather be anywhere else—but he looked like he was coping very well. Lennon wasn’t.And it wasn’t going to get better anytime soon. It was still morning; it would be anothe

Roman’s silhouette filled the threshold, broad shoulders, dark coat hanging open. The faint scent of cedar and cigarettes drifted in with him. Then his eyes found Lennon.Not Damian. Lennon.Roman’s eyes swept over him in one deliberate stare—no, a glare—clinical and predatory. He recognized Lennon. Damian knew Roman recognized him. Why wouldn’t he? He looked almost the same as his father—only Richard was huge and imposing, while Lennon was small and shy.Roman said nothing at first. He cataloged everything in the space of two heartbeats. That was what they had been taught to do: observe first.His gaze drifted to Lennon’s thighs, still bracketing Damian’s hips. To the red marks blooming along the column of Lennon’s throat where Damian’s mouth had sucked. He saw the slight tremor in Lennon’s fingers where they rested against Damian’s collarbones. He saw the way Lennon’s hoodie had ridden up just enough to expose the delicate skin of his waist. Roman’s gaze lingered there longest.Lenn

Chapter 38Damien shut the door behind Roman with more force than necessary. The heavy slab of black walnut slammed home; the deadbolt engaged with a metallic 'snick' that cracked through the penthouse like a suppressed gunshot. The sound echoed off the exposed concrete walls and high ceilings, lingering longer than it should have.Roman didn’t flinch. Didn’t even pause. He crossed the open-plan space in three long strides—boots silent on the dark herringbone floors—and went straight to the bar cart like he still lived here. Crystal clinked against crystal. The bottle of Pappy Van Winkle twenty-three-year-old tilted; amber liquid glugged into a low-ball glass. Roman tossed the first pour back in one smooth motion—throat working, he didn't even grimace. Then he poured again. Two glasses this time. Precise. Two fingers each.He slid Damien’s across the black marble island. The glass traveled in a slow, perfect arc and stopped exactly in front of him, ice cubes shifting with a soft clin