บททั้งหมดของ Professor Grayson's Favorite sin : บทที่ 51 - บทที่ 60

An email landed in Cole’s inbox at 8:17 a.m. on a Tuesday, with no subject line and no sender name—just a blank address string and an attachment. He opened it the same way he would open any other, with little to no interest. He sat in his office, door closed, blinds drawn against the morning glare, coffee growing cold on the corner of his desk. The room smelled faintly of old books and the citrus cleaner the night staff used—the kind of sterile calm that usually settled his nerves.The email was short and anonymous. Of course it was. Cole snorted as he tapped it open, already knowing this was either a threat like the one Damien had received or something close.He flipped on his reading glasses and still squinted at the screen to read the full message.*Hello sir, this is a student from your school. I just wanted to report that Professor Damian Grayson is engaged in an improper relationship with a student, and I have gathered evidence of my accusation. I would appreciate if you reviewe

Lennon was curled on Damian’s couch, the feeling of belonging settling deep in his chest like warm honey. His legs were tucked under one of Damian’s oversized hoodies, the hem pooling around his thighs, sleeves tugged down over his hands until only the tips of his fingers peeked out. The penthouse was quiet except for the low drone of some mindless cooking show on the TV—the host’s cheerful voice a soft counterpoint to the cedar candles still burning low on the coffee table.He’d woken up pretty late, body aching like he’d been run over by a bus. Damian had guided him to brush his teeth and wash his face, then made him breakfast and gently massaged his ass later after they showered together.Lennon’s breath had caught each time he remembered the events of the day before. He still couldn’t believe how needy he’d been. He’d planned to stay away from Damian for a while—until everything blew over. But he couldn’t. His body wouldn’t let him. Deep down, he knew the only place he could find

Chapter 55Lennon had found it hard to concentrate in school the whole day. He’d been so uneasy. Even his hands shook. He waited for Archer to get back to him. Somehow, he trusted that Archer would handle it. Lennon hated this. He hated the fact that he couldn’t do anything. He hated the fact that he had to rely on others to save him from his own shit, his own mess. It made him feel so powerless, so weak, and he hated feeling weak.Then he felt the air shift. The hallway air thickened, like the oxygen had been sucked out and replaced with something colder. Conversations dimmed mid-sentence, footsteps slowed to uncertain hesitations, heads turned in slow, instinctive deference. Lennon’s senses tingled. He hoped it wasn’t what he was thinking. For some reason, he could always tell when danger was approaching, and now it came in the form of his dad, Richard Kessler.He appeared at the end of the corridor.He stood tall and impeccable in a charcoal suit. His face looked carved from stone,

Chapter 58Damien’s tongue dragged slow and deliberate up the side of Lennon’s throat, tasting salt and the faint tremor of his pulse. He sucked hard enough to leave a bruise he knew Lennon would press fingers to later, with a smile on his face. That was what made Lennon even more perfect.He loved the bruises, craved them, even.“Already whining and I’ve barely started,” Damien murmured against wet skin, voice gravel-rough. “You’re so fucking easy for me, baby.”Lennon’s hips jerked forward instinctively, grinding down on the thick ridge of Damien’s cock still trapped behind his slacks. The friction was maddening—too much fabric, not enough pressure. He whimpered the sound high and broken.“Please—”Damien’s hand shot up, fingers wrapping around Lennon’s throat—not tight, just enough to remind him who was in control.“Shh. You don’t get to beg yet.” He squeezed once. “You get to take what I give you. And right now?” He rolled one nipple between thumb and forefinger, twisting just shy

Lennon woke to the sound of his father's voice downstairs, low and clipped, in that authoritative tone he used on phone calls with donors and aides—anyone he considered beneath him. The house felt smaller and crampier whenever Richard was in it, like the walls leaned in to listen and pressed against Lennon's skin even before he opened his eyes.He dragged himself out of bed, head pounding from lack of sleep last night. He pulled on sweats and a hoodie—Damien's hoodie, actually. The sleeves were too long, just the way Lennon liked, the hem brushing his thighs like a shield. He paired it with short shorts and padded downstairs barefoot, steps soft on the cold marble.Richard was in the kitchen, suit already on—charcoal and impeccable, the tie knotted with military precision. He looked up when Lennon appeared in the doorway. His eyes narrowed, assessing, as if already finding fault.“Sit.” He gestured to the island bar stool.Lennon obeyed, spine straight, hands folded in his lap, heart