บททั้งหมดของ My Off-limits Professor... But He's Mine (MM Romance): บทที่ 1 - บทที่ 10

RYDER'S POV The sharp scent of Zamboni polish and sweat hangs heavy in the cold air of the rink, a stench that Ryder Knight usually breathes in like oxygen. Today, it tastes like ash. His skates carve hard into the ice, sending a spray of white shavings into the air as he dekes around a defender, his focus narrowing down to the net and the black rubber puck sliding off his stick. The scoreboard glows with a lead—his team is up by two—but the only number that matters right now is the one on the back of the jersey checking him from the periphery. Kai Miller. Kai is a shadow on Ryder’s right, aggressive and relentless. The history between them isn’t just written in past friendships; it’s etched into the bruises of their last encounter. Ryder had fucked Kai’s sister, a decision made in the heat of the moment that had incinerated years of camaraderie. Now, every time they step onto the ice, it’s a war. Kai wants blood, and Ryder is happy to spill it, but right now, he wants the win

RYDER'S POV The fluorescent lights of the lecture hall hum with a low, headache-inducing buzz, a sound that usually drives Ryder straight back to his dorm room and into a bottle of cheap whiskey. But today is different. Today, the air tastes like ozone and opportunity. Ryder sits in the very front row, center stage, his legs spread wide in a posture of casual dominance. He taps a pen against the pristine surface of the desk, a rhythmic click-click-click that betrays the adrenaline spiking through his veins. It’s all because of a stupid, reckless game of Truth or Dare on Friday night. A dare. A bet. Make the new Literature professor fall for him. If he succeeds, the tab is cleared. If he fails, he’s the one paying for the weekend’s debauchery. Ryder hates losing more than he hates 8:00 AM classes. He usually avoids this specific lecture hall like the plague. The previous instructor, a woman with a mustache that rivaled most men’s and a penchant for wearing polyester blends that clu

ADRIAN'S POV The classroom door clicks shut behind Ryder, and the sudden silence presses against Adrian's eardrums like a physical weight. He stands frozen at the front of the lecture hall, his knuckles white where they grip the edge of his podium. The bastard. The absolute audacity of that student, saying those things in front of everyone, looking at him with those heavy-lidded eyes like he wanted to— Adrian releases the podium and turns away from the empty seats. He needs to move. Needs to put distance between himself and the spot where Ryder stood, where those words hung in the air like smoke he couldn't stop inhaling. His shoes click against the linoleum as he strides toward the faculty corridor, each step deliberate, measured. Professional. The way a professor should walk after dismissing a disruptive student. Not the way a man walks when his blood runs hot and his mind circles back to the same filthy words like a tongue probing a sore tooth. His office door swings open w

RYDER'S POV The corridor stretches out before Ryder, a long, polished expanse of linoleum reflecting the fluorescent buzz from overhead. He walks with a loose, rhythmic gait, the kind of stride that comes from years of dominating the ice, his hockey-honed thighs rubbing together against the rough denim of his jeans. He finished his last subject only an hour ago, the adrenaline from the lecture still humming in his veins, but it’s the message waiting for him that really pumps the heat through his system. The class rep told him Professor Adrian wants to see him. A private meeting. Ryder smirks, catching his reflection in a darkened window as he passes. He looks fucking good, and he knows it. The tight black t-shirt he wears clings to his chest, outlining the solid slabs of muscle he earns every weekend at the gym. He knows how lecturers look at him. He sees the hunger in their eyes when he walks into a room, the way their gazes linger on his ass or the bulge in his crotch before th

RYDER'S POV Adrian’s hands clamp onto Ryder’s shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle with bruising force, shoving hard enough to send a shockwave through Ryder’s chest. The momentum breaks the seal of their lips, the wet smack echoing loudly in the small office space. Before Ryder can catch his breath or process the sudden severance of contact, Adrian’s palm connects with Ryder’s cheek. The slap isn’t just a tap; it’s a backhanded strike that snaps Ryder’s head to the side, the impact ringing in his ears like a gunshot. The taste of copper floods his mouth, sharp and metallic. Adrian doesn’t stop there. He grips the front of Ryder’s jersey, twisting the fabric until it chokes him, and drags him toward the door. Ryder stumbles, his boots scuffing ineffectually against the carpet, trying to find purchase but failing against Adrian’s frantic, superior strength. They hit the doorframe, and Adrian flings the heavy wood open, manhandling Ryder into the hallway. "Get the fuck ou