All Chapters of My Off-limits Professor... But He's Mine (MM Romance): Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

RYDER'S POV The fluorescent lights of the clinic hum with a sterile, headache-inducing buzz that vibrates against Ryder’s skull. He sits on the crinkly paper of the examination table, his knuckles white where he grips the edge. The nurse, a middle-aged woman with a name tag that reads Betty, leans over him, swabbing a stinging antiseptic across the angry, purple bruise blooming on his cheekbone. “You look like you went a few rounds with a Zamboni, sweetheart,” Betty chirps, her tone light and teasing, completely at odds with the throbbing agony radiating through Ryder’s face. She dabs at a split near his eyebrow. “Though, I’ve seen worse. Usually from a high stick, not a fist.” Ryder flinches, a sharp hiss escaping through his clenched teeth as the alcohol seeps into the cut. He doesn't smile. He doesn't engage with the humor. The pain is a hot, heavy weight pulling at his features, making even the simple act of blinking feel like a chore. He keeps his eyes fixed on the poster o

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 player is bent double near a dumpster, one massive hand braced against the brick wall, his back heaving. Adrian wrinkles his nose at the acidic tang of vomit hanging in the air, sharp enough to cut through the smell of exhaust and cheap cologne. He marches over, his shoes splashing in a puddle of something he doesn’t want to identify. Ryder is retching, his broad shoulders shaking under the tight fabric of his polo shirt. "Fuck," Ryder groans, spitting onto the asphalt. He wipes his mouth with the back of a hand that looks like it could crush a skull. "I’m dying, man." "You’re not dying, you’re just wasted," Adrian says, though his voice lacks any real bite. He sighs, reaching out to g

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 faintly of spearmint and the lingering heat of the afternoon, a dangerous combination that Adrian knew he should have rejected. "Wait," Adrian breathed, the word barely a whisper. He took a stumbling step back, putting a foot of distance between them, though the air still felt charged with static. "You have to go. I have someone coming over." Ryder leaned forward, his eyes dark and unfocused, a smirk playing on the corner of his mouth as if this were all a game. "Go?" "I’m serious," Adrian insisted, his voice cracking. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth the disarray Ryder’s fingers had caused. "It’s not—" The heavy brass of the front door handle turned, the metal mechanism

ADRIAN'S POV The fluorescent lights of the lecture hall hum with a low, headache-inducing buzz, but Adrian barely hears it over the drone of his own voice. He is dissecting the themes of repression in The Picture of Dorian Gray, but his mind is miles away, roaming the rows of tiered seating with a predatory focus. His eyes skip over the bowed heads of the students, the glowing laptop screens, the hands scribbling notes, searching for one specific face. The third row, center seat. Empty. A hollow void in the sea of bodies. Adrian hasn’t seen Ryder since the incident in his house. The memory plays on a loop behind his eyes, vivid and nauseatingly erotic. He remembers the dark liquid soaking through the thin cotton of the boy’s short, the fabric clinging instantly to the hard ridges of his laps, and the way Adrian’s own anger had curdled into a dark, throbbing lust as he watched the stain spread. He needs to know if the skin beneath is blistered, if the burn mark is still there. "

ADRIAN'S POV The mahogany door clicks shut, sealing the quiet hum of the hallway outside. Adrian sits rigid behind his desk. Across from him stands Ava, a senior student clutching a notebook to her chest like a shield. She smiles, eager and bright, completely unaware of the disaster unfolding three feet below the polished wood surface. "Professor Vale," she says, her voice chirping. "Thanks for seeing me. I know office hours are technically over." "Not at all, Ava," Adrian replies. His voice sounds steady, a miracle of vocal control given the current location of Ryder Knight. "What can I do for you?" "I just had a question about the thesis requirement," she says, stepping closer to the desk. Under the heavy oak desk, hidden in the shadowed gloom between Adrian’s thighs, Ryder shifts. The heat of his breath ghosts over the fabric of Adrian’s trousers. Adrian’s jaw tightens. He keeps his eyes locked on Ava’s face, terrified that if he looks down, his expression will betray the