MY OFF-LIMITS PROFESSOR... BUT HE'S MINE

004

RYDER'S POV

The silence in the lecture hall is thick enough to choke on, heavy with the dust of chalk and the collective held breath of fifty students. The question—Are you gay?—hangs in the air like smoke, curling around the fluorescent lights. It isn't a whisper.

Adrian grips the edges of the oak podium until his knuckles turn the color of old parchment. He stares at Ryder, who is slouching in his seat, legs spread wide in a display of dominance that takes up too much space. The shock hits Adrian in the chest, a sudden spike of adrenaline that makes his heart hammer against his ribs. He clears his throat, the sound scraping through the quiet room.

"Why..." Adrian starts, his voice cracking slightly before he forces it into a lower register. He adjusts his glasses, buying a second of time. "Why is that relevant to the syllabus, Mr. Knight?"

Ryder shrugs, a fluid roll of one shoulder. He wears a smirk that tugs at the corner of his mouth, revealing a flash of white teeth. He looks like he knows exactly what he’s doing, exactly how much he’s twisting the knife. "You said we could ask anything," Ryder says, his voice carrying easily to the front of the room. "Open forum that was the rule."

A flush of heat crawls up Adrian’s neck, staining his skin. He can feel the sweat prickling at his hairline. He looks away from Ryder, scanning the rows of other students who are staring at him, wide-eyed. "No," Adrian says, the word clipped and hard. "That is not an appropriate inquiry." He points a finger toward Ryder’s seat. "Sit down and be quiet."

Ryder doesn't move immediately. He holds Adrian’s gaze for a beat longer, his eyes dark and assessing, stripping away the layers of Adrian’s tweed jacket and dress shirt. Then, slowly, he leans back, the leather of the chair creaking under his weight. He sits, but the smirk remains, a brand on his face.

"That is the end of the questions," Adrian announces, turning his back to the class to scrawl on the chalkboard. The chalk squeaks, a high-pitched whine that makes everyone wince. "We are moving on. This semester, we are covering the socio-political implications of censorship in modern media." He writes the words in block letters, his hand shaking slightly. "I expect you all to have read the first three chapters by Wednesday. There will be a quiz."

He turns back to face the sea of faces, but his eyes are drawn, magnetically, to the front row. Ryder is watching him, chin resting on his hand, eyes half-lidded. It’s a look that usually belongs in a bedroom, not a lecture hall. Adrian swallows hard and tries to focus on the material, but the rhythm of the lecture is broken, shattered beyond repair.

As Adrian speaks, defining terms and outlining historical contexts, Ryder begins his assault. It starts small—a cough, a shift in his chair, the sound of a pen clicking rhythmically against the desk. Then come the comments.

"That sounds like a lot of repressed bullshit, Professor," Ryder calls out during a pause. "Maybe if you got laid more, you wouldn't be so obsessed with controlling what people say."

A few students snicker. Adrian feels a vein throbbing in his temple. He ignores it, pushing forward, but Ryder is relentless.

"I bet you're a freak behind closed doors," Ryder says, loud enough for the front row to hear. "All that tight clothing. It’s screaming for someone to rip it off. You probably want to be bent over this desk, don't you?"

The heat in Adrian’s face turns into a burning fire. His hands tremble as he flips a page of his notes. He cannot look at Ryder. If he looks, he knows he will see the truth in the boy's eyes—the fact that Ryder is right, that the thought of being taken, of being used, sends a jolt of electricity straight to Adrian's groin. He feels his c**k twitch traitorously in his dress slacks.

"Mr. Knight," Adrian snaps, his voice echoing off the walls. "That is enough."

"Just trying to participate," Ryder drawls. "Engage with the material."

"Stay after class," Adrian says, the words biting through the air. "Everyone else, we are done for the day."

The scrape of chairs filling the room is deafening. Students gather their bags in a rush, eager to escape the sudden, volatile tension. They shoot glances at Ryder, some impressed, some terrified. Ryder’s friends, a group of guys in varsity jackets, slap him on the back as they stand up.

"Good luck, man," one whispers, laughing.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," another adds.

They file out, the door clicking shut behind them until the room is empty. The silence returns, but now it is heavy with something else—anticipation. Adrian stands behind the podium, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. He waits until the last footsteps fade in the hallway.

Ryder is still sitting. He hasn't moved. He looks completely at ease, a predator waiting for the prey to make a mistake.

"Why are you disrupting my class?" Adrian asks, his voice low. He walks out from behind the podium, needing to put distance between himself and the safety of the wood. He stands in the open space of the aisle.

Ryder stands up slowly. He is tall, broad-shouldered, filling the space with an aggressive masculinity that makes Adrian feel small. He walks down the steps toward the front , his boots thudding heavily on the floor. He stops a few feet from Adrian, invading his personal space.

"I'm not disrupting it," Ryder says, his voice dropping to a rumble that vibrates in Adrian’s chest. "I'm just flirting with you. You can't tell me you don't like it. I can see you sweating, Prof. I can see your d**k getting hard in those tight pants."

Ryder grins, a wicked, knowing expression. He reaches out, his fingers brushing the sleeve of Adrian’s jacket, a touch that sears through the fabric. "See you next week, Professor."

He turns and walks away, the swagger in his step undeniable. Adrian watches him go, his body frozen, his heart pounding like a drum.

Outside in the hallway, the sunlight streams through the windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. Ryder’s friends are waiting for him, lounging against the lockers. As soon as he exits, they erupt in cheers.

"Damn, Ryder! You really did it!" one of them shouts, clapping him on the shoulder. "You asked him if he’s gay! I thought he was going to pass out."

Ryder laughs, leaning back against the cool metal of the lockers. "Told you he couldn't handle it. He’s so uptight, I bet he squeaks when he walks."

"You're crazy, man," another friend says, shaking his head. "Totally crazy. But respect. That was bold as hell."

"He wants it," Ryder says, adjusting his backpack. "I can smell it on him. He’s dying for a real man to show him what’s what."

The group moves down the hallway, their energy high, their laughter raucous. They push through the double doors into the quad, the noise of the campus washing over them.

An hour later, the cafeteria is a chaotic roar of voices and the clatter of trays. The smell of fried food and floor wax hangs heavy in the air. Ryder sits at a long table, his friends crowded around him. He is picking at a plate of fries, his mind still replaying the look on Adrian’s face—the shock, the fear, the hunger.

"He was totally checking out your ass when you walked out," one of the guys says, shoving a burger into his mouth.

"Of course he was," Ryder says, popping a fry into his mouth. "Who wouldn't?"

The conversation shifts to weekend plans, discussing parties and girls, but Ryder’s attention drifts. He scans the room, bored with the mundane chatter. Then, the crowd near the entrance parts, and a girl walks in.

She moves with a different kind of grace—less aggressive, more fluid. She has dark hair that falls in waves down her back and eyes that seem to take in everything. It’s Maya, Kai’s sister. She spots Ryder’s table and heads straight for them, ignoring the stares she gets from the other tables.

She stops at the edge of their table, resting her hands on the back of an empty chair. Ryder looks up, surprised.

"Mind if I join you?" Maya asks, her voice cool and composed.

Ryder’s friends quiet down, looking at each other. Ryder gestures to the empty seat beside him. "Sure. Pull up a chair."

Maya sits down, placing her tray on the table. She doesn't look at Ryder’s friends; she looks directly at Ryder, a small, mysterious smile playing on her lips. The air around the table seems to shift, the testosterone-fueled energy suddenly pierced by something sharper, more intelligent.

"I heard about your stunt in Professor Halloway’s class," Maya says, picking up an apple. "Ryder, Ryder, Ryder. You really don't know when to stop, do you?"