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

011

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 of a healthy skeleton on the wall, trying to breathe through the nausea rolling in his gut. The memory of Kai’s hands on him, the violence, the chaos—it’s all too fresh.

“All patched up,” Betty says, applying a sterile strip and smoothing it down with a little too much pressure. “Try not to get hit again tonight, okay? You’re running out of unbruised skin.”

Ryder slides off the table, muttering a grunt of thanks that he doesn't feel. He pushes through the heavy clinic door and out into the cool night air. The parking lot is alive with the noise of his teammates, their voicescarrying over the pavement.

A group of them hovers near the entrance, and as soon as they spot him, they erupt in cheers. “There he is!” one shouts, throwing an arm around Ryder’s shoulders and jostling his sore frame. “The f*****g stud!”

“Maya is telling everyone you knocked her up, man,” another chimes in, grinning like an i***t. “Says you put a bun in the oven. We knew you had it in you, Ryder!”

Ryder stops walking. He stares at the pavement, his jaw tightening. The accusation is absurd, a twisted rumor born from the drama of the party, but the energy around him is too high to care about the truth. He sighs, a long, weary exhale that deflates his chest. He shakes his head, gently shrugging off the arm draped over him.

“It’s not true,” Ryder says, his voice raspy. “I’m going home. I’ll see you guys later.”

He turns and walks away, ignoring their confused calls behind him. They know him well enough to know he’s not the type to get tangled up in something like that, but right now, he doesn't have the energy to explain. He just needs the pain to stop.

*************

Ryder paces the length of his bedroom. The house is silent, a cavernous tomb of polished floors and expensive furniture. His parents are away, as always—workaholics who view their son as another item on a balance sheet to be managed rather than a person to be known. The silence usually gives him space to think, but tonight, his own mind is the enemy.

He can’t stop thinking about Adrian. The image of the other man is burned into his retinas—intense, overwhelming, and inescapable. He remembers the force of the kiss, the rough scrape of stubble against his lip, but mostly, he remembers the touch. His hands twitch at his sides, recalling the sensation of Adrian’s skin. Every inch. The thought of that smooth, bare body, the lack of hair, the vulnerability of it, sends a jolt of electricity straight to Ryder’s groin. His c**k thickens in his jeans, pressing insistently against the denim.

“f**k,” Ryder groans, raking a hand through his hair. He needs to get out. He needs to drown the noise in his head with something louder, something physical.

He grabs his jacket and keys, storming out of the empty house. The club is a blur of bass and sweat when he arrives. The air is thick with the smell of cheap perfume, alcohol, and lust. Adrian moves through the crowd like a shark, his eyes scanning for a distraction, a vessel to lose himself in. He spots her near the bar—a woman with a heavy, curving figure and a big ass that strains against the fabric of her dress. She’s exactly what he needs right now.

He buys her a drink. He doesn’t ask for her name. Ten minutes later, they are in the darkened corner of a VIP booth, the velvet upholstery rough against his back. Her mouth is hot and wet on his neck, her hand rubbing firmly over the bulge in his pants. It should be enough. It should be good.

But when she pulls him into the stall of the club restroom, bending over the sink and hiking up her dress, Ryder closes his eyes. He lines himself up, his c**k throbbing as he pushes into her wet heat. She moans, loud and breathy, but the sound doesn't register. In the darkness behind his eyelids, the curves soften and flatten. The wet heat becomes a tight, muscled grip.

He grips her hips, imagining the hard, lean lines of a sexy professor’s waist. He thrusts forward, hard and deep, pretending the body against his is hairless and smooth. He pictures Adrian's face, the angry eyes. The fantasy is so potent, so vivid, that it completely overtakes reality.

“Adrian,” Ryder moans, the name falling from his lips like a prayer. “f**k, Adrian.”

The woman freezes. The rhythm shatters instantly. She pulls away, turning around with a look of utter disgust and fury on her face.

“What the f**k?” she snaps, adjusting her dress. “Who the hell is Adrian?”

Ryder opens his eyes, the fantasy dissolving into the harsh, fluorescent reality of the dirty club bathroom. He stares at her, his chest heaving, his c**k still hard and aching. He opens his mouth to speak, to apologize, to lie, but there are no words.

“Sick bastard,” she spits, shoving past him and storming out of the stall, the door banging against the wall as she leaves.

Ryder stands alone, the sound of his own ragged breathing echoing off the tiles. He leans his forehead against the cool mirror, staring at his reflection, hating that even with a woman’s p***y wrapped around his d**k, he is still completely owned by the ghost of a man he can’t have.