The tension in the penthouse had shifted from a jagged, explosive heat to a heavy, suffocating pressure. The sound of the shower had long since died away, replaced by the rhythmic clinking of cookware from the ultra-modern kitchen.
Frank sat at the small desk in the corner of the guest room, his eyes fixed on a page of his organic chemistry textbook. He hadn't processed a single word in over an hour. Every time a floorboard creaked or the shadow of a bird passed the window, he flinched. He was trying to build a wall of academic normalcy around himself, but the wall was made of paper, and Drake Hollander was the storm.
"Dinner. Now," Drake's voice boomed from the living area. It wasn't a request; it was a command that brooked no argument.
Frank squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers gripping the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white. "I'm not... I'm not hungry, Drake," he called back, his voice small and thin. "I have a lot of studying to do. The midterms are—"
The sound of footsteps approaching was like the steady beat of a war drum. Suddenly, the doorway was filled by Drake's massive frame. He had changed into a pair of loose silk lounge pants and nothing else. His damp hair hung over his forehead.
"I didn't ask if you were hungry," Drake said, stepping into the room. He moved with a terrifyingly slow grace, closing the distance until he was standing directly behind Frank's chair.
"Please, Drake. I just want to finish this chapter."
Drake didn't answer with words. Instead, he leaned down, his large, warm hands sliding firmly around Frank's narrow waist. He pulled the chair back slightly and leaned in, his face inches from Frank's ear. Frank could feel the heat of Drake's bare chest against his back, a searing contact that made his skin prickle. As Drake tilted his head, his lips grazing the shell of Frank's ear as if moving in for a kiss, Frank's survival instinct finally snapped.
He bolted upright, his chair screeching against the floorboards as he scrambled to the other side of the room. His chest was heaving, his eyes wide and glassy with that familiar, deer-in-the-headlights terror.
"Fine!" Frank gasped, his voice trembling. "I'll eat. Just... just don't."
Drake watched him with a dark, unreadable expression, his tongue darting out to lick his lower lip. "Table. Five minutes."
The dinner table was an exercise in psychological warfare. Drake had prepared a sophisticated meal—seared steak, roasted asparagus, and a bottle of expensive red wine—but to Frank, it looked like a last meal before an execution.
Throughout the entire dinner, Drake didn't eat. He sat across from Frank, his chin resting on his interlaced fingers, his predatory blue eyes tracking every single movement Frank made. He watched the way Frank's throat moved when he swallowed, the way his eyelashes fluttered, the way his hands shook as he cut his meat.
The silence was deafening. The only sound was the scrape of Frank's fork and the frantic thudding of his own heart. The scrutiny was so intense that Frank's coordination began to fail. As he reached for his water glass, his sleeve caught the edge of his plate, sending a small pile of peas and sauce skittering across the pristine white tablecloth.
"I... I'm sorry," Frank whispered, his face burning with shame as he scrambled to clean it with a napkin. "I'm just... I'm clumsy."
"You're anxious," Drake corrected, his voice a smooth, low rumble. He didn't look away from the mess. He waited until Frank met his gaze again. "Tell me something, Frank. Do you find me handsome?"
The question was so blunt it made Frank blink. He looked at Drake—the sharp, aristocratic nose, the heavy brow, the lips that looked like they were carved from rose quartz, and the sheer, overwhelming power of his physique. "You... everyone knows you're handsome, Drake. You're the most attractive man on campus. It's not a secret."
Drake tilted his head, a ghost of a smirk touching his lips. "I didn't ask what 'everyone' thinks. I asked what you think."
"Yes," Frank whispered, his voice barely audible. "You're really handsome."
"Then why did you look like you were being marched to the gallows when I touched you earlier?" Drake's voice dropped an octave, becoming more intimate, more dangerous. "Is my touch repulsive to you? Does it make your skin crawl?"
Frank shook his head quickly, his pale hair falling over his eyes. "No! It's not... it's not repulsive. It's just... it's a lot. I'm not used to it. I told you, I'm straight. I've never been with a man. I've never even thought about being with a man." Frank paused, his curiosity finally overriding his fear for a split second. "Are you... are you gay, Drake?"
Drake took a slow sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving Frank's face over the rim of the glass. "Bisexual," he replied simply. "But right now? I'm Frank-sexual. Nothing else in this world matters to me but the way you look when you're scared of how much you want me to keep touching you."
Frank felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. He leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. "Drake, listen to me. There has to be another way. You're a hero here. You could have any woman you want. I can find someone for you—someone beautiful, someone who wants to be with you, someone who knows how to... handle the drug. I'll do anything else. I'll be your servant. I'll clean this entire place, I'll do your laundry, I'll write your essays, I'll cook every meal. Just... please don't make me be your sex partner."
Drake's expression darkened instantly. The air in the room felt like it was being sucked out. He stood up slowly, his tall frame casting a long, intimidating shadow over the table. He walked around to Frank's side, leaning down until his hands were flat on the table, trapping Frank between his arms.
"You think I want a servant?" Drake hissed, his voice thick with a dark, erotic promise. "You think I want some random girl who's going to scream my name because of my status? I don't want a service, Frank. I want you."
Drake's gaze dropped to Frank's mouth, his voice turning into a graphic, sexualized growl. "I want to see you pinned beneath me, your pale skin flushed red and dripping with sweat. I want to hear you moaning so loud the neighbors can hear you. I want to hear you calling out my name in pure, unadulterated ecstasy as I fill you up so deep you can't remember your own name. I want to feel every muscle in your body shaking as I claim you. You're not a servant, Frank. You're my obsession."
The graphic imagery made Frank's stomach flip. He felt a wave of nausea and heat wash over him, his skin literally crawling as Drake's words painted a picture of his own undoing.
"I'm full," Frank choked out, his voice thick with panic. He stood up so abruptly he nearly knocked the table over. "I... I have to go. I'm tired."
He turned and practically ran toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. He just wanted to lock a door between himself and that voice.
"Frank," Drake called out, his voice echoing through the suite with a cold, final authority.
Frank stopped, his hand on the doorframe of the guest room. He didn't turn around.
"Don't get too comfortable in there," Drake said, his tone casual yet utterly terrifying. "I decided while we were eating. From tonight on, we're sharing a bed. My bed. I'm not letting my antidote sleep in another room."
Frank's heart stopped. He stood there, frozen, the reality of his new life crashing down on him like a tidal wave, before he finally stumbled into the room and collapsed against the door, listening to the slow, heavy footsteps of Drake Hollander approaching from the hall.