The morning light at Forebest University pierced through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the penthouse like a silent intrusion, illuminating the wreckage of Frank's sanity. Frank's eyes snapped open long before the sun had fully cleared the horizon. His body was stiff, a statue of tension, still pinned firmly against the massive, radiating heat of Drake Hollander.
The weight of Drake's arm across his midriff felt like a leaden bar, grounding him in a reality he still struggled to accept. Carefully, with the precision of a bomb technician, Frank began to shift. He held his breath as he disentangled himself from the heavy silk sheets and the suffocating proximity of the athlete. When he finally managed to roll onto his side to face the center of the bed, the sight that met him made his heart skip a beat and then thunder against his ribs.
Drake lay flat on his back, the duvet having fallen away during the night to pool around his muscular thighs. He was, as Frank had feared, stark naked. The morning light caught every ridge of his abdominal muscles, the broad expanse of a chest that seemed wide enough to carry the weight of the entire university, and the powerful, heavy lines of his lower body. Frank's face went supernova. His first instinct was to bolt, but his second—born of a strange, panicked sense of modesty—was to reach for the discarded blanket. With trembling fingers, he pulled the silk back up, covering Drake's front, shielding himself from the raw, anatomical evidence of the man's power.
Once the danger was covered, Frank found he couldn't look away from Drake's face. In sleep, the predatory edge that defined Drake Hollander during the day had softened, though it hadn't disappeared. He looked like a fallen god, his features so perfectly symmetrical they seemed a cruel joke played by nature. His jaw was a sharp, clean line even in repose, and his eyelashes were unexpectedly long, casting soft shadows against his high cheekbones.
Why me? The question echoed in the hollow chambers of Frank's mind. I'm just a face in the crowd. I'm the kid people walk over. He's a celebrity. He could have any woman—any person—on this campus with a single look.
Frank's gaze drifted down to Drake's lips. They were full, reddish, and perfectly shaped. For a fleeting, insane second, Frank tried to imagine what it would be like to lean in. To feel the press of those lips against his own. But the moment the thought solidified, a shudder of pure revulsion crawled up his spine. His skin pricked with a frantic, cold sweat. I can't. I don't like men. I don't. Yet, even as he fought the physical reaction, his mind remained analytical. If I were gay... he mused, his thoughts swirling in a dark, confused pool. If my wires were crossed like that, I'd be a fool not to fall for this face. Any gay man in the world would give anything to be where I am right now. It was a logical conclusion that felt like a betrayal to his own identity.
Suddenly, the rhythm of Drake's breathing changed. The deep, heavy swells of sleep hitched into something lighter, more conscious.
Panic seized Frank. He couldn't let Drake know he'd been staring—that he'd been analyzing the topography of his face like some obsessed fan. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his body to go limp, trying to mimic the heavy, rhythmic breathing of someone lost in a dream. He felt the mattress shift, the springs groaning under Drake's formidable weight as the man turned toward him.
The heat moved closer. Frank could feel Drake's presence looming over him, a shadow blocking out the morning sun. He expected a rough wake-up call, a command to get to the kitchen, or perhaps another terrifying threat.
Instead, something soft and impossibly warm brushed against his lips.
It was a kiss—brief, feather-light, and achingly tender. It wasn't the aggressive, predatory heat of the night before; it was something else entirely. It was the kind of kiss someone gives a person they cherish.
"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," Drake's voice rumbled, a low, morning-thick rasp that vibrated in the air between them.
Frank didn't move. He kept his eyes shut with a Herculean effort, his heart hammering so hard he was sure Drake could see it jumping under his ribs. He heard the rustle of sheets as Drake swung his legs out of bed, the solid thud of his bare feet hitting the floor, and the retreating sound of footsteps toward the master bathroom. Only when the door clicked shut and the hiss of the high-pressure shower began did Frank finally dare to open his eyes.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling, his hand coming up to touch his lips. The phantom sensation of the kiss lingered there, burning like a brand.
He kissed me. The shock was a physical weight. It wasn't just the kiss—it was the way he had done it. Drake Hollander, the king of Forebest University, the man who could have the captain of the cheerleading squad or any socialite in the city, had just stolen a tender morning kiss from a boy he was supposedly only using as a drug-induced sex partner.
The logic didn't hold. The math was wrong. Frank felt a cold pit of realization opening in his stomach. Drake wasn't just managing a drug problem. He was playing a much deeper, much more dangerous game. And as Frank looked at the bathroom door, he realized with a terrifying jolt that he wasn't just a victim of a crime anymore—he was the prize in a hunt he hadn't even known was happening.