The air in the bedroom was heavy, laden with the sharp, musk-filled scent of the action and the salt of Frank's tears. Drake stood behind him for a moment, his chest heaving as the tremors of his release finally began to subside. He reached out, his hand hovering over the small of Frank's back before he pulled away, grabbing a silk robe from the foot of the bed and throwing it on.
Frank remained collapsed against the mattress, his face buried in the crook of his arm. His skin felt raw, not from the friction, but from the sheer emotional weight of what had just occurred. He felt used, a mere vessel for a chemical need, and the straight walls he had built around his heart felt like they were crumbling under the pressure of Drake's relentless proximity.
Drake walked around the bed, his shadow falling over Frank's pale, shivering form. He sat on the edge of the mattress, the springs groaning under his weight, and looked down at the boy who was still weeping silently.
"Why?" Drake's voice was no longer a predatory growl, but it wasn't soft either. It was filled with a genuine, frustrated confusion. "Why do you hate this so much, Frank? Look at me. I didn't even go inside you. I gave you a choice. I gave you a chance to breathe. Most people would be begging for what I just gave you."
Frank finally lifted his head, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy. He pulled a stray piece of sheet over his nakedness, clutching it to his chest as if it could protect his soul. "It's not... it's not that simple, Drake," he choked out. "I just wanted to adjust. I wanted a chance to understand why this is happening to me. Everything is moving so fast. One day I'm a student, and the next, I'm... I'm your property."
"The drug isn't giving me time, Frank!" Drake snapped, his blue eyes flashing with a spark of the fever that still hummed in his veins. "It's a constant, burning itch. I can't wait for you to have a 'revelation' about your sexuality. I'm suffering here."
Frank looked at the most handsome man on campus—the sharp jaw, the perfect lips, the raw power radiating from him—and felt a wave of desperation. "I know someone, Drake," Frank whispered, his voice trembling. "My friend... Damian. He's obsessed with you. He's gay, and he's beautiful, and he would give you everything I can't. He wouldn't cry. He would want this. Why can't you just take him instead? I'll facilitate it. I'll do anything."
Drake's expression shifted, his brow darkening as a cold, sharp intensity took over his features. He reached out, his large hand cupping Frank's chin and forcing him to look directly into those piercing eyes.
"Look at me, Frank," Drake commanded. "Look at this face. Do you think I'm the kind of man who just takes 'whoever' is available? I'm particular. I'm the captain of this university, the son of a dynasty. I don't just accept anyone into my bed. I don't want Damian. I don't want a girl from the cheer squad. I want you."
"But why?" Frank cried, the frustration finally bubbling over. "You don't even like me! You don't love me! Doesn't it disgust you? Doesn't it make your skin crawl to be this intimate with someone you have no feelings for? Someone you're just... using?"
Drake didn't answer immediately. Instead, his gaze drifted down to Frank's long, ivory legs, which were peeking out from beneath the sheet. He reached out, his long fingers tracing the line from Frank's ankle up to the sensitive skin of his thigh. The touch sent a violent, involuntary tingling sensation through Frank's entire body—a sensation that felt dangerously like pleasure, though Frank fought to label it as fear.
"Disgust me?" Drake murmured, his eyes following the path of his hand. His touch was light, almost reverent, as he traced the pale skin. "Who would be this intimate with a person they can't stand, Frank? I've told you before... I can at least stand you. More than stand you."
Frank's breath hitched. He wanted a real answer. He wanted Drake to say the words—to admit he liked him, or even loved him—so that this nightmare would have a purpose. But Drake played the game perfectly. He kept his words vague, a shimmering veil of ambiguity that left Frank more confused than before.
Drake suddenly moved, sliding across the mattress and pulling Frank's trembling body into a tight, crushing embrace. He wrapped his powerful arms around Frank's narrow shoulders, burying his face in the crook of Frank's neck. The scent of Drake was everywhere—clean skin, expensive soap, and that dark, intoxicating musk.
"Adjust soon, Frank," Drake whispered, his voice a low, vibrating warning against Frank's skin. "My patience is a thin, fraying thread. If you don't start meeting me halfway, I'm going to lose it. And when I go rough... when I stop being 'gentle'... you're going to find out exactly how much room there is in this bed for your tears."
Frank hated it. He hated the way Drake's bare chest felt against his back. He hated the way his heart skipped a beat when Drake squeezed him tighter. It terrified him to feel this small and vulnerable in the arms of a fellow man.
But as he lay there, pinned by the strength of the university's golden boy, a small, treacherous part of his mind whispered a comforting lie. At least he's handsome. Most people on this campus would die for this attention. At least you aren't in a cell. Frank closed his eyes, letting the moment go, allowing the warmth of his captor to seep into his bones as he prayed for the strength to survive the night that was only just beginning.