The second morning at the villa did not arrive with the clinical precision of the first. Instead, it arrived in a blur of heat, a heavy, intoxicating weight, and a sensation so startling that Frank's soul seemed to leave his body before his eyes even opened.
It began with a dream of a summer storm—warm, humid, and pressing. But as the haze of sleep lifted, Frank realized the pressure wasn't a dream. It was localized. It was firm. It was soft yet demanding.
Frank's eyes flew open.
The first thing he saw was the silver-grey light of dawn reflecting off the glass walls. The second thing he felt was the absolute, soul-crushing reality of Dean Shome's mouth pressed firmly against his own.
It wasn't a kiss of passion—not yet. It was a seal. Dean was leaning over him, his face inches away, their lips mashed together in a silent, suffocating claim. The scent of Dean's skin, that dark sandalwood mixed with the musk of sleep, flooded Frank's senses, paralyzing him.
Frank's heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. His brain screamed 'Run!' but his body was a traitor. When the shock finally translated into movement, Frank tried to scramble backward, his hands flying up to push against Dean's chest.
"Mmph—!"
Frank tried to roll away, but he didn't even make it to the edge of the pillow.
Faster than a strike of lightning, Dean's hand shot out. His long, powerful fingers clamped around Frank's tiny waist, the grip so firm it left no room for negotiation. With a single, fluid heave of his upper body, Dean didn't just stop Frank; he redirected him.
In one blurred second, the world flipped. Frank found himself hauled upward, his body draped precariously on top of Dean.
"Going somewhere, rookie?" Dean's voice was a dark, morning growl, vibrating directly into Frank's chest.
Frank tried to push himself up, his face a frantic shade of scarlet. "Mr. Shome! You—we—your mouth was—!"
"My mouth was exactly where I wanted it to be," Dean interrupted.
Before Frank could process the words, Dean's legs moved. He hooked his calves around Frank's thighs, pulling him down and locking him into place. It was a grappling maneuver disguised as an embrace, strangling Frank's mobility between his legs, pinning him so tightly that Frank could feel every hard line of Dean's athletic frame beneath the silk sheets. Frank was trapped, his chest pressed against Dean's, his heart beating a frantic rhythm against the veteran's steady pulse.
Dean reached up, his hand moving from Frank's waist to the back of his neck, his fingers tangling in the messy chestnut curls. He forced Frank's head down until they were nose-to-nose, their breaths mingling in the quiet room.
"Tell me the truth, Frank," Dean whispered, his dark eyes searching Frank's panicked ones with a terrifying intensity. "Have you ever kissed a man?"
Frank's voice was a pathetic squeak. "N-no. Never. I told you, I have a girlfriend, I—"
"Forget her," Dean snapped, his grip on Frank's neck tightening just enough to command absolute attention. "She's not here. I am. And in a few days, the entire country is going to watch you give your soul to me through your lips. If you go into that scene thinking about 'her,' you'll look like a wooden doll. You'll be a failure."
Dean's thumb traced the line of Frank's lower lip, a touch that was agonizingly slow and possessively bold.
"You're going to be kissing me, Frank. Not just once. Dozens of times. Deeply. Desperately. To the point where you forget where Kai ends and you begin. I hope, for the sake of your career, that you're ready for what that feels like."
Frank swallowed hard, his throat dry. He was hyper-aware of the way Dean's legs were holding him, the way the older man's heat was seeping into his very bones. "I... I'll do my best to learn. I'll follow the script."
Dean let out a low, mocking hum. "The script can't teach you how to breathe when my tongue is in your mouth, Frank. It can't teach you how to keep your knees from shaking when I press you against a wall. Are you eager to learn? Should I teach you right now?"
Dean's eyes darkened, becoming two bottomless pools of shadow. He began to lean in, his gaze dropping to Frank's mouth. Frank squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body trembling in anticipation of a collision that felt inevitable, a kiss that would surely change the molecular structure of his life. He could feel the warmth of Dean's lips hovering a hair's breadth away—
And then, the pressure vanished.
Dean abruptly loosened his grip, his legs uncoiling from around Frank. He didn't push him away, but the sudden absence of his heat felt like being dropped into a frozen lake.
Frank opened his eyes, breathless and confused, as Dean sat up with an effortless, cool grace. He looked down at the disheveled rookie with a smirk that was both cruel and devastatingly handsome.
"If you want to learn," Dean said, his voice returning to its usual icy, professional sheen, "you'll have to do better than just lying there like a sacrifice. If you want me to teach you what it's like to really be touched by a man... you're going to have to beg me for it."
Dean swung his legs out of bed, the black silk of his robe fluttering behind him like a dark omen. He didn't look back as he walked toward the bathroom.
"Wash up," Dean called out over his shoulder, his tone dismissive. "Your girlfriend arrives today. Try not to look like you've spent the morning being devoured. It would be... unprofessional."
The bathroom door clicked shut, followed by the sound of the shower.
Frank remained on the bed, his body still humming from the contact, his mind a chaotic mess of guilt and a new, terrifying hunger. He touched his lips, which still felt bruised and warm from Dean's mouth.
He thought of Claire. But as he listened to the water running, he realized with a jolt of pure fear that he wasn't thinking about her arrival with excitement anymore. He was thinking about it with dread.
Because Dean Shome hadn't just pinned him down; he had planted a seed of doubt that was already starting to bloom.