The moon hung like a jagged piece of bone over the estate, casting long, skeletal shadows across the manicured gardens. Inside the west wing, the silence was heavy, vibrating with the unspoken tension that had been building since the 5:00 AM session.
Frank lay atop his silk sheets, his chest rising and falling in a jagged rhythm. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the ghost of Davis's hands on his thighs—the rough, calloused pressure of a man who didn't even care he was touching him. It was a haunting. Frank's skin felt too tight for his body; he was burning up, a fever of the mind that no air conditioning could cool.
By 2:00 AM, the obsession won.
He slid out of bed, his movements fluid and silent, honed by years of athletic training. He didn't reach for his brother's tight gear this time. He grabbed a floor-length, black silk robe, tying the sash loosely around his waist. He was naked underneath, his skin humming with a desperate, reckless electricity.
He crept down the hallway toward the guest suite. His heart was a drum, a frantic, rhythmic pounding in his ears. He reached the door and pressed his palm against the dark wood. It wasn't locked.
The room was dark, smelling strongly of that cedar-scented soap and cold, masculine efficiency. There were no personal photos on the desk, no clutter—just a stack of training manuals and a stopwatch. But from the ensuite bathroom, there was the hiss of falling water.
Frank's throat went dry. He moved toward the sound, his bare feet silent on the plush carpet.
He pushed the bathroom door open.
The room was filled with steam, a thick, white fog that swirled around the glass shower stall. Through the condensation, Frank saw the silhouette. He walked right into the center of the room, his breath hitching as he saw Davis.
Davis stood under the spray of the rainfall showerhead, his back to the door.
Frank's knees almost buckled. He had seen his father—a world-class athlete—and he had seen the boys at the university gym, but he had never seen a body like this. Davis was a masterpiece of functional violence. His back was a broad expanse of corded muscle, his lats flaring out into a perfect V-taper. Scars—faded, jagged white lines from a life Frank couldn't imagine—marred the skin of his shoulders and ribs, giving him the look of a seasoned gladiator.
As Davis turned to face the water, Frank saw the rest. His chest was heavy and square, the pectorals sharply defined and dusted with a light tracing of dark hair. His abdominals were deep, jagged ridges that moved with every breath, and his legs—thick, powerful columns of muscle—looked like they could crush stone. He was completely, unapologetically naked, the water sluicing over the hard planes of his body, making his skin glisten like wet granite.
Davis simply wiped the water from his eyes with a large, steady hand and looked at Frank.
He stood there, water drumming against his forehead, his heavy, dark gaze raking over Frank in his silk robe. He looked bored. He looked like he was watching a television commercial he had seen a thousand times.
"The doors in this house have handles for a reason, kid," Davis said, his voice a low, resonant growl that cut through the hiss of the water. "Use them to stay on the other side."
Frank stepped closer, the steam dampening his silk robe, making it cling to his chest. He was trembling so hard he had to lean against the marble vanity. "I can't sleep," he whispered, his eyes locked on the water dripping down Davis's collarbone. "I can't think. I can't do anything because of you."
Davis reached for the soap, his movements slow and deliberate. He began to lather his arms, the muscles rippling under the skin. It was the ultimate display of power—he was so secure in his own masculinity, that Frank's presence didn't even register as a threat or a temptation.
"You could just... have sex with me," Frank blurted out, the words tumbling over each other in a desperate rush. "Just once. Right here. We can pretend it never happened. I won't tell my father. I won't mention it at training. Just... help me get you out of my head."
Davis stopped. He rinsed the soap from his hands and stepped out of the shower.
He stood inches away from Frank, a towering, dripping wall of naked muscle. The heat coming off him was immense. Frank looked up, his pupils dilated, his mouth slightly open. He reached out a hand, his fingers trembling, wanting to touch the wet hair on Davis's chest.
Davis caught Frank's wrist in a grip of iron.
"Tell me something, kid," Davis said, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly quiet register. "Have you ever actually had sex with a man before? Or is this just some rebellion against your father that you've cooked up in your head?"
Frank swallowed hard, his face burning. "No. I haven't. But I want to try. With you. Only with you."
Davis let out a short, dry sound—a laugh that contained zero mirth. He let go of Frank's wrist with a dismissive flick.
"I'm not a laboratory for your experiments, Frank," Davis said, his eyes cold and unyielding. "I'm not interested in 'kids,' and I'm not even the slightest bit gay. Your little 'awakening' is a hallucination. You've spent your whole life being told you're special, and now that you've met a man who won't bow down to you, you've confused respect for attraction."
"That's not it!" Frank shouted, the steam making his voice sound muffled. "I know how I feel!"
Davis didn't answer. He walked past Frank, dripping water onto the floor, and grabbed a white towel from the rack. He wrapped it loosely around his waist—not out of modesty, but because he was finished with the conversation.
"Go back to your room, Frank," Davis said, walking toward the bedroom without looking back. "And if you ever enter my quarters uninvited again, I'll be on a plane before sunrise, and you can explain to Joel why his prize fighter doesn't have a trainer anymore. Forget about your fantasies. You've got hills at 5:00 AM."
The bedroom door clicked shut, leaving Frank standing in the middle of the steaming bathroom.
The scent of Davis was everywhere—heavy, masculine, and completely out of reach. Frank slumped against the wall, his silk robe heavy and cold against his skin, listening to the silence of a man who had looked at his naked body and felt absolutely nothing.