CHAPTER ONE: KISS

"You're making this hard for me, Leo…" tears spilled out from Daveson's eyes as he was pressed against the wall with Leonard's tall frame hovering before him.

"...shhhh…it's also difficult for me too, imagine knowing you're a traitor but I feel powerless to do anything. What the fuck have you done to me Dave…." His breath hitched.

Leonard's hands came up to frame Daveson's face, thumbs brushing away the tears with a tenderness that made Daveson's chest ache. "Don't cry," he murmured, his violet eyes dark with desire and something deeper, more dangerous. "I can't think straight when you cry."

"Then don't think," Daveson whispered, his voice breaking. His hands found Leonard's chest, feeling the rapid thundering of his heart beneath the expensive silk shirt. "Just... touch me. Make me forget everything else."

A low groan escaped Leonard's throat. "Dave, if I start, I won't be able to stop."

"Good." Daveson fisted his hands in Leonard's shirt, pulling him closer until their bodies were flush against each other. "I don't want you to stop."

That was all the permission Leonard needed. His mouth crashed down on Daveson's, claiming him with a hunger that stole the breath from his lungs. This wasn't the gentle kiss from earlier—this was raw need, desperation, months of tension finally exploding between them.

Daveson opened for him immediately, their tongues meeting in a dance that was both battle and surrender. Leonard tasted like whiskey and sin, and Daveson couldn't get enough. His fingers tangled in Leonard's yellow hair, tugging at the wavy curls as Leonard pressed him harder against the wall.

"God, Dave," Leonard panted against his lips, his hands sliding down to grip Daveson's hips. "You drive me fucking crazy. Every day watching you, wanting you, knowing I shouldn't..."

"Show me," Daveson demanded, rolling his hips forward. The friction made them both gasp. "Show me how much you want me."

Leonard's eyes blazed. His hands moved to Daveson's thighs, lifting him effortlessly. Daveson wrapped his legs around Leonard's waist instinctively, feeling the solid strength of him, the power barely restrained in his lean muscular frame.

"Feel that?" Leonard ground against him, and Daveson could feel exactly how affected he was, hard and thick and straining against the confines of his tailored slacks. "That's what you do to me. Every fucking day."

Daveson moaned, his head falling back against the wall as pleasure shot through him. "Leo..."

"Say it again." Leonard's mouth found his throat, lips and teeth marking a path down to his collar. "Say my name like that again."

"Leo," Daveson breathed, his hands sliding under Leonard's shirt, desperate to feel skin. "Please..."

Leonard captured his mouth again, swallowing his pleas as his hands roamed everywhere, sliding under Daveson's shirt, mapping the planes of his lean torso, thumbs brushing over sensitive nipples until Daveson was trembling in his arms.

"You're so beautiful," Leonard murmured between kisses, his voice rough with need. "So fucking perfect. I want to memorize every inch of you."

His hand slid lower, palming Daveson through his pants, and Daveson cried out at the contact. The sound echoed in the empty hallway, obscene and desperate.

"Shh," Leonard soothed, though his own breathing was ragged. "Someone might hear."

"I don't care," Daveson gasped, but Leonard's hand covered his mouth gently.

"I do. I'm not letting anyone interrupt this." Leonard's free hand worked at Daveson's belt, his movements practiced despite the urgency. "Not when I finally have you exactly where I want you."

Daveson's hands weren't idle either. He fumbled with Leonard's belt, needing to touch, needing to feel. When his fingers finally wrapped around Leonard's length through the thin fabric of his boxers, Leonard's hips jerked forward involuntarily.

"Fuck," Leonard hissed, his forehead dropping to Daveson's shoulder. "Dave, your hands..."

"You're so hard," Daveson marveled, his fingers exploring the impressive length and thickness of him. "So big, Leo. I can feel how much you want this."

Leonard's breath was coming in harsh pants now. "Want you. Only you. Been going crazy thinking about this."

He shifted their positions, supporting Daveson with one arm while his other hand slipped into Daveson's pants. The first touch of skin on skin made them both groan. Leonard's fingers wrapped around him, stroking slowly, deliberately, watching Daveson's face as pleasure washed over his features.

"Look at me," Leonard commanded softly. When Daveson's brown eyes met his, glazed with lust, Leonard smiled. "There you are. God, you're gorgeous like this. Falling apart for me."

"Only for you," Daveson admitted, the words escaping before he could stop them. His hand worked Leonard in tandem, matching his rhythm. "Only ever for you."

Something shifted in Leonard's expression—the hunger giving way to something softer, more vulnerable. "Dave, I—"

Footsteps. Distant but approaching.

They froze, eyes wide, reality crashing back in. Leonard carefully lowered Daveson to his feet, both of them frantically adjusting their clothes. Daveson's lips were swollen, his hair mussed, and there was a visible mark blooming on his throat where Leonard had sucked too hard.

"Shit," Leonard muttered, trying to smooth down Daveson's collar to hide the evidence. His own hair was a disaster, and his pants were doing a poor job of hiding his arousal. "The library. Now."

He grabbed Daveson's hand, practically dragging him down the hallway and into the massive Heyden library. The moment the heavy door clicked shut behind them, Leonard had Daveson pressed against it, their mouths meeting again with renewed urgency.

"Can't stop," Leonard gasped between kisses. "Can't fucking stop touching you."

"Don't," Daveson urged, his hands sliding down to grip Leonard's ass, pulling their hips together. The friction was exquisite torture. "Don't stop. Not yet."

Leonard walked them backward toward the large leather sofa in the corner, never breaking the kiss. When the back of his knees hit the furniture, he sat down heavily, pulling Daveson to straddle his lap.

This new position put them perfectly aligned, and Daveson couldn't help the moan that escaped as he ground down against Leonard's hardness. Leonard's hands gripped his hips, guiding his movements, creating a rhythm that had them both panting.

"Like this," Leonard encouraged, his voice wrecked. "Just like this, baby. Feel so good against me."

Daveson's hands found their way back under Leonard's shirt, nails raking lightly down his chest. Leonard shuddered beneath him, his hips jerking up to meet each roll of Daveson's body.

"Want to touch you properly," Daveson whispered against Leonard's ear. "Want to feel all of you."

"Yeah?" Leonard's hands moved to Daveson's shirt, unbuttoning it with surprising dexterity given how his fingers were shaking. "Want my hands on you? Want me to make you come apart?"

"Yes," Daveson hissed as Leonard's mouth found his chest, kissing and licking and biting at the sensitive skin. "God, yes."

Leonard's hands were everywhere, sliding up Daveson's back, thumbs brushing over nipples, fingers digging into the curve of his ass. It was overwhelming in the best way, like Leonard was trying to touch all of him at once, like he couldn't get enough.

"Wanted this for so long," Leonard confessed against his skin. "Every time you looked at me with those eyes, every time you got that little crease between your brows when you were concentrating... Wanted to kiss it away. Wanted to make you look at me like you are now."

"How am I looking at you?" Daveson managed, though thinking was becoming increasingly difficult with Leonard's hands and mouth doing such devastating things to him.

Leonard pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "Like I'm the only person in your world. Like nothing else matters."

The raw honesty in his voice made Daveson's chest tight. He cupped Leonard's face, thumbs tracing the sharp line of his cheekbones. "Right now, you are. Right now, nothing else does."

Leonard surged up to kiss him again, this time slower, deeper, pouring everything he couldn't say into the press of their lips. His hands slid to the small of Daveson's back, holding him close as their bodies moved together in an ancient rhythm.

"Leo," Daveson gasped, feeling the tension coiling tighter in his belly. "I'm close. I'm so close."

"Let go," Leonard urged, one hand moving between them to grip them both together through their clothes. The pressure was perfect, maddening. "Come for me, Dave. Want to feel you."

The combination of Leonard's touch, his voice, the heat of his body—it was too much. Daveson buried his face in Leonard's neck, muffling his cry as pleasure crashed over him in waves. Leonard followed moments later, his grip tightening on Daveson's hips as he shuddered through his release.

They stayed like that for long moments, wrapped around each other, breathing hard. Daveson's face was still buried in the crook of Leonard's neck, and he could feel Leonard's pulse racing beneath his lips.

"That was..." Leonard started, his voice hoarse.

"Yeah," Daveson agreed, not trusting himself to say more.

Leonard's fingers traced lazy patterns on Daveson's back, soothing and possessive at once. "Look at me," he said softly.

Daveson lifted his head reluctantly, afraid of what he might see in Leonard's eyes. But there was no regret there, no disgust, only satisfaction and something that looked dangerously like affection.

"Don't," Leonard said, as if reading his thoughts. "Don't start overthinking this. Don't start listing all the reasons why this can't happen."

"There are a lot of reasons," Daveson pointed out weakly.

"I don't care." Leonard's hand came up to cup his face, thumb brushing over his swollen lips. "I don't care about any of them right now. Right now, all I care about is that you're here, in my arms, looking thoroughly debauched and absolutely perfect."

Daveson couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips. "Debauched?"

"Completely." Leonard grinned, looking younger and more carefree than Daveson had ever seen him. "Your hair's a mess, you've got my mark on your throat, and if I'm not mistaken, you're going to need a change of clothes."

Daveson felt heat flood his cheeks. "You're one to talk."

"True." Leonard glanced down at himself and laughed. "We're a disaster. But fuck if I care."

He pulled Daveson down for another kiss, this one sweet and lingering. When they finally separated, Leonard rested his forehead against Daveson's.

"Stay with me tonight," he murmured. "Not in the guest quarters. In my room. In my bed."

Daveson's heart stuttered. "Leo..."

"I know it's risky. I know we have to be careful. But I need more than stolen moments in hallways and libraries. I need..." He trailed off, seeming to struggle with the words. "I need you, Dave. All of you. Even if it's just for one night."

Daveson should say no. Should maintain the distance, should remember his purpose here. But with Leonard looking at him like that, with the taste of him still on his lips and the warmth of him surrounding him, saying no felt impossible.

"Okay," he whispered. "Tonight."

Leonard's smile was brilliant. "Tonight," he echoed. Then his expression turned wicked. "But first, we both need showers. And probably some coffee, because I'm going to keep you up all night, Dave. Going to make you forget your own name."

A thrill ran down Daveson's spine at the promise in Leonard's voice. "Is that so?"

"That's a guarantee." Leonard's hands slid down to grip his ass again, pulling him flush against him. "Going to take my time with you. Going to learn what makes you moan, what makes you beg, what makes you scream my name."

"Leo," Daveson breathed, already feeling himself responding again despite having just found release.

"See? Already so responsive to me." Leonard nipped at his jaw. "Can't wait to discover what other sounds I can pull from you."

A knock on the library door made them both freeze. "Mr. Heyden?" A servant's voice called. "Your mother is looking for you. She says you have a conference call in ten minutes."

Leonard closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "Tell her I'll be there in five," he called back, his voice remarkably steady given the circumstances.

"Yes, sir."

They waited until the footsteps retreated before moving. Daveson climbed off Leonard's lap reluctantly, immediately missing the warmth and solidity of him.

"Tonight," Leonard reminded him, standing and trying to make himself presentable. It was a losing battle, his hair was hopelessly mussed and his lips were red from kissing. "Eight o'clock. My room. Don't make me come looking for you."

"I'll be there," Daveson promised.

Leonard caught his wrist as he moved toward the door, pulling him back for one more kiss. This one was slow and deep, full of promise.

"Tonight, Dave, you're mine.

SIX YEARS AGO

The apartment was darker than it should have been at three in the afternoon. Sixteen-year-old Roarke Daveson had stopped opening the curtains weeks ago. What was the point? Sunlight didn't make anything better. It just illuminated the emptiness, the decay, the slow dissolution of everything that had once been his life.

He sat on the threadbare couch, one of the few pieces of furniture left, staring at his phone. No new messages. No missed calls. His mother hadn't contacted him in five days. Before that, it had been three days. Before that, a week.

The pattern was clear. She was disappearing, piece by piece, slipping away like water through his fingers.

His stomach growled, a hollow ache that had become familiar. There was half a loaf of bread in the kitchen, some peanut butter that was probably expired. That would have to last until he got paid from his shift at the corner store tomorrow. Twelve dollars for six hours of work under the table, because no one wanted to officially hire a sixteen-year-old dropout.

Dropout. The word still stung.

He'd loved school. Had been good at it, even. Teachers had said he was smart, that he had potential. But potential didn't pay rent. Potential didn't buy food. So he'd left, quietly, without telling anyone, and started working whatever jobs would take him.

His phone buzzed, making him jump. A text from his mother: Won't be home tonight. Maybe not tomorrow either. There's money in the drawer.

There was never money in the drawer.

Daveson, he'd started going by his middle name after his father died, unable to bear hearing "Roarke" because it sounded too much like his father's name, typed out a response: When are you coming back?

The three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Then: I don't know, baby. I'm sorry. I just can't be there right now.

Can't be there. As if the apartment was the problem. As if the walls themselves were what was unbearable, and not the crushing weight of grief and loss that had swallowed them both whole.

He wanted to type back something cruel, something that would make her hurt the way he was hurting. Instead, he wrote: Okay. Be safe.

She didn't respond.

Daveson set the phone down and walked to his father's room, their room, technically, but his mother hadn't slept there since the funeral. The door creaked as he pushed it open, revealing a space frozen in time. His mother hadn't touched anything. Hadn't packed away his father's clothes, hadn't cleared the nightstand of his reading glasses and the mystery novel he'd been halfway through before his arrest.

It was like a shrine to a ghost.

Daveson had been avoiding this room, but desperation had brought him here. There had to be something, anything, that could explain what had happened. His father had been a good man. Everyone had said so. Neighbors, coworkers, friends. Roarke Mark had been honest, hardworking, devoted to his family.

And then, overnight, he'd become a criminal.

The arrest had been brutal in its efficiency. Their tenth wedding anniversary party, his parents laughing and dancing in their small living room while Daveson watched from the kitchen, smiling at how happy they were. And then the knock on the door. The flash of badges. The cold reading of rights.

Roarke Mark, you're under arrest for embezzlement, fraud, and conspiracy to commit financial crimes.

His father's face had gone white. "There's been a mistake," he'd said, his voice steady despite the fear in his eyes. "I haven't done anything wrong."

But they'd taken him anyway. Handcuffed him in front of his wife and son, led him out while neighbors watched from their doorways, while his mother sobbed, while Daveson stood frozen, unable to process what was happening.

The trial had been swift. The evidence overwhelming. Bank records showing massive transfers. Falsified documents with his father's signature. Testimony from coworkers who claimed to have seen suspicious behavior. His father's lawyer, a public defender who looked exhausted before the trial even began, had tried his best, but it hadn't mattered.

Two years in federal prison.

Daveson had visited when he could, taking three buses to get to the facility, sitting across from his father in a room full of other broken families. His father had aged a decade in months. The vibrant, confident man he'd known had been replaced by someone hollow, someone haunted.

"I didn't do it, son," his father had said during that last visit, gripping Daveson's hand across the table. "I swear to you, I didn't do any of it. But no one will listen. No one cares about the truth."

"I believe you, Dad," Daveson had whispered, his throat tight. "I'll always believe you."

Three months later, his father had been released on appeal. New evidence had come to light, or so the lawyer had said. The charges were being reviewed. There was hope, finally, after two years of darkness.

Daveson had gone to the courthouse steps to meet him, his heart soaring with a joy he hadn't felt since before the arrest. His father had walked out into the sunlight, blinking like someone emerging from a cave, his face breaking into a smile when he saw Daveson waiting.

"Hey, kiddo," he'd said, opening his arms.

Daveson had run to him, and for one perfect moment, everything had been okay again.

Then his father had stumbled. His hand had gone to his chest. His face had contorted in pain.

"Dad?" Daveson had caught him as he fell, his father's weight suddenly too heavy, too real. "Dad! Someone help! Please!"

The ambulance. He was rushed to the hospital. The doctor's grim face. The flatline sound that had echoed in Daveson's nightmares ever since.

Massive cardiac arrest. His heart just... gave out. I'm so sorry.

Now, standing in his father's room, Daveson felt that same helpless rage that had consumed him in the hospital. It wasn't fair. None of it was fair. His father had been innocent, and he'd died anyway. Had died thinking he was a criminal, that the world believed he was a thief.

Daveson moved to the closet, pulling down boxes from the top shelf. His father had kept meticulous records of everything, receipts, documents, letters. Somewhere in here had to be an answer.

The first box was full of work documents. Performance reviews, all glowing. Commendations. A bonus letter from five years ago, praising his father's dedication to Heyden Industries.

Heyden Industries. The ink production company where his father had worked for nearly fifteen years, climbing from entry-level accountant to senior financial analyst. He'd loved that job, had talked about it at dinner, excited about new contracts and expansion plans.

Daveson dug deeper, finding his father's personal notes. Ledgers filled with numbers in his careful handwriting. And then, tucked at the bottom of the box, a flash drive with a sticky note attached: Original records - backup.

His hands shook as he pulled out his old laptop, one of the few things that hadn't been sold, and plugged in the drive.

The files opened, revealing spreadsheets dating back years. Daveson wasn't an accountant, didn't understand half of what he was looking at, but even he could see the discrepancies. Highlighted cells. Notes in the margins in his father's handwriting: Doesn't match company records. Where did this money go? Need to investigate further.

There were dozens of flagged transactions. Millions of dollars, moving through accounts that shouldn't exist, disappearing into offshore holdings. And every single one of them had been signed off by the same person.

L. Heyden.

Daveson stared at the initials, his heart pounding. He opened another file, this one a scanned letter. His father's handwriting, but never sent.

To whom it may concern:

I am writing to report serious financial irregularities at Heyden Industries. As a senior financial analyst, I have discovered evidence of systematic embezzlement and fraud occurring at the highest levels of the company...

The letter went on, detailing everything his father had found. The offshore accounts. The falsified records. The money laundering scheme that had been operating for years. And at the center of it all: Lissa Heyden, CEO and majority shareholder.

Daveson's breath caught. His father had known. Had discovered the truth. And instead of being able to report it, he'd been framed for the very crimes he'd been trying to expose.

He kept digging, finding more evidence. Emails his father had saved, carefully documenting his attempts to go through proper channels. A meeting with the company's internal auditor that had been mysteriously canceled. A scheduled appointment with the SEC that his father never made it to because he'd been arrested the night before.

The timeline was damning. Lissa Heyden had known what his father had discovered, and she'd destroyed him to protect herself.

Daveson found one more document, a draft of a letter addressed to him.

Daveson,

If you're reading this, then something has happened to me. I'm writing this because I'm scared, son. I've discovered something terrible, and I don't know who I can trust anymore.

I work for Lissa Heyden at Heyden Industries. She's one of the most powerful women in New York, brilliant, charming, ruthless. Everyone loves her. She's on magazine covers, she does charity work, she's considered a role model for women in business.

But it's all a lie.

She's been stealing from her own company for years. Millions of dollars funneled through shell corporations and offshore accounts. She's good at it too, the paperwork is nearly perfect. If I hadn't been reviewing records going back five years for an audit, I never would have caught it.

I tried to do the right thing. I tried to report it quietly, through proper channels. But every door I knock on seems to close before I can get through. I think she has people in her pocket, auditors, lawyers, maybe even law enforcement.

I'm going to keep trying, but I want you to know the truth in case something goes wrong. I love you and your mother more than anything in this world. Everything I do, I do to protect you both.

If something happens to me, please don't try to fight her. She's too powerful, too connected. Just live your life, be happy, and know that your father loved you.

Dad

Daveson's hands were shaking so badly he nearly dropped the laptop. Tears blurred his vision, hot and angry, spilling down his cheeks as the full weight of what had happened crashed over him.

His father had tried to do the right thing. Had tried to expose corruption, to seek justice.

The rage that filled Daveson in that moment was unlike anything he'd ever felt. It burned through his grief, his fear, his helplessness, leaving behind something hard and cold and unbreakable.

Don't try to fight her, his father had written.

But his father was dead. And Daveson had nothing left to lose.