"Thanks for the coffee, but I think it's best if I go now. I ... I guess I'm freaked out by the car crash thing. I'm not going to be good company tonight.” Without another word, he pulled himself to a standing position on the booth seat and hopped over its high back into the next unoccupied booth.
Camera clutched to his chest with one hand and his coat in the other, he headed for the door without looking back. He didn't even stop when his scarf slipped from his grip, snagged on an empty chair as he barreled out of the diner onto the sidewalk. He was almost a block away when he realized he was still holding his breath. The last war zone he'd visited hadn't felt this dangerous.
* * * *
There was no sign Malcolm had followed him, but Hunter put the chain on the apartment door and slid the deadbolt into place as soon as the steel door closed behind him. He leaned against the cool, solid surface, the palms of both hands flat on the smooth metal. He found himself comparing the chill of the hard steel with touch of Malcolm's hand. The flesh had the same sense of solid strength as well as the smooth coolness. A flash of desire bolted through him, but he used the accompanying burst of fight-or-flight, fear-fueled adrenaline to push it away. This time his fear and desire were too entwined for him. A dangerous setting wasn't the same as a dangerous suitor.
Logically, there was no reason why a man like Malcolm Crane would be stalking him. By the cut and quality of Malcolm's clothing and his rock-solid self-confidence, the man was very successful at whatever it was he did and was used to having the finest things life had to offer. Why he was interested in Hunter remained known only to Malcolm. But Hunter felt sure Malcolm wanted him and especially him.
With a deep sigh of regret drawn through dry, pursed lips, Hunter backed away from the door, carefully setting his camera on the small desk by the entryway. He tossed his coat over one end of the sofa, losing a moment to a fruitless search for his scarf before he remembered leaving it dangling off a diner chair in his haste to put space between his impulsive libido and Malcolm.
It had been his father's scarf, one of the few treasures he'd kept and continued to use over the years. His mother had knit it using varied shades of blue and green to remind them of a particularly pleasant assignment in Northern Ireland. The blue of ocean and green of the traditional shamrocks highlighted his father's eyes and fawn-colored hair, just as they did Hunter's. Cursing himself for leaving it behind, he made a mental note to go back to the diner in the morning to try to reclaim it.
The adrenaline rush that had fueled his exit from the diner and his rapid trip home began to ebb. Lethargy crept into his muscles, and the crisp sheets and cool night breeze of his bedroom called to him, his fears fading in the familiar security of home.
He stripped as he walked, gathering the discarded items over one shoulder until he was completely naked by the time he entered the bath off his bedroom. A breeze gently blew in from the open window. Hunter inhaled the fresh night air, letting the familiar scents ease his rattled nerves.
Dropping everything but his jeans into an open hamper inside the door, he then moved to the curtained shower and adjusted the water temperature. Billowing waves of white steam filled the room, chasing away some of his lingering chill from earlier.
He stepped under the stream of water, relaxing into its soothing heat, letting the streams pulse hard against his flesh. The sound of the water filled his ears. He let the splashing beat invade his mind, blocking out everything else, including thought. Bowing his head, Hunter let the spray pound across his neck and between his shoulders, acutely aware of the rivers of cooling water that ran along his spine into the crease between his asscheeks and trickled around his ribs to the vee of his groin. Eyes closed and mind lost in the fog of steamy relaxation, he imagined the trail of running water to be a lover's touch, wet fingertips or, better yet, a moist tongue exploring his body.
Frustrated with the earlier rampant, yet ultimately unfulfilled sexual tensions, his cock jumped to full attention at the first slippery touch of his soap-lathered hand. Swollen and heavy, the circumcised shaft jutted up and away from his abdomen, a respectable seven inches, slender, but firm like the rest of his body. It was a shade darker than his abdomen, the head dusky pink. Its length was ribbed with veins that stood out close to the surface, like supporting steel cables pulled taunt along the structure.
His balls hung close to the base of his shaft, compact and unevenly suspended in their lightly furred sac of wrinkled flesh. They were very sensitive to touch, even more so than any of his lovers’ sacs had seemed to be, especially the thin strip of flesh directly behind them. A slippery touch, a wet kiss, or just a bit of the right kind of pressure, and sufficiently aroused, he had more than once reached orgasm from that alone.
He fingered the sac, bringing it forward, feeling it tighten as the pulling caused a delicious pressure to tug at the sensitive skin behind it. He clenched his ass to still the immediate fluttering at his opening, his body begging for attention.
Rubbing two soaped fingers over the delicate strip, he fisted his cock with his other hand, sighing at the satiny smoothness of lather and hard flesh. Warm,
