The last thing he wanted to think about right now was a menacing man who seemed to be stalking him and who made gooseflesh break out on his skin.
Yet Malcolm Crane, malevolent, ghostly pale, and intensely unnerving, was the only thing he could visualize, no matter how hard he fought it. As scary as Malcolm was, his pale, alabaster skin gave him a classic physical attractiveness. He radiated a raw sensuality and possessed an intriguingly dangerous quality Hunter had always found exceedingly appealing. Add the unexpected mystery of Malcolm's failure to appear in the first set of photos or in the diner window reflection, and Hunter was hopelessly entranced with the man, stalker attitude be damned. So, gooseflesh or not, head bent under the pulsing spray and body supported by one hand on the wall in front of him, Malcolm Crane was the face Hunter saw behind his closed eyes. His hand stroked and tugged, but Malcolm's large, cool hands were the hands he imagined. He gripped his cock firmly, almost roughly, the way he imagined the imposing man would do, occasionally rubbing a slippery palm over the swollen head, mixing pearls of creamy white pre-cum with larger dollops of bright white soap.
He formed a ring of index finger and thumb around the shaft and moved it slowly up and down in the slick coating of soap gel, letting his mind envision Malcolm's face at his groin and his pale, thin lips sliding up and down his cock. He increased the pressure so that the corona of the tip had to be dragged through the tight ring of his hand. Each upward pass made the supersensitive skin under the bulbous edge tingle and burn.
His asshole winked, his cheeks clenched hard, both searching for the long, thick monster of a cock Hunter imagined Malcolm possessed under those immaculately tailored trousers. Having experienced Malcolm's erection pressing against his body in the park, he tried to replay the incident in his head, savoring the feeling of the hard shaft. His leg tingled at the memory. His cock jumped, and flashes of heat infused his abdomen and limbs, fueled by the subconscious memory of at least nine heavy inches of thick fullness jabbing into his body as he lay under the fallen Malcolm.
Hunter groaned out loud, his own panting breath rasping in his ears over the pulsing water. He felt his knee weaken, the visual so real he had to stop himself from reaching down to tangle his hand in the short brush of hair on Malcolm's head.
Leaning his head against the wall to free his other hand, Hunter rested his weight on his forehead, shivering as the pulsing spray moved to stream harder into the small of his back and channel a river between his cheeks. He used one hand to part the globes of his ass, letting the trickle tease his opening before he reached under and between his spread legs to plunge two suds-covered fingers into his body. Placing his thumb behind his sac, he stroked over the sensitive spot, pressing just hard enough to make his eyes water. His balls jerked up the last centimeter as he twisted the two fingers jabbing deep into his ass. The memory of Malcolm's piercing gaze rippled through him, as did the memory of the other's tongue running over his lips. He sucked on his lower lip, hoping to reclaim the taste.
Electric bolts of pleasure shot out from the pit of his abdomen and groin, setting fire to his entire body. Gooseflesh prickled his skin. His knees locked, his asshole spasmed in a burning grip, and his eyes clenched tight while a strained litany of “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Jesus, Malcolm, fffffffffuck!" poured from his panting lips. Opal threads of cum spurted from his cock and were instantly washed away.
Hunter slumped against the shower wall, tired fingers hurriedly finding new purchase on the tile surface to keep him upright. He felt drained and shaky, the orgasm one of the fastest and most powerful he'd experienced in ages. It left him weak-kneed and gasping. He was astonished by strange flashes of Malcolm's intense, victorious stare and wickedly satisfied smile, flashes so vivid that they seemed real.
His abandoned opening fluttered and burned, unsatisfied and still eager for more, fuller attention. Even his cock had only marginally softened. A knotted blaze of unleashed desire glowed and flared in the pit of his abdomen, making him squirm and gasp. His skin was hypersensitive to every touch as he rinsed the remaining soap away and stepped out of the shower.
Waves of gooseflesh broke out again. Hunter cursed under his breath and dried off, hurriedly toweling his hair into a tousled, but no longer dripping, mess. He tumbled into just his worn jeans, leaving them partially unbuttoned in his haste to leave the haunting visions behind, hoping they would disappear along with the fading mist of the shower.
He strode out into the hallway and sped through to the living room to retrieve his camera. It sat waiting for him on the stand, its single, all-seeing eye staring at him as he paced barefoot and flushed across the room. Despite the cool air from the bedroom, Hunter found the air thick and unusually still, like his hearing had become suddenly muffled.
A quick scan of the room revealed nothing unusual. His coat lay on the end of the couch, the same mail lay on the table by the camera where he had dropped it earlier, and the chain and deadbolt were still securely latched. Even so, he had a nagging sense of something being out of place. He turned the knob on the twin lamp sitting on the side table, snapping its second bulb on. The whole area brightened.
He searched the room a second time, but the lure of the new photographs he had snapped of Malcolm
