Page 3 of Hurting Hunter
Hunter stood there, caught in Ethan’s gaze, feeling like a deer in the headlights. The recognition in the detective’s eyes was unmistakable.There was a flicker of something—surprise, confusion, maybe even the echo of the same inexplicable attractionHunter felt.
The intensity of the moment held Hunter captive, his instincts screaming at him to move, to break the connection and flee from the complications that Ethan Stephenson represented. Yet, he remained rooted to the spot, trapped in the gravitational pull of Ethan’s gaze.
That perfect face tilted, and an eyebrow lifted in a challenge. Ethan lifted his right hand with the palm up and crooked his index finger.
Well, fuck indeed.
Chapter 3
Hunter stood frozen, his breath heavy in the shadows of Thorns & Roses, the pulse of music and the low murmur of voices fading to a dull background hum. The air around him felt thick, charged with an energy that drew his gaze irresistibly to Ethan. There, beneath the shifting lights, the detective’s crooked finger beckoned, his smirk wicked, his eyes alight with a challenge that dared him.
Torn between the instinct to run and the pull of that provocative invitation, Hunter felt the weight of a thousand moments like this—times when the safer path was clear, but the danger held a magnetic allure he couldn’t resist. He was a man of action, yet here he stood immobile and gaping like a moron.
His heart thumped painfully against his ribcage, and longing and lust twisted his gut. He longed for a connection that went beyond the physical—a deep, almost desperate yearning to understand and be understood by someone who seemed to stand on the other side of an invisible line.
Hunter’s fingers twitched at his side, and he absently rubbed a palm over his upper legs. Both his chest and his groin ached and pulsed. It was a craving for something more, something deeper, that he hadn’t even allowed himself to fully acknowledge until now. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking deep, steadying breaths as he tried to calm the storm of emotions raging inside him.
When he opened them again, his gaze met Ethan’s in a look filled with an intensity that sent shivers down his spine. It was a visceral need that made his body react in ways he couldn’t control. His skin tingled, his chest fluttered, and every nerve seemed to fire all at once.
Hunter’s gaze drifted over Ethan’s form, noting the way the detective’s shirt hugged his broad shoulders and the slight opening at the collar that invited a trail of touches. The urge to explore, to press himself against the other man and feel their bodies respond to each other was overwhelming. His lips parted as he fought the urge to close the distance between them.
Mental responses flickered through Hunter’s mind, thoughts tuning out everything but the man in front of him. His fantasies, once safely locked away, now played at the edges of his consciousness, images of tangled limbs and whispered sighs swirling in a dance of desire and submission.
His body ached with need. The urge to reach out, to bridge the gap and feel the heat of Ethan’s skin beneath his fingers, was almost painful in its intensity. Hunter’s gaze lingered on Ethan’s lips, then trailed down to the detective’s strong hands.
Yet, as the internal battle raged, he stayed immobile. His longing turned inward, his thoughts obsessively circling around the possibility of what could be. His breaths came in short, rapid bursts. Every muscle tensed, ready to act, to lunge forward and answer that crooked finger’s silent summons. But he remained rooted, a man caught between his instincts and the unknown.
Then, without a conscious decision, as if his body knew what his mind dared not admit, Hunter stepped forward. His stride was purposeful, yet heavy with hesitation. The club’s atmosphere wrapped around him like a cloak.
As he reached Ethan, Hunter felt the detective’s heat, the magnetic pull of his presence. He was close enough now to catch the faint scent of Ethan’s cologne, a mix of spice and something darker that made his head swim. His eyes locked onto Ethan’s, and in that gaze, Hunter saw not just a challenge but an unspoken promise of what the night could hold.
His voice, when he finally spoke, was a rough whisper, laden with the weight of his longing and the heat of his desire. "Stephenson," he managed.
Ethan’s smirk widened, and his eyes—normally obscured by sunglasses—gleamed with a carnal promise. "Crosscut," he replied. His voice was a low drawl that stroked over Hunter’s skin, igniting a fire that threatened to consume him.
The tension between them was electric, a current that flowed and crackled in the charged air. In this moment, He was no longer the man who contemplated running; he was the fool who had stepped into the fire, willingly surrendering to the flames.
Widening his stance to make room for his cock, Ethan prolonged the eye contact and waited for Hunter to make his decision. Their gazes locked, unflinching and intense. Ethan could feel the pulse of the club around him, the air thick with anticipation, but none of that mattered. All that existed for him in that stretched-out moment was the man standing before him—Hunter "Crosscut" Maddox.
He knew Hunter as a shadow on the edge of his professional world, a figure wrapped in rumors and the occasional glimpse from afar. Ethan had built a profile of him in his mind: the vice president of the Emerald City Overdrive MC, bound by brotherhood and the unwritten laws of the biker world. He’d never expected Hunter to venture outside his territory, figuring the famous ECO club parties held enough sex and booze to entertain a man like him.
The surprise of seeing him here had thrown Ethan off-balance initially. But now, as he stood watching the biker deliberate, a thrill ran through him. There was something raw and undeniably sexy about the way Hunter moved, the way his eyes held a storm of thoughts just beneath the surface. But given the way Hunter’s gaze ate up Ethan, and his own reaction to the attention gave a hint of what might have made Crosscut seek pleasure outside his realm: his interest in other men.
Ethan's training taught him to read people and to seek beyond the façade they presented to the world. And right now, every line of Hunter's body spoke of a tumultuous battle within. The man was a fortress of muscle and resolve, yet there was the subtle tension of his jaw and the slight narrowing of his eyes.
The unshakeable vice president was wrestling with a decision that clearly went against his instincts. Ethan found himself fascinated, caught up in the play of emotions across Hunter's face. He watched as Hunter's throat worked, as if he were swallowing doubts that threatened to choke him.
Ethan's own heart pounded with a mix of adrenaline and something deeper, more compelling. As the seconds ticked by, the music and the chatter of the club faded to a dull roar behind the blood rushing in his ears. Ethan stood motionless, not wanting to disrupt the delicate balance of the moment. He needed Hunter to make the next move, to choose his path.
With a resolution that seemed to pull the air from the room, Hunter stepped forward, closing the distance between them with a determination that sent a shiver down Ethan's spine.
The shift in dynamics was immediate and intoxicating. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Here was the biker, stepping into his world.
The realization was a rush. A flood of excitement blurred the edges of his vision. As Hunter halted, they stood inches apart, and the rest of the club seemed to vanish.
“Maddox.” Ethan inclined his head, searching for words. Finally, he settled on, “What do you need?”
The biker blinked as if processing the question. Then he admitted, “I want you to have the control. Hold me still, grip my wrists, mark me, and fuck me raw like you own me.”
