“Look at you,” I murmur, tucking myself back into my pants. “You’re fucking dripping.”
Before Elliot can respond, Xavier’s voice cuts through the moment.
“Run fast, angel,” he commands his prey, giving her a sharp slap on the ass as she scrambles to her feet. “Make it interesting for me.”
The woman doesn’t need to be told twice. She bolts from the room, leaving Xavier looking satisfied and Elliot and me alone.
Elliot seems to suddenly remember where we are. The fog of lust clears from his eyes, replaced by shame as he hastily rises to his feet. He yanks his pants up, not even bothering to wipe the mixture of saliva and cum from his chin.
“That was uncalled for,” he mutters, refusing to meet my eyes as he fastens his belt. “We don’t even know if all the girls are taken yet.”
I step closer, invading his space in the way I’ve noticed makes him nervous and hard simultaneously. “Uncalled for? That was goddamn beautiful, Elliot.” I run my thumb across his lower lip, still swollen from my cock. “And I can’t wait to do more.”
His pupils dilate despite his frown. “I’m leaving,” he says firmly, pulling his mask back over his face and stepping back.
I smile, feeling the predator in me rise to the challenge. “I’ll chase.”
The irony isn’t lost on me. Elliot came here as a hunter, and now he’s become the hunted.
Elliot shoves me back, his face flushed and eyes wild beneath his mask. “You’re being a fucking asshole, Julian.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture that somehow makes me harder. “I’m a hunter, just like you. That’s why I’m here tonight. You can’t hunt me.”
I laugh, the sound echoing in the empty corridor. “I can hunt whatever prey I choose, Elliot. And right now, that’s you.”
“No.” He straightens his shoulders. “That’s not how this works. There are rules?—”
“Rules?” I step closer, backing him against the wall. “The only rule that matters is power. Who has it, who doesn’t. Right now, I have it.” I press my palm against his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath the fabric of his shirt. “And we both know you want me to use it on you.”
“Fuck you,” he spits, but doesn’t move away.
When he tries to shove past me, I catch his wrist, pinning him against the wall with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs. He struggles against my grip, but I hold his wrists above his head, my body pressed flush against his.
“Stop fighting what you want,” I growl into his ear.
He bucks against me, the movement bringing our erections into perfect alignment. Even through our pants, the friction is exquisite. His breath hitches, and I can feel his cock twitch against mine.
“This doesn’t make me—” he starts, but I cut him off by grinding against him deliberately.
“Doesn’t make you what? Gay? A submissive? A man who gets hard when another man pins him down?” I rotate my hips slowly, watching his eyes roll back. “Your cock is telling a different story, Elliot.”
His struggles become less convincing, more like an excuse to create friction between us. I release one of his wrists to grab his jaw, forcing him to look at me.
“Here’s how this is going to work. You’re going to run, and I’m going to hunt you. If you don’t...” I press harder against him, making my intention clear. “You’ll have my cock in your ass within minutes. Your choice.”
There’s something different in his eyes now—a shift from shame to defiance that I didn’t expect.
“Good luck with that, Julian,” he says, voice steady despite the flush still coloring his cheeks. “I’m not prey, and I’m certainly not being hunted.”
I release his wrists and nod to the corridor. “Run for me like a good boy.”
He turns his back to me—a deliberate insult—and walks toward the exit with measured steps. His posture is rigid, shoulders squared, the picture of forced composure.
“You’d better run, Elliot!” I call after him, my voice echoing through the corridor. “Or that pretty virgin ass will be split open before you can say Hollow’s Hunt.”
He hesitates for just a heartbeat—a slight hitch in his step that betrays him—before continuing out the door without looking back. The slight tremble in his shoulders tells me everything I need to know.
I don’t chase immediately. Instead, I lean against the wall, adjusting myself through my pants as I savor the moment. There’s something delicious about watching him walk away, about giving him the illusion of escape.
The Hunt has always been about women, about the primal thrill of pursuit and conquest. But this—hunting another hunter, one who’s spent his entire life denying who he truly is—this is an entirely different game. Far more satisfying.