But there’s something enticing about Elliot—the contradiction between his public persona and what lurks beneath. The careful way he’s constructed his image: successful art dealer, discerning collector, paragon of sophisticated masculinity. Yet beneath those expensive clothes, his body tells a different story. I’ve caught glimpses in the gym we both frequent—the tattoos crawling up his arms and across his chest, raw artwork on a man who trades in refinement.
What intrigues me most is the submission I sense in him—not weakness, but a natural inclination to yield that he fights at every turn. I wonder if anyone has ever offered him a haven for surrender, so he can let go of the exhausting performance he is giving.
I adjust myself discreetly, trying to ignore the ache between my legs. The fantasy of Elliot on his knees, his features breaking apart in pleasure as I take what he’s never admitted to wanting—it’s potent.
I swirl the remaining amber liquid in my glass, watching it catch the light. My gaze drifts across Purgatory’s main floor, taking in the usual pageantry of the Hunt’s preliminary gatherings. Women display themselves like exotic birds, although this years prey aren’t here. These women wish they were participants. Men prowl, establishing dominance before the real chase begins. It provides a pre-hunt psychological calibration for the Hunters as well as the opportunity to size up the competition.
The Hunt has always been about the thrill of the chase.
But tonight, something’s shifted.
My eyes find Elliot again, watching how he composes himself at the bar, shoulders rigid beneath his tailored jacket. He orders another drink, downing half of it immediately. Rattled because of me.
And for once, I’m wondering if missing out on prey during the Hunt might be exactly what I want this year. Maybe I’ll hunt the hunter instead.
The idea settles in my mind with a stroke of fortuitous genius. Elliot Chambers presents a challenge far more intriguing than any woman the Blackwoods might parade before us.
Breaking through those walls, watching him struggle against desires he’s buried for a long time, forcing him to acknowledge what he truly wants... The satisfaction would eclipse any fleeting pleasure from the usual game.
Women during the Hunt expect pursuit. They understand the rules and prepare for them. But Elliot—he’d resist at every turn, fighting himself more fiercely than he’d fight me. His surrender, when it finally came, would be absolute.
I imagine finding him alone during the Hunt, cornering him, and watching realization dawn in those eyes when he understands he’s become my target.
My cock stiffens at the thought, and I adjust my stance casually, allowing myself to savor the building anticipation.
Yes, this Hunt will be different. Let the others chase their designated quarry. I’ve identified a far more satisfying prize.
3
ELLIOT
Islam the door to my apartment, yanking off my tie like it’s strangling me. Goddamn Julian Frost. His words echo in my head, explicit and invasive, refusing to leave me in peace.
The shower doesn’t help. Neither does the whiskey—two fingers, then four. I pace my living room, hard and aching in my boxers, furious at my cock’s betrayal.
“Fuck this,” I mutter, grabbing my phone.
I’ve always been careful. Disciplined. Theo Winters is the only exception I’ve allowed myself—a fantasy contained because I never act on it. He’s beautiful in that untamed, artistic way. His proclivities unabashed, openly gay and living his truth regardless of anyone’s opinion. Safe to admire from a distance.
But Julian? Julian Frost. His name carries weight in Ravenwood—the king of finance, they call him. Old money wrapped in newer ventures. Investment banking by day, the Blackwood empire's financial architect by night. That cold, calculating bastard with his perfectly tailored suits and knowing smirk? Never gave him a second thought until tonight, until he pinned me with those ice-blue eyes and described in excruciating detail exactly what he’d do to me.
My thumb hovers over Instagram before I redirect to the Purgatory website. Their members’ section has photos from previous events. My password grants access to a world I visit but never fully immerse myself in.
Julian appears in the third gallery. He’s leaning against the bar, dark hair swept back, expression coolly amused as he surveys the room. Another shows him in conversation with Xavier Blackwood, head tilted in that way he has—attentive but slightly condescending.
I scroll further, breath catching at a candid shot. Julian, with his jacket off and sleeves rolled up, revealed forearms corded with lean muscle. His shirt pulls across his chest as he reaches for something.
My hand slides down my stomach, slipping beneath my boxers. I’m already leaking, desperate for relief. I settle onto my couch, letting my mind wander through every intimate detail of what my body craves.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I tell the empty room.
But as I stroke, it’s not Theo I picture. It’s Julian’s mouth forming those filthy words. Julian’s hands replace mine, his weight pinning me down, taking control, forcing me to admit who I really am.
I grip myself harder, surrendering to the fantasy now consuming me. I imagine Julian pushing me against a wall, his breath hot on my neck. “You know you want this,” he’d whisper, voice confident.
In my mind, his hands are everywhere—sliding down my back, gripping my ass, spreading me open. I imagine him forcing me to bend over, my hands braced against the wall, completely at his mercy.
“Fuck,” I groan, stroking faster.