Blood Claim Laura Mykles (best classic novels txt) 📖

The man's intense stare seemed to transmit a new message, one that sent a thrill of excitement straight to Hunter's groin. Hunter impulsively let lust take control of the moment. “Yeah, I was, maybe, hoping it would."

The man's eyelids suddenly dropped to a sultry half-mast, and his nostrils flared, making Hunter wonder if he could smell his arousal, too. The whole imagined fantasy was enough to make his cock unfurl from the partially hard state it had retreated to during the walk to the diner. It forced him to shift in his seat to make more room in his jeans for it. Warmth rushed through his veins, heating his skin. He shed his jacket and scarf, letting them fall around his shoulders and down into the booth seat, fingers returning to the camera to toy with its levers and buttons.

"Do I get to know your name?” He looked up from the camera to capture the man's unwavering gaze.

The man's expression of firm reserve never altered, but his voice had just the slightest touch of surrender in it, as if he didn't give out the information entirely willingly. “Malcolm Crane."

Hunter wasn't surprised. It was strong and bold, just like the man. “Nice. It fits you."

"And you prefer to be called...?"

"Hunter. Hunter Pray.” He held Malcolm's stare for a moment, then added, “But I think you know that already, Mr. Crane."

"One's name and what one wants to be called can be two different things. For example, you may call me Malcolm."

"Okay. Malcolm."

"Your name fits you as well—a challenge, a worthy opponent to be stalked and, eventually, claimed.” Something dark and unnamed flashed in Malcolm's eyes. Hunter's cock jumped, and his heartbeat pounded in his ears as Malcolm added, “Pray for the prey?"

"I don't pray anymore. Not since my parents died."

The dark look didn't fade from his stormy gray eyes. “Death is a natural part of living."

"True, but theirs came before their time."

"How so?"

"They were killed in a riot in a small, backward Romanian village where they were documenting atrocities in a local power struggle.” Hunter took a deep breath, his fingers traveling over the camera, adjusting the lens and hitting the shutter lever as he turned the camera every angle he could while snapping pictures. He realized what he was doing only when a large, cool hand closed over his where it held the camera and stopped him from spinning the device. Staring into the man's unflinching, uncaring eyes, he let the shutter close three more time, aimed directly at Malcolm, before he stilled. “Nervous habit. Sorry."

"It is of no consequence.” It was a short sentence, but it had an ominous ring to it. The grip on his hand was strong and commanding, and it didn't leave when Hunter stopped playing with the camera. The power in the mere touch was amazing. It sent a shiver down his spine he knew Malcolm could feel through their joined hands.

A waitress appeared, two empty mugs in one hand, a pot of steaming black brew in the other. At a nod of thanks from Hunter, she set a mug in front of each man and filled them. Malcolm pinned her in place with a look, made an abbreviated, half-wave at her, and she turned hurriedly away without asking if they wanted anything more.

Hunter shot Malcolm a disappointed glare, but then decided the conversation was dampening his appetite. For food, anyway.

"You were left alone?” The hand finally slipped off of his. Hunter took a deep breath, relieved, even if a small part of him ached over the loss of contact.

"Yeah. The only child of two only children.” Hunter took a sip of the steaming coffee, gaze dropping into the swirling dark brown depths, memories rushing in and making his eyes brim. It had been ages since he'd felt the urge to cry over his parents’ deaths, but something about this man made the hurt of their loss feel fresh again. “It was an ugly death. They were attacked with axes and shovels. I only saw the pictures, but it wasn't pretty. Their bodies were shipped home, but only my mother's arrived. Backward province. Poor records. They said they lost my father's body before it was shipped It's never been recovered.” He took another quick sip of the hot liquid to refocus his thoughts and drive back the ache of loss. “That was a few years ago, my freshman year in college. It was the first time I wasn't on assignment with them since I was eight.” Regret crept into his voice. “If I'd been there, I might have been able to help."

"Or maybe you'd be dead as well.” There it was again. That disturbing way Malcolm had of bringing danger and death aimed at Hunter back into the conversation.

"Maybe.” He shook off the uncharacteristic melancholy and found the courage to look directly at Malcolm again. “My dad's motto was flee and stay free. I'm more of the confront and confirm type. Meet danger head on. Roll the dice and take my chances. Winner takes all."

Feeling bolder, he stared at Malcolm, but something cold and frightening turned the man's eyes a darker shade of gray, and Hunter swore a ring of blood red now encircled the gray irises.

A shiver that had nothing to do with sexual interest slithered down his spine, and the urge to continue flirting with the man faded away, held in check by a sudden sense of self-preservation.

"I probably taunt danger more often than I should.” Cradling his camera, Hunter made a move to slide out of the booth, but Malcolm didn't budge. They shared a long, silent stare until Hunter realized his jaw was trembling.

Fear and attraction had always made for an intriguingly powerful sexual response for him, but the fear and attraction had never been in the same object of his sexual interest. Usually it was a setting of unrest or turmoil that created the fear, and Hunter would find a compatible soul in the chaos with whom to share