CHAPTER 2: "YOU ASKED FOR IT"

Hunter

Want you? 

I crave for you. I’ve been craving for you. And you didn’t even know when that started. The moment you became a different person to me. 

Fuck, I wished it never happened. 

I noticed. Everything. And then, I couldn’t stop wondering. 

That full, round swell of your breasts. How would they look in my palms; how soft and warm would they be against my bare skin, on my bare lips?

That alluring curve… from the waist of your oversized Tee down to the hips of those ugly man pants you defended for comfort… would it fit perfectly if I were to claim the breadth of your shoulders and hug you tight, declaring you mine?

Would you wrap your legs around me when I was deep inside you? Would you push me in deeper, take in every bit of me until I disappear entirely?

Whenever you beamed brightly at me, those black doe eyes sparkling with the simple joy of the world, all I thought about was how to take those lips. 

Every curve, every tint, every fucking degree of pliancy in the cushions of your scarlet smile—.

Fucking hell, Amber…. 

You really think I want all those women? 

I want you. 

*****

Amber

“Open wider, Am.” 

He’s doing it on purpose. Pushing my limits so I’d back out. 

“I said: I want to see the colour of your pussy—I still see nothing.” 

The heat on my back shamed furiously. 

Spreading my legs like this on someone’s bed already makes me feel like a complete slut. Now, I have to exhibit my private parts like a perverted flasher to my crush. 

The things I do for love.  

I stretched my thighs further and lifted my butt to spread my pussy wider, just as he wanted. 

But his royal blackness still looked incredibly bored. 

Elbow on top of his crossed legs, chin in palm, fingers relaxed on his firm mouth, he almost yawned. 

“So this is what you’ve got? Your preparation?” 

His words stung me. 

All those women he’d dated—the ones I pranked and mocked, calling them ‘Hunter’s fucked ladies’ when they weren’t listening—I'm nothing compared to them. 

The sounds coming from his bedroom deep in the night, his thunderous groans of pleasure and intense grunts of satisfaction—those were the doings of the so-called whores.

And me? I can’t even get past foreplay.

What do I have to call them whores? Who am I to prank and mock them? 

I inhaled the tears of humiliation and retorted firmly, “you’re just being picky.” 

He coughed, looking incredulous. “I’m picky?” 

I sat up with defiance. 

“Yes, you’re picky! With me! This is how guys like it. And here you are going all Gordon Ramsey on me. If you want me to do things your way, then be specific.”  

His eyes darkened at the word ‘guys’. 

“Fingers,” his voice fumed, “On your pussy. And spread those lips.” 

The look on his face told me that he was losing patience, and I should hurry. 

So without a word, I resumed my earlier pose, two fingers on each side of my labia, and tugged gently. 

The folds parted. Cold air washed in raw. My moistened flesh. Goosebumps poured up my back. I bit back a whimper of unease when his jaw tightened.   

“Why is it wet?” He demanded. “Who are you thinking? Who made you this wet?” 

“You,” I could barely make out a word because my thighs were hurting. “Why are you even asking me that?” I whimpered. “Why do you think I’m here? And doing this?”

“So I’m your first choice? Because you lust after me?” 

Not exactly the kind of confession I had in mind. In all scenarios, I’d be fully clothed without my vagina exposing. But since he popped the question in the most infuriating way, I had to give it to him. 

“You know it’s not lust.” I held his gaze firmly. “I’ve told you like a million times. In a myriad of ways. I love you. You—Hunter Black. You’re the man I want to marry. You’re my destined mate—.” 

He opened his mouth, and I knew what he was going to say. 

So I hastily added, “That’s why I chose you to lose my V-card. It’s not lust,” I repeated, “Don’t accept my love, fine. But don’t insult it.”  

He looked at me, his eyes studying, as though I had just performed a magic trick and he wanted to debunk it. 

“Then, make yourself even wetter,” he breathed, his blond pupils back on my pussy, “for me.” 

This is my chance. 

Acting on instincts, I released my pose and thought of massaging my labia. 

But the master instructed, “Show me how you do it, Am.” 

“What?” I looked over my shoulder. 

“You touch yourself, don’t you?” Before I could tell him the truth, he added, “I want you to show me how you do it. How you make yourself feel good.” 

And I reluctantly resumed my slutty pose and used three fingers. Embarrassment, shame and something hot flushed up to my breasts. 

“Mmph!” I rotated my fingers carefully. 

“Harder.”

And I obeyed. 

And new sizzles seized my shoulder blades, pushing my breasts upward, perking my nipples all over again. 

“Hunter…,” I gasped thinly, “I–I’m wet enough—.” 

“Look at me,” he ordered, “and rub your clit.” 

“Mmph,” I whined a tiny resistance and acquiesced, pushing the urge to look away.

And his gaze penetrated mine. 

“Faster.” His deep voice entered my system, rushing blood to where I was stroking, giving me new sizzles of trembles. “Come on, Am… you need to get wet enough.”

His voice lowered. “I like it wet and slippery.” 

“Yes, Hunter,” I blurted, a voice I’ve not heard before. 

My head felt weightless, my breathing shallow and rapid. 

My mind told me to stop but my fingers wouldn’t, as though they listen only to him. 

It's burning fiercely, thickening, sharpening—I really need to stop, but I also need more… I know it can get stronger, and I want it—.

“Keep your legs open, Am.” The low, raspy voice reminded me that he’s still there. 

I’m still being watched. 

Like a slut. An exhibitionist. 

And at the thought, that burning intensified—.

“Stick a finger into your hole.” 

I came to a screeching halt, breathless, clueless, and very worried. 

And he smirked. “Can’t do it?” 

I gulped down my fear. “I can do it,” I said, my index finger slotting in carefully, my eyes squeezing with worry—worried that I’ll tear something; worried that he’ll go away. “Watch me!” I pleaded. 

His silence made me anxious, and I shoved the whole thing in—. 

Pain threw me back on my butt, and I silently screamed for him as my throat gasped fearfully for air.

“Enough.” His voice pierced in. 

And my greatest fear came true. 

Babysitting’s over, he’s gonna say because I’ve literally eroded a hundred years of his patience, and he’s done with me. He’s gonna go out and find a nice—slippery—wet pussy to fuck—. 

And then he was right in front of me. 

Or more precisely, that enormous bulge in his towel. 

Flustered, I looked up, and those golden eyes captured me as something thick and warm entered my vagina, sliding along my finger, caressing my skin as it pushed my walls, stretching its muscles, inciting more electrifying heat through me. 

The heat broke through my lips. A moan—the same ones those women make from his room—and I clamped up in surprise, my eyes wider than my opening hole. 

“I hate to see a woman cry,” he kissed my lashes, his warm breath lingering there, “especially you.” 

Then, I felt the dampness on my cheek. 

“Unless…,” his mouth skimmed lightly down my cheek, “I’m inside them.” 

And my lips parted on their own, offering, wanting. 

But his finger curled, hooking mine, then drew out, slowly, scraping my slick walls as it passed. 

“Hunter!” I gasped, more surprise bursting from my throat.

“Keep rubbing your clit, Am.” The fingers halted right at the exit. “Or I’ll stop.”  

And I pressed my thumb on that flaming bud and rubbed as furious as my breathing. 

Our fingers drove in, curled and drew out…in, curled and out… in….. Each time they entered, they seemed to go deeper—and drew him closer, his body heat reminding me that I’m naked, entirely open for him to touch.  

“Almost there, Am,” he whispered, his lips pressing the corner of my mouth, and another thick, rough digit entered smoothly. 

I grabbed his towel, at his hip, and tugged. “Hunter!” I sobbed, the fear of something about to rupture gripping me tightly. “Hunter!” 

“Let go, Am.” Our fingers pushed further, more depths opened, and stronger currents gushed in, swarmed up, jolting me forward, crashing my lips onto him. 

But he yanked back to a safe distance, his kiss dangling like a carrot. 

“Hunter, please!” My nails dipping the flesh of his arm, begging. “Kiss me!” 

“Not yet!” The squishing sounds of my wet, slippery, widening vagina grew faster and fiercer. “Let go, Am!” He thundered. “Let go of me!” 

“No…!” I choked, crying. “I won’t ever let you go! I LOVE YOU!” 

“FUCK.” He yanked everything out, pushed me onto the mattress, and, cupping my butt like a handful of sweet wine, buried his face into my orgasmic-sputtering pussy and drank hungrily, sucked fervently—somewhat angrily.

And I was punished with another wave of that glorious, magnificent shattering of senses. 

“Hunter!” 

I screamed in another full blown orgasm. 

Juices were flowing hard, slapping about in every lick of his hot, groaning tongue. 

“Sweet,” he murmured against my throbbing moist, “so fucking sweet.” He kissed the raw flesh, and my convulsing body flinched in another electrifying thrill. “Why do you taste so fucking sweet?”  

“Mmph!” I whimpered, a need for something. “Hunter!” 

Something only he can give me—.

He let go, and my butt dropped on the soft sheets like a steel ball. My pussy felt raw and numb when the mattress sank with his weight, and that enormous bulge finally revealed itself between my wide-open thighs. 

It was rock hard. Muscular, red-veined, pulsating with fury. 

“You asked for it, Am,” the owner of that powerful erection muttered hoarsely, “this is what you wanted.” 

“Wait—.” I reached for his arm. 

But he entered in one swift, violent thrust. 

Tearing my virginity like it was nothing.