HUNTER Read online

  A BAD BOY MILITARY ROMANCE NOVEL

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  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  This book is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious and any similarity to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidence.

  Published By Cordelia Blanc

  Copyright © 2015 Cordelia Blanc

  Cover by Honey Hut Design Services

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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  DEDICATION

  To the ones who clawed their way to the top.

  Perhaps, when we remember wars, we should take off our clothes and paint ourselves blue and go on all fours all day long and grunt like pigs. That would surely be more appropriate than noble oratory and shows of flags and well-oiled guns.

  —KURT VONNEGUT, CAT’S CRADLE

  HUNTER

  A BAD BOY MILITARY ROMANCE NOVEL

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  After three months in that Congolese P.O.W. camp I was pretty sure I was going to die, so I started thinking about regrets and all the people I hurt and bullshit like that. It took a while. There were a lot of regrets. But even with the nozzle of an AK pressed against my skull, I just couldn’t convince myself that fucking Kyla Rose was one of them. I wanted it to be—I wanted to regret it so badly. I’d just watched a bullet end her boyfriend, my best friend, Sammy Boy’s life. The least I could do was regret fucking his girlfriend the night before we shipped out.

  But fuck, I didn’t regret it, and that made me feel like a real piece of shit.

  She was drunk and so was I, and somehow that made me feel a little better about it. We were at a party—a party for me and Sammy Boy and a few other guys that were shipping out for the Congo the next morning. Niles, our squad’s First Lieutenant, said not to stay up too late, but he was an idiot, led our squad into an ambush, got pretty well all of us all killed. He was the reason I was in that stupid P.O.W. camp. But no one liked him before, either. He wasn’t invited to the party.

  It was probably midnight when I noticed Kyla Rose sitting alone in a bedroom. Her eyes were red, like she’d been crying. She smiled and pretended like she hadn’t been, but I wasn’t dumb. I couldn’t blame her. It was her last night to spend with her boyfriend and Sammy Boy was nowhere to be found.

  Kyla Rose was a sweet girl, never hurt no one, never talked shit about no one. She treated Sammy like a goddamn king, which was a first for Sammy. He was used to getting the shit end of the stick his whole life. His dad was a drunk, went and shot his mom, went to prison and so on, you know the story. Kyla Rose was the only good thing that ever happened to him. But I was drunk and so was she, so we fucked.

  And fuck me for not regretting it one bit.

  It started out innocent enough. I sat down next to her, put my arm around her. I was just trying to console her. But shit, she was wearing this low-cut top and this short—and I mean short—skirt. If that skirt was any shorter, her pussy would have been in plain view.

  She was a tall girl with long, thick legs. Thick in the best way possible. She wasn’t fat by any stretch of the imagination—just thick. In high school, kids called her Thunder Thighs. They meant it as an insult, but I couldn’t think of a better compliment. Tits and asses are alright, but those thighs… I guess you could say I was more of a legs guy.

  And that night, those beautiful legs were out in full-force, only disguised by that little strip of skirt and a pair of black, strappy heels.

  She leaned into me, pressed her face against my chest. I could see straight down her top; she wasn’t wearing a bra. Kyla had a perfect rack. They weren’t huge tits but somehow they jiggled like goddamn Jell-O. It took all of me not to rip that dainty top off and squeeze her tits. Had it been anyone else, I would have. But for Sammy Boy, I resisted.

  I pushed a strand of hair off her face and told her it was going to be fine, that we’d be back before Christmas, and all that bullshit. Nothing I said cheered her up much. She probably knew it was all crap. Her face remained nestled against my chest. She was wearing the same flowery perfume she always wore, the perfume that always reminded me she was the one Nintipi girl I never fucked. She wore that same perfume when I asked her out for the first time, ten years before. She said no, but I kept trying anyway.

  “Don’t let Sammy get into any trouble,” she said, keeping her head against my chest. It was an ambitious request. If there was one thing Sammy Boy was good at, it was getting himself into trouble.

  “I won’t,” I said. More bullshit.

  “Don’t get yourself into any trouble, either.” She looked up at me with a smile. Her glossy lips looked soft and plump. I wondered if they’d feel soft and plump around my cock.

  “I won’t,” I said. More lies.

  She planted a kiss on my cheek. It was slow and gentle—too slow to be a peck, and too gentle to be “just friends.” Maybe I was just drunk. Maybe the kiss really was innocent enough. Yeah, and maybe I’m a Chinese jet pilot. After the kiss, she kept her nose against my cheek.

  And I could smell that perfume…

  That was all I could take. I turned her head and kissed her on the lips. I was right, they were plump and soft as all hell. I couldn’t help myself. She knew what she was doing. She must of known. Kyla knew me better than anyone else besides Sammy. And everyone who knew me knew I was good at two things: hunting and fucking.

  In high school, I fucked most of the cheerleading squad (all the ones worth fucking), and the whole volleyball team—even the two lesbians. Guys would come up to me all the time for advice. “Hey Hunter, I like this girl. What should I say to her?” I tried helping the hopeless sons of bitches but they never got it. There’s no art to it, no skill. You either get it or you don’t. Be in charge. You want that girl? Then take the girl. Don’t be a pussy.

  It worked on everyone—everyone except Kyla Rose. I’d fucked my way through half the girls in the town, but never Kyla. I sure as shit wanted to, but she was always too good, too perfect. She was always studying, a straight-A student. She had no time for parties, for boyfriends, for fucking. I tried but it never happened, and that just made me want her more. We eventually became friends—good friends. I figured maybe she was the “friends first” type. But nope. Still, I unsuccessfully.

  Unsuccessfully unt
il that night.

  I threw her onto her back and ripped off her top, exposing those perfect tits that seemed to just float on her chest, weightless. I grabbed them and squeezed them. I’d waited way too damn long for that moment.

  She was shy, covering her tits the moment I freed them from my grip. But I wasn’t in the mood for shy. Never was. I grabbed her wrists and pinned her arms down at her sides. When she finally relaxed, I flipped up her skirt, pulled down her panties, and threw them onto the floor. She was bare-naked, laying on her back like Venus.

  Damn. I couldn’t figure it. Of all the guys in town, how did Sammy Boy land a girl like Kyla Rose? What did the scrawny kid have that that the town bombshell thought was so great?

  She covered her pussy with her hand before I could get a good look. Her face was pink and her lips were pressed thin.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  She didn’t respond. Instead, she bit her lip and shrugged. I didn’t have the patience for shy girls. Still don’t. I told her, “If you’re going to stick your hand between her legs, it better be to rub your pussy. She bit her lip again, hesitated a moment, then started to move her fingers in small circles over her plump lips.

  I grabbed her ankles and spread her thick legs wide. Then, I watched as she got wetter and wetter, nestling her fingers between her lips, rubbing her clit. She started to squirm—didn’t take long. I noticed she was looking down at her side.

  “Look at me,” I said.

  She did, but she looked away quickly, cheeks still rosy.

  “Don’t look away. Keep your eyes on me.”

  She did. Her eyes darted away a few times, but she always came right back. She clearly had Sammy lingering in the back of her mind. But I didn’t want her thinking about Sammy, I wanted her thinking about me. I figured the least I could do was take her mind off her war-bound boyfriend.

  She watched me take off my shirt. Suddenly, her full attention was on me, on my chest. That was one thing Sammy Boy couldn’t give her: two-hundred and ten pounds of muscle. Hell, I’d be surprised if Sammy was over one-fifty. Kyla liked my body—obvious from the hypnotized look on her face and the way her fingers dug deeper into her warm slit. Her legs quivered and her knees buckled. Easy.

  Almost too easy, if you don’t count the ten years of rejection it took to get to this point. She bit her lip—her plump, juicy lips—those perfect cock-sucking lips. I didn’t have to say anything. I simply motioned down with my head and she obeyed, sitting up on her knees and crawling towards me. She made quick work of my pants. My dick sprung free within the same second my belt hit the mattress. Her eyes lit up. That was something else Sammy couldn’t give her—ten inches of hard meat.

  She was practically drooling at the sight of it.

  She started off with a tease, taking the tip of her finger and running it along the base of my dick. I didn’t have the patience for teasing around.

  “Suck it,” I growled. “Stick it in your fucking mouth and suck it.”

  She smiled as if I was kidding, continuing to run the tip of her finger up and down the length of my shaft, inching her face closer and closer. I had no patience. I took the back of her head and pulled her in. Those sweet, plump lips suctioned around my cock like a goddamned airlock, like her lips were perfectly designed to fit around my girth.

  I held her tightly for a moment, finally letting her go after she started to gag. She either got the message or she fucking loved the taste of my cock. She started sucking me off like there was a damn prize for getting me to come in her mouth. Maybe the come was the prize she wanted.

  For a girl who put studying ahead of partying, schoolwork over fun, she sure knew how to suck a dick. She never even had a boyfriend before Sammy. And hell, Sammy was one lucky bastard to have a girl like Kyla Rose.

  Kyla was tall, but not tall enough that I couldn’t reach down her back, between her plump thighs, and over her pussy. She was practically dripping on the bed. I guess I was right, she must have loved the taste of my dick.

  It’s rude to keep a girl waiting—so the moment she pulled her face back for a breath of air, I pushed onto her back. This time, she didn’t wait for the command, spreading her beautiful legs for me.

  “Wider,” I said. She obliged. “Wider,” I said again. She strained to spread her legs nearly horizontal to her body. I was just trying to see if she’d listen, if she’d follow my command. I also wanted to make sure she’d ditched the whole shy act. She had. The girl laying in front of me with her legs spread out into the air was not a shy girl.

  So I stuck it in her and fucked the hell out of her. Didn’t start slow. Didn’t go gentle. I never liked gentle fucks, still don’t. Within seconds, I felt her coming on my dick. Apparently she wasn’t into gentle fucks either. She was my kind of woman—pretty face, plump thighs, obedient, and she liked it as rough as I could give it to her.

  Her butt was turning red from slapping against my hips. She didn’t seem to mind; she was into it, like me—the sound of her flesh slapping against mine. She came again, and then again. Either her pussy got tighter or my dick swelled thicker, harder.

  She fucking loved it.

  Kyla Rose, valedictorian, teacher’s pet, and future NASA engineer, loved being rammed by my big, hard dick. Who would have guessed? Most girls would’ve tapped out by then. Most girls would have screamed, “Stop, Hunter, it hurts!” But not Kyla Rose. She could take it. She could take every goddamned inch of it and still rub her clit like it wasn’t enough, like she wanted more.

  I pinned her arms again, gripping her wrists firmly. She winced, but didn’t object. I could hear myself grunting with each thrust. Her moans began to swell into screams. Her body convulsed, but I held her tight. The headboard slammed into the wall. If someone was in the next room over, they’d have thought the Congolese Rebels were invading.

  A hot gush swirled around my dick. Her pussy quivered, tightened, and then released a bout of warm juice. She squirted. Her wide eyes told me that was a first, that Sammy Boy never discovered that feature on her body.

  For a second I thought she was having a seizure, shaking, squirming, and convulsing, closing her thighs around my hips.

  Fuck, those big, warm thighs…

  That was enough. That was all I could take. I came into that beautiful, stretched out cunt. That was the last time I would hear a woman scream like for five long, brutal years.

  The part that really stuck with me was when I looked down at Kyla, laying motionlessly on that bed. She smiled; I wasn’t expecting that. I’d seen girls panting for breath, wincing at the pain of their stretched out pussy—I’d even seen girls pass the fuck out. But a smile? That was different.

  That stuck with me.

  After three months in that P.O.W. camp, that fucking smile still stuck with me. And it was there after they shot Sammy boy dead, making me feel like a real sack of shit.

  But I just couldn’t bring myself to regret fucking Kyla Rose.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Two days after they announced Sammy, Hunter, and Greg were dead, I was knocked out cold in the street. A big rock hit me in the side of the head. I didn’t see the guy who threw it, but he definitely saw me. I didn’t understand why someone would throw a rock at my head. But shortly after I woke up in the hospital, that changed. Because in the small town of Nintipi, Kansas, gossip spreads quick.

  I made the mistake of telling my best friend of twenty years, Mary-Jean Riley, that I cheated on Sammy Boy the night after it happened. I figured she’d understand because she knew that Sammy cheated on me. She pretended to understand, and for a couple of months, it was nice to have someone to listen. But as they say, ignorance is bliss.

  Two days after they announced Sammy and the boys were dead, the town decided to hold a commemoration service. It took all of me to pull myself together and get down to Library Square, where they were all set up. I knew something was wrong the moment I showed up—and not wrong as in, my boyfriend and his friends were all dead, but wrong as in
, I wasn’t so welcome at that funeral service.

  That’s when the rock hit me.

  The night of the announcement, my friend, Mary-Jean, met a guy in the street who looked real sad. I guess they talked for a bit, got a few drinks, and then went home and had sex and now they were in love. Turns out, the reason he was so sad was because Sammy Boy was his brother. His name was Roger, and as my bad luck would have it, Roger hated my guts about as much as he hated communists and hippies.

  Mary-Jean told Roger my secret, and she waited until the morning of Sammy’s service to do it—the morning that people would be as mad as all hell to find out. And they were. I’m just lucky the doctor was nice enough to stitch my head back up. I became the Witch of Nintipi, the devil herself, in the flesh, the girl who cheated on an American War Hero.