It was my wedding night, and I found myself adorned in black lingerie, eagerly anticipating my husband's arrival. Hunter loved me deeply, and I felt the same for him. He was always attentive and respectful of my wishes. We had chosen to wait until marriage to become intimate, a decision that felt almost rare for a 26-year-old in today's world. There were moments when we came close to crossing that line, yet somehow we managed to reign in our desires. "Holy shit," I turned to see a stunned Hunter, his eyes wide and his lip caught between his teeth. "What?" I asked in a low, seductive tone. Desire ignited in his gaze as he started to approach me, and I instinctively retreated with each step he took. Eventually, I backed up until I hit the wall, realizing I was cornered. He stood before me, blocking my escape, and my heart began to race.
As I stood in the dim light of the room, the air thick with an awkward tension, I couldn't shake the heaviness settling in my stomach. His intentions were clear, and yet I felt detached, like a spectator in my own body. His hands brushed against my skin, but instead of igniting a spark, they stirred a dispassionate response within me. I watched his eager expressions, the way his eyes flickered with desire, but all I could muster was a blank stare, my mind racing to the things I'd rather be doing. The intimacy that was meant to thrill felt more like a performance, one I wasn't quite ready to partake in. I wanted to feel something, anything, but the excitement was lost somewhere between the dim glow of the lights and my own creeping disinterest.
As morning arrived, I awoke feeling exhausted and burdened by guilt. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was ungrateful for everything Hunter had done for me, as if I lacked true desire for him. Perhaps there was something wrong with me.