Page 11 of Matched with the Small Town Chef
Like the contradiction of wanting a man I barely know, whose restaurant I'm here to judge.
Hunter sets the dish aside, his hand rising to cup my cheek. The gesture should feel tender, but possessiveness radiates from his touch, igniting something primal and hungry within me. His thumb traces my jawline, tipping my face up to his.
"I haven't stopped thinking about yesterday." His voice drops to a register that seems to vibrate through my bones. "About how you felt. How you tasted."
My breath catches. "Hunter?—"
"We both know why you're here." His hand slides into my hair, gathering it at the nape with gentle but unmistakable authority. "You wouldn't have come if you didn't want this as badly as I do."
The truth lodges in my throat—he's right, and we both know it.
His mouth claims mine with none of yesterday's hesitation. This isn't the desperate, rain-soaked passion of strangers; it's deliberate, commanding, a man staking his claim. His free hand grips my hip, pulling me roughly against him until nothing separates us but fabric and rapidly deteriorating restraint.
My fingers find the hem of his shirt, desperate for the heat of skin against skin. He breaks the kiss long enough to pull the garment over his head, revealing the terrain of muscle and sinew I explored so frantically yesterday.
In the lantern light, I see what rain and shadows hid—a jagged scar cutting across his ribs, the constellation of freckles dusting his shoulders, the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband.
My hands drift lower, finding his belt buckle. Our eyes lock as I slowly work the leather free, the metallic clink loud in the humid silence of the greenhouse. The zipper follows, teeth parting beneath my fingers as his breathing deepens.
Something primal and hungry unfurls inside me—a desire I've never voiced aloud, barely acknowledged even to myself.
Without breaking eye contact, I sink to my knees before him, the concrete floor hard against my skin. In my fantasies, I've imagined being put here, but the reality is different—I choose this surrender, and the power in that choice surges through me like electricity.
I free him from the confines of his clothing, taking him in my hand before leaning forward to taste him. A harsh exhale escapes his lips as I take him into my mouth. His fingers thread through my hair, gathering it at the nape in a grip that borders on painful.
"Look at me when you have my cock in your mouth." The command rumbles above me, crude and demanding, his fist tightening in my hair to emphasize his words.
I raise my eyes to find his face transformed with pleasure and something darker—possession, triumph, hunger. His grip yanks sharply when I try to look away, forcing my gaze back to his.
"That's it. Don't look away," he growls, voice thick with arousal. "I want to see those pretty eyes while you take me deep into that mouth."
The raw filth of his words sends heat flooding through me, igniting places his hands haven't even touched. I lose myself in the rhythm he establishes, in the sharp tugs of my hair when I do something he particularly enjoys.
The words send heat flooding through me, my fantasy given voice by his recognition of what this means to me. I lose myself in the rhythm he establishes, in the sharp tugs of my hair when I do something he particularly enjoys.
Without warning, he yanks me upward, strong hands rough under my arms as he pulls me to my feet. His mouth crashes down on mine.
His hands make quick work of my blouse buttons, exposing the black lace beneath. "Better than I remembered." His voice roughens as his fingers trace the edge of the fabric, barely touching skin.
Something shifts in his expression—a darkening, a decision made. His hands close around my wrists, drawing them above my head and pinning them against the door with one large hand. The other traces down my throat, between my breasts, across my stomach to the button of my jeans.
"Don't move."
The command roots me to the spot. He releases my wrists slowly, eyes issuing a silent challenge. My hands remain where he placed them, a voluntary surrender that makes his pupils dilate.
Hunter sinks to his knees before me, his hands working the fastenings of my jeans, sliding them down my legs. Cool air kisses newly exposed skin, raising gooseflesh that his mouth follows with devastating precision. My head falls back against the door, fingers curling against smooth glass as his teeth graze the sensitive flesh of my inner thigh.
"Hunter—please—" The words escape as a gasp.
He rises and reclaims my mouth as he lifts me, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. Three strides carry us to a wide wooden table where seedlings would normally germinate. He sets me down, breaking our kiss to look at me—hair wild, lips swollen, chest heaving.
"Turn around."
I comply without hesitation, something electric and dangerous unfurling in my belly at his commanding tone. His chest presses against my back, one arm banding across my collarbone while his lips find the sensitive spot where neck meets shoulder.
"I've been thinking about this all day." His breath caresses my ear. "About bending you over this table and fucking you until you come on my cock. About making you take every inch of me until you can't remember your name. About making you come so hard you see stars."
My legs tremble at his words, at the dark promise they contain. His free hand slides between my thighs, finding evidence of how much his dominance affects me. A groan vibrates through his chest into my back.
