Page 12 of Matched with the Small Town Chef
"So responsive." Pride colors his voice. "So ready."
The jangling of his belt buckle sends a thrill of anticipation racing along my nerves. My fingers find the edge of the table, gripping tight as denim rustles behind me.
I've never surrendered control so completely, never trusted a virtual stranger with my pleasure, my vulnerability. The realization should terrify me. Instead, it liberates something long suppressed—a desire to be overwhelmed, possessed, to relinquish the constant control that defines my professional life.
His hand at my nape, gentle but firm, bends me forward until my cheek rests against cool wood. "Look at you." Reverence mingles with raw hunger in his voice. "So beautiful like this."
When he finally claims me, the sensation borders on overwhelming—the stretch and fullness, the grip of his fingers on my hips, the sound he makes—half groan, half growl—as he seats himself fully. He remains still for one excruciating moment, allowing us both to adjust to the intensity of the connection.
Then he moves, and coherent thought dissolves into pure sensation. Each thrust drives me higher, his pace merciless yet perfectly calibrated to my responses. One hand leaves my hip to tangle in my hair, pulling just enough to arch my back, changing the angle until spots dance behind my eyelids.
"Look at me." His command pulls my gaze to the glass wall before us, where our reflection shimmers in ghostly outline—his powerful form curved over mine, possessive and commanding. "Watch me fuck you. Watch how your body takes me. I want you to see exactly what I'm doing to you."
His voice drops lower, rougher. "Don't you dare look away. Watch me take you apart. See how beautiful you are when you're desperate for me, getting fucked by me. You don't get to hide from this—from what I'm doing to you, from how much you want it."
The visual combined with his filthy demands pushes me dangerously close to the edge. My reflection stares back at me—flushed, wild-eyed, transformed by pleasure—while behind me, Hunter's powerful body controls every sensation coursing through me.
He must sense it, because his rhythm changes, slows to something torturous. "Not yet."
"Please—" I barely recognize my voice, wrecked and pleading.
His hand slides from my hair to my throat, not squeezing but resting there, a reminder of his control. "When I say."
Time loses meaning as he builds the tension deliberately, bringing me to the precipice again and again without allowing release. My world narrows to his touch, his voice, the inexorable climb toward something that feels like it might destroy me when it finally breaks.
When his fingers find the sensitive bundle of nerves at my center, circling with devastating precision as his thrusts regain their urgency, I can't hold back any longer.
"Hunter, please…"
"Now." His voice, strained with his approaching climax, grants me the permission I didn't know I was waiting for.
Release crashes through me with such force that a scream rips from my throat, my inner muscles clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure obliterates everything but sensation. He follows moments later, his rhythm faltering as he groans my name against my shoulder, his body shuddering against mine.
For several heartbeats, we remain joined, breath gradually slowing, skin cooling in the humid greenhouse air. His weight presses me into the table, comforting rather than restrictive. When he finally straightens, his hands are gentle on my hips as he helps me turn to face him.
Post-passion vulnerability flickers across his features before his usual confidence reasserts itself.
"Stay here."
He disappears briefly, returning with a damp cloth that he uses with surprising tenderness. The intimacy of the gesture, more than anything that came before, sends heat rushing to my cheeks.
I locate my scattered clothing, dressing with fingers that still tremble slightly. Hunter does the same, though his movements betray none of my lingering shakiness.
"Come with me." He extends his hand. "I want to show you something."
Curiosity overrides post-coital awkwardness. I place my hand in his, allowing him to lead me deeper into the greenhouse to a section cordoned off with humidity controls and specialized lighting.
"These are nearly impossible to cultivate outside their native environment." Pride infuses his voice as he gestures to delicate plants with spiky purple-tinged leaves. "Alpine thyme. It only grows above eight thousand feet in very specific soil conditions. I've been working with a botanist from the university to recreate those conditions."
His fingers caress the leaves with the same care he'd shown my body moments before. "The flavor is incomparable—more complex than conventional thyme, with hints of pine and citrus. I use it in my venison preparation."
The venison I abandoned half-eaten when I fled the restaurant.
"And these—" He moves to another section, where tiny white flowers bloom on trailing vines. "Wild mountain violets. I crystallize them for dessert garnish."
As he continues the tour, his passion for ingredients becomes evident in every gesture, every carefully chosen word. This is a man who understands flavor on a molecular level, who pursues perfection with single-minded dedication.
The realization lands like a stone in my stomach. I haven't just compromised my professional ethics by sleeping with a chef whose restaurant I'm reviewing—I've done so with a chef whose talent deserves honest assessment, not clouded by personal entanglement.
