Page 22 of Matched with the Small Town Chef
"I had a restaurant in Denver. Very high-end, molecular gastronomy stuff. Investors, magazine features, the works." His jaw tightens. "My business partner decided he wanted full control. Sabotaged equipment, stole recipes, spread rumors to suppliers. By the time I figured out what was happening, the restaurant was bankrupt and my reputation was trash."
The article my editor sent flashes in my mind. There's always more to the story.
"That's why Lucas gave me Timberline. He was one of the few who didn't believe the rumors." Hunter's fingers trace patterns on the rough wool blanket. "He's not just my friend—he's betting his entire lodge on me. The Haven is operating on thin margins, staying afloat mainly because of the restaurant."
Guilt claws at my insides. The weight of my pending review feels suddenly crushing.
"Your turn." He nudges my knee with his. "Something else we have in common."
We continue the game, discovering shared traits both trivial and significant. We both sleep on the left side of the bed. Both lost a parent too young. Both prefer savory to sweet. Both feel most at peace in the hour before dawn.
"Last one." I've shifted closer during our exchange, drawn to his warmth. "I'm terrified of disappointing people who believe in me."
His eyes hold mine—unflinching, open. There’s something raw behind them, something recognizing and wounded, like he’s let me see a part of him no one else does.
“That makes ten.”
Outside, the storm still claws at the cabin walls, but inside, the atmosphere has shifted. Heavier. Deeper. No longer lust, no longer just escape.
“I have a confession,” I blurt, the words pulled from me like breath from lungs.
His hand comes up, cupping my cheek with devastating gentleness. The rough pad of his thumb brushes over my lower lip—slow, deliberate, anchoring me in sensation.
“Confess to me.”
The invitation curls in the air between us. And somehow, it’s enough to make me drop every mask.
“I like it when you take charge.” My voice is low, but it trembles. Not from fear—from truth. “It turns me on when you… control things.”
His smile is quiet. Dangerous. Tender.
“Part of taking charge,” he murmurs, lips ghosting across mine, “is knowing when to go slow…” A kiss. Barely there. “…and when to heat things up.”
I swallow hard. “If you had full control… what would you do to me?”
That stillness returns—the kind that prickles across my skin, anticipatory and thick. When he speaks, his voice is velvet wrapped around steel.
“First, I’d bind your hands. Nothing fancy—just enough to make you feel helpless.”
My breath hitches.
“Then,” he continues, brushing hair back from my face, “I’d strip you slowly. One piece at a time. I’d make you stand there and take it—let you feel every second of being exposed just for me.”
My thighs press together involuntarily. He notices. Of course he does.
“Then I’d test you.” His hand slides to the curve of my neck. “A few soft taps of my hand. Just enough to make you gasp. Then a little harder. Just enough to make you wonder how much more you can take.” His mouth moves to my ear. “I’d put you on your knees. Not because you had to—but because you’d want to. Because you’d ache to serve me.”
A shudder moves through me so violently that I nearly collapse against him.
“I want that.” The words break out of me, desperate. “I want you to do that to me.”
His next kiss is slow and possessive, a claiming made of breath and heat and restraint. No rush. No hunger without patience. Just the promise of what’s to come.
When his hands finally slide beneath the flannel, it’s not with urgency—but with reverence. Like he’s unwrapping something sacred.
The cot creaks beneath us as we shift, adjust, and explore.
A new rhythm. A new hunger.
