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Page 23 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

My body arches into his touch as he learns me again—not just to possess, but to command. To know.

And I let him. Because for the first time in my life…sex feels like freedom.

His mouth moves down my neck—not kissing so much as claiming, the heat of his breath drawing goosebumps across my skin.

“Lie back,” he murmurs.

I obey.

The cot creaks beneath me as I sink into it, heart pounding so loudly I’m sure he hears it. My hands tremble as they rest by my sides, but I don’t hide it. I don’t want to.

Hunter stands over me, eyes raking down my body like he’s mentally mapping where he’ll touch first.

“Do you trust me?”

The question lands like a stone in a still lake—rippling, reverberating.

“Yes.”

That’s all he needs.

He takes off his belt slowly—not for shock, not for show—just purpose. Precision. He threads the leather between his fingers, then kneels beside the cot.

“Hands up.” His voice is soft, but unyielding.

I lift my arms, breath catching as he wraps the belt around my wrists. Not tight. Just firm. Restrained. His fingers arecareful as he tugs it snug, testing the resistance, watching my face the entire time.

“Too much?”

“No.” My voice breaks, needy.

“Not enough.”

The smile he gives me is pure fire.

He raises my bound hands over my head, securing them to the bedframe with a strip of flannel torn from his own shirt. Improvised. Personal. Intimate. When he leans over me, the muscles of his arms bracket my body, and his mouth hovers just above mine.

“Now you don’t get to touch until I say.”

He strips me slowly, reverently—each button undone like a secret whispered only to him. The flannel peels away, revealing skin already flushed, aching.

“You look better like this,” he murmurs, trailing fingers down my sternum. “Open. Exposed. Waiting.”

My hips lift without thinking, searching for friction, for contact.

He presses one hand to my thigh to still me, eyes narrowing with quiet command.

I still. I burn.

He trails kisses down my torso, lingering at my hip, my belly, each touch a slow dismantling of my control.

Then he sits back on his heels and—with deliberate ceremony—runs a single fingertip up the inside of my thigh.

“Now I’m going to test you.” His voice is low. Serious. “Not to hurt you. But to show you what you can take. What you want to take.”

I nod—breathless, helpless.

“Please.”


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