Page 39 of Matched with the Small Town Chef
"I'm going to touch you now." His voice in my ear sends shivers down my spine. "You can say stop at any time. Understand?"
"Yes."
He takes my hand and leads me. Each step unfamiliar. I brush against something—a table, maybe—a chair leg. Then cool air wraps around me, and I realize we’re near the window.
“Hands above your head.”
I lift them. Fingers searching.
He binds my wrists together with something soft and smooth—his scarf, I think—then fastens it to something overhead. My arms stretch. My back arches. I’m exposed. Suspended. Vulnerable in a way that makes my thighs clench and my breath catch.
Without sight, I'm entirely in his control, surrendering to sensation in a way I've never experienced. The cold of the window seeps through my clothes, a shocking contrast to the heat building within me.
"Hands above your head." Another quiet command.
I comply, feeling something soft—his scarf, I realize—being wound around my wrists, binding them together and then to something above me. The position leaves me open, vulnerable, entirely at his mercy.
"Still okay?" he checks, hands hovering at my sides.
"More than okay." My voice emerges breathless with anticipation.
His touch, when it comes, is both tender and commanding. His fingertips skim my shoulders. My chest. My sides. Not grabbing. Not rushing. Mapping me.
He takes his time undressing me, each newly exposed patch of skin receiving focused attention from his hands and his mouth. The contrast of cold air and his warm touch creates a symphony of sensations that makes me gasp.
The cool air teases my nipples instantly, making them pebble.
I gasp.
He hums behind me, pleased.
"You're beautiful like this." His voice roughens with desire. "Surrendering control. Trusting me to give you what you need."
Then his mouth closes over one.
My knees buckle.
He suckles and licks, then flicks just hard enough to make me cry out. His hands knead my breasts as he feasts on them like he’s starving. I writhe, trapped and helpless, the blindfold sharpening every touch to a razor’s edge.
My jeans are next. He unbuttons them, slides them down slowly, letting the denim drag along my thighs, my calves. I’m wet. Soaked. And he hasn’t even touched me there yet.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t speak. Just peels my panties down with aching deliberation.
Then his fingers are on me.
Two slide between my thighs, stroking through the slick heat. A soft curse escapes him—low and reverent.
“You’re dripping,” he growls, voice thick with need. “You like being blindfolded and bound.”
A whimper slips from my lips.
He teases me—fingers brushing my clit, then retreating. Circling my entrance, then pulling away. I jerk my hips, desperate for more. He denies me. Again. Again.
“Please,” I gasp, straining against the scarf above me. “Hunter—please?—”
A sharp slap lands on my inner thigh. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to claim.
“You don’t get to beg. Not yet.”
