Page 40 of Matched with the Small Town Chef
Another stroke, firmer now. He slips a finger inside me, slow and deep. My head tips back. A moan escapes me.
Then another finger joins the first. He fucks me with them—steady, controlled. Thumb brushing my clit in perfect rhythm until I’m panting.
“Close?” His voice is pure sin. “You want to come?”
“Yes,” I cry. “Yes, please?—”
He pulls away.
I sob.
He laughs—low, dark, pleased.
“You’ll wait. You’ll come when I say. Not a second before.”
Then his mouth is on me.
Hot. Wet. Devastating.
He licks through my folds, tongue pressing deep before circling up to my clit. His hands grip my thighs, holding me wide, holding me open as he devours me.
No teasing now. Just ruthless focus.
I scream his name. I thrash. I can’t see, can’t fight, can’t hide. He doesn’t stop. Not when I shudder. Not when my legs tremble. Not even when I plead with broken breath.
“Please—Hunter—I can’t?—”
“Not yet.”
He slides his fingers back inside me, mouth still latched onto my clit, working me with a precision that borders on cruel.
I break.
Everything inside me unravels. I fall apart in waves—screaming, sobbing, shaking so hard the scarf creaks above me.
And still—he doesn’t stop. Not until I’m completely wrecked.
Only then does he release me.
He unbinds my wrists gently, catches me when I collapse. I’m weightless. Boneless. Floating somewhere between heaven and hell and unable to tell the difference.
He lifts me, carries me like something precious, and lays me on the couch, wrapping me in a blanket pulled from the back.
I curl into his chest, blindfold still on, senses raw and open.
“That was…” My voice cracks. I don’t even try to finish.
His arms close around me, and he kisses the top of my head.
“You were perfect.”
His lips graze my temple as I lay limp in his arms, cocooned in the afterglow and the faintest tremors of release still twitching in my thighs.
But he’s not finished. Not even close.
I feel it—the tension in his muscles, the throb of him hard against my hip, restrained too long. His breath is shallow, his control stretched taut.
I slide my hand down his stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of his jeans. He catches my wrist.
