Page 5 of Matched with the Small Town Chef
Then I’m lifted effortlessly as he sets me on the workbench. My thighs fall open, instinctively, aching to bring him closer.
He steps between them, fitting the heavy ridge of his desire right where I throb for him, and my whole body clenches in response.
In the flickering candlelight, his gaze catches mine—no question, no pretense. Just hunger. Just heat.
His fingers thread into my hair, tugging gently to bare my throat. His mouth follows. Teeth graze sensitive skin, dragging a sound from me that feels shamefully raw. I tilt my head back, offering more.
His hand slips beneath my sweater, knuckles grazing my ribs, and I arch into his touch—desperate. When he cups my breast, thumb brushing the already-taut peak, my hips jerk upward with a mind of their own.
He growls, the sound feral. Satisfied. Possessive.
Then his head dips, mouth replacing fingers. The wet flick of his tongue draws a cry from me—sharp and strangled, a sound I didn’t know I could make.
Lightning splits the sky, casting us in stark brilliance—my sweater pushed up, his dark head at my breast, my fingers fisted in his shirt like I’ll die if he pulls away.
Thunder crashes right on top of it.
My blood pounds so loud it drowns out everything else.
His hands find the button of my jeans. Quick. Sure. Knowing. The zipper follows, sliding down like a promise, and I lift my hips for him, without hesitation. Without thought.
I never do this.
Never lose control.
Never act on impulse. Never surrender to need.
My life is built on restraint, on measured critique, on being the one who watches—never the one who’s undone.
But this man. This storm.
This moment that has carved us out from the world…
It’s stripped everything else away.
My jeans hit the floor, forgotten. His fingers skim the lace between my thighs, barely touching. Teasing.
The contrast of rough calluses against delicate fabric sends a shiver racing over my skin, every nerve lit like a live wire.
I can’t think. Can’t breathe.
I only know I want more.
A sound escapes me – half-gasp, half-plea – as he hooks his fingers beneath the thin fabric. He adds my panties to the growing pile on the greenhouse floor.
I reach for his belt, my usually nimble fingers clumsy with urgency. He gently moves my hands aside, making short work of the buckle and buttons beneath. I push impatiently at the denim, needing to feel him, all of him, with an intensity that should frighten me.
When my fingers finally wrap around him, his sharp intake of breath is deeply satisfying – proof that he's as affected by this madness as I am.
The flash of clarity never comes – there's only sensation and need and the overwhelming magnetism between us. He reaches for his wallet without breaking our kiss, handling the issue of protection before returning his full attention to me.
His fingers find me again, testing my readiness. The contact draws another moan from me, my body already embarrassingly eager. His eyes darken as he strokes once, twice, his jaw clenching with barely contained restraint.
I arch against his hand, beyond words, beyond thought. He takes the invitation, positioning himself and driving forward in one powerful thrust that fills me completely.
We both freeze, adjusting to the sensation – the perfect fit, the fullness, the rightness that makes no logical sense but feels like some essential truth my body has always known.
He drives forward in one powerful thrust that fills me completely, tearing a gasp from my throat. There's no gentleness, no adjustment period – just raw, urgent claiming as his hips snap against mine with an intensity that borders on punishing.
