Page 26 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

When he finally rises, he looks like a god made of sweat and hunger—his jaw tight, his chest rising with barely contained need.

“That’s mine,” he says softly, eyes dragging down my limp, sated form.

“That noise. That face. That surrender. All of it—mine.”

He rises slowly, eyes raking over my wrecked, limp form, wrists still bound, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.

But he’s not done.

Not even close.

He unties the belt from the bedframe, then steps back, pulling me upright with a grip on the restraints still wrapped around my wrists.

“On your knees.”

The words land like a lightning strike. No hesitation. No question.

Just command.

My body moves before thought can interfere. He guides me down, not rough, but firm, sure. Claiming. The wooden floor is cold beneath my knees, grounding me, making the ache between my legs feel even more raw, even more real.

Hunter stands above me, unbuttoning his jeans with slow, deliberate fingers.

His eyes never leave mine.

“You offered yourself to me.” He strokes himself once—long, slow, the head flushed and hard. “Now you show me what that means.”

My mouth opens, eager, but he grips my chin—thumb pressing into the hinge of my jaw, holding me still.

“No rushing. No control. This is mine.” His thumb brushes my lower lip, smearing the taste of myself across it. “Open.”

I obey.

He slides in slowly, letting me feel the weight of it—the stretch, the heat, the power of the moment. His hand stays on my jaw, guiding, controlling, but not choking.

Not yet.

His hips move in a shallow rhythm, letting me adjust. Letting me serve.

“Eyes on me,” he growls when I start to close them. “I want to see how much you love this.”

I moan around him. My knees press into the floor. My bound wrists hang between us, helpless, offered.

He groans, head falling back for one stolen second—then he’s looking down again, gaze dark and blistering.

“Fuck, Audrey… you were made for this.”

His control slips just a fraction. He starts to thrust, deeper now, hand fisting in my hair, holding me exactly where he wants me. I take it. All of it. The rhythm. The fullness. The complete, unquestionable domination.

“You don’t get to stop,” he pants. “Not until I come. Not until I give you what I need.”

Tears prick the corners of my eyes—not from pain, but from overwhelming pleasure, from the sheer act of surrender.

I hollow my cheeks, moaning around him, tongue working him as best I can. He tightens his grip, pace faltering—and I feel it—his loss of control.

“Fuck—Audrey?—”

He thrusts once, twice—then stills. Buries himself deep.

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