Page 27 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

The groan he lets out is feral, his release thick and hot and claiming.

When he finally pulls back, his breath drags ragged and uneven through his chest. He gathers me against him like something precious, his palm splayed across my spine, the weight of his touch grounding and deliberate. I melt into it, intohim, the scent of sex and rain and smoke wrapping around us like the storm outside.

I should feel raw. Hollowed out. But instead, I feel powerful—remade. Not from being taken, but from the way I gave myself over completely and he never once let me fall.

He kisses me again, slow and reverent this time, and I think maybe that’s the end. Maybe we’ll lie here, tangled and breathless, warm and sated until the storm passes.

But the belt is still tight around my wrists, and when I lift them toward him in a silent question—will you untie me now?—his gaze drops, lips curling into something dark and wicked. That smile does more to my insides than the orgasms combined.

“You think we’re done?” His voice is rough silk, a low rasp that scrapes across every nerve ending with delicious friction. “You don’t get to decide when this ends, Audrey. That’s not how giving up control works.”

I should’ve known. I did know. But hearing it from him, watching that heat spark back to life in his eyes as he wraps a fist around the belt between my bound wrists and pulls me upright—it makes me throb all over again.

“You’re mine until I say otherwise.”

The cot creaks under his weight as he shifts behind me, and before I can even catch my breath, he’s moving. Positioning me. Knees hitting the edge of the mattress. Bound hands pulled behind my back. His grip tightens just enough to remind me he’s still in charge, even as he eases me down until my chest presses to the mattress and my ass tilts up for him, completely exposed.

He doesn’t ask if I want it. He doesn’t need to.

He knows. My soaked thighs, my parted lips, my shattered moans already gave me away.

“You begged so pretty with my cock in your mouth,” he growls behind me, the heat of his body pressing close as his fingers trail up my inner thigh, deliberately skirting where I needhim most. “Let’s see how well you beg when I fuck you from behind.”

He doesn’t give me time to answer. One sharp thrust and he’s inside me again—so deep, so sudden it punches the air from my lungs. I cry out, but it’s not pain. It’s need. Pure, blinding need as he drags back and slams into me again, setting a brutal rhythm designed to break me open all over again.

One hand fisted in my hair, the other gripping my bound wrists as leverage, he fucks me like he’s staking a claim, every stroke hitting deep, angled, unrelenting. I can’t do anything but take it—mouth open, gasping, legs trembling with the effort to stay upright as pleasure coils dangerously low in my belly, tighter and tighter until it borders on pain.

“You come when I say,” he growls, teeth grazing the shell of my ear as he leans over me, the weight of him pressing me down. “You hold it. You fucking hold it for me.”

I sob into the mattress, my whole body shaking with the effort, the denial excruciating and exquisite. He never lets up. Just keeps pounding into me, dragging me higher, edging me closer, whispering filth in my ear until I’m incoherent with need.

“I feel you clenching around me. You’re so close. But you don’t come without my permission. Not until I’m ready to feel you fall apart again.”

My scream gets muffled by the pillow when he slaps my ass, the sting blooming fast and hot, followed by the dizzying rush of arousal that spikes so hard I nearly black out.

He leans back, lets go of my wrists to wrap one hand around my throat, pulling me upright, impaling me deeper onto him. My bound hands are pinned between us, my thighs slick, trembling, stretched wide to take him. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to come so badly I can taste it.

“Now,” he says, voice guttural and savage. “Come for me now.”

I explode. Body convulsing. Hips jerking. Muscles clamping down around him like a vice. I come so hard I sob with it, collapse forward, barely aware of his grunt behind me as he follows me over the edge, spilling inside me with a shudder that rocks the bed.

But he’s not done.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t soften.

His hand fists in my hair again, dragging my head back as he mutters, “One more.”

I barely have time to breathe before he flips me over, rips my thighs apart, and slides back inside, still hard, still ravenous. He fucks me through my oversensitivity, through the whimpers and gasps and tears that spill down my cheeks, claiming every inch of me all over again.

And I take it.

All of it.

Because he’s in control. I gave that to him.

He’s still buried inside me when his hand smooths up my spine, slow and open-palmed, not a command this time, but a comfort. A question lingers in the air, heavy as the scent of sweat and sex clinging to our skin.

“Was that too much?” His voice comes rough, low, barely audible beneath the thunder.

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