Page 4 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

My palms flatten against him, feeling the drumbeat of his heart, the slow rise and fall of breath. His hands tighten slightly, not possessive… not yet. But there’s a gravitational pull anchoring me to this man like he’s the center of some unspoken orbit.

Electricity ripples between us, strong enough to drown out the storm.

His pupils blow wide, swallowing the green.

My gaze drops—to his mouth.

Full. Sensual. The bottom lip slightly fuller, slightly wet.

He’s breathing faster now. So am I.

No one knows me here.

Not the version I’ve built, the perfectly curated mask.

Not the critic. Not the control.

Only this man. Only this moment.

Heat pools low and hard, a pulse between my legs that won’t be ignored. My skin aches for pressure. For friction. For him.

His scent curls around me—rain, soil, and bourbon-soaked heat—until I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t be anything but the desire crawling under my skin.

I slide my hands higher, over his chest, shoulders, until my fingers flex against thick muscle under damp cotton.

His eyes track every movement.

And when I wet my lips—just a flick of tongue across dryness—he watches it like I just stripped off my clothes and asked him to ruin me.

He moves. A breath. A shift. His hands drift from my arms to my back, spreading wide, palms warm as they curve around me.

I arch. Need rising like a tide.

Another rumble of thunder—but this time, I don’t flinch.

Can’t.

I’m pinned by the weight of his attention, by his nearness, by the sheer physical fact of him.

My fingers find the stubble along his jaw, trail upward, tangling in damp hair.

That’s what breaks him.

His body goes still—tight with restraint. Then that restraint snaps.

Jaw clenching. Eyes darkening.

And then—his mouth crashes down on mine.

What begins as contact becomes consumption, his lips devouring mine with a hunger that detonates heat low and hard in my belly. I open for him without hesitation, lips parting beneath the insistent press of his tongue. He tastes like bourbon and heat, like the spark of a match catching dry kindling. I burn for him.

The workbench slams into my back as he presses forward, crowding me with the full weight of his body. One hand slides to the base of my skull, anchoring me, the other spanning my lower back and pulling me into him—no space, no breath, no choice but to feel.

His arousal grinds against my stomach, hard and undeniable, and a sound slips from me—needy, involuntary, caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan.

I want more. Want to climb him. Take him. Drown in this.

My hands push beneath the wet cling of his shirt, greedy for bare skin. He’s heat and hard muscle, his back flexing as my nails scrape lightly down his spine. He groans into my mouth—a deep, primal sound that vibrates through my chest, matching the thunder still crashing outside.

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