Page 41 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

“No.” His voice is hoarse. Dangerous. “You’re not the one taking care of me tonight.”

My breath hitches. The blindfold is still in place. I can’t see him—but I feel the shift. The moment his restraint snaps and he lets go.

He stands, stripping silently. I hear the metallic rasp of his belt, the soft thud of boots hitting the floor, and then?—

“On your knees.”

I scramble to obey, the wool blanket falling away. The floor is cold beneath me, but it doesn’t matter. I kneel where he left me: naked, blindfolded, wrists still warm from the scarf.

A hand fists gently in my hair, guiding me forward. His cock brushes my lips—hot, heavy, demanding.

“Open,” he murmurs. “Suck my cock. Show me how eagerly you serve.”

I open for him willingly, tongue flicking the tip before taking him deep. His fingers tighten in my hair as a groan tears from his throat.

“Fuck…”

He holds still for a beat, letting me adjust, then begins to thrust—not gently. Not slowly. He takes my mouth like he ownsit, like he owns me. Each stroke deliberate, hips snapping with the same controlled force he used on my body before.

“Look at you,” he growls, breath ragged. “So fucking beautiful like this. On your knees. Mine.”

Tears prick beneath the blindfold as I struggle to breathe through the intensity of it—of him—but I don’t want it to stop.

He withdraws suddenly, dragging me to my feet. Spinning me.

“Hands on the couch. Ass up.”

I brace myself, heart thundering. My legs barely hold me, but I obey.

Then he enters me from behind in one powerful thrust.

I cry out—half-shock, half ecstasy. He’s thick and deep and relentless, driving into me with punishing force, each thrust a possession, a claim. One hand fists in my hair, pulling my head back, the other spans my hip, holding me exactly where he wants me.

“You feel this?” he grits. “This is what I’ve been holding back.” He slaps my ass—sharp, delicious. My body jolts. My moan echoes off the walls. He fucks me harder.

Raw. Primal. Unleashed.

My arms buckle beneath me. I’m nothing but sensation now—blinded, bound, wrecked and remade by every stroke.

My body pulses with another orgasm—sharp and sudden, almost painful in its intensity.

I scream his name.

He follows with a low, guttural growl, his body driving deep one last time as he spills inside me, holding me flush to him as we both fall apart.

When it’s over, he doesn’t let go. He wraps around me from behind, breath warm against my neck, and slowly—gently—slides the blindfold free.

His voice, when he finally speaks again, is a whisper.

“You gave me everything tonight.”

"That was amazing." In his arms, ruined and cherished all at once, I know it’s true.

"I know." He presses a kiss to my temple. "For me, too."

We remain there as the storm rages outside, the violence of nature a counterpoint to the peace I've found in his arms. Eventually, duty calls him back downstairs—guests to check on, staff to coordinate, and a thousand small crises demanding attention.

"Stay here as long as you like." He kisses me deeply before leaving. "It's our secret place now."

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