Page 10 of Matched with the Small Town Chef (Angel’s Peak #4)

Say Please

H unter’s mouth is a weapon. He used it to drive me higher and higher—expert, merciless, devastating.

The pleasure builds in sharp, shattering waves, like something alive clawing up my spine.

My thighs tremble against his shoulders, the bindings at my wrists cutting delicious tension through my arms.

I’m right there. So close it’s agony.

“Please,” I gasp. “Please, Hunter—let me?—”

He pulls back just enough to speak, lips brushing slick heat.

“You want to come?” His voice is ruined velvet. “Say it.”

“Yes—God, yes—please let me come, I need it?—”

His eyes meet mine—dark, commanding, utterly in control.

“Then come for me, Audrey.”

A beat.

“Now.”

The permission detonates inside me.

My body convulses. Shudders. Breaks.

Sound tears from my throat, raw and unfiltered. My hips buck against his mouth as he keeps working me through it, relentless and reverent all at once.

He doesn’t stop until I’m shaking, breathless, wrecked, and trembling in my restraints.

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.

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, into him, 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 need him 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.

My breath catches, not from what he did to me, but from the fact that he’d ask. That, after all that taking, he still wants to be sure I enjoyed it, too.

I lift my head, meeting his eyes in the dim light. There’s no teasing now. No smirk. Just raw honesty, waiting in the soft line of his mouth.

“It was perfect.” I shake my head slowly.

And I mean it. My body aches in the best way—used, marked, sated—but beneath the wreckage, there’s peace. A kind of bone- deep rightness I didn’t know I was starving for until he gave it to me.

The storm provides our soundtrack—wild and untamed beyond the walls, while something equally powerful but infinitely more tender unfolds within.

Afterward, tangled in scratchy wool blankets on the too-small cot, I rest my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. This feels dangerously like intimacy beyond the physical—the kind that leaves marks no one can see but that never truly fade.

His hand finds the curve of my hip under the covers, thumb stroking idly, grounding me in this quiet aftermath. I don’t want to move. Don’t want to speak. I just want to memorize the rhythm of his breath beneath my cheek.

“The storm’s passing,” Hunter murmurs, voice vibrating under my ear. He turns his head, glancing toward the window.

Sure enough, the wind has calmed, though snow continues to fall in fat, wet flakes that won’t stick but transform the landscape into something magical.

“I wish we could stay like this forever.” I swallow. The words come before I can weigh them.

A beat. The silence stretches between us. Then?—

“Me too…” His arms tighten around me. “Me too.”

We dress in our now-dry clothes and make our way down the mountain. The forest glistens, every surface adorned with melting snow that catches light like scattered diamonds.

The Jeep, thankfully, starts on the first try. We descend toward town, where Hunter insists we stop at the farmers' market occupying the town square every Sunday.

The scene could be from another century—wooden stalls laden with fresh produce, handmade goods, and local specialties. Hunter moves through the crowd, greeted by name at every turn.

"Morgan, just in time." An elderly woman waves from behind a display of honey jars. "Saved you the last of the meadowfoam. Knew you'd be by."

"Mrs. Winters." Hunter kisses her weathered cheek. "You're a saint."

He introduces me to what feels like the entire population of Angel's Peak—the blacksmith who forges his custom knives, the cheese maker whose aged cheddar features in Timberline's signature soufflé, the retired schoolteacher who supplies rare heirloom tomatoes from her greenhouse.

These aren't just suppliers. They're his extended family, a community bound together by food and shared history.

"Last stop." Hunter leads me to a stall selling hand-knitted items. "Emily's mittens will change your life."

The shy teenage girl behind the table blushes when Hunter compliments her work. I select a pair in deep burgundy, warmed by the simple joy on her face when I compliment her craftsmanship.

Snow begins falling again as we walk back to the Jeep, transforming the town into a picture-perfect postcard. Lights glow from shop windows, smoke curls from chimneys, and the mountains stand like sentinels in the background.

For one suspended moment, I allow myself to imagine belonging to a place like this.

To him.

"Thank you for today." I mean it more deeply than he can know. "I've never experienced anything like it."

His eyes hold mine, snowflakes catching in his dark lashes. "There's a lot more to show you. If you want…" The promise in his voice extends beyond geography.

"I’d like that." That's when it hits me with crystal clarity—I'm falling for him.

For this place.

For a life I've never even considered possible.

The realization terrifies me more than the moose, more than the storm, more than anything I've faced in years of ruthless professional detachment.

Back in my lodge room, I peel off layers of mountain-scented clothing and step into a steaming shower. Today revealed Hunter in ways our previous encounters never could.

The chef is impressive, but the man—connected to his community, passionate about his home, protective and patient—is something else entirely.

How can I possibly write an objective review now?

My phone rings just as I wrap myself in the Haven's plush robe. My editor's name flashes on the screen.

"Audrey, Glad I caught you." His voice bursts through the speaker, New York energy jarring against the mountain peace. "I need a draft of your review in three days. This one's going on the cover."

My stomach plummets. "The cover?"

"'Mountain Miracle or Rustic Disappointment?'" He sounds gleeful. "Your takedown of that pretentious Seattle place boosted our subscriptions by fifteen percent. Readers are expecting something equally brutal or breathlessly admiring. Either way, we need click-worthy content."

"I'm still gathering impressions." My voice sounds distant to my own ears.

"Well, gather faster. Three days, Audrey. Make it juicy."

The call ends, leaving me staring at my reflection in the steamy mirror. The Executioner. That's who they want.

But the woman who spent the day in Hunter Morgan's mountains, who learned his secrets and shared her own, who's falling for a man and a place she was only supposed to judge—she wants something else entirely.