Page 16 of Matched with the Small Town Chef (Angel’s Peak #4)

Without sight, I'm entirely in his control, surrendering to sensation in a way I've never experienced. The cold of the window seeps through my clothes, a shocking contrast to the heat building within me.

"Hands above your head." Another quiet command.

I comply, feeling something soft—his scarf, I realize—being wound around my wrists, binding them together and then to something above me. The position leaves me open, vulnerable, entirely at his mercy.

"Still okay?" he checks, hands hovering at my sides.

"More than okay." My voice emerges breathless with anticipation.

His touch, when it comes, is both tender and commanding. His fingertips skim my shoulders. My chest. My sides. Not grabbing. Not rushing. Mapping me.

He takes his time undressing me, each newly exposed patch of skin receiving focused attention from his hands and his mouth. The contrast of cold air and his warm touch creates a symphony of sensations that makes me gasp.

The cool air teases my nipples instantly, making them pebble.

I gasp.

He hums behind me, pleased.

"You're beautiful like this." His voice roughens with desire. "Surrendering control. Trusting me to give you what you need."

Then his mouth closes over one.

My knees buckle.

He suckles and licks, then flicks just hard enough to make me cry out. His hands knead my breasts as he feasts on them like he’s starving. I writhe, trapped and helpless, the blindfold sharpening every touch to a razor’s edge.

My jeans are next. He unbuttons them, slides them down slowly, letting the denim drag along my thighs, my calves. I’m wet. Soaked. And he hasn’t even touched me there yet.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t speak. Just peels my panties down with aching deliberation.

Then his fingers are on me.

Two slide between my thighs, stroking through the slick heat. A soft curse escapes him—low and reverent.

“You’re dripping,” he growls, voice thick with need. “You like being blindfolded and bound.”

A whimper slips from my lips.

He teases me—fingers brushing my clit, then retreating. Circling my entrance, then pulling away. I jerk my hips, desperate for more. He denies me. Again. Again.

“Please,” I gasp, straining against the scarf above me. “Hunter—please?—”

A sharp slap lands on my inner thigh. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to claim.

“You don’t get to beg. Not yet.”

Another stroke, firmer now. He slips a finger inside me, slow and deep. My head tips back. A moan escapes me.

Then another finger joins the first. He fucks me with them—steady, controlled. Thumb brushing my clit in perfect rhythm until I’m panting.

“Close?” His voice is pure sin. “You want to come?”

“Yes,” I cry. “Yes, please?—”

He pulls away.

I sob.

He laughs—low, dark, pleased.

“You’ll wait. You’ll come when I say. Not a second before.”

Then his mouth is on me.

Hot. Wet. Devastating.

He licks through my folds, tongue pressing deep before circling up to my clit. His hands grip my thighs, holding me wide, holding me open as he devours me.

No teasing now. Just ruthless focus.

I scream his name. I thrash. I can’t see, can’t fight, can’t hide. He doesn’t stop. Not when I shudder. Not when my legs tremble. Not even when I plead with broken breath.

“Please—Hunter—I can’t?—”

“Not yet.”

He slides his fingers back inside me, mouth still latched onto my clit, working me with a precision that borders on cruel.

I break.

Everything inside me unravels. I fall apart in waves—screaming, sobbing, shaking so hard the scarf creaks above me.

And still—he doesn’t stop. Not until I’m completely wrecked.

Only then does he release me.

He unbinds my wrists gently, catches me when I collapse. I’m weightless. Boneless. Floating somewhere between heaven and hell and unable to tell the difference.

He lifts me, carries me like something precious, and lays me on the couch, wrapping me in a blanket pulled from the back.

I curl into his chest, blindfold still on, senses raw and open.

“That was…” My voice cracks. I don’t even try to finish.

His arms close around me, and he kisses the top of my head.

“You were perfect.”

His lips graze my temple as I lay limp in his arms, cocooned in the afterglow and the faintest tremors of release still twitching in my thighs.

But he’s not finished. Not even close.

I feel it—the tension in his muscles, the throb of him hard against my hip, restrained too long. His breath is shallow, his control stretched taut.

I slide my hand down his stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of his jeans. He catches my wrist.

“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 owns it, 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."

I must drift off eventually, lulled by the whiskey and emotional exhaustion. When I wake, the storm has subsided to gentle snowfall, and moonlight occasionally breaks through clouds to illuminate the transformed landscape. A blanket has been draped over me—Hunter must have returned while I slept.

He sits at a small desk in the corner, the lamp's glow creating a pool of light around him. His focus is absolute as he sketches in a worn notebook, unaware I'm watching.

"What are you working on?" My voice, thick with sleep, startles him.

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you." He turns the notebook toward me. "Ideas for Timberline. Menu expansions, new techniques for preserving seasonal ingredients."

I examine his work—detailed sketches of plating designs, notes on flavor combinations, and calculations for food costs. The pages reveal the mind of a chef who is constantly evolving and seeking improvement.

"Even with everything happening, you're still planning for the future." Admiration colors my voice.

"Especially with everything happening." Determination sets his jaw. "This place will succeed. I'll make it work, whatever it takes."

Looking at his plans and hopes sketched carefully, I understand with painful clarity what my review means. It's not just about a restaurant or a chef's ego. It's about this man's redemption, his community's economic lifeline, his family's legacy.

I'm grateful now for my decision and for the truth I chose to tell in my final draft.

We return to my suite as false dawn breaks over the snow-covered mountains. The power has stabilized enough for heat and basic lighting. Hunter needs to check on the restaurant and assess any damage from the storm.

"I'll come find you later." He kisses me at my door, lingering as if reluctant to leave. "Once I know everything's secure."

After he's gone, I check my phone, and cellphone reception has returned with the storm's passing. Multiple notifications await, most urgently, an email from my editor.

My stomach drops as I read the message: "Final version attached. Publishing tomorrow online, print next week. Last chance for changes."

The attachment contains my review—the honest, glowing assessment of Timberline's brilliance—with minor edits for length and house style. Relief floods through me. She accepted my perspective and didn't try to push me back toward my usual critical voice.

As I scan the document, confirming all is as it should be, a text arrives with a distinctive ping.

My editor again: "Final version attached. Publishing tomorrow online, print next week. Last chance for changes."

I frown, confused by the duplicate message, until I open the attachment.

Horror washes through me in an icy wave.

This isn't my review. Not the one I submitted.

This is the other draft—the cutting, clever takedown that questions Timberline's originality and dismisses Hunter’s cuisine as derivative mountain fare elevated by pretentious technique. The Executioner’s voice is sharp and merciless, dismantling everything Hunter has built with surgical precision.

My fingers tremble as I dial my editor's number, desperation clawing at my throat. The call goes straight to voicemail.

I try again.

Same result.

Frantically, I type a response: "WRONG VERSION. Do NOT publish this. Call me IMMEDIATELY."

The message shows as delivered but not read. I call the magazine's main line, but it's Saturday—no one will be in the office.

Outside my window, the sun breaks through the clouds, illuminating a world transformed by the storm—beautiful, pristine, and utterly changed. Just like my life was beginning to be, before this catastrophic error.

My phone pings again.

"Final version attached. Publishing tomorrow online, print next week. Last chance for changes."