Page 4 of Matched with the Small Town Chef (Angel’s Peak #4)
Confrontations and Cravings
T he path to the greenhouse glitters with frost beneath the midnight moon. Each step crunches softly, broadcasting my approach, giving me ample opportunity to turn back.
I shouldn't be here.
Professional ethics demand distance between critic and chef—not midnight rendezvous in secluded greenhouses.
Yet my feet carry me forward, drawn by something beyond rational thought.
The glass structure emerges through the pines, transformed from yesterday's rainy sanctuary into a lantern-lit cavern of secrets.
Dozens of tiny lights hang from the ceiling beams, casting intimate pools of golden light across the verdant space. Steam rises from the heated beds, creating a primordial mist that swirls around the exotic plants.
Hunter stands with his back to the door, white chef's jacket exchanged for a charcoal shirt that stretches across broad shoulders.
His dark hair, freed from kitchen constraints, curls slightly at the nape of his neck.
The moonlight filtering through glass panels carves his profile in silver and shadow.
He turns at the sound of the door closing behind me. "You came."
"Against my better judgment." My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
The corner of his mouth lifts. "Do you always follow your better judgment?"
"Almost always." The admission feels like surrendering a secret.
He crosses the space between us with unhurried confidence, stopping close enough that I can smell the faint traces of kitchen spices on his skin—cardamom, star anise, something woodsy I can't identify.
"Did you enjoy dinner?" His gaze searches mine, professional curiosity mingled with something darker.
"Yes."
"You left before dessert." His observation contains no accusation, only fact.
Heat crawls up my neck. I don't tell him I was fleeing him, fleeing the confusion his presence stirred in my carefully ordered life.
"I had a headache."
"Convenient." Not believing me for a second. "I saved you something."
He reaches behind him to a small table, retrieving a glass dish that catches the lantern light.
Inside sits a perfect quenelle of dark chocolate mousse, topped with gold leaf, beside a sphere of what appears to be passion fruit sorbet.
The entire creation is dusted with something that glimmers like crushed stars.
Hunter lifts a small spoon, gathering a perfect bite that combines all elements. "Open."
The command, soft but unmistakable, sends a shiver down my spine. My lips part before my brain can object.
He places the spoon gently in my mouth, his eyes never leaving mine. Flavors explode across my tongue—bittersweet chocolate deepened with espresso, bright tropical passion fruit, and something unexpected—a hint of heat that blooms slowly, building in intensity.
"Ancho chile." The words escape on a breath.
"And Szechuan peppercorn." His thumb brushes my lower lip, catching a stray speck of gold leaf. "Sweet. Hot. Numbing. A contradiction of sensations."
Like the contradiction of wanting a man I barely know, whose restaurant I'm here to judge.
Hunter sets the dish aside, his hand rising to cup my cheek. The gesture should feel tender, but possessiveness radiates from his touch, igniting something primal and hungry within me. His thumb traces my jawline, tipping my face up to his.
"I haven't stopped thinking about yesterday." His voice drops to a register that seems to vibrate through my bones. "About how you felt. How you tasted."
My breath catches. "Hunter?—"
"We both know why you're here." His hand slides into my hair, gathering it at the nape with gentle but unmistakable authority. "You wouldn't have come if you didn't want this as badly as I do."
The truth lodges in my throat—he's right, and we both know it.
His mouth claims mine with none of yesterday's hesitation.
This isn't the desperate, rain-soaked passion of strangers; it's deliberate, commanding, a man staking his claim.
His free hand grips my hip, pulling me roughly against him until nothing separates us but fabric and rapidly deteriorating restraint.
My fingers find the hem of his shirt, desperate for the heat of skin against skin. He breaks the kiss long enough to pull the garment over his head, revealing the terrain of muscle and sinew I explored so frantically yesterday.
In the lantern light, I see what rain and shadows hid—a jagged scar cutting across his ribs, the constellation of freckles dusting his shoulders, the dark trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband.
My hands drift lower, finding his belt buckle. Our eyes lock as I slowly work the leather free, the metallic clink loud in the humid silence of the greenhouse. The zipper follows, teeth parting beneath my fingers as his breathing deepens.
Something primal and hungry unfurls inside me—a desire I've never voiced aloud, barely acknowledged even to myself.
Without breaking eye contact, I sink to my knees before him, the concrete floor hard against my skin. In my fantasies, I've imagined being put here, but the reality is different—I choose this surrender, and the power in that choice surges through me like electricity.
I free him from the confines of his clothing, taking him in my hand before leaning forward to taste him. A harsh exhale escapes his lips as I take him into my mouth. His fingers thread through my hair, gathering it at the nape in a grip that borders on painful.
"Look at me when you have my cock in your mouth." The command rumbles above me, crude and demanding, his fist tightening in my hair to emphasize his words.
I raise my eyes to find his face transformed with pleasure and something darker—possession, triumph, hunger. His grip yanks sharply when I try to look away, forcing my gaze back to his.
"That's it. Don't look away," he growls, voice thick with arousal. "I want to see those pretty eyes while you take me deep into that mouth."
The raw filth of his words sends heat flooding through me, igniting places his hands haven't even touched. I lose myself in the rhythm he establishes, in the sharp tugs of my hair when I do something he particularly enjoys.
The words send heat flooding through me, my fantasy given voice by his recognition of what this means to me. I lose myself in the rhythm he establishes, in the sharp tugs of my hair when I do something he particularly enjoys.
Without warning, he yanks me upward, strong hands rough under my arms as he pulls me to my feet. His mouth crashes down on mine.
His hands make quick work of my blouse buttons, exposing the black lace beneath. "Better than I remembered." His voice roughens as his fingers trace the edge of the fabric, barely touching skin.
Something shifts in his expression—a darkening, a decision made. His hands close around my wrists, drawing them above my head and pinning them against the door with one large hand. The other traces down my throat, between my breasts, across my stomach to the button of my jeans.
"Don't move."
The command roots me to the spot. He releases my wrists slowly, eyes issuing a silent challenge. My hands remain where he placed them, a voluntary surrender that makes his pupils dilate.
Hunter sinks to his knees before me, his hands working the fastenings of my jeans, sliding them down my legs.
Cool air kisses newly exposed skin, raising gooseflesh that his mouth follows with devastating precision.
My head falls back against the door, fingers curling against smooth glass as his teeth graze the sensitive flesh of my inner thigh.
"Hunter—please—" The words escape as a gasp.
He rises and reclaims my mouth as he lifts me, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. Three strides carry us to a wide wooden table where seedlings would normally germinate. He sets me down, breaking our kiss to look at me—hair wild, lips swollen, chest heaving.
"Turn around."
I comply without hesitation, something electric and dangerous unfurling in my belly at his commanding tone. His chest presses against my back, one arm banding across my collarbone while his lips find the sensitive spot where neck meets shoulder.
"I've been thinking about this all day." His breath caresses my ear. "About bending you over this table and fucking you until you come on my cock. About making you take every inch of me until you can't remember your name. About making you come so hard you see stars."
My legs tremble at his words, at the dark promise they contain. His free hand slides between my thighs, finding evidence of how much his dominance affects me. A groan vibrates through his chest into my back.
"So responsive." Pride colors his voice. "So ready."
The jangling of his belt buckle sends a thrill of anticipation racing along my nerves. My fingers find the edge of the table, gripping tight as denim rustles behind me.
I've never surrendered control so completely, never trusted a virtual stranger with my pleasure, my vulnerability.
The realization should terrify me. Instead, it liberates something long suppressed—a desire to be overwhelmed, possessed, to relinquish the constant control that defines my professional life.
His hand at my nape, gentle but firm, bends me forward until my cheek rests against cool wood. "Look at you." Reverence mingles with raw hunger in his voice. "So beautiful like this."
When he finally claims me, the sensation borders on overwhelming—the stretch and fullness, the grip of his fingers on my hips, the sound he makes—half groan, half growl—as he seats himself fully.
He remains still for one excruciating moment, allowing us both to adjust to the intensity of the connection.
Then he moves, and coherent thought dissolves into pure sensation. Each thrust drives me higher, his pace merciless yet perfectly calibrated to my responses. One hand leaves my hip to tangle in my hair, pulling just enough to arch my back, changing the angle until spots dance behind my eyelids.