Page 5 of Matched with the Small Town Chef (Angel’s Peak #4)
"Look at me." His command pulls my gaze to the glass wall before us, where our reflection shimmers in ghostly outline—his powerful form curved over mine, possessive and commanding. "Watch me fuck you. Watch how your body takes me. I want you to see exactly what I'm doing to you."
His voice drops lower, rougher. "Don't you dare look away. Watch me take you apart. See how beautiful you are when you're desperate for me, getting fucked by me. You don't get to hide from this—from what I'm doing to you, from how much you want it."
The visual combined with his filthy demands pushes me dangerously close to the edge. My reflection stares back at me—flushed, wild-eyed, transformed by pleasure—while behind me, Hunter's powerful body controls every sensation coursing through me.
He must sense it, because his rhythm changes, slows to something torturous. "Not yet."
"Please—" I barely recognize my voice, wrecked and pleading.
His hand slides from my hair to my throat, not squeezing but resting there, a reminder of his control. "When I say."
Time loses meaning as he builds the tension deliberately, bringing me to the precipice again and again without allowing release. My world narrows to his touch, his voice, the inexorable climb toward something that feels like it might destroy me when it finally breaks.
When his fingers find the sensitive bundle of nerves at my center, circling with devastating precision as his thrusts regain their urgency, I can't hold back any longer.
"Hunter, please…"
"Now." His voice, strained with his approaching climax, grants me the permission I didn't know I was waiting for.
Release crashes through me with such force that a scream rips from my throat, my inner muscles clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure obliterates everything but sensation.
He follows moments later, his rhythm faltering as he groans my name against my shoulder, his body shuddering against mine.
For several heartbeats, we remain joined, breath gradually slowing, skin cooling in the humid greenhouse air. His weight presses me into the table, comforting rather than restrictive. When he finally straightens, his hands are gentle on my hips as he helps me turn to face him.
Post-passion vulnerability flickers across his features before his usual confidence reasserts itself.
"Stay here."
He disappears briefly, returning with a damp cloth that he uses with surprising tenderness. The intimacy of the gesture, more than anything that came before, sends heat rushing to my cheeks.
I locate my scattered clothing, dressing with fingers that still tremble slightly. Hunter does the same, though his movements betray none of my lingering shakiness.
"Come with me." He extends his hand. "I want to show you something."
Curiosity overrides post-coital awkwardness. I place my hand in his, allowing him to lead me deeper into the greenhouse to a section cordoned off with humidity controls and specialized lighting.
"These are nearly impossible to cultivate outside their native environment.
" Pride infuses his voice as he gestures to delicate plants with spiky purple-tinged leaves.
"Alpine thyme. It only grows above eight thousand feet in very specific soil conditions.
I've been working with a botanist from the university to recreate those conditions. "
His fingers caress the leaves with the same care he'd shown my body moments before. "The flavor is incomparable—more complex than conventional thyme, with hints of pine and citrus. I use it in my venison preparation."
The venison I abandoned half-eaten when I fled the restaurant.
"And these—" He moves to another section, where tiny white flowers bloom on trailing vines. "Wild mountain violets. I crystallize them for dessert garnish."
As he continues the tour, his passion for ingredients becomes evident in every gesture, every carefully chosen word. This is a man who understands flavor on a molecular level, who pursues perfection with single-minded dedication.
The realization lands like a stone in my stomach. I haven't just compromised my professional ethics by sleeping with a chef whose restaurant I'm reviewing—I've done so with a chef whose talent deserves honest assessment, not clouded by personal entanglement.
"You're thinking too loudly." Hunter's voice pulls me from my thoughts. His hand cups my cheek, turning my face to his. "What is it?"
"I've never had a one-night stand." The admission surprises even me. "Let alone a two-night stand, or whatever this is."
"It’s called chemistry." A smile tugs at his mouth. "The most powerful kind."
"Not that it can last." Reality intrudes—cold, unwelcome, but necessary. "I'm only here for a week."
His thumb traces my lower lip. "That gives us a week to enjoy and explore." His eyes darken with suggestion. "There's so much more I want to show you. So many ways I want to have you."
The promise sends a shiver through me, images flashing unbidden—Hunter controlling my pleasure, pushing boundaries I've never dared approach.
"I can't stop thinking about you." The admission costs him something; I see it in the tightening of his jaw. "I haven't been able to focus since yesterday."
"Me neither." More truth than I intended to reveal.
"Stay with me tonight." His request emerges rough-edged, almost vulnerable.
I step back, needing distance to think clearly. "I can't. I have work early tomorrow."
"Of course." Disappointment flashes across his features before understanding replaces it.
The walk to the greenhouse door feels infinite. At the threshold, Hunter catches my hand, pulling me back for one last kiss—gentle now, almost sweet, belying the dominance he'd shown earlier.
"Midnight tomorrow." Not a question. A statement of intent. "Don't be late."
"And if I am?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
Heat simmers in his eyes, turning them almost black in the lantern light. His fingers tighten slightly around my wrist, thumb pressing against my pulse point.
"Best not to find out." The edge in his voice hints at something darker, feeding directly into the fantasy I'm only beginning to acknowledge—the desire to be truly dominated, controlled, to experience whatever consequences he might devise.
Every professional instinct screams for distance, even as my body responds traitorously to his implied threat. The words that slip out of my mouth are completely foreign to me. "As you please…Chef."
" Fuuuck ," he groans. "Don’t do that."
"Why?"
"Because it feeds a part of me you’re not ready to handle."
"Don’t be so sure about that… Chef ." I lift on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "I’ll be here, midnight tomorrow, yours to do with as you please."
Before he can respond, I beat a hasty retreat, too heady with the words that just slipped from my lips.
The night air bites at my heated skin as I make my way back to my room, my mind racing with contradictions. The physical evidence of our encounter lingers in pleasantly sore muscles and the phantom impression of his hands on my skin.
My laptop waits on the desk, accusatory in its silent presence. With resignation, I open it, determined to at least make preliminary notes on my dinner at Timberline before tomorrow's breakfast service review.
The email notification chimes as soon as the screen illuminates. From my editor, subject line blunt: "Angel's Peak Assignment."
I click it open, stomach sinking before I even read the words:
"Need your brutally honest take on this one - our readers expect nothing less than your signature takedown if it's warranted. Word is they're gunning for a Michelin star. Your job is to determine if they deserve it. Don't let the mountain charm cloud your judgment. –Margaret"
The words blur as I stare at them, Hunter's taste still on my lips, his touch still imprinted on my skin.
I am so utterly, completely screwed.