I learned that from watching Brandt do it every fucking day. For me.
There’s a Boner in the Batter
Rhett
The scent of brown sugar and toasted pecans calls me into the kitchen. I pause with a smile on my face when I round the corner.
Riggs is a disaster.
Flour on his shirt, on his cheek, in his hair somehow. He’s barefoot, hunched over the mixing bowl, mumbling the blondie recipe under his breath.Retta’s Pecan Blondies. He’s making these for me, to cheer me up. Fuck the brownies, the sight of him trying so hard has me feeling plenty cheerful.
I lean in the doorway and watch him stir, sleeves pushed up, arm flexing as he works the batter like he’s in some kind of emotional duel with it. There’s something about watching Riggs bake that makes my brain go fuzzy. He’s so focused, so intense, like with everything he does, but it’s complete chaos.
That shirt is begging to come off.
I cross the kitchen and come up behind him, fingers brushing lightly over his lower back, just enough to make him twitch.
“That shirt’s a mess,” I murmur.
He glances down at himself. “Yeah. Might’ve gotten a little enthusiastic with the flour.”
I slide my fingers under the hem, tugging it up slowly. “You should take it off.”
Riggs doesn’t even flinch. “What, you worried it’s a fire hazard now?”
“No,” I say, peeling it over his head and tossing it onto a chair. “Just distracting.”
God, he’s so easy like this—completely unaware. Still focused on the batter, not even realizing I’m circling him like a shark in shallow water.
I dip a finger into the bowl and scoop a taste. Sweet, nutty, perfect. He’s done it right. I watch him from the corner of my eye and let the batter drip—accidentally, of course—right onto the front of his sweatpants.
“Oh no,” I say, all mock-concern. “Look at that.”
He looks. His sigh is long-suffering, and I almost laugh.
“Damn, you’re making quite the mess,” I add, my voice soft and just a little amused.
“I’mmaking the mess?” he shoots back, not fully buying it, but not resisting either.
“Let’s get these in the wash,” I say, and before he can stop me, I hook my fingers into his waistband and tug the pants down, revealing briefs dusted with flour and clinging in all the right places. I crouch a little to gather up the pants and catch sight of a cracked eggshell on the edge of the counter. I grab it like I’m helping.
And then—oops. A slimy string of egg drips from the shell, this time landing right on his briefs.
“God,” I say with a sigh, eyes locked on his hips, “what a disaster.”
My hand trails low, fingers brushing the waistband of his briefs. “I’ll just toss these in with your pants?—”
Riggs turns, wooden spoon in hand like it’s a weapon. He points it straight at my chest. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
I blink at him, all wide-eyed innocence. “Am I?”
His mouth twitches, caught between a smirk and a warning. I smile. Because we both know I am.
He grumbles something about sabotage and turns back to the bowl, muttering as he pours the batter into the pan. His back is to me now, bare shoulders flexing, briefs riding low on his hips like they’re hanging on for dear life. He moves around the kitchen barefoot, flour-dusted, flustered, and still trying to pretend this is a normal baking session.
It's not.
He opens the oven door, crouching slightly to slide the tray inside. And that? That’s aninvitation.
