The second he bends, I move. Fingers hook into the waistband of his briefs andyoink—down they go, quick and smooth, pooling around his ankles in one wicked tug.
He freezes, half-bent, one hand still on the oven door.
I take a slow step back, admiring my work. “There,” I say lightly. “Much better ventilation.”
Riggs stands up slow, turns even slower, expression flat but eyes burning. “Seriously?”
“Laundry’s laundry,” I say with a shrug, absolutely not sorry. “Can’t just wash the pants and leave their backup singer behind.”
He picks up the wooden spoon again—this time like hemightactually use it.
“You’re playing with fire,” he warns.
I grin, taking another step closer, eyes dropping to where he’s now gloriously bare from the waist down. “So are you,” I murmur, “but you still turned the oven on.”
His face breaks into a reluctant grin—half-exasperated, half-surrendering. The spoon lowers. He hasn’t even noticed I locked the laundry room door earlier.
He watches me like I’m one of his bad ideas coming back around for a second date—irresistible, a little unhinged, andabout to get him in trouble. His briefs are tangled around one ankle, the oven door’s still hanging open, and he’s standing there holding a wooden spoon like it’s going to save him from me.
It won’t.
“You’re ridiculous,” he says.
I take a step closer. “You’re not exactly putting up a fight.”
“I’m baking.”
“You were baking,” I correct, sliding my hand along his hip. “Now you’re flirting in an apron and one sock.”
He looks down at himself, sighs again, and shakes his head like he’s regretting all his life choices, but he hasn’t moved away.
I nudge the oven door shut with my foot, lean in, and press a kiss to his shoulder, right where flour dusts the skin. Then lower, toward the slope of his spine.
Riggs’s breath hitches.
“I should get dressed,” he mutters, but his voice is thinner now, quieter.
“Youcould,” I say, mouthing along his skin, “but that’d be rude to the batter you worked so hard on. Shouldn’t let it go to waste.”
“You’re talking about the batter?”
“No,” I admit, trailing a finger down the center of his back. “I’m not.”
He lets out a breath that might be a laugh or a surrender. Hard to tell, with him. Then, slowly, he turns in my arms—bare, flushed, spoon forgotten on the counter—and rests his hands on my shoulders.
“I’m still sticky,” he warns.
I smirk. “Good.”
We’re close now, hips brushing, heat simmering between us. One of his hands slips into my hair, the other skims down my chest.
“I’m gonna get you back for this,” he murmurs.
“I’m counting on it.”
The oven ticks quietly behind us, the smell of sugar and pecans warm in the air, but neither of us is going anywhere just yet.
Baking can wait. The real heat’s already rising.
