Riggs kisses like he cooks—decisively, with his whole damn soul in it. No hesitation, no halfway measures. His mouth claims mine, messy and hot, and I lean into it, gripping his waist where the last of the flour smears across his skin.
He tastes like brown sugar and bad intentions.
His hands slide down my chest, warm and rough from kneading dough, and when he drags them under the hem of my shirt, I raise my arms without question. He yanks it off in one motion, letting it fall behind us like everything else we’re pretending doesn’t matter right now.
I press him back against the counter, my hips settling between his. The wood spoon clatters to the floor, a forgotten casualty. He doesn’t care. Neither do I. Riggs kisses me like he’s done waiting, open-mouthed and a little messy, like he’s still tasting sugar and can’t tell if it’s me or the blondies. His hands are rough where they grab my hips, pulling me in, and he still smells like vanilla and heat and something just on the edge of burning.
I kiss him back harder.
He walks me backward, step by step, until my back hits the counter. A whisk rolls off and clatters to the floor, but neither of us looks down. His body’s flush against mine now, warm skin and flour-streaked muscle, and I can feel just hownotuninterested he’s been in this little game.
“I knew it,” I murmur against his mouth. “Youlikeit when I stir the pot.”
He bites my lower lip. Not hard, just enough to make my knees dip.
“You’re a menace,” he growls.
“And yet,” I whisper, “you’re the one who bent over in front of me like that was safe.” He groans like he hates me, which is how I know I’ve won.
I slip a hand down between us, teasing, dragging my fingertips low. He’s so ready it’s criminal. I almost feel bad about messing with his baking plans. Almost.
His forehead presses to mine. “You know if we do this now, we’re gonna be interrupted by the timer.”
“I’m willing to risk it. Better work fast.
He pauses, grinning. “My specialty.”
He huffs a laugh, then slides his hands down to my thighs, lifts me effortlessly onto the counter like I weigh nothing. The marble is cold under my ass, but his hands are everywhere—palming my skin, dragging nails down the backs of my legs.
He kisses me again, no hesitation this time. Just hunger, heat, and the promise of an even bigger mess. The kind worth doing laundry for.
His mouth moves from mine to my throat, hot and open, dragging teeth along the edge of my jaw like he’s chasing every shaky breath I try to swallow down. He’s got me spread across the counter now, legs around his hips, body flush with mine, and all that earlier teasing?
Gone. Melted. Riggs isn’t playing anymore.
He palms the curve of my waist, drags his hands over my thighs, fingers digging in like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me. I arch into every touch, chase every kiss like it’s the only thing holding me up.
He reaches behind me, knocks over a bowl, and oesn’t even flinch when it crashes to the floor.
“I’ll clean that later,” he mutters into my neck.
“You’re going to have to cleanmefirst,” I breathe, curling my fingers into his flour-dusted hair.
He groans, hands sliding down to my ass, gripping tight as he grinds against me. The sound I make isn’t even human.
“Someone’s needy,” he growls.
“You pulled my pants off,” I shoot back, breathless.
“I was helping with laundry.”
“Uh-huh.” I press my forehead to his. “Want to help with this?”
I reach between us and wrap my hand around his thick cock, cupping him, stroking slowly, just once, enough to make his breath catch hard against my throat. His hips buck, involuntary, desperate.
“Oh,fuck,” he mutters.
He lifts me off the counter entirely, turning so we’re stumbling back toward the kitchen table. Chairs scrape, something thuds to the ground, neither of us cares.
