Riggs lays me out flat on the table, mouth trailing down my chest, my stomach, lower, leaving a slick, hot path that has me panting like the damn oven behind us. I curl my hands into his hair, hitch my thighs over his shoulders, hips lifting of their own accord.
And then—God. His mouth hits me like a confession. No teasing now, no more smug little flour-covered games. Just heat. Wet, focused, unrelenting heat.
His tongue drags slow and deliberate at first, tasting, learning me like I’m something sacred. Like he’s been starving for this, and now that he’s got me laid out under him, he’s going to savor every inch.
My back arches hard, heels digging into his shoulders, breath torn straight out of me. I can’t think. Can’t speak. All I can do is feel. Each flick of his tongue, each soft suck, each low sound he makes sounds like he’s getting drunk off it.
“Fuck, Riggs?—”
He groans like that’s all the encouragement he needs and doubles down, hands gripping tight around my thighs as he works deeper, faster, until I’m panting like the damn oven behind us’s been cranked tobroiland I’m the thing blistering inside it.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. There’s nothing hesitant about it. No testing the waters now. Just raw, focused hunger. Like he's not just trying to make me come, but ruin me for anyone else. And fuck, he’s succeeding.
Every time I start to breathe, he shifts, tongue swirling, lips sealing around the most sensitive part of me, sucking just right, just hard enough to have my hips jolting up off the table again.
“Jesus, Riggs—fuck—please?—”
He growls into me, the vibration sending sparks up my spine. His grip tightens on my thighs, holding me down like I might levitate, like I might shatter and float off the table if he lets go.
I'mso close. Not just from the way he’s working me over but because it'shim.Because it's Riggs. Because the same man who bakes with too much flour and zero spatial awareness has me spread out like a feast and is eating me like he's got all damn day.
I arch again, muscles going tight, breath catching like a hook in my throat—and then I fall. Hard. Head thrown back, jaw slack, coming so hard it short-circuits my vision. Everything narrows to sensation, brightness, heat, the sound of my own broken voice echoing off the cabinets.
He doesn’t stop. Riggs slows, finally, easing me through it with slow, reverent licks that make me twitch and shudder, body overstimulated and boneless under him.
When he finally lifts his head, his mouth is slick, chin shining, eyes gleaming like he just won something. He wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist, then leans over and plants a kiss right on my hipbone. A soft one. Then another, higher. My ribs.
He kisses them one by one, like counting a slow rhythm only he hears. His mouth is softer now, less hunger, more worship. Every press of his lips is an apology for how thoroughly he just wrecked me, and a promise he’s not done yet.
Then another?—
My sternum.
Then my throat.
Then—
My mouth.
It’s slow. Deep. Hot with everything he just did to me, but sweet with it too. Like he’s pouring something back into me, something warm and quiet and grounding. His tongue traces mine lazily, like we’ve got all the time in the world, like nothing exists beyond this kiss and the batter-caked chaos of the kitchen.
I slide my arms around his neck, pulling him down so our chests touch, skin to skin. We’re both sweating a little, still breathing hard. His body feels like fire pressed to mine, every inch of him solid and strong and right where I want him.
“You good?” he murmurs, brushing a flour-dusted strand of hair off my forehead.
I nod, but the movement’s clumsy, like my bones haven’t reassembled correctly yet.
“I don’t remember my own name.”
His grin is wicked. “Perfect. That means I’m doing it right.”
“You’re notdone?”
He hums against my mouth, hips shifting just enough to let me feel the still-hard press of him against my thigh.
“I’m just getting started, soldier.”
And when he kisses me again—slower, deeper, more dangerous—I realize he means it.
