Chapter 25 There’s a Boner in the Batter
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’m making 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 an invitation.
The second he bends, I move. Fingers hook into the waistband of his briefs and yoink—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 he might actually 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, and about 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.
“You could,” 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.
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 how not uninterested he’s been in this little game.
“I knew it,” I murmur against his mouth. “You like it 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 clean me first,” 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.
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 to broil and 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'm so close. Not just from the way he’s working me over but because it's him. 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 not done?”
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.