Knot Baked Out For This (Bakedverse #1)

Prologue Whipped Cream Confessions

~HAZEL~

The kitchen’s a fucking disaster.

There’s a streak of flour across the fridge, cinnamon dust on the floor, and a trail of chocolate thumbprints leading from the oven to the counter edge.

That last one? My fault. Maybe his, if you count the way Rowan pressed my hips down and licked a line from my belly button up to the whipped cream mountain on my left boob.

The table’s definitely scarred for life.

I’ll worry about that later.

Right now, my thighs are shaking, and I’m straddling six and a half feet of heat-dazed firefighter like I’m trying to win gold for Team Omega. Sweat drips between my breasts, collecting in the curve of my navel.

There’s flour everywhere—on me, on him, probably behind my left ear, too.

“God,” I mumble, rutting against him with no shame, “I can’t—I need—”

Words don’t work when my head’s this scrambled. It’s all sensation. Rowan’s cock, thick and hot, stretching me open until my bones melt. His hands—fucking hell, those hands—bruising my hips, setting the rhythm, guiding my body like he owns it. Like he owns me.

Maybe I want him to.

No, not maybe.

Absolutely.

He rolls his hips and I see stars. My hair’s falling out of its bun, tangling with sticky little globs of whipped cream. Somewhere in the background, I hear Muffin yowl from the safety of the flour bin, but even her judgy stare can’t reach me here.

“Hazel.” Rowan’s voice is wrecked velvet and whiskey, deeper than usual, almost ragged. He sits up, mouth latching to my throat, tongue flicking at the sweat pooling there. “That’s it, Hazel honey. Ride me. Take every inch—shit, you’re perfect.”

I whine.

I can’t help it.

My omega’s not even trying for dignity; she’s shameless, demanding, greedy. I rock down again, harder this time, grinding my clit against the ridges of his abs. He’s smeared with chocolate, deep brown against bronze skin.

It’s obscene.

He breaks our kiss, just for a second. Both of us gasping, clutching, desperate.

My scent hits the air like a bomb—pumpkin cream, maple glaze, sticky vanilla all burned down to smoked caramel and honeyed cinnamon. His scent rises to meet mine: smoked cedar, bourbon-vanilla, cinnamon bark knocked off by the sweet-hot tang of firewood after rain.

It smells like home.

Like melting.

Like nothing else matters.

My pussy clenches around him, greedier than the rest of me.

I lean back to look at him—really look. Rowan’s eyes are molten amber, pupils blown wide until I barely see color, just black ringed in gold. A line of whipped cream streaks his jaw. His hands flex on my hips, possessive, almost bruising, and it makes my omega ache.

He grins, lazy and wolfish.

“You look—fuck, Hazel. You look so good like this. All flushed and messy.”

I’m not flushed. I’m burning alive.

My skin prickles with heat-fever—cheeks, chest, even behind my knees. Sweat beads on my upper lip. My hands tremble when I brace them on his chest, and there’s flour on my knuckles.

Whipped cream melting, chocolate everywhere, sweet and sticky and shameless.

I move. He lets me.

I ride him like everything depends on it—hard, frantic, desperate. My clit hammers with each roll of my hips, slick pooling where we’re joined. The sounds are filthy. Wet. Perfect.

The table groans, but it doesn’t give.

He licks a line up my sternum, pausing to swirl his tongue in the hollow at the base of my throat.

“Could eat you alive, pumpkin. You want that?”

My head lolls, pleasure sparking up my spine.

“Yes. Please, Rowan—”

He nips at my collarbone, then sucks hard enough to leave a mark.

“That’s my girl.”

My scent spikes again, thick enough to float on air. He grabs a fistful of my ass, lifts me, and thrusts up with brutal precision. I scream. Muffin yowls louder. The world spins, cinnamon and sugar and Alpha everywhere.

I lose track of time. All I know is the drive—down, up, clench, grind, again, again. My breasts bounce with every motion, flour making pale fingerprints over flushed skin. He palms one, pinching my nipple, and I nearly come on the spot.

“Look at you,” Rowan groans. “Such a sweet little omega. So hungry. You need more?”

God, do I ever.

But words won’t come.

Just sound—high, needy, soft at first, then sharper.

He takes my right hand, guides it to his mouth, and licks the whipped cream from my knuckles. His thumb swipes chocolate from my shoulder, smears it down to my breast, then circles my nipple with sugar-sticky care. It’s filthy. I want more.

I want everything.

He thrusts harder, pace picking up, every move more demanding. My clit grinds against him, oversensitive, begging for friction. It’s almost too much—almost. I arch my back, hair flying, and he catches a handful, dragging my face back down to his.

Our mouths crash, teeth and tongue and sugar. He swallows my cry like it’s his favorite treat.

“Hazel,” he pants, words shredded by need, “you—fuck, you drive me insane.”

His hands never stop.

They grip, they guide, they claim. I’m shaking, every muscle strung tight, sweat dripping down my spine. My hips stutter, thighs burning, but he holds me steady—lets me take what I need until I’m stupid with it.

The scents in the room twist tighter, layer on layer. My own—honeyed cinnamon, caramel smoke, all the sugar in the world. His—deeper now, burnt sugar and wet firewood, something untamed and wild. The edge presses in, hungry.

“Rowan—” It’s a gasp, a prayer, a warning.

He growls, low and electric, and brings his mouth to my breast.

He sucks, hard, then gentler, tongue swirling over chocolate and flesh. His hand’s still on my ass, drawing me down with each snap of his hips. The friction is everything.

“Come for me,” he says, heat-crazed and rough. “Show me how good it is.”

I do.

The orgasm starts low—deep in my gut, winding tight, then whipping up fast. My body goes rigid; spine bows, thighs clamp down, stars pop behind my eyelids. I can’t breathe. I don’t want to. It’s too sweet, too much, perfect.

I scream his name, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging crescents into his skin. He holds on, lets me ride it out, murmuring fuck yes, so good, so good, like he’s worshipping my ruin.

My head falls forward. I hear my heartbeat in my ears. Sweat, sugar, and Alpha. All I can taste.

But he’s not done.

He’s shaking, too—barely holding on. My cunt milks him, shameless, and he lets go. His cock pulses deep inside me, heat blooming everywhere, slick and sticky and raw. He bites my neck, gentle but warning, and I nearly come again.

We collapse.

Well—my legs collapse.

I’m still on top, strong girl act totally shot, now just a gasping, gummy mess of sex and sugar and need.

The kitchen’s gone silent except for our breathing. Even Muffin’s given up. Probably plotting revenge in the flour bin.

Rowan strokes my back, slow, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. His hands are sticky with chocolate.

“Hazel,” he whispers, voice a broken matchstick. “You okay?”

I nod, but it’s more of a whimper. I can’t talk. My voice is lost somewhere in my chest, tangled up with sugar and satisfaction.

He grins up at me.

Triumphant. Possessive.

Like I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted and he just claimed it.

I shiver, and the fever spikes again.

Lust, lightning, another round building before the first’s even faded.

His scent flares—darker, sharper, claiming every inch of air. My own responds, blooming wide, demanding more.

So I take it.

I ride him again, slower this time, savoring the drag, the stretch, the way his cock fills me just right. Flour floats in the sunlight, dust motes catching in my hair. His hands resume their bruising grip, kneading my hips, guiding, coaxing.

He nips my jaw, then my lip.

“There’s my girl. That’s right. Take all you need.”

I do.

Each thrust is a promise. Every grind, a plea for more. My omega howls inside, wild with joy, finally satisfied, never wanting it to end.

He watches me, molten eyes never leaving my face. I know what he sees—a wrecked, flushed, flour-dusted disaster with whipped cream in her hair and chocolate on her tits. I should care. I don’t.

I come again. Harder, messier, legs trembling so bad I nearly fall sideways off the table.

He catches me. Steadies me. Whispers my name like a secret.

The world narrows to this—heat, hunger, Alpha and omega, sugar and sweat and everything we’re not supposed to want but take anyway.

When the tremors fade, I collapse onto his chest, cheek pressed to the spot smeared with chocolate and sex. My breath shudders out, half moan, half laugh.

He wraps his arms around me. Holds me close. His hands map my bare skin, memorizing every inch—just in case.

We don’t talk.

Too busy breathing, hearts pounding, scents tangled and thick in the honey-glow of morning.

If this is heat, I never want to be cold again.

It’s bliss. It’s madness. It’s everything.

And as I cling to him, hips still twitching, my mind flickers:

How did I ever survive heats alone?

But I don’t get to finish the thought.

Because the kitchen door creaks, and more Alpha steps through, drawn by the sugary wreckage of my ruin.

The door swings open.

For a split second, golden sunlight glints off the counter and I think I’m hallucinating. But no—the shadow in the doorway is real. Actually, make that two shadows, both broad shouldered, naked, and watching me like they want to eat me alive.

Levi grins, lazy and bright.

“You two save any for the rest of us?”

Luca doesn’t smile. He just stares, storm-gray stare locked on my shuddering body, fists clenched at his sides. His whole focus zeroes in—on what I’m doing, what I need, what I might beg for next.

My cunt pulses and threatens to gush slick just from the way they look at me.

Their scents hit like a freight train.

Levi’s is up first—warm, sweet, decadent. Honey butter biscuit, vanilla chai, whipped cream and a spike of orange peel. It slides through the kitchen in fat, sticky waves, wrapping me up in comfort.