Page 1 of Knot Baked Out For This
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—bruisingmy 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.
