Page 2 of Knot Baked Out For This
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.
