Elena arrived at the bakery after dark.
The front sign was flipped to Closed, but the door creaked open at her touch.
Warm candlelight flickered inside.
The shelves were bare, the ovens off—but the scent of sugar, vanilla, and something deeper still lingered in the air.
Something… inviting.
"Back here," Talia's voice called, sultry and smooth.
Elena followed it behind the counter, past the swinging doors, into the kitchen where all the magic happened.
And stopped.
Talia stood at the center island wearing a black apron and little else, her freckles glowing in the soft light.
Rowan leaned casually beside her, shirtless, tattooed, a dusting of flour on his chest and hands.
His eyes locked on Elena the moment she stepped in.
"We were just about to start," Talia said, licking a smudge of batter from her thumb.
"You're right on time."
Elena swallowed.
"What exactly are we making?"
Talia's smile was slow and wicked.
"Cream puffs."
Rowan chuckled low.
"Among other things."
They started with the dough.
Elena was no stranger to baking, but this—this was something else entirely.
Every motion felt charged.
Every touch lingered.
Rowan stood behind her, guiding her hands as she stirred the choux paste, his breath warm against her neck.
"Steady," he murmured.
"Control the heat. It responds better when it's slow… deep."
She bit her lip, her body humming with more than just anticipation.
Across the table, Talia piped fresh cream into a warm shell, the tip oozing slightly with every squeeze.
She met Elena's eyes, her voice low.
"Want to try?"
Elena nodded.
Talia held out the cream-filled puff.
Instead of handing it over, she brought it to Elena's mouth, pressing it lightly to her lips.
Elena bit down—and cream spilled, thick and sweet, across her tongue and chin.
Talia leaned in and licked the edge of her mouth.
"Messy girl."
Elena's knees nearly buckled.
Rowan reached over and smeared a dab of whipped cream on her collarbone.
Then another just below her ear.
"We should clean this up."
"Together," Talia added, already moving closer.
What followed was nothing short of delicious chaos.
Flour dusted bare skin.
Fingers explored with the same finesse used to knead soft dough.
Cream—warm, rich, sinful—was smeared and licked away in slow, savoring tastes.
Elena gave herself to the sensation of it all: soft laughter, tangled limbs, heat and honey and indulgence.
This wasn't just baking.
It was worship.
A feast where she was both guest and offering.
And when the kitchen finally quieted, breaths still ragged, Talia traced lazy circles across Elena's back and whispered:
"Welcome to the sweeter side of Rosehill."