Warning: contains sexual content
The kitchen had finally gone still.
All that remained was the hum of the overhead lights and the faint clatter of distant dishwashers. Rody stood at the doorway to Vincent's office, watching his boss with a predatory calm. Vincent was hunched over his desk, clad in his ever-present white chef's coat, scribbling notes with that same icy focus that never faltered. He didn't even glance up when Rody entered.
Vincent Charbonneau-the infamous chef, the one everyone feared and respected-kept his expression cold, his gaze down, even as Rody drew closer. But Rody knew better. Over the weeks, he had learned the tiny tells, the slight stiffening of Vincent's shoulders whenever he was nearby. The way his hand gripped his pen just a little too tight when they were alone.
Vincent was always so composed. Always in control. Always this untouchable presence that kept everyone-Rody included-at arm's length. Except... Rody had seen the cracks. The small moments where that perfect, frosty exterior faltered. And God, how he loved riping those cracks open.
"Working late again?" Rody asked, his voice low, as he sauntered into the room.
Vincent didn't respond at first, his dark eyes still glued to the paperwork. "Always something to finish."
Rody's lips curved into a smirk. "Is that right?"
He stepped closer, moving behind Vincent's chair, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off the other man's body. He knew Vincent felt him there, the chef's muscles tensing subtly beneath his crisp uniform. The office was small-too small for the tension that filled the space between them now. Rody could practically taste the restraint, the way Vincent tried so hard to pretend he wasn't affected by Rody's proximity.
But Rody wasn't interested in playing it safe.
He leaned down, placing a hand on the back of Vincent's chair, his other hand coming to rest on Vincent's shoulder. He felt the sharp intake of breath, the way Vincent's body froze beneath his touch. But still, Vincent didn't move. He didn't protest.
"You're tense," Rody murmured, his lips hovering just above Vincent's ear. "You should let me help you relax."
Vincent's pen stilled on the paper, his fingers curling tighter around it. For a moment, he didn't speak, but Rody could feel the battle going on inside him. He could practically hear Vincent telling himself to stay composed, to keep control.
"This isn't... appropriate, we're at work," Vincent finally muttered, his voice strained, though he didn't pull away.
Rody chuckled darkly. "Since when have you ever cared about it being 'appropriate'?"
Vincent's silence was answer enough. His hand loosened around the pen, letting it drop onto the desk, his head tilting slightly as if in surrender. And that was all the invitation Rody needed.
Without hesitation, Rody moved his hand from Vincent's shoulder, letting it trail down his back slowly, feeling the stiff fabric of the chef's coat beneath his fingers. He reached around to Vincent's chest, slipping his hand underneath the crisp white uniform, feeling the warm skin beneath. Vincent was lean, and that contrast made Rody's pulse race. The idea of having someone like *Vincent*, so cold and untouchable, crumbling under his touch was intoxicating.
"Rody..." Vincent's voice was low now, but the usual authority was missing. He sounded breathless, vulnerable in an intoxicating way. Rody had become addicted to the sounds ever since they first slept together.
"Shh," Rody whispered, pressing his lips to the back of Vincent's neck, just above the stiff collar of his chef's coat. Vincent jerked at the contact, a soft, involuntary sound escaping his throat. Rody smiled against his skin. "You always make the most beautiful sounds."
