Chapter Text
Service is over, and everyone’s left the restaurant save for Syd. She’s mixing herself the world’s largest vodka soda (in a fucking deli container) and dragging her feet to the office, not so much physically tired as mentally exhausted from how fucking terrible service was tonight. Tina was out sick, so Carmy had to essentially be her sous, and that made him a whiny little bitch about everything. Connor kept burning the sauces, and the pasta girl (the fuck was her name again?) kept giving her attitude—not to mention table eight sent Fishes back (who sends Fishes back?!) to refire like three fucking times.
She sits down on a chair in the office with a heavy sigh, taking a big gulp of her drink. She closes her eyes for a minute and breathes deeply, willing herself to relax.
She startles when the door opens.
It’s Richie. “Oh, you’re still here?” he remarks.
“Fuck, don’t scare me like that!” Syd gripes.
“Sorry,” he says, sheepishly scratching the back of his head. “I was out back having a smoke.”
She can only barely smell it on him. Richie is incredibly fastidious about his cigarettes now—smokes strictly outdoors, chews gum after, re-applies his cologne. Says he doesn’t want to “affect the guest experience.” And shit, the new cologne smells so fucking nice that Syd isn’t going to complain. It’s something warm and pleasantly spicy. Subtle. Sexy, even, when paired with the suit and the tie and those ridiculously blue eyes…
“Want to join me?” Syd asks, gesturing with her deli container.
“Don’t tell me that entire thing is full of booze,” Richie says with a chuckle.
“Only, like, half of it,” she says, handing it to him. He takes a sip and winces.
“Oh, fuck no. I’m getting my own.” He sets the container back on the desk. Syd laughs.
A few moments later, Richie returns with a regular drinking glass filled with amber liquid and a shitload of ice. He leans on the desk, half-sitting, and Syd has to crane her neck to look up at him from her chair. Jesus, he’s tall.
“Didn’t think you were a whiskey guy,” she says.
“Eh, I wanted something stronger than beer,” he says, “but not as strong as the science experiment you’ve got goin’ on in there.”
“Lightweight,” Syd teases.
“Maniac,” Richie needles back.
They drink in companionable quiet for a while.
“God, the fuck was Carmy’s problem today?” Syd grumbles eventually.
Richie groans in agreement. “Kid needs to relax.”
“And I don’t know how it was front-of-house,” Syd says, “but table eight seemed like a bunch of assholes.”
“Fuck, the worst. Buncha jagoffs.”
“How many times did they send Fishes back? Three?”
“Four,” Richie corrects her. “I was so close to showin’ them the door, but hey, even assholes get impeccable customer service.”
“They don’t deserve it,” Syd grumbles, taking another sip of her drink.
“It’s the principle of the thing, Syd,” Richie says, rubbing his forehead with his thumb and gesturing with his drink glass. “Unreasonable hospitality.”
“It’s stupid.”
“Yeah, well, saves us from getting a bad Yelp review.”
Syd snorts. “Fuck Yelp.”
Richie hums in agreement before taking a sip of his whiskey. Syd watches his throat work as he swallows, the way his absurdly large hand wraps around the glass, his lashes fluttering as he shuts his eyes in contentment.
She gulps down a large mouthful of her vodka soda.
It’s not like she hasn’t thought about Richie in that way before—it’s embarrassing, actually, the amount of times she’s replayed that fight they had last year in her head and tacking on a slightly different ending that involves far less stabbing and a lot more tongue—but hooking up with a coworker is not a good idea. Every restaurant fling she’s been witness to or participated in has crashed and burned. But restaurants in and of themselves aren’t good ideas, either—they’re monumentally risky businesses; the margins are tiny, the labor is intense, and sixty percent of them fail within their first year. She hopes Richie has a better track record making women come.
And now that she’s got sex on the brain and a stomach full of liquid courage obliterating her brain-to-mouth filter, she can’t fucking stop herself. “You know what I want?” she says, sitting up straighter and leaning towards Richie.
“What?” Richie asks, bending forward a little to listen.
“A good fucking lay,” she says, punctuating her point by jabbing the desk with her finger. “I deserve it, man.”
Richie’s eyes widen, but he quickly schools his expression back to neutral, taking another swig of whiskey. “Haven’t gotten any in a while, huh?”
“God, no,” she exhales, “when the fuck would I have the time?” The last time she had an orgasm not by her own hand was pre-Covid. It’s been way too fucking long. She’s going to wear out the motor in her vibrator at this rate.
“Thought there were like, apps for that,” Richie says.
“That’s a great way to get a fucking STD, Richie.” Or kidnapped. Or murdered.
Richie shrugs. “I dunno, I got no experience with that shit.”
“What, STDs? Or dating apps?” Syd asks.
“Neither. I’m a disciple of Durex and low-tech communication,” Richie proclaims, gesturing grandly.
Sydney snorts. “Wow, Richie. You’re a fucking philosopher,” she teases.
“Back in my day, if you wanted to get laid, you had to have the balls to go up to a chick and ask,” he says. “And then I was married by the time the apps were a thing.”
Has he not gotten laid since his divorce? Huh. Maybe they’re in the same boat. “Well, the apps suck. Trust me. Had Tinder for a hot second, then Hinge, went on like four dates and hated them all,” Sydney grouses. “And the last time I almost hooked up with a guy, he expected me to blow him but refused to go down on me. The fuck is that about, anyway?”
“Fuckin’ coward,” Richie remarks. His eyes sweep over her from head to toe. “A woman like you? Jesus, he’d be lucky for the chance.”
His gaze doesn’t feel sleazy. It feels… appreciative. Awe-like, almost. And she’s still her in her chef’s whites, for crying out loud. Syd squeezes her thighs together.
“Yeah?” she says, quiet.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice dropping an octave.
Silence stretches between them for an agonizing minute. Richie looks at Syd with his blue, blue eyes, and she’s getting so worked up that she can practically feel her pulse thrumming in her neck.
Richie shifts his weight a little, fidgets with a stack of papers on the desk. “I could do it,” he says. “Go down on you. If you want.” He’s utterly nonchalant, like he’s offering to help run expo and not eat her actual pussy.
“Be serious, man,” Syd says, rolling her eyes and huffing a laugh to cover for the fact that she’s gripping her deli container of booze for dear life.
“I am serious,” he says, taking another drink. “I fuckin’ love eating pussy.”
Syd rolls her eyes but her stomach swoops. “And your wife still left you?”
She thinks that’ll get a rise out of Richie, but he just laughs. “Sex wasn’t why we broke up, Sydney,” he says, mock-offended, then his voice turns oddly contemplative. “Actually, sex is probably what kept us going that long. Tiff even fuckin’ jumped me when I signed the divorce papers.”
“Divorce sex is a thing?”
“Apparently.” Richie clears his throat. “Anyway, uh, yeah, offer is on the table. Not this table, specifically, but, y’know, the table. Although this one’s probably sturdy enough,” he muses, leaning into the desk with more force, like he’s testing out the structural integrity of the damned thing.
“Sure. Sounds nice,” Syd says, not believing the words coming out of her mouth. She downs the rest of her deli container in one go and hiccups. “Uh, maybe when we’re less… buzzed?”
Richie chuckles, a deep rumbling sound that does funny things to Syd’s insides. “You got it, chef,” he says, knocking back his watered-down whiskey. “See you tomorrow.”
—
The looks they exchange throughout service the next day are laden with electricity, a raw energy that gives Syd goosebumps. Every time they brush past each other, Sydney feels her heart lurch in her chest.
An hour before closing, when Richie walks up to her and touches her shoulder, she almost forgets to breathe.
“You stayin’ after service tonight?” Richie asks, voice low, just for her. She shivers.
“I’ll stay if you stay,” she replies, rocking on the balls of her feet.
“See you then,” he says, affectionately rubbing her shoulder before he walks past.
One hour has never gone by so slowly in her life.
—
Richie manages to chase Carmy away an hour or so after service, taking over the front-of house cleaning; Sydney finishes up chopping mirepoix for tomorrow and organizing deli containers of bone broth. The restaurant is eerily quiet when it’s empty like this—a far cry from how chaotic it gets during service.
With her prep done, Syd takes a deep breath and walks to the office. She unbuttons her chef’s top with shaking hands, folding it neatly and setting it on the desk. She takes off her scarf next, letting her braids fall loose around her shoulders, then folds it as well and places it on top of the pile. There will probably be other articles of clothing in this pile in short order, and the thought sends a little thrill down her spine. She looks down at herself, at her plain t-shirt and practical black pants and comfortable nonskid shoes, wondering briefly what the fuck she’s getting herself into, but her excitement far outweighs her nerves.
A few minutes later, Sydney hears a quiet knock on the office door.
“Come in,” she says with a surprising amount of confidence.
Richie enters the office and gently shuts the door behind him. He turns to face Sydney and gives her a small smile. Sydney smiles back, feeling her skin tingle and her heart stutter, and fuck, why does she feel like giddy high schooler with a stupid crush? This is ridiculous.
“Hi,” Richie says.
“Hi,” Sydney says.
They just stand there looking at each other for a long, agonizing moment. Syd tilts her neck up a little to look into his eyes. She can’t wait another second—she tugs Richie forward by the lapels of his suit jacket. He cups her face in his hand, his thumb swiping over her bottom lip once before ducking down to press his lips to hers.
The kiss starts slow and soft, unhurried. When Sydney’s tongue peeks out to brush over Richie’s lower lip, he lets out a sound that’s practically a growl and licks into her mouth, hot and hungry—shit, Richie’s good at this. He slowly backs her up against the office’s wall of cookbooks, his thigh slotting between her legs. Sydney rolls her hips, and the friction is delicious—but it’s nowhere near enough. She makes a little frustrated noise as she grinds against his thigh and digs her fingers into his shoulders.
Richie’s hands wander down her body, skimming her sides and arriving at the front of her pants. He deftly unbuttons and unzips them before dipping a finger under the waistband of her underwear, stroking the skin just beneath it and not venturing any further.
Syd breaks their kiss to complain. “C’mon, Richie, please.”
Richie mouths along her jaw. “Hmm?”
“Touch me,” Sydney begs.
“I am touching you,” he murmurs against her neck.
She should have known he’d be a fucking tease. “You know what I fucking mean!”
Thankfully, Richie doesn’t have to be told twice; he slips his left hand into her panties, skims past the coarse curls there, and slides his fingers against the slippery heat of her cunt.
“This all for me, sweetheart?” he purrs into her ear as he rubs at her. She’s absurdly wet, has been for what seems like hours, what with Richie’s knowing looks and innocent touches during service that they both know were not innocent in the least. Syd can feel the cold metal of his wedding band drag along her pussy; it makes her stomach do somersaults.
“Shut up, you know it is,” Syd says, arching into his touch. Richie laughs against her ear and she shivers.
Richie slips two fingers inside her, middle and ring, and curls them. Syd gasps, bracing herself against his chest. He keeps curling his fingers in a come-hither motion, slowly, agonizingly slowly, and when he moves his thumb to press against her clit, her knees nearly buckle.
“There?” he says, breathy.
“Mm-hmm,” Syd hums high in her throat, gripping onto his suit for dear life. He works his thumb on her clit with just the right amount of pressure, taking her apart so easily; it’s like he’s known her body for years.
“What do you want, Sydney?” he murmurs into her ear.
Sydney hitches her hips into his touch. He keeps a slow, gentle rhythm inside her cunt, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the side of her face as he awaits her reply.
“Ummmm,” she says, her brain-short circuiting.
“Use your words,” he chides, stilling the motion of his fingers. Sydney groans in frustration, her pussy throbbing with need.
“Oh my God, fuck you,” she whines, but there’s no venom behind it. “I want… I want—”
Richie takes pity on her. “You want my mouth now, sweetheart?”
“Yes, yes, please.”
His fingers slip out of her and she moans at the loss, but then he gets down on his knees—his fucking knees—and starts untying her shoes. She steps out of them and he places them to the side; then, he tugs her pants down and off, folding them and reaching up to place them on the desk.
His hands hover at the waistband of her underwear—blue floral cotton, practical but pretty, if Richie even gives a damn about that kind of thing—and his eyes dart over to the chair next to the desk. It’s within arm’s reach, and he drags it forward and gestures for Sydney to take a seat. She almost laughs at the absurdity of it, like he’s showing her to her table in the dining room, and then she thinks that this office may as well be a dining room right now because someone’s gonna be eating in here in a minute, and she can’t stop the giggle that bubbles up from her throat.
“What?” Richie asks her as she sits down, his brows furrowed in confusion.
“Nothing, um,” she says, trying to regain her composure, “bon appétit, I guess.”
Richie looks up at her and breaks out into one of his big, stupid guffaws, the ones that she used to think were annoying but now finds comfortingly familiar. Soon, the two of them are both cackling like idiots, Richie resting his head against Syd’s knee as his shoulders shake.
“Excuse you, Richard,” Syd gasps out between laughs, “don’t laugh at me. I’ll have you know my pussy is Michelin-starred.”
“Got it,” Richie wheezes out, “I promise I won’t leave a negative Yelp review.”
At some point in their hysterics, Sydney nudges Richie. “Okay, okay, we gotta stop laughing, dude,” she says, managing to keep her voice even.
"Yes, chef,” Richie says as he looks up at her, his eyes twinkling with mirth.
“Oh my God, Richie, really?”
Richie lets out a few more wheezy cackles before he clears his throat and smiles up at her. God, his eyes are so fucking blue—she could fucking drown in them.
He hooks his fingers into her panties and tugs. Syd lifts up her hips so Richie can drag them all the way down and off. Syd kicks them away, not bothering to pick them up and fold them like the rest of her clothes because she’s really starting to get impatient, and then Richie’s spreading her legs and hiking them over his shoulders and holy shit this is really happening.
Richie must see something in her eyes, because his expression softens. “Don’t worry, Syd, I got you,” he says, in the same confident, calm tone he uses in a kitchen crisis, and just like that, Sydney’s nerves dissipate. She nods at him and he gets started, kissing a path up her inner thigh, his stubble rasping against her skin.
Her breath hitches when she feels his hot breath ghost over her, then practically squeaks when he licks a broad path up her slit. She grasps the back of his head with one hand, trying and failing to find purchase in his short-cropped hair. She moans, and he moans against her cunt in reply, rolling his tongue against her clit in a steady motion that has her toes curling. Then, he slips two of his fingers inside her, closes his lips around her clit and sucks.
Sydney writhes, letting out an embarrassingly loud moan which she cuts off partway, slapping her hand over her mouth. Richie huffs out a laugh through his nose, then gets back to work, setting a consistent pace with his tongue and fingers. Sydney rolls her hips up against his mouth, whining, and fuck, Richie’s a good kisser, but he’s amazing at this.
“Richie, please,” Syd begs, not knowing what she’s begging for, but begging all the same. Richie keeps working her clit with his tongue, his fingers maintaining the same tortuous rhythm. When he sucks on her clit again, she sobs.
“Right there, right there, don’t stop,” she cries, pushing her hips up into his face, and he hums in acknowledgment and keeps sucking, enveloping her clit in hot, steady pressure. She comes so hard that her legs shake with the force of it and her throat goes raw from her cries. Her stomach quivers and her nails dig into his scalp as her orgasm continues to crash through her; it’s so intense that she almost forgets to breathe.
The moment pleasure starts to blur into oversensitivity, she twists her hips away from his mouth. He backs off, panting, his mouth and chin wet with her. He kisses her inner thigh, keeping his fingers inside of her as she pulses with the aftershocks.
“Holy shit,” Syd curses, breathless.
Richie gently slides his fingers out of her, his skin glistening. Even his wedding ring is slick with her arousal. Richie watches her watching him, and he quirks an eyebrow at her before bringing his fingers to his mouth and sucking them clean. His piercing blue eyes look right at her, into her, and it’s so overwhelming that she has to look away. She takes her legs off his shoulders—she’s incredibly wobbly, but still manages—and sinks into the chair with a contented sigh.
“Good?” Richie asks, his voice low.
“Yeah,” she says, lightheaded. “Really good. Like, better than good.”
“I can make you come again if you want,” he says, rubbing her thigh. He’s still kneeling between her legs, looking up at her expectantly, like he’s waiting for the CDC to give him his orders like a good Maître D. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead, his tie sits askew, and a noticeable bulge tents his suit pants.
It’s stupid how hot he looks right now.
“Umm, I dunno if I can come again,” Syd says.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he says, kissing her knee. “I’ll get you there.”
With that mouth, he probably can. Jesus.
“Yeah,” she says, taking a trembling breath. “Yeah. Just—go slow.”
Richie just smiles and fits his hand under her knee, spreading her legs wide and kissing his way back to her cunt.
He doesn’t touch her clit, just licks broad swaths around her pussy, through her slit, dipping his tongue inside her. He drags his tongue slowly—so fucking slowly—up to the side of her clit, nearly brushing it, and Syd moans. He repeats this slow path again and again, teasing for minutes that feel like eternities before finally covering her clit with the flat of his tongue. He doesn’t move a muscle, just stays there, waiting. He waits, and waits, until Syd can’t take it anymore. She hooks her legs around his shoulders and grinds on his face, chasing her pleasure. Richie seems to take that as his signal to lap at her again in earnest, making Sydney keen and buck her hips up wildly; Richie holds her down and increases the pressure.
“A-A little bit higher up,“ she gasps, and Richie eagerly complies, shifting the position of his tongue but keeping the same steady pace, and fuck, it’s perfect.
“Fuck,” Syd whines, “fuckfuckfuck.” She’s so close, her thighs squeezing his head and her cunt quivering. Richie moans against her, a deep, blissed-out sound, and it’s enough to push her right over the edge. It’s not quite as strong as the first orgasm, but it’s damn near close, and this one fucking goes on forever. She looks down to see Richie’s euphoric expression as he eagerly laps at her, eating her out like she’s the best damn thing he’s ever tasted, and Syd just keeps fucking coming, the pleasure rolling through her body in wave after wave. She needs something to hold on to, anything, and settles for gripping the edge of the chair as she rides out the last wave, her orgasm trailing off.
She starts to squirm a little, but Richie doesn’t back away this time. Instead, he slips three of his big fingers inside of her and expertly curls them, switching from licking her clit to sucking harshly, and Sydney chokes out a sob and comes again, her thighs squeezing his head and her hips lifting off the chair. She feels tears prick behind her eyes as she floats away, out of her body, out of her mind, and she thinks she might actually fucking die if Richie makes her come again.
“Okay, okay,” Sydney gasps out, pushing weakly at Richie’s head. Richie complies, taking his mouth and fingers away. Syd’s still trembling as she catches her breath, her pussy throbbing. Richie is panting hard, the entire lower half of his face shiny and wet; Syd would be embarrassed if it wasn’t so fucking hot.
Richie goes to wipe his mouth on his sleeve but stops, seeming to remember he’s wearing a nice suit. He fishes out his pocket square instead, bringing it up to his face. It’s fucking ridiculous watching him wipe pussy juice off his chin with a scrap of blue satin, and Sydney huffs out a laugh at the sight. He chuckles himself, tossing the pocket square on the floor.
“That what you had in mind?” he asks, still a little out of breath.
“Holy shit, do you even need to ask?” Syd says. Her entire body feels boneless. “You’re really fucking good at that.” Absurdly good. What the fuck.
Richie preens at the praise and mimes dusting off his shoulder. Syd snorts at his antics and nudges him with her knee. He kisses her thigh one last time before grabbing her panties off the floor, sliding them slowly back up her legs. She pulls them on the rest of the way and winces a little at the cold, wet feeling of the damp cotton.
He helps her put on her pants next, then her shoes. It’s kind of incredibly endearing to watch him tie her laces, his tongue sticking out in concentration. That tongue that just made her come three times. And the way he’s dressing her? It’s almost too much.
“Come here,” she says, tugging at his wrist, overcome with affection.
Richie stands up on shaky legs, cursing under his breath as he does so, rubbing his old-man knees. Syd thinks she hears something pop and winces along with him. He stretches up to his full height before leaning down to press his forehead to hers.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
Syd replies by kissing him. It’s weird to taste herself on his mouth, but also really fucking sexy, and shit, she could do this for hours. He teases her bottom lip between his teeth, holding her chin in one of his absurdly big hands.
They part eventually, and Syd can’t help but notice that Richie’s still hard in his slacks—it looks uncomfortable. Her mind races with everything she wants to do to him, but it’s late and she’s tired and her entire body feels floaty and her brain is essentially mush at this point.
Richie notices her staring and looks down at himself. “Hey, don’t worry about me tonight,” he says, kissing the top of her head. It’s oddly chaste, considering what they’ve just done. “Next time, okay?”
“Next time?” Syd remarks, hopeful.
“If you want,” he offers, sounding deeply sincere.
Fuck.
“Sounds great, actually,” Syd says, then, after a pause: “…You staying after service tomorrow?”