Work Text:
The kitchen of Rafael Barba’s apartment smelled of garlic, searing onions, and expensive red wine. It was a rich, heavy scent that promised comfort.
Rafael stood at the granite island, a chef’s knife in his hand, dismantling a pile of fresh parsley with the same ruthless efficiency he usually reserved for hostile witnesses. He was wearing a navy blue t-shirt that hugged his biceps, a pair of gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips, and—most importantly—a white linen apron tied securely around his waist.
"You're hovering," he said without looking up.
Olivia Benson was leaning against the refrigerator, a glass of Pinot Noir in her hand, watching him. She was barefoot, wearing one of his dress shirts over leggings. It was a domestic uniform that did dangerous things to his blood pressure.
"I'm observing," she corrected, taking a slow sip of wine. "It's an investigative technique."
"It's distracting," he countered, sweeping the herbs into a small prep bowl. "The risotto requires constant vigilance, Liv. It’s a needy dish. If I look away, it turns into glue."
"You've been stirring that pot for twenty minutes. I think it’s fine."
She pushed off the fridge and walked toward him. The soft pad of her bare feet on the hardwood was drowned out by the jazz playing softly from the living room speakers—Chet Baker, melancholy and smooth.
"It needs five more minutes of absorption," he insisted, turning back to the stove to give the arborio rice another stir with a wooden spoon. "And then the parmesan. And the butter. It’s a process."
"You and your process," she teased, coming to stand right behind him.
She didn't touch him. Not yet. She just stood close enough that he could feel her body heat radiating against his back. close enough that the scent of her vanilla shampoo mixed with the savory steam rising from the pan.
Barba’s hand tightened on the spoon. "Go sit down, Olivia. Read a book. Check your email. Let the chef work."
"But the chef looks so good working," she murmured.
She reached out, running a hand down the center of his back. She traced the line of his spine through the soft cotton of his t-shirt. Barba stiffened, his rhythm faltering for a beat.
"You are sabotaging the dinner," he warned, though his voice lacked any real bite.
"I'm just checking the tension," she said innocently. Her hand moved lower, reaching the knot of the apron ties at the small of his back. She tugged on one loop.
It came undone.
The apron loosened, the front panel sagging slightly.
Barba sighed, turning the burner down to a low simmer. He turned around slowly, leaning his lower back against the counter, trapping her hand between his body and the granite.
"You're bored," he diagnosed, looking down at her.
"I'm hungry," she countered, stepping into his space. She placed her hands on his chest, sliding them up to his shoulders. "And you're taking too long."
"Good things take time. You of all people should know that."
"I'm tired of waiting."
She kissed him. It wasn't a sweet, domestic peck. It was a hungry, open-mouthed claim. She tasted like wine and impatience. She pressed her body against his, her thigh sliding between his legs, the friction instant and electric.
Barba made a low noise in his throat. He dropped the wooden spoon onto the spoon rest and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. The apron was now just a layer of linen crushed between them.
"The risotto," he muttered against her mouth, a weak protest.
"Let it burn," she whispered.
She reached down, her hands sliding under the loose apron. She found the waistband of his sweatpants. Her fingers dipped inside, cool against his heated skin.
Barba hissed, his head falling back. "Olivia."
"You're always so controlled," she murmured, her hands exploring the hard planes of his stomach, moving lower. "So precise. Everything measured. Everything timed."
"Someone has to be," he gasped.
"Not tonight."
She dropped to her knees.
The shift in altitude was sudden. Barba gripped the edge of the counter behind him, his knuckles turning white.
Olivia looked up at him, her eyes dark and dilated. She looked beautiful and entirely like trouble. She reached for the apron, lifting the hem, ducking her head under it like she was entering a private tent.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice strained.
"Checking the ingredients," came her muffled reply.
She pulled his sweatpants and boxer briefs down in one motion.
Barba looked down. All he could see was the lump of her head and the white linen of the apron draping over her, concealing whatever she was doing. It was maddeningly erotic—the visual of her hidden away, servicing him while he stood in the middle of his kitchen.
Then he felt her mouth.
His knees nearly buckled. He gripped the counter harder, bracing himself.
She was enthusiastic. She used her tongue and her lips with a rhythm that rivaled his cooking precision. She hummed against him, the vibration traveling straight to his spine.
"Liv," he groaned, looking at the ceiling. "Jesus."
She ignored him. She was focused. He could feel her hands gripping his thighs, anchoring herself. The apron moved with her, the fabric fluttering slightly.
Barba reached down, lifting the apron so he could see her.
The sight was devastating. Olivia Benson, the toughest woman in New York, on her knees on his kitchen floor, taking him deep, her eyes closed in concentration.
"Look at me," he ordered, his voice rough.
She opened her eyes. They were glazed, heavy with lust. She didn't stop. She maintained eye contact, bobbing her head, challenging him to last.
"You're a brat," he breathed, running his hand through her hair.
She pulled off him with a wet pop. "I'm the guest," she corrected, licking her lips. "I'm supposed to be entertained."
"Oh, you want entertainment?"
Barba pulled her up. He didn't bother fixing his pants. He grabbed her waist and hoisted her onto the kitchen island, right next to the cutting board.
"Rafa!" she laughed, surprised by the move.
"Quiet," he said. "The neighbors."
He stepped between her legs. He took the apron off completely, untying the neck loop and tossing the white linen onto the floor. He didn't need the shield anymore.
He pushed her shirt open. She wasn't wearing a bra. He knew she wasn't—he had watched her put the shirt on earlier. Her breasts were heavy, perfect, her nipples hard from the cool air of the kitchen.
He leaned down, lavishing attention on them, biting and sucking until she was writhing on the granite.
"The granite is cold," she complained, arching her back.
"I'll warm you up."
He moved his hand to her leggings. He peeled them down, taking her panties with them. He tossed them somewhere near the dishwasher.
"Spread," he commanded.
She hooked her heels on the edge of the counter, opening herself to him. She was wet, ready. The scent of her arousal mixed with the garlic and wine was a heady cocktail that made his head spin.
He lined himself up.
"You wanted dinner," he growled, looking into her eyes. "Here it is."
He thrust into her.
It was a deep, satisfying slide. Olivia gasped, her head falling back, her hands finding purchase on his shoulders. The counter was hard beneath her, but Barba cushioned the impact by pulling her forward, wrapping her legs around his waist.
He began to move. It wasn't the frantic, desperate sex of their early days. It was confident. It was the sex of two people who knew each other's bodies as well as they knew their own. He knew exactly where to touch her, exactly what angle made her breath hitch.
"Rafa," she moaned, her nails digging into his back. "Deeper."
He obliged. He ground against her, hitting the spot that unraveled her.
"The food," she panted, trying to find a rhythm. "Is it... burning?"
"Forget the food," he said, biting her neck. "Starve."
She laughed, a breathless, happy sound, and pulled his face in for a kiss. He tasted the wine on her tongue.
He drove into her, harder now. The domestic setting—the humming refrigerator, the bubbling pot, the jazz music—faded into the background. All that mattered was the friction.
"You talk too much," she whispered against his mouth. "Less talking. More..."
He cut her off with a thrust that made her see stars.
"More?" he challenged.
"Yes. More."
He gave her everything. He fucked her with a steady, relentless cadence. He watched her face as she fell apart. He watched the way her brow furrowed, the way her lips parted, the way a flush spread across her chest.
She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
"Come for me, Liv," he murmured, his hand moving between them to add friction. "Right now."
She didn't argue. She cried out, her body bowing off the counter, her internal muscles clamping down on him. She shook apart in his arms, loud and uninhibited.
Barba held on, riding the storm. The feeling of her climax triggered his own. He groaned, burying his face in her shoulder, and poured himself into her.
He stayed there for a long time, leaning his weight on his arms on either side of her, waiting for the world to stop spinning.
"The stove," Olivia whispered eventually, patting his cheek.
Barba groaned. "I hate you."
He pulled out, wincing slightly. He turned around and checked the pot.
The risotto was... thick. Very thick. But not burnt.
"Is it salvageable?" Olivia asked, sitting up and pulling his shirt closed over her chest. She looked thoroughly ravished.
Barba grabbed the wooden spoon and gave it a tentative stir. "It's a bit... rustic. But edible."
"Good," she said, hopping off the counter. She wobbled slightly, her legs jelly. "Because I'm starving."
Barba chuckled. He reached down to where his pants were around his ankles and pulled them up. He retrieved the apron from the floor, dusted it off, and tied it back on.
"You have no shame," he noted, walking back to the stove.
"None," she agreed, leaning against the counter again. She picked up her wine glass. "So? What's the verdict, Counselor?"
Barba added a generous knob of butter and a handful of Parmesan to the pot. He stirred it vigorously, the creamy texture returning.
"The verdict," he said, gathering a spoonful and blowing on it before holding it out to her, "is that you are a terrible sous chef."
Olivia leaned forward and took the bite. She hummed in appreciation.
"But," she said, licking a stray grain of rice from her lip, "I'm excellent at dessert."
Barba looked at her. He looked at the mess of his kitchen. He looked at the woman he loved, wearing his shirt and drinking his wine.
"Sit down, Olivia," he said, pointing to the bar stool with the spoon. "Before I decide to skip the main course entirely."
She laughed and sat down.
"Yes, Chef."
Barba shook his head, fighting a smile, and went back to the risotto. Sunday dinner was served.