Page 18 of Operation Sunshine
Franco turned, his eyes softening for a moment as they locked on Ben’s. “Nah,” he said, his voice quiet. “I’ll keep him.”
Ben’s stomach lurched. He looked away so fast he nearly knocked over a stack of brie.
Franco broke off a piece of soft cheese and turned, holding it out again. Ben scowled, but his lips parted before he could stop himself.
This time, Franco’s fingers dragged deliberately across Ben’s bottom lip as he withdrew, and Ben’s entire body lit up.
“Good boy,” Franco whispered.
Ben fought not to drop the entire bag of produce.
Maria shoved cheese into Franco’s arms, muttering, “If you get him to buy even one wedge, you’ll be a miracle worker.”
Ben ended up with three.
Oh, I amdefinitelygoing to die for this.
Ben looked at him as though he might strangle him at any moment, but each time Franco offered him something to taste, he opened his mouth and took it.
A dangerous thrill pulsed through Franco’s veins. They’d gone past mere flirting. Something was blooming, hot and alive, just beneath the surface, and it spurred him to push further, to see what else lay hidden under all that starched composure.
He knew he was pushing it. Touching too often, standing too close. But it felt like a dance: every scowl from Ben only made Franco want to step in closer, to see what he’d do.
When they finally started heading back, Franco carried most of the bags, insisting Ben hold only a small basket of herbs.
“Don’t want your delicate manager hands getting callouses,” Franco teased.
Ben narrowed his eyes. “I have literally carried entire wine crates by myself.”
Franco smirked. “Sure you did, grumpy.”
Ben made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh.
They moved through the final few stalls, Franco occasionally brushing against him, a hip here, a shoulder there. Each time, Ben’s breathing hitched, and Franco’s eyes would flicker over him, hungry and knowing.
Ben hated that he liked it. What was worse? He wanted more of it so badly.
When they reached the coffee stall, Franco ordered for both of them without asking, sliding the small espresso cup into Ben’s hand, his fingers brushing over Ben’s wrist, his thumb skimming the sensitive skin there.
Ben shivered, nearly dropping the cup.
Franco noticed. Of course he did. The man noticed everything.
“Careful,” Franco murmured, leaning so close Ben swore he could feel the whisper of stubble along Franco’s jaw. “Wouldn’t want to burn those pretty lips.”
Ben jerked away as if slapped, spilling a few drops of espresso onto his hand.
Franco caught his wrist in a flash, steadying him. “Easy.” His voice was suddenly low. He wiped the dribble of coffee from Ben’s skin with his thumb, slow and deliberate.
Ben’s arm trembled. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
Franco’s eyes stayed locked on his as he brought his thumb to his own lips and sucked off the coffee.
Jesus.
The noise of the market blurred into a distant roar. For a second, it was just them, Ben trembling, Franco holding his wrist, their eyes locked.
Franco let go reluctantly and stepped back, trying to steady the wild thunder of his own heartbeat.
