Page 47 of Operation Sunshine
The thought ricocheted around his skull with a mix of disbelief and heat. Franco had been in control—confident, focused, hungry—and Ben had been swept along on that tide, dragged under by it until he didn’t want to fight. AndChrist, it had been good. Better than good. He’d let go in ways he hadn’t in years. He’d trusted Franco as he’d never trusted another living soul.
But now?
Now he wasn’t sure how to feel about it. He wanted to flip things around, to see what it was like withhimin charge again, with Franco beneath him, yielding. He wanted to know if that was possible between them, or if last night had set some unspoken precedent he wasn’t ready for.
His chest tightened.
Was this going to be a thing?
Would it last?
And—hardest of all—did he want it to?
The answer rose quicker than he liked: yes, he wanted more. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Wanting more meant risk. Wanting more meant possibility. And possibility meant he could lose it.
I am such a mess.
Franco shifted against him, murmuring something that sounded suspiciously likedon’t touch the cannoliin his sleep, before nuzzling closer. The weight of Franco’s leg hooked around his own was grounding, almost too much. The sensible thing would be to slip out,grab his clothes, and pretend this was a one-off, but his body refused to move.
Instead, he lay there listening to Franco’s steady breathing, staring at the ceiling, trying to decide if he was terrified, exhilarated, or both.
Then Franco’s eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded and hazy with sleep. He blinked once, then twice, before a slow, lazy smile spread across his face.
“Well,” he said, his voice gravelly and teasing, “look who decided to stay the night. I was betting you’d bolt before sunrise.”
Ben swallowed, his throat tight. “I didn’t—I wasn’t planning to…” He trailed off, already fumbling, already defensive, and hated himself for it.
Franco arched an eyebrow, shifting so his chin rested against Ben’s chest. “You don’t have to explain, capo. Besides, I’m not complaining. You’re warm. You’re comfortable.” His smile widened, morphing from gentle to downright wicked. “And you’re… awake.”
Ben froze. The evidence for that statement was pressing insistently against Franco’s thigh. Heat crept up Ben’s neck, and he opened his mouth, probably to say something stupid or practical that would kill the moment, but Franco had already moved.
“Franco—”
“Nope.” Franco cut him off, sliding down the bed with deliberate slowness, the sheets tangling around him like he was some kind of damn cat wrapped in silk. “You talk too much in the morning. I’ve got amuchbetter idea.”
“Franco,” Ben tried again, but it came out as more of a strangled groan when Franco’s mouth closed around him, hot and sure and confident.
Ben’s head fell back against the pillow, his precious control evaporated in seconds. He was powerless, undone, clutching at the sheets like a drowning man while Franco worked him over with infuriating patience, slow, then fast, deep, then shallow. teasing, relentless…
Perfect.
“Christ—Franco—”
Franco hummed, a smug sound that only made Ben jerk his hips upward in a helpless response. Last night he’d given himself over to Franco’s tide of hunger and need, and now here he was again, caught in the undertow, dragged under. He couldn’t even pretend he wanted to fight it.
Release came sharp and sudden, tearing a groan from someplace deep. Franco swallowed him down, then crawled back up the bed, grinning as if he’d won the lottery.
“Good morning.” Franco’s light tone belied the fact he’d just destroyed every ounce of Ben’s composure.
Ben dragged a hand over his face, trying to breathe, trying to string words together into some kind of coherence. “You’re impossible.”
“Mm-hm. And you love it.”
“I—” Ben faltered, still wrecked, still raw, still not ready to admit how true Franco’s words might be. Ben wanted to kiss him, to hold him there in the sunlight and forget the world, but—
The clock on the bedside table caught his eye.
“Shit.” Ben sat bolt upright. “We’re late.”
