Page 56 of Operation Sunshine
Franco snorted. “Trail? Darling, it’s a crime scene. CSI: Pâtisserie.”
Ben turned his head to look at him. The dim light from the stairwell traced the lines of his face, and Franco’s heart skipped in a way that had nothing to do with sex.
“Why do I feel like you do this to me on purpose?” Ben asked in a low voice.
Franco chuckled. “Do what? Seduce you with chocolate icing?”
Ben shook his head. “No—make me forget myself.”
The words hung in the air.
Franco’s chest tightened, speared through with that delicious ache again. He wanted to laugh it off, to toss out some quip about how this kind of forgetting yourself was good cardio, but instead he blurted out the truth before he could stop it.
“Maybe I’m just trying to make you remember you’re still human.”
Ben stilled. His hand tightened slightly on Franco’s stomach, not enough to hurt, but enough to make him aware of its weight.
For a second, Franco regretted his words as being too raw, too real, but then Ben exhaled and rolled onto his side, close enough that their noses brushed. His voice was still low and rough.
“You’re dangerous, Franco.”
Franco forced a smirk, even though his heart slammed against his ribs. “You only just worked that out?”
But under the banter, something unspoken stretched between them, fragile and electric. Franco felt the weight of it, heavier than any flour or batter. For the first time, he wondered if he’d gone too far.
What if this isn’t just another fling?
That thought scared him more than anything.
He stared at the cracks in the ceiling plaster as if they held the answers to the mess inside his chest. His body was humming, blissed out and wired at the same time.
His head was in perilous territory.
It was supposed to be fun.A little harmless provocation. Flour on Ben’s arm, a lick, and laughter, Franco’s usual magic trick for turning tension into something lighter. But then Ben had looked at him, as though Franco wasn’t a joke, wasn’t some whirlwind he could shake off once the cake collapsed.
That look had burned straight through him.
And now here he was, sprawled naked across a table in the function room, Ben’s warmth still pressed along his ribs, Franco scarily close to admitting—to himself, if no one else—that this wasn’t harmless. This wasn’t some passing fancy.
This was terrifying.
Because if Franco gave in—if he let himself fall—what happened when Ben got bored? When he finally realised Franco was too much, too messy, too clingy?
Franco had been here before, eighteen and desperate, clutching at promises that blew away like sand. He knew what it felt like to be left, and he had vowed, never again.
He turned his head to gaze at Ben beside him. A faint frown creased Ben’s brow, as if he was feeling guilty for enjoying himself.
Still buttoned-up even when he’s undone.
Franco wanted to tease him, to say something outrageous to obliterate that seriousness. Instead, he whispered, soft enough that maybe Ben wouldn’t even hear them:
“Don’t do this to me unless you mean it.”
And immediately wished he could shove the words back down his throat.
I shouldn’t be lying here.
Ben should have pulled himself together, got dressed, then erased the evidence of what they’d done. He should have returned to his laptop, his notes, the neat order that kept him sane.
