Page 54 of Operation Sunshine
The kitchen felt smaller with just the two of them. The rain outside battered the windows, the sound competing with the hum of the fridge. Franco leaned against the counter as though he owned it, his elbow propped, chin in hand, his gaze fixed on Ben with infuriating laziness.
“You know,” he drawled, his eyes glinting, “if you were trying to impress me, this is one hell of a way to go about it.”
Ben folded his arms, trying for stern and landing somewhere closer to flustered. “This isn’t about impressing anyone. It was more a case of… team bonding.”
“Mm-hm.” Franco’s gaze dropped to the streak of batter on Ben’s forearm. His mouth curved into a smirk. “Funny. Looks more like foreplay.”
Ben’s pulse skipped. “It’s cake batter.”
“I know.” Franco winked, then pushed himself off the counter, slow and deliberate, until Ben could smell him, espresso and aftershave, warm skin under it all. His eyes trailed down Ben’s rolled sleeves, the streak of flour at his collarbone, the haphazard cake in the trash, the bowl of icing. His grin sharpened. “Still hot, though. You—here—making something from scratch? I gotta say, that’sreally doing it for me.”
Before Ben could retort, Franco dipped a finger into the bowl of icing and held it up between them, coated and glistening. “Taste test?”
Ben had every intention of brushing him off, but then Franco sucked the icing off his own finger with a smirk, and Ben’s temperature went from cool to raging inferno.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered, and pulled him in.
Franco’s laugh caught in his throat as Ben kissed him hard and hungry, tasting sugar and chocolate and something darker underneath. Franco melted into it in a heartbeat, pressing close, one hand curling into Ben’s shirt, the other fumbling blindly until the mixing spoon clattered to the floor.
They broke apart, breathless, only for Franco to swipe another fingerful of icing, this time smearing it along Ben’s jaw. “Messy,” he teased, before licking it off with obscene slowness.
Ben groaned. “You’re impossible.”
And hot. Don’t forget hot.
“And you like it,” Franco shot back, his voice rough now, need lacing through his playful words. He slid his hand under Ben’s shirt, flour-dusted fingers skating over his stomach as Ben shoved him back against the counter. The cake bowl wobbled dangerously, forgotten, as Franco’s laugh turned into a gasp.
Whatever batter had been left in there streaked the counter, and a handprint bloomed on Ben’s shoulder. Franco licked sugar from his skin as if he’d been waiting years to do it, reckless and insistent, while Ben gripped Franco’s hips hard enough to bruise them.
Neither of them was joking. Both were past pretending.
The bowl of chocolate icing didn’t stand a chance.
It hit the floor with athud, splattering dark shiny icing across their shoes, but neither of them paid it any attention. Franco’s backslammed against the counter, Ben’s mouth claiming his again, harder this time, like a man who knew exactly what he wanted and wasn’t about to let it go.
“Second time’s supposed to be slower,” Franco gasped, even as he tugged Ben’s shirt open, buttons skittering across the tiles. “Romantic. Candlelight. You’ve ruined it.”
Ben bit at his throat, sucking at the skin, tearing a groan from Franco’s lips. “You talk too much.”
“Shut me up, then.”
So he did.
The kiss was filthy, all tongue and teeth, and Franco couldn’t help the moan that slipped out, muffled against Ben’s mouth. Ben swallowed it down, one hand braced on the counter, the other yanking Franco’s waistband, tugging him closer. Batter smeared across Ben’s forearm where Franco grabbed it, slick and sweet between their skin.
Franco’s ragged laughter veered between delight and sheer want. “We’re wrecking Raj’s kitchen.”
“He’ll live.” Ben dragged his mouth lower over Franco’s collarbone, over the mess Franco had made with flour and fingerprints. He paused long enough to lick a streak of icing from Franco’s chest. “Besides, you taste better.”
Franco shuddered, burying his fingers in Ben’s hair. “Jesus. You’re not supposed to be this—” He forced out a strangled sound as Ben slid his hand down to cup Franco’s shaft through his daks, slow and certain with just the perfect amount of pressure.
“You think I’m going to stop this time?” Ben’s voice was low and dangerous, his breath hot against Franco’s ear. “Because I’m not.”
Franco believed him. God help him, he wanted to believe him.
He kicked free of his daks and briefs, nearly tripping in the process, breathless with laughter and need, his shirt still in place. Ben’s jeans and underwear followed, shed in a trail toward the nearest counter space that wasn’t already dusted in flour. They kissedlike starving men, every movement sharper than the last, each touch as frantic as the rain beating against the windows.
By the time Ben lifted him onto the counter, Franco was shaking, not from cold but from the sheer force of wanting. Ben’s hands were everywhere, greedy, reverent, icing-slick fingers sliding over skin as though he couldn’t decide where to pause them. Franco clutched at him, pulling him in close, anchoring them both.
