Page 59 of Operation Sunshine
After a moment, he cracked one eye open.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m looking,” Ben corrected, his gaze sweeping down Franco’s chest, the flat plane of his stomach, the curve of his hips. He met Franco’s eyes again, unflinching. “There’s a difference.”
Franco’s usual instinct would have been to crack a joke, wiggle his eyebrows, even spin the moment into something light, but all words died in his throat. Ben’s expression wasn’t lust, although that burned there too. No, this was something heavier, that made Franco feel seen in a way that was unbearable.
“Careful.” The word sounded rougher than Franco had intended. “You keep looking at me like that and I might start thinking you actually like me.”
Ben’s lips twitched with the faintest of smiles. He brushed his thumb across Franco’s collarbone, following the rivulet of water. “Maybe I do.”
Franco’s heart lurched. He grabbed the soap from Ben before the moment swallowed him whole. “Turn around, big guy. Your back looks as though it survived a war with flour and ganache.”
Ben gave him that small, exasperated smile, the one that got under Franco’s skin more and more, and turned obediently under the spray. Franco lathered the soap and ran his hands down the wide expanse of Ben’s shoulders, sliding down his strong back. He lingered longer than necessary, tracing muscles with his fingertips.
“God, you’re terrifyingly solid,” Franco muttered. “No wonder everyone’s scared of you half the time.”
Ben huffed. “Solid isn’t terrifying.”
“It is when you look like you could carry the whole world on your back,” Franco said before he could stop himself. He slowed his hands, drifting lower to Ben’s waist, the thought blooming unbidden in his chest.
And you probably have.
Ben turned suddenly, water dripping from his hair, and caught Franco’s wrist. His eyes were kind, his voice low enough to be lost in the patter of the shower. “You don’t have to fill the silence, you know. Not with me.”
Franco’s throat tightened. He wanted to laugh, to deflect, but instead he let himself stand there, the water streaming between them, Ben’s fingers warm against his pulse.
And then Ben brushed a kiss to his mouth, gentle, lingering, and sweet. Franco leaned into it, into him, into the impossible tenderness of the moment. His hands sought Ben’s chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath Franco’s palms.
By the time they’d rinsed the last of the suds away, their skin slick and clean, Franco felt wrung out, not from desire, but from the weight of being seen and wanted in equal measure.
Ben reached for a towel and wrapped it around Franco’s shoulders, tugging him close as though he were something to be cared for.
Franco didn’t joke or deflect.
He simply stayed.
They padded into the bedroom, Franco’s skin warm from the towelling Ben had given him. Ben tugged back the covers and climbed into the bed, settling against the pillows with the kind of ease that suggested he’d already decided Franco belonged there.
Franco hesitated for half a second at the edge of the bed, fighting his default instinct to crack a joke or say something sassy. But when Ben lifted the sheet wordlessly in invitation, Franco slid in, the heat of Ben’s body radiating against him, their hair damp on the pillows.
They lay there, Franco concentrating on breathing, his own heart beating strongly.
Ben traced a line down Franco’s bare arm, the motion slow and steady. “You’re quieter than usual.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Franco murmured, shifting closer to him. “I have a reputation to maintain.” He pressed his cheek to Ben’s chest, the strong heartbeat steadying him. He was no stranger to such activities: there’d been plenty of men in his life. But this sprawling warmth, this permission to justbe,was terrifyingly new, as if he’d stepped into a story that wasn’t his.
A story where he didn’t know the ending.
Ben slid his hand into Franco’s hair, Franco tipped his head back, and their mouths found each other again. The kiss started out as a tentative connection, then grew deeper, more certain with every passing moment. Their towels were on the floor, forgotten, leaving skin against skin, fragrant and warm, Ben’s weight on him a welcome return.
He rocked, a languid, leisurely motion, as though to remind Franco this wasn’t about urgency or hunger. It was about seeing. To Franco’s mind, it was as if every kiss, every touch, became an unspoken vow:I want all of you. Not only the heat, the noise. You.
Franco’s breathing hitched when Ben’s hands mapped his body, almost worshipful in their exploration. “You’re going to undo me,” he whispered, his voice cracking.
“You don’t need to hold yourself together with me,” Ben murmured against his throat. “Not tonight.”
The words reached deeper than any kiss. Franco’s chest ached with the weight of them. He cupped Ben’s face, forcing him to meet his gaze. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
