Page 68 of Operation Sunshine
When Franco shifted lower, taking him in with unhurried precision, Ben gripped the sheets, his breathing fractured. He’d had blowjobs before. He’d had sex that had blurred into excess, but nothing like this.
Nothing that felt as though it was meant to unravel him instead of simply get him off.
“Christ,” he rasped in a broken voice.
Franco only hummed around his shaft, and Ben nearly came undone right then.
At some point—he didn’t know when or how—he pulled Franco up, rolled them both, then kissed him deep, taking it slow. He let himself sink into the rhythm of it until the world outside the four walls of his bedroom disappeared entirely.
Franco writhed beneath Ben, his cock aching as those large hands slid lower, stroking just enough to keep him teetering on the edge. Franco groaned, his head tipping back against the pillow.
“Ben Whitaker,” he gasped, clutching his wrist, “are you actually torturing me?”
Ben’s mouth curved against his throat, his teeth scraping lightly over Franco’s skin. “I’m learning what you like.”
Franco managed a laugh that died when Ben’s thumb brushed the head of his cock. “I like not dying of frustration.”
That earned him a dark chuckle, and then Ben moved his mouth lower, kissing his chest, his ribs, his stomach. By the time he took Franco into his mouth, Franco was half out of his mind, his nails digging into the sheets, swearing in Italian and begging in English.
When he was close—too close—Ben pulled off, his slick lips and swollen mouth curved in the most infuriating smirk Franco had ever seen.
“You absolute bastard,” Franco groaned, dragging him up for a filthy kiss, tasting himself on Ben’s tongue. And then, with a sudden burst of energy, he rolled them over, straddling him. “Fine. My turn.”
Ben hadn’t expected Franco to take control so naturally, so beautifully. One moment he was pinning Franco down, savouring his helpless squirming, and the next, Franco was on top of him, his hair falling in messy strands across his forehead, his eyes dark with mischief.
“You edge me, I edge you,” Franco whispered, lowering himself to grind against him, a slow, delicious friction that made Ben grit his teeth. “Fair’s fair.”
It drove Ben insane, the way Franco watched him, the way he smiled when Ben gasped, the way his body moved with absolute confidence. Andholy fucking God, when Franco slid down to take him once more in his mouth, Ben had to fist his hands in the sheets again, fighting for control.
“Franco.” His voice broke, raw and jagged. “Enough—”
But Franco only hummed, smug, until Ben hauled him back up, flipping them easily, reclaiming control.
“You’re going to kill me,” Ben muttered. He grabbed the lube, slicked up his shaft, and pushed slowly inside him at last, both of them gasping.
Franco’s grin was wild, desperate. “Then die properly, Whitaker.”
What followed was less like a battle, and more like a dance, control shifting between them, both of them desperate to drag it out, to make the other fall apart. Franco rode him until sweat covered his chest and abs, trickling down his spine. Ben pinned him to the mattress and took him apart with slow, punishing thrusts.
Each time one of them got close, the other pulled back, hands gripping hips too tightly, kisses broken with curses, teeth grazing skin, a symphony of edging and denial, both of them dragging it out until they were shaking, begging, past words.
By the end, it wasn’t about control at all—it was about surrender. Franco arched up, crying out as Ben finally gave in, driving them both over the edge in a frenzy that left them clinging to each other, gasping, Franco utterly ruined.
And later in the quiet, with Franco curled against him and the sheets enveloping their legs, Ben pressed a kiss to his hair.
“Stay.”
Franco’s heart pounded, his throat tight.
“Yes.”
The sheets were damp, the room hot with the scent of them. Franco lay sprawled on his back, his chest rising and falling in steady waves. His hair was a wreck, his lips swollen.
Ben propped himself on one elbow, drinking in the sight of him. He should’ve been thinking of work. Of boundaries already broken. Of the thousand reasons this couldn’t last.
Instead, he thought only of Franco’s weight beside him, Franco’s mouth still lingering on his skin, the terrifying rightness of it.
For once, Ben didn’t want control back.
