Page 67 of Operation Sunshine
Something tugged at him, an itch he couldn’t quite place. He told himself not to dwell on it or read into it. Franco was probably tired, or bored, or… well, Franco. It didn’t matter.
And yet, when Franco finally slipped out into the night, Ben caught himself watching the back door long after it closed, as though some part of him expected Franco to walk through it at any second.
He dragged his gaze to the spreadsheet glowing on his laptop screen.
Numbers don’t waver. Numbers don’t look at you as if they’re already someplace else.
Still, the recollection of Franco’s smile fading from bright to dimmed kept slipping into his mind, until the columns on the screen blurred, and he’d lost all focus.
“See you in the morning,” Raj called out as he left.
Ben hardly heard him. He pinched the bridge of his nose, irritated at himself.
I don’t need to understand Franco’s moods. I don’t need to understand Franco at all.
Except, for reasons he couldn’t explain, he wanted to.
Might that have something to do with the fact that you’re sleeping with him?
You just informed the staff you’re seeing each other.
Doesn’t that imply you need to understand him at least a little?
Ben closed the laptop harder than necessary, thesnapof it too loud in the empty office.
Enough.
Numbers wouldn’t steady him tonight. They couldn’t block out the memory of Franco’s restless smile.
He pushed his chair back, slipped his laptop into his bag, and switched off the desk lamp. Darkness enveloped the small room, leaving only the bright square of glass in the door.
But when he opened it, Franco was there.
Ben frowned. “I thought you’d gone.”
Franco gave a shrug, his expression unreadable. “I did. I came back.” The words were uttered with nonchalance, but a shadow seemed to pass over his eyes.
“Franco?”
Franco’s mouth tilted into something that was almost a smile. “I don’t suppose you’re in the mood for some company tonight.”
There was no playful note in his words this time. They were raw, stripped back, a question hidden in plain sight.
Ben’s chest tightened. Logic told him to keep his distance. Logic said this was trouble wrapped in the scent of sugar and aftershave.
Logic had been losing battles to Franco since the day they met.
“Come home with me.”
Franco didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
The world blurred between the restaurant and his flat. Cold air, wet pavement, the hum of passing cars—all of it was forgotten the second the front door clicked shut behind them. Franco didn’t speak. He stepped close, cupped Ben’s face, and kissed him as if it was inevitable.
Ben returned the kiss, only harder, pulling Franco into him, steering them toward the bedroom. He didn’t care about pace or rules or the fact he’d spent the entire day convincing himself not to want this again. All he knew was that he wanted Franco in the worst way.
Clothes came off in pieces, tossed wherever they landed. The sheets were cool against Ben’s calves, Franco’s body hot and insistentabove him. Then the kisses slowed, becoming exploratory, until Ben thought he might combust from the sheer patience of it.
Franco kissed him as if he was learning Ben cell by cell: lips brushed over Ben’s mouth, throat, chest, and stomach, Franco’s hands tracing the lines of his ribs as though memorising them. And Ben, who always held on tight to control, couldn’t do a thing but arch into it, caught between frustration and bliss.
