Operation Sunshine, page 13
“What are you looking for?”
Raj held his phone up, and Ben read aloud 10 boxed cake mix hacks to make cake mix taste better. He let out a gasp. “You’re going to cheat?”
Raj’s eyes gleamed. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
Ben caught the sound of footsteps on the stairs, then the door creaked open, and as if they’d summoned him, Franco’s voice floated in. “What’s going on in here?” There was a messenger bag slung over one shoulder.
Raj groaned. “Perfect timing.”
Franco lowered the bag to the floor, then leaned on the counter, his gaze flicking between the sad cake and Ben’s flour-dusted shirt. “Ohhh,” he said slowly, his lips curling into a gleeful smile. “This is… domestic. I like it.”
Raj unfastened his apron, tossed it into the basket along with the towels and other aprons, and grabbed his hoodie from its hook next to the back door. “Okay, I’m done. You can deal with him.”
“But you don’t have a cake,” Ben observed. “Well, you do, but it’s—”
Raj picked up the burnt offering and tossed it into the trash. He rolled his eyes. “Then I’ll buy one.” And with that, he covered his head and stepped out into the wet night.
Leaving Ben to endure the inevitable barrage of Franco’s smirking commentary.
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’s really 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 a thud, splattering dark shiny icing across their shoes, but neither of them paid it any attention. Franco’s back slammed 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 kissed like 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.
The counter shook under them, the oven-warmed air thick with flour, and Franco knew if they didn’t move soon, they’d either bring down the shelves or set the oven on fire.
“Upstairs,” he gasped against Ben’s mouth. “Function room. Bigger table.”
Ben froze just long enough to shoot him a look that was equal parts disbelief and hunger. “You’re insane.”
“And you like it.” Franco nipped his lip. “Leave the clothes. We won’t be needing them.” Then he lurched toward the shelf, grabbing the nearest bottle of olive oil.
Ben stared at him. “You planning on dressing a salad up there?”
“Lube, darling.” Franco tugged him toward the stairwell, his shirt hanging open. They stumbled through the kitchen, leaving icing handprints smeared across every surface they touched, laughing breathlessly when they nearly tripped on the stairs.
The function room was dark, blinds drawn against the rain outside. Franco fumbled for the switch, but Ben caught his wrist, spinning him against the door.
“No lights,” Ben muttered, his voice raw. “Want to feel you, not see you.”
The words sent a shiver skating down Franco’s spine. He let himself be steered backward until the edge of the long banquet table hit his thighs. Then Ben was on him again, his mouth hot, his hands everywhere, shoving his shirt off his shoulders, kissing him as though he couldn’t get deep enough.
Franco clawed at him in return, pulling, tugging, desperate. His laugh cracked into a moan when Ben lifted him onto the table, scattering a neat stack of menus to the floor. “We’re gonna be in so much trouble for this,” he whispered hoarsely.
“I won’t tell the boss if you won’t,” Ben growled. Then he grinned. “Wait a sec—I am the boss.” A moment later, Franco’s shirt was on the floor, along with Ben’s, both of them gloriously naked.
“Gimme the oil,” Ben demanded.
“Bossy.”
He snorted. “Did you forget the part where I said I’m the boss?” Then Franco’s breathing hitched when slick fingers found his hole. “Fuck, you’re so warm,” Ben murmured.
Franco pushed down hard, chasing the sensation, his body alight with anticipation. “In me. For God’s sake, put it in me already.”
The wood thudded under their weight, Franco’s heels digging into Ben’s back as the rhythm built, sharper and harder this time. The slap of skin, the scrape of the table legs against the floor, and their ragged breathing filled the empty room, every sound illicit, dangerous, and perfect.
Franco’s fingers scrabbled against the polished surface, leaving streaks of flour and sweat. His head fell back, eyes squeezed shut, his voice breaking as Ben drove into him, faster, hungrier, as if he was trying to erase the space between them.
And Franco let him.
He clung to Ben, to the heat and the weight and the grounding strength of him, laughing through the gasps, kissing him hard enough to bruise. He wanted it to last, to hold onto the delicious sensations rampaging through him, but he was too far gone.
Franco shot first, arching up off the table, and seconds later, Ben’s cock throbbed inside him. They shuddered against each other, fingers digging into flesh, collapsing onto the table in a tangle of limbs.
For a long moment, only the rain dared to fill the silence. Franco laughed softly against Ben’s shoulder.
“Candlelight would’ve been good up here.” Franco’s voice was frayed at the edges. “Flowers too, maybe even a serenade. But what did we have? Broken menus and chocolate icing.”
Ben didn’t lift his head, but pressed his mouth to Franco’s neck and muttered, “Still better than perfect.”
Franco’s chest ached, not from the sex, but from the terrifying, exhilarating realisation that Ben might mean it.
Chapter Sixteen
The room smelled of flour, sweat, and burnt sugar. Menus littered the floor, chairs were skewed, and the long table was still creaking under their combined weight as if to complain about its misuse.
Franco lay on his back, naked, one leg raised, bent at the knee, his chest heaving, his gaze locked on the ceiling. Ben was stretched out beside him, one arm slung across Franco’s stomach, heavy but not uncomfortable, a reminder of his presence.
Of what they’d just done.
Franco broke the silence first. “You realise if Raj ever finds out about this, he’ll make us disinfect this table with holy water.”
Ben made a low sound somewhere between a groan and a chuckle. “Then we’d better leave before he notices the flour trail.”
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.
Instead, he lay on his side, his hand still resting on Franco like some anchor he wasn’t ready to let go of. He could still taste the sweetness of the icing, the salt of Franco’s skin, the desperate sound Franco had made when Ben finally stopped holding back. It should have been enough to scratch the itch, to burn it out of his system.
It wasn’t.
If anything, it had only sharpened the hunger, and that scared him. Ben had spent years teaching himself control. He had rules, boundaries, structures…
And Franco had blown through them all like a storm tearing down scaffolding.
The truth lodged sharp in Ben’s chest: he wasn’t afraid of wanting Franco—he was afraid of what came next. Of getting used to Franco’s reckless laughter, his relentless warmth, and then watching it vanish.
Ben flexed his fingers against Franco’s skin. He wanted to pull back, to reassert control. Instead, he whispered into the dim air, before he could stop himself:
“What if I do mean it?”
The silence that followed felt as if the whole restaurant was holding its breath.
The words hit Franco like a punch.
What if I do mean it?
Before he could stop it, Franco’s laughter burst from him, too loud, too brittle, like a champagne cork flying off under pressure. “Careful, Whitaker. Say things like that and a boy might think you’re falling for him.” He flung one arm dramatically over his forehead. “And then what? Do I finally get flowers? Candlelit dinners? Do we have coordinated Christmas sweaters?”
His chest was tight. Joking was safer than admitting he wanted to believe Ben meant it.
Ben didn’t rise to the bait, but propped himself on an elbow, his gaze steady, his expression unreadable.
“You think everything has to be a performance,” Ben said quietly. “That if you laugh first, no one notices when you’re serious.”
Franco forgot to breathe. He’d spent years dazzling, deflecting, dancing circles around anyone who got too close. And now this man—this infuriating, buttoned-up man—saw straight through him.
He smirked, because smirking was armour. “And you think if you glower hard enough, no one notices when you’re desperate.”
Ben’s eyes flashed, and Franco knew he’d scored a hit. An exhilarating thrill trickled down his spine.
Franco’s words were a tease, but the way he delivered them, low, with a tremor beneath the bravado, hit closer to truth than Ben wanted to admit. He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again.
Because Franco was right.
Except Ben couldn’t remain silent for long.
“Desperate?” he repeated, letting the word roll off his tongue as if it meant nothing. “If I were desperate, Rossi, I’d have kissed you the first night you leaned across the bar and called me a ‘tall drink of grumpy water.’”
Franco barked out a laugh and threw his head back, utterly unrepentant. But when he looked back at Ben, there was a flicker of something vulnerable.
Something that matched the ache in Ben’s own chest.
He reached over to brush a streak of flour still on Franco’s cheek with his thumb, only to drop his hand quickly and take refuge in his habitual controlled tone.
The gesture had felt way too intimate.
“This—” He gestured between them. “—isn’t sustainable.”
“Sure it is.” Franco rolled closer, their noses nearly touching. “We’ve got flour, sugar, an empty restaurant. Sounds like the perfect recipe for sustainability to me.”
