Operation Sunshine, page 25
Ben’s hand finally closed the distance, cupping his jaw, his touch warm, steady, grounding. Franco’s breath stuttered, his eyes fluttering shut against the connection.
Ben felt the confession like a punch, but it wasn’t pain—it was relief, jagged and overwhelming. For weeks he’d imagined Franco slipping away, Florence taking him piece by piece until nothing remained for Ben to hold onto. But here he was, trembling and raw, offering the truth like a gift he didn’t think he deserved.
“I missed you too,” Ben said simply. His voice broke on the words, but he didn’t care. “Not the idea of you, not the dream of you, but you. The man who drives me mad and makes me laugh and somehow makes me want to stay.”
Franco’s eyes flew open, wide and bright with something fierce.
Hope.
And then, without thinking, not even remotely the way he’d planned to say it, Ben laid his heart bare.
“I love you.”
It came out rough, cracked, as though the words had been dragged straight from his chest. For a heartbeat they hung there, terrifying in their nakedness.
Ben braced for impact.
Franco’s hands tightened on him, his nails digging into Ben’s shoulders. His breath caught, then spilled out in a shuddering laugh that was halfway to a sob. “Fuck… Ben. I love you too.”
The dam burst.
Ben lifted his head, searching Franco’s face. He didn’t see doubt or hesitation, only fire, only truth. Franco pulled him into a tear-streaked kiss that tasted of salt and relief. Ben clung to him as though those words might dissolve if he let go.
“I wanted to tell you so many times,” Franco murmured against his mouth. “But I was scared if I said it, everything would all fall apart.”
Ben’s throat ached. He cradled Franco’s face, his thumb brushing the damp track on his cheek. “I thought if I said it, you’d feel trapped. That you’d stay out of obligation instead of choice.”
Franco shook his head fiercely. “No. Never. You’re the only thing that made leaving hurt.”
That undid Ben more than anything. He pressed their foreheads together, his eyes burning. “Then don’t doubt it. Don’t ever doubt it. I love you, Franco. Nothing will change that. Not Florence, not three months, not a lifetime.”
Franco let out a broken laugh, pulling him close until they were chest to chest, skin to skin. “Say it again.”
“I love you.” Ben kissed him. “I love you.” Again, softer, like a vow.
Franco’s lips trembled into a smile. “I could listen to you say that forever.”
Ben couldn’t hold back anymore. He leaned in, closing the last inches between them. Their mouths met not with the frantic hunger of weeks apart, but with something deeper, slow, searching. Franco melted into it, his hands fisting in Ben’s shirt as if anchoring himself.
The kiss stretched, deepened, until breathing became optional, until the ache in Ben’s chest eased enough to let him believe.
This is real.
Ben’s mouth was on his, tasting like longing wrapped in restraint finally torn apart. Franco groaned into the kiss, his body trembling with the rush of weeks of denied hunger. He pressed closer, clutching at Ben’s shirt.
The kiss deepened, Ben’s tongue sliding against his with a control that made Franco weak. Ben’s hand curled at the back of Franco’s neck, firm, possessive, keeping him right there.
“You don’t know how many nights I’ve thought about this,” Ben rasped against his mouth, his breath hot and uneven. “How many times I’ve had to hold myself back from saying what I wanted to do to you.”
Franco’s knees nearly buckled. Ben never talked like this, and God, hearing him sent heat sparking through his veins. “Then say it,” Franco whispered, his lips brushing Ben’s, goading him. “Say it now.”
Ben’s mouth twisted into a half-smile, half-snarl. “I want to fuck you until the only thing you taste, the only thing you feel, is me.”
Franco swore under his breath, his cock already straining against his shorts. His head tipped back, a helpless sound spilling out of him as Ben’s teeth grazed his throat. “Fuck… Ben.”
Ben’s chuckle reverberated through him. “No… Fuck Franco. Fucking Ben comes later, but it will come, I promise you.” He smiled. “We both will.”
Hands tugged at clothes, clumsy and desperate. Franco shoved Ben’s shirt up, eager to feel bare skin under his palms again. He traced every line, every plane of Ben’s chest, lost on a voyage of rediscovery, each breath making Franco’s lungs ache.
Do something before we end up fucking in the hall.
There was lube in the bedroom.
“This way,” Franco gasped, grabbing Ben’s wrist and tugging him through the apartment.
“I hate to put a block on this,” Ben ground out, “but I really need the bathroom before we go any further.”
He laughed. “Through that door,” he said, pointing.
Ben claimed his lips in a fervent kiss, as if to make sure Franco wasn’t about to forget him in his absence, then disappeared behind the wooden door.
Franco hurriedly pulled the sheets straight, then yanked open the drawer in the wooden cabinet beside the bed, his fingers scrabbling to find the lube. He listened to the toilet’s flush, then the sound of running water.
I can’t believe he’s really here.
It seemed like a dream, and Franco was afraid any second now he’d wake up to find he was still in his bed, that there’d been no knock at the door.
Then Ben was back, and before Franco could utter a word, Ben steered him toward the bed, both of them stumbling, mouths colliding, tearing apart only long enough to drag fabric away, until only underwear remained. Ben pushed Franco down onto the mattress, straddling his hips, his eyes dark with need. He covered Franco with his body, groaning when their cocks rubbed together through the thin barrier of their briefs.
“God, I missed the way you sound,” Ben whispered, grinding harder, making Franco buck up into him. “The way you come apart for me.”
Franco could barely breathe. He grabbed at Ben’s shoulders, digging his nails in. “Then don’t stop. Don’t you fucking dare stop.”
A heartbeat later, both of them were writhing, gasping, grinding against each other until they were both slick with sweat. Ben yanked Franco’s briefs down, took his cock in hand, and stroked it with a rhythm that made Franco’s vision blur.
Franco was about to lose it when Ben slowed, pressing tender kisses along his jaw, coupled with soft, lingering caresses down his chest, soothing instead of demanding. The contradiction made Franco shiver. “Ben…”
Ben lifted his head, his gaze locked on Franco’s. “I want all of it tonight. Every side of you. Fast, slow, hard, soft—I don’t care. I just need you.”
Franco swallowed, the words like a punch straight to his heart. “Then take me, however you want. However many ways you want.”
Franco’s words detonated inside him, his need surging like wildfire. Ben’s hand shook as he reached for the lube, slicking his fingers before parting Franco’s thighs. The sight of him spread out, trembling, his eyes blazing, undid every piece of Ben’s carefully built armour.
He pressed one finger in, slow and deliberate, listening to the hitch in Franco’s breathing. God, he’d missed this, missed seeing him unravel inch by inch. Ben crooked his finger, and Franco arched.
“And there’s the magic button.”
“Now that you’ve found it, stay there.” Franco gasped, and Ben loved the way he stared open-mouthed, his breathing ragged, his belly taut. Ben worked him open with patience, adding another finger, stroking over Franco’s prostate until curses fell constantly from his lips as he demanded more.
Kissing Franco while Ben’s fingers were buried up to the knuckle in Franco’s body raised the heat level to unbearable.
“Please,” Franco begged, his hips rocking, his voice raw. “Stop teasing. I need you inside me. Now.”
Ben’s shaft throbbed at the plea. He slicked himself, lined up, and pushed in, savouring the heat, the way Franco’s body clenched around him, pulling him deeper. Franco tipped his head back, a strangled moan ripping free.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” Ben groaned, burying himself fully with a shudder. “So goddamn good.”
He started slow, rolling his hips, every thrust deep and steady, every kiss tender and grounding. Franco clung to him, his nails scoring Ben’s back, gasping his name like a prayer. Ben angled his thrusts, watching Franco’s face, and when he found the right spot he adjusted his rhythm, ready to make Franco lose it.
Ben leaned over, his lips brushing Franco’s ear.
“You feel so good,” he whispered, kissing Franco’s neck. “You have no idea how beautiful you are when I’m inside you.”
Franco’s low moan fuelled his arousal.
“I know what you like.” Ben kissed him again, this time on the lips. “Sometimes you like to be pounded until you forget your name, but most of the time—like now—you want it deep and intimate, slow enough to make you melt into the bed.”
Franco’s eyes were huge. “Oh my God, you know me.” Ben ground his pelvis against Franco’s perineum, his tongue going deep, and Franco fed him a long, drawn-out groan of pleasure.
Ben nodded, unable to tear his gaze away from the sight of Franco coming apart. He curled his fingers around Franco’s dick, stroking it in time with his thrusts.
“Let go,” he whispered. “I’ll give you whatever you need to get you there.”
Franco managed a sharp nod, his breath leaving him in staccato bursts.
Ben switched it up, alternating between leisurely deep strokes of his cock, building tension, and fast, shallow thrusts that made Franco beg for more. Now and then, Ben would pause, teasing, until Franco’s cry bounced off the walls and ceiling.
“Tell me what you want,” Ben demanded, his lips grazing Franco’s neck.
Franco’s teeth caught his ear, his voice breaking in a growl. “Harder, Ben. Harder. Don’t hold back.”
Something inside Ben snapped. He pulled virtually all the way out, then slammed back in, setting a brutal pace that had Franco crying out, writhing under him. Their bodies collided, frantic and wild, the sharp slap of skin against skin filling the room.
Franco met every thrust with equal desperation, his eyes glazed, lips parted on helpless moans. “Yes—God, yes, don’t stop—”
Ben kissed him hard, swallowing his cries, driving into him as if he could carve the memory of this night into both their bones. His hand found Franco’s cock once more, stroking in time, relentless, until Franco’s entire body seized, his orgasm tearing through him, Ben’s name a broken shout that filled the room.
The tight grip around his cock dragged Ben over the edge seconds later. He pulsed into Franco with a guttural groan, collapsing against him, his chest heaving, every nerve alight.
For a long moment they lay wrapped in each other’s arms, sweat-slick and trembling, Ben aware of Franco’s pounding heart against his own. He buried his face in Franco’s neck, whispering the words he couldn’t keep in a second longer.
“You’re mine. Always mine.”
Franco whispered back, his breathing ragged, “Always yours.”
Ben lay there inside him, trembling with the aftershocks, sweat cooling on his skin, their kisses slowing into tenderness as urgency bled into something quieter. Ben rolled onto his side, pulling Franco with him. Their legs intertwined, their breaths syncing, the world outside shrinking until it was just the two of them in the dim light.
For a while, they simply breathed, touching, holding, as though the words they’d finally spoken had opened a door between them that no amount of silence could ever close again.
It was Franco who whispered first, his voice rough but steady. “What happens next?”
Ben brushed his fingers through Franco’s hair, tracing slow patterns against his temple. “You finish the stage. You finish what you started. And I…” His lips curved faintly. “I keep the restaurant running so you’ve got somewhere to come home to.”
Franco looked up at him, his eyes wide and luminous in the half-dark. “Home?”
Ben swallowed, his heart kicking against his ribs. “If you want it to be.”
The corners of Franco’s mouth lifted into a smile that undid Ben completely. He burrowed closer, pressing a kiss to Ben’s throat. “You know I want it. I want to be wherever you are.” His words trembled, but they rang with certainty.
“Early December,” Ben murmured, as if anchoring himself to the date. “That’s when you’re back?”
Franco nodded against his chest. “I’ll be on that plane the second I can be. I don’t care if it’s snowing here, if I’m jet-lagged out of my mind… I’m coming back to you.”
Ben exhaled slowly, the knot in his chest loosening enough for hope to seep in. “Then I’ll be waiting. But not just waiting… planning. We’ll figure out what this looks like. How we fit together.”
Franco tilted his head, meeting his gaze again. “Promise me something?”
“Anything.”
“Don’t shut down while I’m gone. Don’t go back into that shell I first found you in. Stay open. Stay… you.”
Ben let out a quiet laugh, pressing a kiss to Franco’s brow. “No danger of that anymore. You opened me up to the world again, Franco. And I don’t think I could go back, even if I wanted to.”
Franco’s hand splayed across Ben’s chest, over his heart. “Good. Because I want to come back to this. To us.”
“You will.” Ben covered Franco’s hand with his own. “We’ll pick up right where we leave off—together.”
They lay there, exchanging soft kisses and half-whispered promises, until exhaustion pulled them under. And for the first time since the email had arrived to change Franco’s—and Ben’s—life, since the fear of losing Franco had taken root, Ben let himself sleep with peace in his heart and Franco in his arms.
Chapter Thirty-One
Ten days here isn’t enough.
Ben had expected Florence to feel like a postcard, too perfect to belong to the real world. But walking its cobbled streets with the pale Tuscan sun spilling over ochre rooftops, he realised it was alive, flawed, chaotic, and impossibly beautiful.
Franco left early most mornings, his chef’s whites slung over his shoulder, and Ben watched him disappear into the labyrinth of streets that led toward Gallo’s kitchen. Each time, Ben’s chest swelled with pride, but there was also a raw ache. Franco was exactly where he belonged: learning, thriving, dazzling.
Ben was learning too, although in a quieter way.
He gave himself over to the city. He drifted through the Uffizi, standing so long in front of Botticelli’s Primavera that a guard eventually nudged him along. He lingered on bridges over the Arno, letting the breeze carry the faint tang of river water and roasted chestnuts from street vendors. He climbed the winding steps of the Duomo until his legs trembled, and then stood in awe at the sea of terracotta rooftops rippling out to the horizon.
But every afternoon, as shadows stretched across the piazzas and bells tolled from church towers, his steps circled inevitably back to Franco.
It became their rhythm: the city by day, Franco by night.
They strolled hand in hand along the Arno at sunset, the Ponte Vecchio glowing in the last light, shop windows glinting with gold and silver. Franco made fun of the way Ben’s phone filled up with pictures of buildings, but then snapped photos of Ben when he thought he wasn’t looking: Ben laughing, pistachio gelato dripping down his wrist, Ben squinting against the sun, Ben staring at him across a tiny table lit by a single flickering candle.
He’d have made a lousy secret agent—Ben caught him every single time.
Dinner was never extravagant. Sometimes they ate at a bistro tucked into a side street, where the tables wobbled and the wine was poured generously by a grandmotherly owner who winked at Franco as if she’d already adopted him. Sometimes it was takeaway pizza, eaten sitting on the steps of a church while Franco narrated the history of the piazza in dramatic, mostly invented detail until Ben laughed so hard his stomach hurt.
One night, Franco led him up to Piazzale Michelangelo, where the city unfurled beneath them in a blaze of lights. They stood side by side, their breath misting in the cooling air, while Franco pointed out the buildings he’d already come to love: the squat fortress of Palazzo Vecchio, the perfect dome of Brunelleschi, the slender bell towers scattered like exclamation marks.
“Doesn’t it make you feel small?” Franco murmured.
Ben slid his arm around Franco’s waist. “It makes me feel I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
Franco’s hand covered his, warm and steady. “Me too.”
They kissed under the spill of stars, the city glittering beneath them, and Ben did his best not to think about what would come next, but simply let himself have this: Franco, Florence, the miracle of now.
Later in the week, Franco surprised him by sneaking out of the kitchen early. They ducked into a wine bar off Piazza della Signoria, all dark wood and flickering candlelight, where Franco translated the wine list for him—badly, Ben suspected, since every description ended with “and this one is sexy.” They ended up drunk on Chianti and laughter, stumbling back through the narrow streets until Franco pulled Ben into a shadowed doorway and kissed him as if they hadn’t spent half the week tangled together already.
By Friday, Ben had lost track of time. Every evening folded into the next: their laughter echoing off stone walls, their fingers twined as they navigated crowds of tourists, quiet moments on Franco’s balcony with nothing but the sound of their breathing in sync.
He wanted to cram Florence into his veins, but more than that, he wanted to etch every second with Franco into his memory: the way Franco’s voice softened when he explained a dish he was learning, the way candlelight caught in his eyes, the way he reached for Ben as if he’d been doing it all his life.
Two more months.
They sat at a café in Piazza Santo Spirito, Franco’s ankle hooked around his under the table. Two months until Franco came home to Adelaide.
