Chapter Thirteen
Ben woke to warmth.
Not the expected warmth of the too-heavy quilt pressed around him, or the faint winter light peeking through Franco’s curtains, but Franco himself, sprawled across him like a starfish.
Scrap that—like a human furnace.
Ben blinked, disoriented. All he could see was Franco’s bare shoulder, smooth and golden in the morning light, and Franco’s hair, sticking up at all angles as if he’d fought off a tornado in his sleep.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I wasn’t supposed to stay.
His body ached in a way that told him last night had been… a lot. Yes, it had been good, yes, it had been hot—it had also been different because he’d let go. Franco had taken charge, because somehow, without meaning to, Ben had surrendered.
He didn’t do surrender.
Ben’s history was a string of hookups that never lasted past dawn, names he barely remembered, faces he never asked for again. Heat, friction, sweat? Sure. Intimacy? Hell no. He’d trained himself not to want it, not to need it .
Wanting leads to weakness. Needing means you can be disappointed.
Alone was simpler.
But last night had blasted through every wall he’d built with such care.
Franco had touched him as though there was something worth holding on to under the armour.
He’d kissed Ben as if he’d wanted to know every corner of him.
And he’d taken Ben to bed and flipped the script in a way he hadn’t expected, hadn’t planned, hadn’t even allowed himself to think about before.
I bottomed.
The thought ricocheted around his skull with a mix of disbelief and heat.
Franco had been in control—confident, focused, hungry—and Ben had been swept along on that tide, dragged under by it until he didn’t want to fight.
And Christ , it had been good. Better than good.
He’d let go in ways he hadn’t in years. He’d trusted Franco as he’d never trusted another living soul.
But now?
Now he wasn’t sure how to feel about it. He wanted to flip things around, to see what it was like with him in charge again, with Franco beneath him, yielding. He wanted to know if that was possible between them, or if last night had set some unspoken precedent he wasn’t ready for.
His chest tightened.
Was this going to be a thing?
Would it last?
And—hardest of all—did he want it to?
The answer rose quicker than he liked: yes, he wanted more. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Wanting more meant risk. Wanting more meant possibility. And possibility meant he could lose it.
I am such a mess.
Franco shifted against him, murmuring something that sounded suspiciously like don’t touch the cannoli in his sleep, before nuzzling closer.
The weight of Franco’s leg hooked around his own was grounding, almost too much.
The sensible thing would be to slip out, grab his clothes, and pretend this was a one-off, but his body refused to move.
Instead, he lay there listening to Franco’s steady breathing, staring at the ceiling, trying to decide if he was terrified, exhilarated, or both.
Then Franco’s eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded and hazy with sleep. He blinked once, then twice, before a slow, lazy smile spread across his face.
“Well,” he said, his voice gravelly and teasing, “look who decided to stay the night. I was betting you’d bolt before sunrise.”
Ben swallowed, his throat tight. “I didn’t—I wasn’t planning to…” He trailed off, already fumbling, already defensive, and hated himself for it.
Franco arched an eyebrow, shifting so his chin rested against Ben’s chest. “You don’t have to explain, capo. Besides, I’m not complaining. You’re warm. You’re comfortable.” His smile widened, morphing from gentle to downright wicked. “And you’re… awake.”
Ben froze. The evidence for that statement was pressing insistently against Franco’s thigh. Heat crept up Ben’s neck, and he opened his mouth, probably to say something stupid or practical that would kill the moment, but Franco had already moved.
“Franco—”
“Nope.” Franco cut him off, sliding down the bed with deliberate slowness, the sheets tangling around him like he was some kind of damn cat wrapped in silk. “You talk too much in the morning. I’ve got a much better idea.”
“Franco,” Ben tried again, but it came out as more of a strangled groan when Franco’s mouth closed around him, hot and sure and confident.
Ben’s head fell back against the pillow, his precious control evaporated in seconds. He was powerless, undone, clutching at the sheets like a drowning man while Franco worked him over with infuriating patience, slow, then fast, deep, then shallow. teasing, relentless…
Perfect .
“Christ—Franco—”
Franco hummed, a smug sound that only made Ben jerk his hips upward in a helpless response. Last night he’d given himself over to Franco’s tide of hunger and need, and now here he was again, caught in the undertow, dragged under. He couldn’t even pretend he wanted to fight it.
Release came sharp and sudden, tearing a groan from someplace deep. Franco swallowed him down, then crawled back up the bed, grinning as if he’d won the lottery.
“Good morning.” Franco’s light tone belied the fact he’d just destroyed every ounce of Ben’s composure.
Ben dragged a hand over his face, trying to breathe, trying to string words together into some kind of coherence. “You’re impossible.”
“Mm-hm. And you love it.”
“I—” Ben faltered, still wrecked, still raw, still not ready to admit how true Franco’s words might be. Ben wanted to kiss him, to hold him there in the sunlight and forget the world, but—
The clock on the bedside table caught his eye.
“Shit.” Ben sat bolt upright. “We’re late.”
Franco groaned, flopping back dramatically into the pillows. “Aw, Ben. Don’t ruin the afterglow with punctuality.”
But Ben was already scrambling for his trousers, muttering about schedules, prep times, staff meetings. He couldn’t face Raj if they strolled in an hour late. He couldn’t face Willow’s smirk.
Franco propped himself up on one elbow, watching him with lazy amusement. “Relax. They’ll live.” He leaned back, his hands folded behind his head, grinning. “Besides, after yesterday, I’m pretty sure half the staff already assume we’re screwing. Might as well give them something to gossip about.”
Ben groaned again, this time into his shirt as he tugged it over his head. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
Franco’s bright, unrepentant laughter filled the room. “Nah. I’m the reason you finally start living. ”
Ben froze at that, heat prickling under his skin for reasons that had nothing to do with sex.
“We’ve got time for coffee, right?” Franco launched himself from the bed and walked naked toward the kitchen.
Ben forced himself to ignore the hypnotic sway of Franco’s hips, the cute jiggle of those bite-able arse cheeks. Shoes, jacket, wallet . Anything to stop himself from answering the one question echoing in his mind.
Was Franco right?
By the time they finally slipped in through the front door of the restaurant, Ben was already in full-on damage control mode.
His hair was smooth, his tie yanked straight, his jacket buttoned as though his ironed composure would fool anyone into thinking he hadn’t just rolled out of someone else’s bed.
Franco, meanwhile, trailed behind with a bounce in his step, humming to himself, imagining he could still taste Ben on his lips.
The kitchen was alive with its usual morning chaos: pots clattering, knives thudding rhythmically against chopping boards, Raj barking at a supplier over the phone while Lexie whisked something in a bowl with ferocious precision. Willow was peering at the staff rota on the wall.
The second he and Ben stepped into view, two pairs of eyes flicked up and narrowed.
“You’re late,” Raj said flatly, though the glint in his eyes gave him away. “Again.”
Willow tilted her head, one brow quirked, her lips twitching, a surefire sign she was fighting a grin. “Mm. Both of you, at the same time. What are the odds?” she declared in a bright tone.
Franco grinned, unapologetic, and dropped his bag in the corner. “Traffic was brutal. ”
Raj snorted. “What, between here and your flat? Or have I got it wrong? Maybe you came from someone else’s flat.”
Ben froze in the act of reaching for his prep list. “Excuse me?” Willow aimed a beaming smile at him, and he stiffened, muttered something about inventory, and made a quick escape toward the office, his shoulders drawn tight.
Franco watched him go, biting back a laugh. The man could probably face down suppliers, critics, Michelin inspectors, but a sly jab from his staff and he was retreating like a spooked deer.
Willow filled a cup with coffee, then slid it across the counter toward Franco, still smiling. “Operation Sunshine seems to be working out fine.” She leaned closer, her voice pitched low, conspiratorial. “So. How was the retreat? From your perspective?”
Franco took a long sip of his coffee before replying. “Productive.”
“Uh-huh.” Raj folded his arms, watching him like a hawk. “Productive how, exactly?”
Franco grinned wider, because if they wanted to tease, he could take it. Banter was easy. So was hiding things. This was what he did best.
Except not anymore. While Willow and Raj were busy exchanging knowing smirks, Franco’s mind wasn’t on the teasing.
It was on Ben.
He couldn’t stop replaying it: the way Ben had looked in his bed, the sheets lying against his waist, his hair mussed, his expression softer than Franco had thought possible.
The weight of him, solid and trusting, pressed close to Franco in the dark.
The sound he’d made when he’d let go, raw, unguarded, and utterly devastating.
It was both terrifying and irresistible how much Franco wanted to experience all of it again.
He tossed back the last of the coffee. “Okay, enough with the whole Operation Sunshine deal. It was a fun idea, but I think it’s run its course.”
Willow laughed. “Are you kidding ? That was a totally different Ben yesterday. It’s obviously working. Keep doing what you’re doing. The whole point was to, you know, assimilate him.”
Raj snorted again. “We aren’t the Borg, Willow.”
She laughed, and Franco laughed with her.
Inside he felt cold. This had gone way beyond a distraction. It wasn’t a tactic, a joke, not even a fling. The only thing that mattered was the fleeting look on Ben’s face that morning, before the walls came slamming back down.
For the first time in years, Franco felt the sting of fear.
What if I want this more than he does? And if this was only supposed to be a game, then why does it feel like I’ve just handed Ben the power to break me?
Ben sat at his desk with his laptop open, although the spreadsheet had long since blurred into meaningless rows and numbers.
He’d always been proud of his ability to compartmentalise.
Numbers in one column, outcomes in another.
Personal life? Off the ledger entirely. But now, sitting in his office with the half-written staff rota glowing on his laptop screen, he found his thoughts derailed by…
cheekbones. Laughter that slid under his skin.
The remembered weight of Franco Rossi’s thigh hooked over his hip.
The memory played on a loop: Franco sprawled across his sheets, his hair tumbling around his face, his lips swollen from kissing, his voice husky as he whispered things that had no business echoing in Ben’s mind at ten in the morning on a workday.
Ben snapped his laptop shut, then rubbed at his face. “For God’s sake.”
This wasn’t distraction—this was erosion. His carefully ordered systems were cracking under the memory of Franco’s hands, the heat of his mouth, the reckless abandon that had coaxed Ben into lowering every guard he’d ever built.
And the worst part? He wanted more.