Chapter Fifteen #2
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.