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: Patisserie.”
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. ”
“Franco—”
Franco kissed him again, messy and demanding, and Ben let himself fall for the second time that night.
The kiss started like all their others, sharp, impatient, hungry. But then something in Ben shifted. He slid his hand from Franco’s jaw to the back of his neck, steadying him, holding him there as if he was afraid Franco might disappear if he pulled away too soon.
It wasn’t frantic. It was careful.
Franco froze, his heartbeat stuttering at the tenderness he wasn’t prepared for. He’d been ready for more flour-on-the-floor, desperate, naked collisions. He hadn’t been ready for the slow unravelling by someone who wanted to taste every second.
“Come home with me,” Ben murmured against his mouth, low and ragged. “Stay the night.”
Franco’s laugh cracked around the edges. “Whitaker, you know what happens if you invite a stray in. You’ll never get rid of him.”
“Good,” Ben said simply.
And just like that, Franco was lost.
The rain still hissed against the windows as they stumbled through Ben’s front door, leaving shoes and jackets in a careless trail.
Bringing Franco back here… This feels reckless.
Ben couldn’t deny it also felt right. He didn’t bother with small talk, offering coffee, snacks…
We both know why he’s here.
Ben led him by the hand to his bedroom, and Franco didn’t say a word. But once they were inside, Ben slowed everything to a crawl.
He kissed Franco the way he’d been wanting to for weeks, unhurried, thorough, mapping every inch of his mouth. He pinned Franco to the bed with his weight. There was no race to undress, just the slow build of heat.
Franco’s usual banter gave way to soft gasps and half-formed words as Ben’s fingertips traced his ribs, his hips, his thighs. Ben wanted to draw it out, keep him there, to see how long he could make Franco shiver before breaking him.
“You’re trying to kill me,” Franco whispered, a tremor in his voice.
Ben kissed his neck before whispering, “What gave it away?”
Franco wasn’t used to this, to sex being stretched out, pulled thin, savoured . His flings were usually shambolic and fast, fuelled by hunger and heat. But this?
This was unbearable in its sweetness.
“When I take your shirt off, am I going to find cake batter? Or maybe icing?” Ben asked with a smile.
He snorted. “Never mind just under my shirt—it’s probably everywhere.” Then he groaned when Ben sat up. “Did I say you could stop?”