Chapter Sixteen #2
“If you think I’m going to let either of us climb into this bed and get my sheets full of sugar and God knows what else, then you can think again.” Ben held out his hand. “I have a shower. It works.”
Franco bit his lip. “Was that an invitation to conserve water? How eco-friendly of you.” He took Ben’s proffered hand and allowed himself to be led into the bathroom.
The shower turned out to be of the walk-in variety, and Ben flipped the water on before pulling Franco to him, unbuttoning his shirt, and removing it.
He glanced at his own shirt with a wry smile.
“I seem to be missing some buttons.”
Franco snorted again. “They’re going to be turning up all over the place.
You wait and see. Let’s hope a customer doesn’t find one in his lunch tomorrow.
Then Raj really will kill me, especially if the guy chokes on it.
” He snaked his arms around Ben’s neck and drew him close.
“Kiss me the way you did a minute ago,” he murmured.
Ben’s hand was on his neck in an instant. “Like this?” Their lips met, and Franco lost himself in the lingering kiss, revelling in its sweetness, the way Ben held him close, as though he was something precious.
Even though this was light years away from the frantic couplings on the kitchen counter and the function room table, Franco loved every single second of it.
Steam curled around them as the shower warmed. Ben guided Franco under the spray, tilting his head back so the water cascaded through Franco’s dark hair, plastering it to his forehead.
Franco laughed softly, blinking droplets away. “You’re going to ruin my whole aesthetic.”
Ben smoothed his thumbs along Franco’s jaw, gently pushing the wet strands from his face. “You don’t need an aesthetic,” he murmured. “You’re already—” He clammed up.
Franco swallowed. He wasn’t used to pauses like that, or being looked at as though someone was memorising him.
Normally, a shower was nothing but a quick rinse after a night out, a way to wash away the glitter and sweat before moving on.
But with Ben’s hands steady on him, everything felt more deliberate.
Ben reached for the soap and lathered it between his palms before skimming the suds over Franco’s shoulders and down his arms. His touch was neither hurried nor clinical—it was reverent, as though every inch of skin mattered. Franco closed his eyes, goosebumps erupting in the wake of Ben’s fingers.
After a moment, he cracked one eye open.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m looking,” Ben corrected, his gaze sweeping down Franco’s chest, the flat plane of his stomach, the curve of his hips. He met Franco’s eyes again, unflinching. “There’s a difference. ”
Franco’s usual instinct would have been to crack a joke, wiggle his eyebrows, even spin the moment into something light, but all words died in his throat.
Ben’s expression wasn’t lust, although that burned there too.
No, this was something heavier, that made Franco feel seen in a way that was unbearable.
“Careful.” The word sounded rougher than Franco had intended. “You keep looking at me like that and I might start thinking you actually like me.”
Ben’s lips twitched with the faintest of smiles. He brushed his thumb across Franco’s collarbone, following the rivulet of water. “Maybe I do.”
Franco’s heart lurched. He grabbed the soap from Ben before the moment swallowed him whole. “Turn around, big guy. Your back looks as though it survived a war with flour and ganache.”
Ben gave him that small, exasperated smile, the one that got under Franco’s skin more and more, and turned obediently under the spray.
Franco lathered the soap and ran his hands down the wide expanse of Ben’s shoulders, sliding down his strong back.
He lingered longer than necessary, tracing muscles with his fingertips.
“God, you’re terrifyingly solid,” Franco muttered. “No wonder everyone’s scared of you half the time.”
Ben huffed. “Solid isn’t terrifying.”
“It is when you look like you could carry the whole world on your back,” Franco said before he could stop himself. He slowed his hands, drifting lower to Ben’s waist, the thought blooming unbidden in his chest.
And you probably have.
Ben turned suddenly, water dripping from his hair, and caught Franco’s wrist. His eyes were kind, his voice low enough to be lost in the patter of the shower. “You don’t have to fill the silence, you know. Not with me.”
Franco’s throat tightened. He wanted to laugh, to deflect, but instead he let himself stand there, the water streaming between them, Ben’s fingers warm against his pulse .
And then Ben brushed a kiss to his mouth, gentle, lingering, and sweet. Franco leaned into it, into him, into the impossible tenderness of the moment. His hands sought Ben’s chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath Franco’s palms.
By the time they’d rinsed the last of the suds away, their skin slick and clean, Franco felt wrung out, not from desire, but from the weight of being seen and wanted in equal measure.
Ben reached for a towel and wrapped it around Franco’s shoulders, tugging him close as though he were something to be cared for.
Franco didn’t joke or deflect.
He simply stayed.
They padded into the bedroom, Franco’s skin warm from the towelling Ben had given him. Ben tugged back the covers and climbed into the bed, settling against the pillows with the kind of ease that suggested he’d already decided Franco belonged there.
Franco hesitated for half a second at the edge of the bed, fighting his default instinct to crack a joke or say something sassy. But when Ben lifted the sheet wordlessly in invitation, Franco slid in, the heat of Ben’s body radiating against him, their hair damp on the pillows.
They lay there, Franco concentrating on breathing, his own heart beating strongly.
Ben traced a line down Franco’s bare arm, the motion slow and steady. “You’re quieter than usual.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Franco murmured, shifting closer to him.
“I have a reputation to maintain.” He pressed his cheek to Ben’s chest, the strong heartbeat steadying him.
He was no stranger to such activities: there’d been plenty of men in his life.
But this sprawling warmth, this permission to just be, was terrifyingly new, as if he’d stepped into a story that wasn’t his.
A story where he didn’t know the ending .
Ben slid his hand into Franco’s hair, Franco tipped his head back, and their mouths found each other again.
The kiss started out as a tentative connection, then grew deeper, more certain with every passing moment.
Their towels were on the floor, forgotten, leaving skin against skin, fragrant and warm, Ben’s weight on him a welcome return.
He rocked, a languid, leisurely motion, as though to remind Franco this wasn’t about urgency or hunger. It was about seeing. To Franco’s mind, it was as if every kiss, every touch, became an unspoken vow: I want all of you. Not only the heat, the noise. You.
Franco’s breathing hitched when Ben’s hands mapped his body, almost worshipful in their exploration. “You’re going to undo me,” he whispered, his voice cracking.
“You don’t need to hold yourself together with me,” Ben murmured against his throat. “Not tonight.”
The words reached deeper than any kiss. Franco’s chest ached with the weight of them. He cupped Ben’s face, forcing him to meet his gaze. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do,” Ben said, his voice steady.
And then there was nothing but the languid press of Ben’s body on his, the rhythm they found together as Ben slid his hard shaft against Franco’s equally firm dick, a delicious rocking, the leisurely motion not frantic or rushed, but achingly deliberate.
Every move became a conversation, every sound a reply.
Franco let himself fall into the sensual rhythm, let himself be held, cherished, claimed in a way he’d never allowed before as Ben pushed him closer to the edge.
When release finally came, a wave of pleasure washed over him, overwhelming, transcendent, leaving him trembling in its wake against Ben’s chest, his breathing rough and jagged. Ben’s low moan filled Franco’s ears, warmth spreading between them, the conversation finally at an end.
Ben grabbed tissues from a box beside the bed and wiped away all traces of their mutual orgasms. Then he tucked the sheets around Franco, as if to shield him from the world .
Franco didn’t try to make light of it, but simply lay in Ben’s arms, his skin still humming, his heart still racing, one thought filling his mind, seeping into his very soul, until he was incapable of ignoring it.
This could be real.
Sharp on its heels came another, one that rocked Franco to his core.
This could be love.