Chapter Twenty
Franco barely had time to breathe before Ben’s mouth was on his, urgent, hungry, as if the world might end if they didn’t collide right then and there. The taste of wine on Ben’s breath, the press of lips and the clash of tongues sparked something wild and reckless in Franco’s chest.
He clutched at Ben’s shirt, dragging him closer, heat and want flooding every nerve. This was what Franco knew: a frantic edge, messy need, desire sharp enough to burn, all of it creating a wildfire that consumed before it could be questioned.
Then Ben’s hands framed his face in a caress. He pulled back enough to look into Franco’s eyes, his breath ragged, but his gaze steady.
Piercing.
“Slow down,” Ben murmured, his voice low but firm. “I want to see you.”
The words unravelled something deep inside Franco. No one ever wanted to see past the sparkle, the chaos. And yet here Ben was, holding him still, as though every flicker of emotion on Franco’s face was worth committing to memory .
Franco’s throat tightened. He nodded, unable to speak, and let Ben set the pace.
The kisses softened, deepened, morphing from frantic into reverent. Ben’s mouth moved over his like a vow as he slipped his hands down Franco’s sides with aching patience. Each touch was a question, an offering, and Franco’s body answered before his mind could catch up.
When Ben eased him back onto the couch, their bodies fitting together in a tangle of limbs and fabric, Franco felt bare in a way that had nothing to do with clothes. Every brush of Ben’s lips along his jaw, every drag of his thumb over Franco’s chest, said the same thing.
You don’t have to hold it together here.
Ben pressed a kiss below his ear, the slow roll of his hips making Franco gasp. “I think you’re worth it,” he murmured, echoing the words from earlier. “That’s why you’re here now. With me.”
Franco’s eyes stung. He clutched at Ben’s back, his nails digging into fabric as sensation blurred with emotion, raw and overwhelming. He let out a shaky laugh, part sob, part awe. “You’re going to ruin me.”
“No,” Ben whispered against his mouth, kissing him slow and deep, as if he had all the time in the world. “I’m going to make love to you.”
The words hit harder than any frantic touch, harder than the rush of lust coursing through Franco’s veins. His chest cracked open, terrifying and exhilarating, and he let himself fall, fully and helplessly, into the space Ben carved for him.
They started slow, Ben removing Franco’s shirt to press sweet kisses to his chest and abs, teasing his nipples with tight flicks of his tongue, one hand on Franco’s neck, the other in his hair, connecting them.
Binding them together.
Time spun out in a lazy web, wrapping itself around them, cocooning them, drawing out every sigh, every breath, every touch.
Lips grazed shafts and tongues teased and worshipped skin, and the air filled with the sound of their mingled breaths.
Franco laughed when Ben reached between the seat cushions to produce the bottle of lube, and then he didn’t hesitate when Ben paused, kneeling between his spread thighs, his hand working his thick cock.
Franco nodded. He ached for Ben to open him up, fill him, stretch him…
And when Ben finally moved inside him, languid and steady, cradling Franco’s head in his hands, holding Franco’s gaze as if it was the only thing that mattered, Franco understood what it meant to be undone and remade all at once. This was so much more than sex.
It was surrender.
It was trust.
It was love, wild and unstoppable.
The room smelled of sweat and skin, the air thick with the heat they’d created between them. Franco lay on the couch cushions, his chest heaving, every muscle deliciously spent, and yet his heart wouldn’t stop racing. Not from exertion, but from the way Ben had looked at him.
Was still looking at him.
Ben lay stretched out beside Franco, one hand absently tracing lazy patterns along his ribs, his breath warm against Franco’s temple, his weight a steady, reassuring anchor, those blue eyes focused on him.
Franco averted his gaze and stared at the ceiling, blinking hard. His throat ached.
Sex isn’t supposed to feel like this.
He wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
He tried for levity, his old shield. “Well, I guess it was time the couch saw some action. Variety is the spice of life, right?”
The joke sounded hollow, even to his own ears .
Ben didn’t laugh, but pressed a kiss to Franco’s hair and murmured, “You don’t have to hide with me.”
That simple sentence undid him more than the sex ever could. Tears, hot and sudden, stung him, and his breath shuddered out. He turned his face into Ben’s chest, muffling the sound before it could escape.
“I don’t…” His voice cracked, and he tried again. “I don’t know what you see in me.”
Ben’s fingers stilled against his skin. He tipped Franco’s chin up, forcing their gazes to meet. “Everything.”
The word landed heavy, irrevocable, and Franco couldn’t look away. He felt exposed, every wall stripped bare under the weight of Ben’s quiet certainty.
“I’m a mess,” Franco whispered.
Ben chuckled. “Behind those spreadsheets, so am I. And I still want to hold you.”
That broke him all over again, not in the fiery, catastrophic way he feared, but in a way that felt like sunlight cracking through storm clouds, beautiful and powerful.
Franco took several deep breaths, willing himself to stay right there, letting the warmth of Ben’s body seep into the cracks, filling places Franco hadn’t even known were empty.
I don’t have to perform, to dazzle, to run. I can simply be .
And Ben was still there.
Still looking.
Still holding him.
Still seeing him.
As Franco drifted in the quiet aftermath, lulled by the steady beat of Ben’s heart under his ear, one thought settled into him, not for the first time, but now with bone-deep certainty.
He’d fallen in love with Ben and there was no taking it back.
The morning light came through Ben’s kitchen window, washing over Franco in a way that made him pause.
He wasn’t used to mornings like this, gentle and unhurried, without alarms or obligations screaming at him.
Ben moved around the kitchen, flipping eggs, humming under his breath, and Franco leaned against the counter, his arms crossed, drinking in the quiet.
“I’ll grab the coffee.” Ben reached past him for the French press. Franco caught his hand for a second, a lingering brush, and a shiver ran down his spine. Not lust this time.
More like belonging.
“You look good in a kitchen,” he told Ben.
“Huh.” Ben snorted. “The kitchen in my flat in Melbourne was hardly ever used. I ate out all the time, even breakfast. I don’t think I cooked a single meal in it.” Then he grinned. “You’re more at home in a kitchen than I ever was.”
“Never like this,” Franco admitted.
Ben frowned. “Like what?”
He smiled. “It’s like I said the other morning. Never… with someone I wanted to wake up next to.”
Ben’s hand stilled on the coffee pot, and it was as if the words hung in the air, palpable. Franco met his gaze, and for a heartbeat, neither of them moved, lapsing into silence, broken only by the hiss of the stove, the clink of utensils, and the soft hum of morning.
Ben set the coffee down and brushed his thumb over Franco’s wrist. “I like this,” he admitted. “When it’s the two of us. No deadlines, no games, just mornings like this.”
Franco’s chest tightened, the familiar fear creeping back, but he forced himself to breathe. “Me too,” he said in a low voice. He wanted to say more, to tell Ben he didn’t think he’d ever wanted this feeling to last before, but that with Ben…
Words failed him.
Ben’s fingers threaded through his, steadying him. The fear of falling, of getting hurt, still lingered, but the need to escape was tempered by a stronger emotion .
He wanted this.
They moved through the kitchen in tandem, cooking, laughing, stealing small kisses between tasks. It was domestic, ordinary, and yet somehow, it felt extraordinary.
Franco caught himself thinking maybe mornings like this could last. Maybe the walls he’d built around his heart weren’t permanent after all. That maybe, with Ben, he could learn to let go a little.
The thought didn’t terrify him as much as he expected. If anything, it made him ache in the best possible way.
If this is what falling in love feels like, then I don’t want it to stop.