Page 102 of The Unlikely Spare
I want him.
Especially now that I know exactly how good it feels to actually have him.
My expression must betray my thought process because Eoin’s eyes darken. His gaze drops to my lips for a moment before shifting back to my eyes. The humor fades from his expression, replaced by something more intense.
The air between us shifts, thickens.
The space between us has shrunk to nothing. I should move away, reestablish distance. But instead, I’m focused on small details of him, the slight fray at his collar where he must tug at it when frustrated, the way he’s breathing through his mouth now, careful and controlled.
We sit there, the unspoken thing between us expanding like some monstrous soufflé of suppressed desire.
I glance down. The space between our hands is two inches, maximum.
I said last night was a one-and-done thing. To get this out of our system.
And I know that’s what it should be.
If people find out about us, Eoin would be disciplined, at the very least. Even if he kept his job, he’d be reassigned to another protection team. I’d never get to see him.
Yet all that logic melts as soon as I meet his eyes. Those storm-gray irises seem to see through every layer of royal polish to the real me beneath.
“Nicholas.” My name in his mouth sounds like something sacred. The Irish lilt makes it new, makes it mine.
What does he want with me? What could this man possibly see in the spare heir with a reputation for champagne breakfasts and diplomatic incidents?
He’s risking so much. Is it just for the thrill to say he landed a prince? Or does he feel the same irresistible draw to me as I feel toward him?
It’s like being caught in an undertow. The surface looks calm, manageable, but underneath, there’s this relentless pull dragging me toward something that will absolutely drown us both.
I should move from this sofa now. Make a joke. Reestablish boundaries.
Instead, my hand moves those final inches, fingers brushing against his.
The contact causes sparks to fly up my arm.
He turns his palm up, catching my fingers with his own, and the simple intimacy steals my breath.
“This is a terrible idea,” I say, staring at our intertwined fingers but making no move to pull back.
“The worst,” he agrees, but his thumb is already stroking across my knuckles.
He brings our joined hands up between us, pressing his lips to my palm.
“Nicholas,” he says against my skin, and I feel the shape of my name more than hear it.
When he leans forward to kiss me, it’s different from our previous kisses. Slower, deeper, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of me. His free hand comes up to cradle my jaw, thumb brushing over my cheekbone.
Bloody hell, this will undo me. He’s not just kissing me like he wants and desires me. He’s kissing me like he treasures me too.
We kiss sweetly, but my body is definitely not focused on sweet.
I grow embarrassingly hard in a short space of time. When Eoin eases me back on the sofa, one thigh pressing between my legs, I grind against him shamelessly. I need the friction, need proof he’s as thoroughly compromised as I am. Sure enough, his cock is hardening too, and he groans into my mouth as I roll my hips up again.
Then our kiss turns from gentle to molten, the fire between us igniting, and now we’re all desperate hands and broken breathing, any pretense of control abandoned.
“Bathroom,” I manage to get out between kisses. It appears one small part of my brain still possesses a modicum of self-preservation and remembers that it is only early evening and there’s a protection officer outside my door.
Eoin doesn’t question my words, moving off me to stand, then grabbing my hand and pulling me across the suite. The bathroom door slams shut behind us. Then he lifts me onto the marble counter, his hands pushing my legs apart to stand between them.
