Page 103 of The Unlikely Spare
His mouth is everywhere—my lips, my jaw, the sensitive spot just below my ear that makes my back arch. But it’s the way he murmurs my name between kisses, the way his hands shake slightly as he touches me, that undoes me completely.
I’m frantic now, tugging at his shirt so I can slide my hands under it, needing to feel his skin.
“God, Nicholas,” he groans as my hands find his belt and start to undo the buckle. “I’ve spent all day pretending I wasn’t thinking about doing this again.”
“Then do something about it,” I challenge.
His eyes darken at my words, the gray turning nearly black. With swift, efficient movements, he manhandles me off the counter and turns me around. Our eyes meet in the mirror, his gaze burning into mine as he works open my trousers with unsteady hands.
“Is this okay?” His voice is rough.
“Yes,” I breathe, already pushing back against him. “But for the love of all that’s holy, hurry up.”
He reaches into his pocket, producing a small packet of lube and a condom. The fact that he came prepared sends heat spiraling through me. He wants this as badly as I do.
He slicks his fingers, and then he’s pressing into me, and I’m still sensitive from last night, but the slight burn only intensifies everything. He works me open carefully, reading my body’s responses with unerring accuracy.
Because, of course, he does. Despite my desperation, my pressing back on him and insisting through bitten lips that I can take more, he maintains his torturous pace, fingers crooking just so until my thighs shake.
When he finally deems me ready and pushes inside me, we both groan. I close my eyes because the fullness, pleasure, and the faintest edge of pain combine into something that makes coherent thought impossible.
But it’s more than physical. It’s the feeling of being completely connected to another person, of being seen and wanted exactly as I am.
“Look at me,” he commands in my ear, his voice a low growl.
My eyes fly open, meeting his gaze in the mirror. The image sears itself into my brain—him behind me, fully clothed exceptfor his open trousers, me half-dressed and bent over the counter, my face flushed with desire.
But it’s the expression on his face that stops my breath. It’s raw and open and utterly without pretense.
His thrusts are deep and deliberate, like he’s trying to reach as far inside me as possible.
They are also relentless, each one hitting that perfect spot. One of his hands grips my hip with bruising force, the other sliding beneath my shirt to splay across my chest, holding me against him.
“Eoin,” I gasp, already embarrassingly close. “I need?—”
“I know,” he says, and he does. He knows exactly what I need because somehow, impossibly, he knows me.
He moves his hand to stroke my cock in time with his thrusts, but it’s not the feel of his calloused hand that sends me over the edge. Instead, it’s the way he presses his forehead between my shoulder blades, the broken way he chokes out my name. My release crashes over me with all the subtlety of a cavalry charge.
He follows moments later, his rhythm faltering as he presses deep inside me, my name a rough prayer on his lips.
For a few seconds, we stay frozen in position, breathing heavily. His heart hammers against my back, matching the wild rhythm of my own.
Then slowly, carefully, he pulls out, turning me to face him. His hands cup my face as he presses a gentle kiss to my lips, the softness so at odds with the frantic pace of moments before.
“Are you all right?” His thumbs brush over my cheekbones. There’s concern in his eyes, but also something deeper—a tenderness that makes my throat tight.
“More than all right,” I manage to say, and his answering smile is like watching the sun break through storm clouds.
“Merry Christmas, Nicholas.”
Meeting his gaze, I can’t help but think that despite everything—the distance from home, the upside-down seasons that make Christmas feel surreal in the summer heat, the political complexities of being a royal in a former colony—this might be the most authentic Christmas I’ve ever experienced.
Because with Eoin, I don’t have to perform. There’s no mask, no false persona.
There’s just me. Somehow, impossibly, that appears to be enough for this man.
And that seems like the greatest gift I could ever receive.
