Page 161 of The Unlikely Spare
“Well, we needed a cover story,” I manage to say.
My lungs do something complicated in my chest, twisting in a way that feels like drowning and breathing at the same time.
“This is the real deal, isn’t it?” My voice comes out gruff. “You and me, I mean.”
“I don’t think it gets more real than this,” Nicholas replies. His fingers find mine tentatively. “I notice you didn’t deny the boyfriend designation I gave you.”
“Hard to deny when I already told you I loved you in the back of a terrorist’s van.”
His breath catches. “About that?—”
“Nicholas—”
“I love you too,” he says in a rush. “In case that wasn’t clear. I love you despite your default expression of someone who’s just discovered their tea’s gone cold and your stubborn refusal to let me protect you and your frankly alarming competence at stealing vehicles.”
“My alarming competence at stealing vehicles?” I pull him closer. “What about you? You launched yourself at a man with a syringe. You handcuffed yourself to me in front of fellow officers.”
“All perfectly reasonable responses to the circumstances.” His arms wind around my neck. “So, about this physical inspection we need to do…”
I don’t have a chance to say anything before he kisses me.
Nicholas is kissing me like we have all the time in the world. It’s no longer just stolen moments between crises but something that gets to continue.
The world narrows to Nicholas’s mouth on mine, gentle and thorough and achingly sweet.
The kiss leaves us both unsteady, foreheads pressed together while the world rights itself around us.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” I tell him.
“Probably,” he agrees cheerfully. “But what a way to go.”
And then he’s kissing me again, deeper this time, and I stop thinking about disciplinary hearings and palace disapproval and the brother I’ve lost. There’s just this—Nicholas in my arms, alive and whole and inexplicably mine.
He finally pulls back. “I’m thinking you probably need a shower.”
“It has been a while since personal hygiene and I made an acquaintance,” I admit.
“I’m thinking more that I want to have you all naked and wet and soapy, but sure, let’s go for the hygiene aspect,” Nicholas says as he grabs my hand.
I laugh as I follow him into the bathroom, which is all marble and gold fixtures. Nicholas turns on the shower and the steam begins to fog the mirror.
I watch him test the temperature, the domestic intimacy loosening the tightness in my chest.
His hands are steady as he reaches to undo my belt, but his breathing isn’t. His chest moves up and down as his fingers work the buttons of my shirt, slipping each one free with deliberate care.
I stand still, letting the prince undress me.
He pushes the fabric off my shoulders, hands lingering on the bruises already darkening my ribs from where I was kicked. His touch is featherlight and reverent.
When he hooks his fingers in my waistband, I move forward to help, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes. Then it’s his turn.
I watch, transfixed, as he sheds his own clothes with that elegance that turns even mundane actions into something worth watching. The bathroom light catches the planes of his body, highlighting the curve of his spine, the dip of his collarbone. There’s a spectacular bruise blooming across his chest that I gently trace the edges of.
Nicholas steps under the spray first, tilting his head back, and I’m helpless to do anything but follow. Steam rises around us like we’ve entered another world entirely.
The hot water is bliss against my battered body. Nicholas moves behind me, his hands gentle as they slide over my shoulders, working the tension from muscles I didn’t realize were knotted.
I groan and let my head fall forward.
