Page 94 of The Unlikely Spare
My thighs begin to tremble. Eoin must feel it because in one swift motion, he flips our positions, pressing me back against the mattress without breaking our connection.
The world tilts, and then he’s above me, inside me, his forearms braced on either side of my head.
Our faces are inches apart, his breath hot against my lips, his eyes boring into mine.
And I realize something.
This whole thing between us. It’s not been about getting Eoin to surrender his professionalism, making him want me. It’s not about scoring a victory.
It’s not even about reducing the tension that’s been bubbling between us, making it easier for both of us to concentrate on our jobs.
This is about being seen.
Because Eoin somehow sees me in a way no one else ever has. Even the parts of me I try desperately to keep hidden behind royal polish and practiced charm.
He seesme.
And as he moves inside me, his eyes never leaving mine, something cracks open in my chest, something vulnerable and terrifying. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure rushing through my body.
His breath is hot at my throat, words whispered in that Irish lilt that turns even profanities into poetry.
The physical sensations are almost too much. They’re stretch and fullness, friction that sends sparks racing along every nerve ending, his weight pressing me into the mattress.
I urge him deeper, wanting everything he can give me.
His skin tastes of salt and something uniquely Eoin as I press my lips to his shoulder, his neck, any part of him I can reach. My fingers grasp the muscles in his back, feeling them flex and shift with each movement.
“Nicholas,” he gasps, my name sounding like both prayer and profanity.
Fuck. I’ve heard my name in countless languages, spoken with varying degrees of deference and formality, but never like this, completely raw and unguarded, stripped of titles and protocol.
I’m so close, teetering on the edge of something that feels dangerously like freefall. Eoin seems to sense it, one hand sliding between our bodies to wrap around me, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.
The dual sensation is overwhelming. I arch against him, a sound escaping me that’s completely undignified and utterly honest.
His movements grow more urgent, more intense, his restraint finally, completely abandoned.
Release hits me with the force of a tidal wave, pleasure so intense it borders on pain washing through every cell of my body. I’m vaguely aware of calling his name, of digging my fingers into his back hard enough to leave marks of my own.
Through the haze of my own pleasure, I watch his face as he follows me over the edge, his expression stripped of all guardedness. There’s nothing between us right now. No titles, no duty, no walls.
We’re just Eoin and Nicholas.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Eoin collapses onto the mattress, and the aftermath is a tangle of limbs and slowing heartbeats, his arm draped over my waist.
The heat between our bodies gradually cools as our breathing synchronizes. Each exhale feels like a whispered secret against damp skin.
For someone so decisive in his actions, there’s an endearing uncertainty to how his fingers trace patterns on my skin. He follows the curve of my ribs, pausing at the hollow of my hip before continuing his gentle exploration.
I turn to face him, studying the landscape of his features in the glow from the city lights outside. His hair is a mess from my fingers, his lips swollen.
My theory of doing this once and moving on seems to be utterly ludicrous right now.
I expected blazing heat and passion, and I got that. But there’s something else here, too, besides these expected feelings.
Tenderness.
