Page 59 of The Unlikely Spare

“Subject intercepted,” Cavendish replies. “Package contained an unknown substance. Bomb squad en route. Maintain position until all-clear.”

“Copy that,” I respond, my heart still pounding.

Nicholas shifts slightly, causing our bodies to press even closer together. The plastic unit creaks ominously.

“When I said I wanted to get to know Australia intimately,” he murmurs, “I didn’t quite have a port-a-loo in mind.”

Ah, Jaysus fecking Christ.

Somehow, instead of being scared, Prince Nicholas appears almost exhilarated by what’s happening. There’s a wild brightness in his eyes that I’ve seen before in adrenaline junkies and thrill-seekers. It reminds me of what he was like after the stingray incident.

And the confined space makes it impossible to ignore how perfect his face is. His mouth, always quick with a sarcastic comment, looks softer up close. I’ve never noticed the tiny freckle just below his right eye, almost invisible unless you’re this close.

And I have to stand here, holding Prince Nicholas in my arms, pressed against him in a space so confined that I can feel every breath he takes.

My dream slams back into my head in vivid detail. His lips against my neck, the scrape of teeth, the challenge in his voice when he whispered my name. His body arching beneath mine. The taste of him on my tongue, expensive and addictive.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

My body’s betraying me, my cock starting to firm up. His thigh brushes mine as he shifts, and Christ, this can’t be happening.

Nicholas seems oblivious. Thank God for small mercies. Instead, the eejit’s trying to peer through the gaps where light bleeds through the doorframe. He twists about like a contortionist, planting one hand against the wall beside my head as he angles toward the light. “Do you think they’ve caught the suspect?” he murmurs.

“I don’t know,” I manage to grunt.

Nicholas shifts again, trying for a better look. His hips grind back against me. The friction hits like a punch to the gut. The plastic walls groan with our shuffling, but it doesn’t cover the catch in my breathing.

And I witness the moment he feels my cock.

He freezes, then suddenly, he’s twisting around again to face me, his eyes wide, lips parted.

For a few heartbeats, we just stand there, staring at each other.

But then he tilts his chin up slowly. The playboy prince vanishes, replaced by someone entirely different—someone who looks at me with a predatory focus that makes my mouth go dry.

Oh fuck, there’s heat in his gaze.

Not disgust.

Not amusement.

Heat.

My heart pounds so loudly it could blow our cover if anyone passed by.

We continue to stare at each other. Those cool blue eyes are no longer cold or mocking. Instead, that calculating intelligence appears to be assessing me now with a different kind of interest entirely.

“Eoin,” he whispers, my name sounding like a secret he’s been keeping locked inside him.

I muster all the professional detachment I can. “Your Royal Highness…”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Because I see the instant his expression shutters, his default sarcastic mask coming back over his face.

I continue, “I apologize?—”

“No need to get so stiff about it,” he interrupts, then immediately grins. “Poor choice of words, perhaps.”