Page 75 of The Unlikely Spare

The contrast unravels something in me, makes me arch against him, seeking more contact, more heat, more of whatever this is that burns between us like a wildfire.

I’m drowning in sensation. The rough scrape of his stubble against my chin, the pressure of his body pinning me against the shelves, the scent of him filling my senses.

I’ve been kissed by people who wanted the title, the status, the story they could sell later. But O’Connell kisses like he wants to consume me, like I’m water after a desert crossing, like nothing exists beyond this room. His hand moves to tangle in my hair, tugging just enough to send electricity racing down my spine, making me gasp against his mouth.

This is what has been here all along, simmering beneath the surface in every snarky exchange between us. It feels like an untapped energy source that’s just been discovered.

O’Connell’s earpiece crackles to life, Singh’s voice sounding both miles away and brutally close. “Building secured. Extraction team inbound, thirty seconds.”

O’Connell wrenches his mouth from mine, stumbling back, his face a battlefield of desire and horror.

We stare at each other, chests heaving. We’re like two boxers who’ve fought to a standstill and can’t quite believe the blows they’ve landed.

The taste of him is still on my tongue.

Footsteps thunder outside, voices barking commands. O’Connell’s still breathing hard as he crosses to the door in two strides, his fingers slipping on the simple bolt lock before he manages to wrench it open.

Blake bursts in, weapon drawn. She takes in the scene with a single sweeping glance, her professional assessment giving way to confusion as she registers our disheveled states.

“Sir,” she says, addressing me while her eyes flick to O’Connell. “Are you injured?”

Define “injured.” If she means “has your entire worldview been rearranged by the lips of an angry Irishman in a maintenance shed?” then yes, critically.

But I’m quite certain the ways I’ve been injured won’t show on medical charts.

“Nothing serious.” My voice comes out unnervingly steady considering my internal state. “Just a scrape from a headbutt.”

Behind Blake, three more security personnel pour in. O’Connell has already transformed back into the perfect professional.

If it weren’t for the slight tremble in his hands as he adjusts his jacket, I might almost doubt the last few minutes happened.

“Extraction route is clear,” Singh announces. “We need to move now, sir.”

O’Connell nods crisply. “The Thistle to secure location. Standard formation.”

Blake positions herself at my left shoulder while Singh takes point. O’Connell stays to my right. His face is a stone wall now.

“Ready, sir?” he asks.

I want to say something cutting, something royal and dismissive to match his sudden distance.

But I can’t.

Instead, I simply nod, letting them envelop me in their protective formation as we move toward the doorway.

The brightness of the Australian sun is shocking after the dimness of the maintenance building. I squint against it, taking in the chaos of the parade ground. Several men in naval uniforms lie face-down on the ground, hands zip-tied behind their backs, surrounded by Australian Federal Police officers.

A black SUV with tinted windows idles nearby, its doors already open. O’Connell guides me toward it with a hand that hovers near but doesn’t quite touch my lower back.

The absence of contact feels deliberate, pointed.

“A medical team is waiting at the extraction point,” he says, his eyes scanning everywhere but my face. “That headbutt may have done more damage than you realize.”

“I’m fine,” I insist, though the throbbing in my forehead suggests otherwise.

“With respect, that’s for the medics to determine.” His voice is cool, professional, as if he didn’t just have his tongue in my mouth a few minutes ago.

The SUV swallows us up, Blake and Singh joining me inside while O’Connell confers briefly with Cavendish before climbing into the front passenger seat. The vehicle pulls away, leaving the naval base and its chaos behind.