Page 38 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Nicholas

There’s something about the weight of Eoin on top of me that feels like gravity finally making sense.

His mouth is hot and demanding, his hands tangled in my hair, tightening just enough to send electric currents down my spine. I strain closer, desperate for more.

“God, Nicholas,” he groans against my throat. His accent is thicker than usual, each syllable of my name dragging across his tongue like he’s savoring it.

“Not quite, but I appreciate the comparison,” I say, and there’s the vibration of his laughter against my skin.

“Only you could manage to be insufferable while flat on your back,” he growls at me. I reach up a hand to pull his head into the right position so I can kiss him again.

Our kiss is like fire. Like falling without a parachute. Like drowning and breathing all at once.

I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want Eoin. It’s almost frightening, this raw hunger clawing at my insides. I’ve had my share of sexual encounters, but most of those were calculated exchanges of pleasure without risk.

This is something entirely different.

This contains plenty of risk. But it’s not just the risk of discovery and the repercussions it will have for both of us.

The risk feels deeper than that.

My body burns for him, like every nerve ending has been rewired specifically to respond to his touch. His mouth against mine, his hands against my skin feel like being branded, marked in ways that will remain long after the physical evidence fades.

It’s like somehow Eoin strips away the prince, the royal persona, until there’s just me, trembling and wanting in ways that feel both dangerous and necessary.

Our kiss turns feral, a battle for control, teeth scraping, breath mingling, as we try to consume each other.

There’s nothing royal or refined about this at all.

He pulls away, his broad chest heaving in ragged gasps that match my own. The ever-professional Officer O’Connell, undone by me.

His gray eyes are the stormiest I’ve ever seen them, like the North Sea during a gale.

I’ve spent weeks trying to provoke a reaction from him, and now that I have it, I’m not sure I’ll survive the intensity.

I have to lower my gaze, finding fascination with the hollow of his throat where his pulse hammers.

I tug at his belt with one hand, the other hand fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

His chest is all solid planes with a scattering of hair that trails from his chest to his stomach. His skin is pale where it’s normally hidden from the sun, a stark contrast to the tan forearms I’ve been admiring for weeks.

A tattoo I hadn’t expected curves around his left shoulder, Celtic knotwork intertwined to form a protective band. A scar curves along his ribs like a question mark, silver-pale against his skin. Below it, a starburst of raised tissue suggests something violent, something that didn’t heal clean.

I want to know the stories behind the scars.

I want to know who’s touched him before, who’s been allowed to see this unguarded, vulnerable version of him.

I want to know if anyone else has ever made him tremble the way he’s trembling now, his control fracturing beneath my hands as I trace the line where soft hair disappears beneath his waistband, feeling the way his stomach muscles contract under my fingertips.

Bloody hell.

My hands continue their journey over his body.

It’s a study in what makes his breath catch, what causes that almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw.

I’m testing him, pushing against his restraint deliberately now, curious to see just how far I can go before that famous control breaks. I slide my thigh between his legs, pressing up against him with deliberate intent while my teeth graze his collarbone.

The low sound that escapes him feels like victory. It emboldens me to reach between us, palming his cock through his trousers, feeling the hard evidence of his desire for me.

The knowledge that Officer O’Connell wants me this badly is intoxicating, exhilarating.

I make my touch teasing, a slow drag of my palm that has his hips twitching forward involuntarily.

“Always testing boundaries, aren’t you?” His lips curve into something that’s not quite a smile.

“It’s a talent.”

“One of many, I’m starting to discover.”

I work his belt free with unsteady fingers, the leather sliding through the loops with a whisper of sound.

His hands join mine, helping to push his trousers down his hips.

The fabric pools on the floor, followed quickly by his underwear, and suddenly his chest is bare against mine, skin to heated skin, our breathing ragged.

He catches my wrists, pinning them above my head in one strong hand. The restraint sends a bolt of pure electricity straight to my groin.

His free hand skims down my side, touch light enough to make me shiver, to make me rock forward for more contact. He seems determined to take his time, to drive me absolutely mad with want.

“Eoin,” I say, not caring that it sounds like a plea. “Touch me. Properly.”

“I am touching you,” he replies, maddeningly reasonable as his fingers trace patterns on my ribs, my stomach, everywhere except where I need them most.

I buck against his hold, but he just increases the pressure on my wrists, keeping me firmly in place. His touch is gentle but firm, and the contrast makes my head spin.

“Patience, Your Royal Highness.” There’s just enough mockery in the title to make it clear he’s not addressing the prince now, just the man squirming beneath him.

“I’ve never been particularly good at patience,” I gasp as his mouth finds my neck, teeth grazing a spot that makes me see stars.

“I’ve noticed,” he replies dryly against my skin. “But perhaps it’s time for a lesson.”

His mouth travels lower, across my collarbone, sucking on the skin there until I’m squirming desperately.

I strain against his grip, not really wanting to break free but needing him to know I’m not surrendering completely.

He understands, tightening his hold just enough to remind me who’s in control right now.

It’s intoxicating, this giving over of myself to someone else. I’m always expected to maintain perfect poise and dignity at all times. But right now, with Eoin’s weight pressing me into the mattress, I don’t have to be anything but the man coming apart under his touch.

When his mouth moves down my chest to close around my nipple, I can’t suppress the moan that tears from my throat. He chuckles, the vibration sending fresh waves of pleasure through me.

“Like that, do you?” he murmurs.

“Fishing for compliments is beneath you, Eoin,” I manage, though the effect is somewhat undermined by the way my voice breaks when he repeats the action on the other side.

He lifts his head, eyes locking with mine. “Say it again.”

I blink, momentarily confused. “What?”

“My name.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “Say my name again.”

Something shifts between us, the playful power struggle giving way to something more intense.

I swallow hard.

“Eoin,” I say softly.

His eyes darken further, and he releases my wrists to cup my face in both hands. The kiss he gives me is different from the others, slower, deeper, as if he’s trying to commit the taste of me to memory.

His tongue lazily strokes against mine, his stubble creating a pleasant burn against my jaw.

He lingers in the kiss before slowly pulling back.

“What do you want?” he asks in a low voice.

“You inside me.” My voice is ragged and unraveling at the edges.

My words hang between us for a heartbeat, and then another. Eoin’s entire body goes rigid, a muscle jumping in his jaw as his pupils dilate until those gray eyes are nearly black.

It’s not something I’ve done much of, but the thought of him filling me, claiming me completely, has consumed my thoughts for longer than I care to admit.

If I only have one night with him, I want the whole experience. I want to feel him everywhere, something real, something that belongs only to Nicholas, not to Prince Nicholas Alexander, second in line to the throne.

The need in Eoin’s eyes makes something wild unfurl inside me. His control visibly frays at the edges, that careful restraint cracking.

I did that. Me.

A fierce joy blazes through me. This is power—not the hollow kind that comes with titles and ceremony, but something real and raw.

“Nicholas,” he breathes, and my name on his lips sounds like surrender and challenge rolled into one.

It’s almost unbearable, hearing Eoin say my name like that.

Practicalities. It’s time to focus on practicalities.

I strip off my pants and then reach for supplies, trying to not betray my nerves with jerky movements.

I’m trying to pretend that retrieving condoms and lube from hotel furniture for an illicit encounter with your protection officer is just another diplomatic skill taught alongside the twelve acceptable ways to decline a marriage proposal from foreign nobility.

I drop them on the bed. Eoin watches me while taking shallow breaths, the muscle in his jaw working overtime.

He picks up the box of condoms, and I watch, mesmerized, as he removes one, tears it open, and rolls it on himself. The sight of his hands on his own cock, preparing himself for me, causes a fresh wave of heat through my body.

Then he lowers himself between my legs.

I watch through heavy-lidded eyes as he licks his lips, deliberate and slow.

The anticipation coils tighter in my gut with each passing second until I’m wound so tight I might snap.

When he finally takes me in his mouth, wet heat engulfing me, my world narrows to this single point of connection.

Bloody hell. His warm mouth on my cock is beyond description, beyond comprehension. My vocabulary, cultivated through years of education, abandons me entirely, each pull of suction drawing broken sounds from my throat that would horrify my elocution tutors.

As he slicks a finger and starts to prep me, my body practically vibrates with need.