Page 43 of Night Shift

“You”—I press an accusatory finger to his chest—“are a dirty boy.”

“This is new for me,” he says, palms held out in defense. “Dirty talk has never done it for me, but you and your damned poetry . . .”

“Maybe we should keep talking, then,” I say, trying to sound sultry.

Vincent snorts. “Given our track record with communication? Yeah, I think so.”

A laugh bubbles up in my throat. Vincent catches it with a hard kiss. And then I’m not laughing anymore, because the only thing that exists in the world is the heat of his mouth on mine. My fingers thread into his hair again. Vincent returns the gesture by stroking one hand down the length of my spine, from my shoulder (trapezius) to the curve of my ass. A split second after I think that I’d pay good money to have him squeeze me there, he spreads his hand and grips me so hard I let out an involuntary grunt.

I go rogue and grind down on his lap.

He’s harder. I didn’t think it was possible.

And suddenly there’s no doubt. No fear. No hesitation. It’s like some intimidatingly complex algebra equation has suddenly been simplified, and now the answer is clear as day.

I lean back again and cup his jaw in my hands. “I want to do more than kiss.”

Vincent nods. “You know how I ravished you up against that bookcase?”

“Rings a bell.”

“Well . . .” One corner of his mouth hitches. “If you thought that was impressive, imagine what I can do with two hands.”

“Show me,” I demand.

“Show you what?”

“Do you really need me to say it?”

He blinks, a picture of feigned innocence. It’s a battle of wills. Me, glaring at the enormous, dark-eyed basketball player whose hands are on my hips and whose muscular thighs are braced under me. Vincent, smiling back at me benignly, eyelashes fluttering.

“Come on, Holiday,” he murmurs. “Use your words.”

This . . . does something to me.

“Stop teasing,” I say breathlessly, “and fucking touch me.”

I reach for the wrist of the hand that’s still cradling my ass and try to redirect it toward the front of me. I can’t believe I wore jeans. I can’t believe he’s wearing jeans too. I hate them. I want them gone, immediately, and I never want to see them again.

“One or two?” Vincent asks, voice rough.

“What?”

He blinks slowly. His eyelashes really should be illegal. “Hold your hand up.”

I have no clue where he’s going with this, but I follow the order. Vincent lifts his hand and presses his palm against mine, lining our fingers up. His hand is enormous, of course. The man can palm a basketball. But it’s not until he wiggles his index finger, drawing attention to the fact that his is an inch longer and nearly twice as wide as mine, that I realize what he’s on about.

Oh. Oh.

I’m shaking, just a little, as I reach out and catch Vincent’s hand in both of mine. He lets me hold it and turn it over, examining his broad palm and long fingers before I smooth my thumb over the joint of his wrist. Vincent shivers, just a little. I think I might have imagined that, though.

“I’m asking what you can handle, Holiday,” he says. “One finger, or two.”

“Two,” I blurt. “I can do two.”

I hope. At this rate, I’m not sure I’ll survive the night.

“Good. So, I’m going to put two fingers inside you,” Vincent says as he flips over his hand gently, so I’m still holding it in mine, “and then I’m going to curl them up, like this, and you’re going to come on my hand.”

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