Page 8 of Night Shift

“To you?”

“No. To my teammate. Jabari.”

“Oh.” I frown. “Well, then you fucked up, Knight.”

“Really?”

“Yep. You should’ve gotten at least three more hits in before the refs pulled you off.”

Vincent cracks a slightly sheepish smile that does terrible things to my insides. His good hand drops to my shoulder. I wonder if he knows that I feel electric sparks of pleasure every time the pad of his thumb traces my collarbone.

“Seems unfair that you know my name and I don’t know yours,” he murmurs.

I didn’t realize until now that my anonymity was a comfort blanket. I could give Vincent a fake name, of course, but something about lying to him makes my stomach squirm with guilt.

“It’s Kendall,” I offer quietly.

“Well, Kendall,” he whispers, my name soft in his mouth, “this sling isn’t a pickup tool, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

I bite back a smile. “I didn’t think it was. It’d be kind of a lame pickup trick. I don’t know how you could properly ravish a girl against a bookshelf with only one good—”

The only warning I get is the twinkle of mischief in Vincent’s dark eyes.

And then he wraps his good arm around my waist, beneath my cardigan, and lifts me up off the ground. I let out a humiliating squeal of surprise and throw my arms around his neck, one hand clutching at his hair and the other tight around a handful of his shirt. I’m not a small person. I’m not built like the heroines who get tossed around in bedrooms and called cute or feisty. Despite the width of Vincent’s shoulders and the impressive circumference of his biceps, I’m a little terrified shit could hit the fan very quickly.

“That was a joke. I was joking.”

“And I’m not.”

He shifts his hold on me. I feel fingers digging into my hip, just hard enough to hurt in the most glorious way. Maybe I’ll bruise. I don’t know why the thought of it thrills me.

“Do not drop me,” I warn.

“You know I could squat lift you, right?”

The firm curve of his ass against my calves is proof enough of his claim.

“I’m just saying.”

Vincent laughs, his hot breath feathering over my skin. “Just give me a minute. At least let me try to act smooth. I promise I’ve got you, Kendall.”

My name in his mouth makes me needy all over again. Vincent must be able to tell, because he steps forward until I feel something hard behind me—a bookshelf. It’s bolted to the wall, so I know we probably can’t knock it over, but it still feels precarious to be pinned against it with nothing but open air under my feet.

This is all very dangerous.

“What were you saying,” he murmurs, “about me ravishing you up against a bookshelf? Because I think it’s clear I’m more than capable.”

Giddiness floods my body. I duck my head so my lips brush his ear.

“Prove it,” I whisper.

Vincent doesn’t laugh, but there’s a rumble in his chest—low and suspiciously like a growl—before he surges forward to kiss me again. This time, it’s not so gentle. Our mouths meet with a hunger that makes my belly twist.

He can’t be real. It’s the thought on loop in my head as Vincent’s hips roll against the cradle of mine. Where did this boy come from? Because it’s so fucking fun to have a little verbal warfare with him and read my favorite poetry and then make out against the wall, and I can’t believe I’ve made it almost twenty-one years of my life without feeling this way. My brain is going fuzzy at the edges. My world has collapsed to this: Vincent’s solid and warm body, his hands cradling me, pressing me closer while his mouth—

Something hits the ground to my left with a heavy thud.

I jolt back from Vincent like I’ve been shocked.

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