Page 42 of Night Shift

“Vincent.” I’m begging. Feminism is dead. I killed her, and I don’t care.

“Oh, all right,” he sighs.

He tips his chin up in offering, and at last, I kiss him—open-mouthed and greedy.

It’s divine. It’s music, and poetry, and every other overblown metaphor I’ve ever heard about kissing. Vincent’s lips are familiar in a way that makes my heart ache. The nudge of tongue against mine before it strokes over my bottom lip is so soft, so gentle, and simultaneously hungry in a way that makes my stomach coil with heat.

“Happy?” he murmurs against my lips.

“Don’t patronize me,” I whisper. But my answering kiss says, Yes—incandescently.

Tentatively, I rake my fingernails up his chest, dragging at the soft cotton of his shirt. Vincent shudders under my hands and tightens his grip on my hips, tugging them forward until my pelvis is pressed to his stomach.

I like the way he handles me. The way he positions me just how he likes. There’s something thrilling about his strength and the unpredictability of his desire. It’s not like having a dirty daydream before bed and having to come up with the whole plot yourself. I’m not alone. He’s here. He’s real. He’s participating.

It’s so nice to want and be wanted. I could drown in this feeling.

Unfortunately, my body hasn’t caught up to the metaphors racing through my head—I have to come up for air at some point. When I do pull back to catch my breath, I’m startled by the sight that greets me: Vincent has my red lipstick smudged all over his face, from nose to chin. It’s so startling—and so filthy, so obscene—that I choke out a strangled laugh.

“What?” Vincent demands.

“You’ve got lipstick—” I gesture around my own mouth.

He arches an eyebrow. “So do you.”

I gasp, pull my sleeve over my hand, and rub furiously. Vincent laughs.

“Shut up,” I beg. “Twelve hours of smudge-proof coverage, my ass.”

“You should write a one-star review.”

I wipe hard at the corners of my mouth. “There. Am I better?”

“Much.”

“Here. Let me clean you up.”

Vincent props his weight back on his arms and lets me tend to him. I brace one hand on the back of his head, holding him in place while I wipe his mouth with my sleeve.

“Your hair is so soft,” I grumble. “Do you really not use conditioner?”

“You looked through my shower?”

“Of course I did. I warned you I would.”

If Vincent notices that I run my bare thumb back over the curve of his lower lip a few times more than is strictly necessary, he doesn’t mention it. But he does let out a soft, content breath and close his eyes when my other hand—the one braced against his stupidly soft hair—starts moving, fingers flexing so my nails trace a slow rhythm against his scalp.

It takes his eyelids a moment to flutter open again when I release him.

“All better?” he rasps.

“All better,” I confirm. “Sorry I made a mess.”

Vincent groans low in his chest. “Say that again.”

“What? Sorry?” Realization hits me. “Or I made a mess?”

He runs his tongue over the ridge of his teeth. It makes me dizzy.

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