Page 41 of Night Shift

“What have you done to me?”

It feels like a small sacrifice of pride for the sake of honesty, so I return the favor.

“I watched your highlight reel on YouTube,” I whisper.

His eyes twinkle. “And?”

“I still don’t know how shot clock violations work, and at this point, I’m too embarrassed to ask.”

Vincent throws his head back and laughs again. But it’s not exactly at my expense, because I’m laughing too, at the utter absurdity that this whole fucking time, we’ve been on the same page without realizing it.

This is it. This is where I could borrow any number of lines I’ve memorized from my novels about declared feelings and deepest desires. But both Vincent and Elizabeth Barrett Browning made a great fucking point: actions speak louder than words. And right now, I want to be loud. So, I cross the room to where Vincent is sitting on the side of his bed, clamp my hands down on his shoulders for balance, and then—in one solid burst of bravery and determination—press one knee to the mattress and swing my other leg over his lap.

Eighteen

This was, perhaps, a bit impulsive.

I’m straddling Vincent’s lap, hands clutching fistfuls of his shirt so I won’t fall backward and land ass-first on his bedroom floor, perched high on my knees because I’m not totally ready to put my full weight on his thighs.

Vincent’s eyes are level with my collarbone. If he looks down, he’ll see straight into the plunging neckline of my borrowed bodysuit. If he looks up, he’ll see a double chin. Nothing about this is flattering or seductive, but it’s too late to back out without awkwardly climbing off his lap. So, we’re just going to roll with it.

Because I am definitely still not good at this, I lean back—just enough to look him in the eyes—and ask, “Is this too direct?”

Vincent snorts and ducks forward to hide his smile in the crook of my neck. His hands briefly bracket my hips, then drop to my thighs, like he can’t decide where to put them.

“Please try to help me maintain some semblance of my dignity,” I scold.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you, I promise.” Vincent’s breath is hot against my pulse point. I try not to shiver. “I’m laughing because if I don’t laugh, I’m going to explode. I’ve never gotten this hard this fast.”

Heat blooms in my cheeks and rushes between my legs.

I lower myself down onto his lap—because surely he’s just joking—and the laugh in my throat immediately turns to dust. He’s actually hard. Vincent is erect, pressed right where he’d slip inside me, and the heat of him seeps straight through both of our jeans and makes me immediately and humiliatingly wet.

Vincent groans. I startle and sit back, so my weight is on his thighs. He groans again.

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” I ask. “I’m not very small. But I guess neither are you.”

“You’re the perfect size for me,” Vincent says. His eyes dip down, following the neckline of my bodysuit, and then meet mine again. He bites back a smile. “And your tits look phenomenal.”

For a moment, the compliment is jarring. And then I recognize the words as my own.

I go very still. “You did not hear that.”

“It’s okay. We’ve all hyped ourselves up in a bathroom mirror.”

The long, strangled groan of mortification that leaves my body sounds like the dying wail of an animal. I let go of his shoulders and hide my face in my palms.

If the floor could go ahead and swallow me up, that’d be great.

Vincent gently takes my wrists and pulls my hands down between us.

“Can you please put me out of my misery and kiss me?” I grumble.

Vincent exhales a laugh, his smile heartbreakingly soft.

His lips land on my cheek first. He kisses it once, softly, before shifting to the other side of my face to do the same. I sit very still, my eyes shut and my heart lodged in my throat, as he marks a slow trail up to my forehead, then down the bridge of my nose—pausing to press butterfly-soft kisses on my eyelids—before resuming his path toward my mouth. At the last moment, when I’m sure he’ll end this torture and kiss me properly, he dips past my jaw and presses a hard, wet kiss to my pulse point.

I let out a ragged and rather humiliating whine.

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