Page 46 of Night Shift

Vincent grunts and pulls back to say, “Greedy.”

“Stop teasing,” I demand, giving his hair a sharp tug.

Vincent’s answering groan tickles against the inside of my thigh. “I just want to make sure I’m not hurting you.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

That does the trick.

Vincent slips a second finger inside me. The stretch is glorious—just enough to pinch a little, just enough that I really feel it when he spreads his fingers inside me, pressing on opposite walls and stretching the muscle, testing it. I groan and let my head fall back, eyelids fluttering shut.

“Okay?” Vincent asks.

“Mmh.”

“Good girl.”

A strangled laugh rips out of my throat.

“What?” Vincent says. “I thought you wanted me to keep talking.”

I press my lips together. I’m not going to admit that those two words do . . . things to me. Vincent knows. He can feel it. And I can hear in his voice that he’s teasing me.

“I said talking was good. Not dirty talk. Dirty talk is—”

He withdraws his fingers almost all the way, then thrusts them back in at a new, better angle.

“—cheap,” I croak.

“So, you don’t want me to tell you how hot and wet you are?” Vincent asks, feigning innocence. “You don’t want me to say that you’re dripping? That I can’t wait for you to ruin my sheets? And I definitely shouldn’t tell you how tight you’re gripping my knuckles and how fucking sweet you taste, right?”

I open my mouth, fully determined to tell him to fuck off.

What comes out instead is a low and throaty moan.

“’Attagirl, Holiday.”

Vincent pumps his finger in slow, terrible strokes and presses his face to the inside of my thigh, kissing my skin and mumbling words of praise that I barely catch over the sound of my own pounding heartbeat and the wet little squelches coming from where we’re connected. I press my heels into the mattress and clench down. Vincent groans, his movements stilling before he shifts his weight and starts pressing harder, faster, and razes his teeth over the tender skin on the inside of my thigh.

I let out something like a strangled laugh, because this just isn’t fair. On the few occasions that I’ve tried fingering myself, it’s been a waste of effort—I just end up sweaty and underwhelmed, my hand cramped and back aching from contorting myself in a sad attempt to reach something. To make it feel the way romance novels have told me it should feel. I just figured I was one of the many women who prefer clitoral stimulation to penetration.

I thought I knew myself.

But I guess I was wrong, because when Vincent’s fingers curl and bump against a tender spot inside of me along my front wall again, I nearly come on the spot.

“That,” I gasp. “Do that again—”

The words are barely out of my mouth before Vincent’s fingers are back against that front wall again. But this time, his other arm loops around my thigh, anchoring me to him, and the heel of his palm lands on the tender skin between my pubic bone and my belly button. He presses down.

My muscles flutter, my abs contract, and my hips buck up against Vincent’s hands. But he holds steady, an immovable wall of muscle and bone. I’m pinned. I have nowhere to go. And there’s a tide rising in me, threatening to wash me right over the edge of something enormous and a little bit terrifying. I grab at Vincent’s wrist, not sure if I’m trying to pull his hand away (to tell him that something is building and that the magnitude of it scares me) or if I’m trying to hold him closer (because I think I might actually kill him if he stops what he’s doing).

“Don’t fight it,” he murmurs. “You’re okay.”

“Vincent,” I say, and it’s a warning—or maybe a plea. I can’t tell.

“I’ve got you, Kendall,” he says. “Come.”

He presses his mouth to my center again and sucks hard.

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