Page 47 of Night Shift

The knot inside me pulls tight and, in one burst, comes undone. My eyelids flutter. My mouth falls open. I dig my fingernails into Vincent’s skin and hair, tensing involuntarily as I gasp for air. And then the pressure moves through me, like a wave in a storm, leaving behind slack muscles and oversensitive nerves. I shiver and sob beneath him, but Vincent doesn’t let up. He keeps pressing, pumping, sucking at me until I’m pressing at his head and begging, in a mess of words I can’t even untangle, to have mercy.

The mattress dips and bounces, and then Vincent’s up above me again and pressing a kiss to my mouth. I’m too dazed to do anything but mimic him, my tongue clumsy and my breathing still quick. When he pulls back to look at me, his eyes—the warmest shade of brown—are sparkling with something like triumph and wonder.

I feel more than pretty.

I feel like the fucking main character.

And now there’s a new hunger growing in me, sparked by that flush of confidence.

“My turn,” I demand.

Vincent barks out a laugh. “You just had your turn.”

“Not what I meant.” I shake my head. “I get to touch you now.”

Vincent props himself up on one hand and uses the other to push the hair back from my sweat-dampened forehead. “This isn’t a favor-for-a-favor kind of thing, Holiday.”

“I don’t think you’re listening, Knight.” I reach one hand between us and grab the waistband of his jeans. “I. Want. To. Touch. You.”

He swallows hard. “Well, since you’re begging—”

I let the heel of my palm brush his erection through his pants. Vincent’s smug smile disappears and his chin tips back, a low groan rumbling in his throat. It’s deeply satisfying to know I’m capable of wiping that smirk off his face. I want to make him come undone too.

“Who did you say was begging?” I ask.

And I’m a little bit giddy with power now, because I can do this. I can be the girl from the romance novel—except it’s real, and I’m me, and it’s not all in my own head.

“Pants off,” I command.

Vincent nods and reaches for the front of his jeans. I’m glad the boy can take directions, because if I don’t see his dick (cock? penis? I’m undecided) in the next six seconds, I think I’ll combust.

But I barely hear the soft metallic hiss of his zipper when he tugs it down, because outside, in the hall, there’s the thundering echo of footsteps—like a herd of cattle stampeding—and loud laughter. It grows closer and closer, and then there’s the jarring sound of someone pounding on a door.

On Vincent’s door.

“Knight!” a voice I recognize as Jabari’s shouts from the other side. “It’s bar time! Get your ID and let’s roll.”

The doorknob rattles—still locked, thank God—and I am suddenly and painfully aware of the fact that I’m halfway naked in Vincent Knight’s bed, underneath him, face flushed, chest heaving, in the afterglow of what might very well be the best orgasm of my life, with my hands reaching out for his still-hidden dick.

So honestly? Fuck the basketball team.

Twenty

What sounds like half of Clement’s basketball team is outside, and I’m in Vincent’s bed with my bare legs tangled between his. I’m not a party person to begin with, but this? This is a nightmare. Vincent must see the panic painted across my face, because the annoyed twist of his lips immediately falls into something far more solemn.

“You’re fine,” he whispers. “The door’s locked. It’s fine.”

But it’s not fine. His teammates are outside his door, and I’m naked from the waist down, save for my mismatched cat socks. I’ve never been so afraid—or so frustrated, because I almost had everything I’ve ever fantasized about. I think there are actual tears welling up in my eyes.

“Are you kidding me?” I whine.

Vincent pushes himself up to his knees, eyebrows pinched with determination.

“I’ll get rid of them,” he whispers.

“I’m hiding in your bathroom,” I whisper back, rolling away from him.

“You don’t have to—”

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