Page 71 of Night Shift

Because there’s nothing gentle about the scrape of his teeth against my bottom lip or the press of his thumb against my jaw, urging me to open wider for him. Downstairs, our kiss was all relief and elation and tender longing. I thought it might take the edge off. It hasn’t. All we’ve done is broken the seal, and now when Vincent’s tongue strokes into my mouth, it’s like a gallon of gasoline tossed right into my bonfire.

Boom.

My hands fly up to grip Vincent’s broad shoulders, white-knuckled as my nails dig into the slick fabric of his jacket. His hands slip inside the front of my cardigan and bracket my hips briefly, in a way that feels like we’re at a middle school dance.

I giggle. And then he’s smoothing his palms down over the curve of my ass and gripping me through my jeans so tightly that my giggle breaks off into a gasp.

I have the strangest sense that Vincent is thinking about lifting me up against this bookshelf the way he did the night we first met. I’d let him. Happily. I’d love nothing more than to let my thighs fall open, hook my heels around the back of his legs, and have him press into me where I ache the worst. But it appears Vincent has other plans—plans that include sliding his hands up under the hem of my shirt and tracing a path from the hollow of my back to my stomach and then up over my ticklish rib cage.

The warm, rough drag of his touch against my bare skin makes me a fluttery, squirming mess of goose bumps and hitched breaths.

And then his fingertips brush the underwire of my bra, and I’ve never hated a piece of clothing so badly in my life. I want it gone. Burned. Buried. Out of the fucking way, so there’s not a single thing blocking Vincent from doing whatever he so chooses.

All week, I’ve been haunted by the fact that he didn’t touch my tits on his birthday. I saw the hunger in his eyes when he traced the neckline of my borrowed bodysuit. I heard the wobble in his voice when he complimented my tits, half teasing and half serious. But he was too worried about getting everything else right—figuring out the snaps on my bodysuit, making sure I was comfortable and slack-limbed, asking if he should stretch me out with one finger or two—and my poor breasts got the short end of the stick.

I arch against him, blindly hoping that he gets the message and won’t step back to make some kind of smart-mouthed comment about being greedy, because we’re well past that. I’m fucking desperate.

But he does step back.

Except, instead of tormenting me, he looks me up and down like he’s trying to commit the sight of me to memory. It’s too much. Like direct sunlight in my eyes or the blast of music through my headphones when I forget I had the volume all the way up.

“What?” I demand self-consciously.

Vincent squeezes hard against my ribs.

“I’m still so mad at you,” he whispers, bending to catch my lips with his. “Can’t fucking believe you thought I didn’t want you.”

I rake my fingers through his hair and pull him closer, trying to kiss him hard enough that he’ll know how sorry I am. That he’ll know I’ll never doubt him again. I loop my arms tight around his neck and push off the bookshelf behind me, plastering myself against him so our knees knock and my tits are pancaked against his hard chest.

Vincent briefly tenses up at the contact, and then—with a low, primal rumble somewhere in the pit of his chest—he drops his hands back to my ass and grinds his hips into me.

Oh my God, he’s hard.

I actually whimper against his mouth.

It must startle Vincent as much as it startles me, because he tears himself away.

“Sorry,” he says. Then he laughs in that breathless, self-deprecating way and angles his hips toward the shadows like he could possibly hide the tent he’s pitching in his jeans. “I got carried away. I like kissing you a little too much. We can slow down. Just give me a second.”

I can’t believe he’s apologizing for getting an erection.

There’s so much that I missed about Vincent—so much I had to mourn when I thought I’d never see him again—that I’d sort of forgotten how close I’d come to getting my hands on his dick during his birthday party. I’m still bitter about that, I think, because my first thought is: I’m going to help Vincent commit premeditated murder.

My second thought is: I’m not letting this opportunity pass me by twice.

Despite the fact that Vincent has just gallantly proposed that we pump the brakes, I choose to floor it by reaching between us and palming the hard length of him through strained denim.

Vincent’s eyes flash, and his breath catches.

“I thought of something else I want,” he croaks.

God, I hope we’re thinking the same thing.

“Tell me.”

The words come out like I’m some kind of 1950s movie star who’s taken a break from her hundredth cigarette of the day to goad her lover into confessing his feelings. Splotches of pink appear high on Vincent’s cheeks. He blinks like he’s coming out of a daze and cuts a look up and down the aisle, checking if the coast is clear. But even the confirmation that we’re alone up here doesn’t stop him from chewing on his kiss-swollen bottom lip.

“I feel like I shouldn’t say it.”

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