Page 76 of Night Shift

“What?” I demand.

He shakes his head. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

My whole body warms with something decidedly different from lust. I’m pretty sure I’m blushing. I don’t know what it says about me or how badly I’m down for Vincent that one compliment is capable of reducing me to a puddle of feelings.

“Less sweet talk, more action,” I grumble.

Vincent arches an eyebrow and pumps himself with one slow stroke of his hand.

“You gonna give me somewhere to put this?”

Wherever you want to put it.

What I actually say is a very soft: “Uh-huh.”

“Open your mouth for me, Holiday,” Vincent whispers.

I don’t have to be told twice. I brace both my palms flat against Vincent’s thighs and tip my chin up so he can guide the head of his cock between my parted lips. His other hand cups my jaw like I’m made of glass as he rolls his hips forward, slow and careful, until he’s filling my mouth. It’s all so gentle, so fucking nice, that it makes me wild and needy and impatient. I take the initiative and press my head forward. His cock slides right over my tongue, just as hot and hard as the velvet-wrapped steel romance novels have always told me to expect—but nothing prepares me for how quickly I feel the weight of him hit the back of my throat or how sharply my body convulses at the intrusion.

I jerk back, Vincent’s cock slipping out of my mouth, and splutter out a cough.

“Shit,” he curses above me. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

He says it with more concern than genuine reprimand, but my face still heats.

“Didn’t hurt,” I grumble.

I clear my throat and scoot forward, determined to prove that I’m capable of doing this. I’m capable of being the heroine who drops to her knees, all wanton and seductive, and makes a man beg for relief. But Vincent palms the back of my head and knots his fingers into my hair, like he’s prepared to pull me back as soon as I do something stupid again, and the fact that he’s still sane enough right now to worry about me burns far worse than my gag reflex.

“I can do it,” I snap. “I can. Just let me practice.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Vincent snaps back.

“You won’t.”

The words come out easily because they’re the truth. I trust him. But as Vincent shakes his head, I notice the persistent tremble of his abs and the sweat beading on his forehead. He’s a rubber band pulled taut, ready to snap—and he’d choose to deprive himself of relief if it meant making sure I was comfortable.

“I’m not doing this for you,” I blurt, throwing his words from earlier right back at him.

“Kendall—”

“I meant what I said. I’ve thought about this. About making you come. Like, a lot. I’ve wanted to do it for weeks. So let me. Please.”

Vincent swallows hard and eases his grip on my hair.

“You’re in charge, Holiday.”

My heart hiccups.

“I’ll go slow,” I promise.

This time, I try to be patient and enjoy the process. I brace one hand on the back of Vincent’s knee, denim rough against the hypersensitive pads of my fingers, and place open-mouthed kisses down the length of his cock. I try to make a mental note of the places where his breath catches or his knee buckles against my hand when I touch him.

When my tongue flicks over the tip, Vincent lets out a soft grunt.

“S’good right there,” he says.

It feels natural—instinctual, really—to pop my thumb in my mouth before I reach for him again and trace slow, wet circles against the head of his cock. Vincent’s eyes flutter shut, and his head falls back against the shelves behind him. I watch his face for a moment, appreciating the column of his throat, the sharp angles of his jaw, the way his face scrunches up in a way that walks the line between ecstasy and agony.

---