Page 78 of Night Shift

Vincent laughs weakly. “I think you’re getting MVP.”

“Ha! Most valuable player. See, I know sports stuff.”

Vincent laughs.

I take him into my mouth again, and his laugh dovetails into a groan.

My knees are killing me, and my jaw is starting to ache, but there’s something addictive about making him lose his composure. I realize now that maybe he wasn’t lying when he said eating me out was a birthday gift. Because this? This is glorious—watching Vincent’s flushed face crunch up with pleasure, a few pieces of his disheveled hair sticking to his sweat-damp forehead. Feeling his body twitch and writhe each time my thumb presses that spot on the underside of his shaft that makes his abdominals clench, one hand still resting on the back of my head perfectly still but the other hand clawing at the bookshelf behind him for dear life. Hearing his breath catch when I swallow around him or swipe my tongue over the delicate head of his cock.

“Holiday,” he rasps.

It’s a warning.

I make the executive decision to ignore it.

Vincent catches on to my intentions immediately. There’s a shift in him. His hand tightens in my hair. His breathing becomes rougher. His thrusts get sloppier and harder, the rhythm stuttered and harder to predict. He gets a little bit selfish.

I’m going to make him come.

The realization makes me giddy—and a little bit greedy.

I hollow my cheeks and dig my nails into the muscular curve of his perfect butt. With a low and brutal groan, Vincent explodes in my mouth, hot and salty and slick against my tongue. It’s new, for sure, but not unpleasant. Definitely not as gross as I always assumed it would be. But maybe that’s because it’s Vincent, and the satisfaction of making him come undone like this totally outweighs any squeamishness I have about bodily fluids.

I swallow what he’s given me, sit back on my heels, and wipe the back of my hand across my mouth before I beam up at him with triumph.

“Told you I could do it,” I say.

Maybe I’m a bit of a people pleaser too.

Vincent, still red-faced and breathing hard, shakes his head in disbelief.

“How was it?” I press. “Ten out of ten? Five stars?”

“Does a June wedding work for you?” he asks hoarsely.

I know he’s joking. I totally know that. Also, I’m still not entirely convinced that the patriarchal, capitalist scam that is heterosexual marriage is for me. But that doesn’t stop my stupid heart from lighting up like New Year’s fireworks.

“I’ll have to text my parents,” I say more seriously than I mean to.

Vincent reaches down, hooks his hands under my armpits, and drags me up to my feet with the casually impressive strength of a Division I athlete. I’m glad for the assistance. Both of my feet have fallen asleep. Vincent swaps places with me, so I can lean back against the wall of bookshelves, and braces his hands on either side of me so I can clutch his forearms as I shift my weight back and forth from one leg to the other and try to get the blood flow back.

“How fucked are your knees?” he asks, assessing me for any damage.

“Surprisingly not too bad. Your jacket definitely helped.”

He ducks in and kisses every inch of my face. Forehead. Cheeks. Chin. When his lips connect with the corner of my mouth, I turn away—because I imagine he’d rather not taste himself on me—but he lets out a low grunt of frustration, cups his hand around the back of my neck, and kisses me open-mouthed and insistent.

Because of course he does.

“Thank you,” Vincent murmurs against my lips. “That was . . . yeah. Holy shit. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I snort. “And, um, happy belated birthday.”

I smile at him, and he smiles at me, and then I glance down between us.

“You can probably put your dick away now,” I add.

Vincent nods. “Good call.”

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