Page 85 of Night Shift

“Well, that’s a travesty. You’re a work of art.”

I roll my eyes.

“Holiday,” Vincent says, voice low, “I mean what I say to you.”

Elizabeth Barrett Browning taught me that actions are louder than words.

When Vincent’s wide palms smooth over my breasts to cup them and test their weight, I think I finally agree with her, because Vincent touches me like he means it. Like the invitation to touch me is a fucking honor, and he’s prepared to do whatever I ask of him for the privilege to keep touching me. I shiver when Vincent brushes his thumbs over my nipples, dark eyes lifting to watch my face as he pinches them into tight peaks—softly, first, and then just enough to draw a keening whine out of my lips.

“Too much?” he asks.

I shake my head feverishly. Not enough.

Vincent takes his sweet time with his hands and his mouth, dancing back and forth between being cautiously delicate, like I’m a glass artifact he can’t afford to break, and rough, like he’s a little bit mad that the universe has kept my tits from him for this long.

“Okay,” I squeak. “That’s—that’s good.”

Vincent has mercy on me. “Bed?”

“Yes, please.”

He grabs my hips and lifts me, like I weigh nothing, up onto the edge of my mattress. I have one of those semilofted beds you sort of have to hop up and launch yourself onto—standard college furniture—but Vincent is tall enough that when he stands between my knees, our hips are perfectly lined up. I look up at him, my mouth open to point out how well we always fit together, but he’s already smiling at me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

We’re the perfect size for each other.

“I really, really want you,” I whisper.

“Good,” he whispers back. “Because I’m all yours.”

I really do love when we’re on the same page.

Vincent’s hands settle on my thighs and give them a squeeze.

“You’re in charge, Holiday. What’s next?”

“Take this off,” I say, plucking at the front of his sweater.

Vincent’s lips twitch. “Yes, ma’am.”

He reaches one hand behind his back, grabs a fistful of buttery-soft material between his shoulder blades, and pulls the whole thing up and over his head in one swift tug. I don’t have time to brood about how much smoother that was than my attempt at undressing because the sight of his naked chest knocks my train of thought right off the rails.

I’ve never seen him shirtless before. Not in person, at least. There’s a video of Vincent taking his jersey off to swap it out with another one right before one of last season’s games (a video that I may or may not have saved to a private YouTube playlist that I will take to my grave). He was sweat-soaked and pale under the harsh arena lights, and he was magnificent. It was horrible. This is somehow worse, because all that beautifully carved torso is now standing between my legs while I’m sitting on my bed, and my little overloaded brain can’t decide what it wants to do with him first.

I settle for pressing my palms flat against his pectorals.

Vincent shudders.

“Sorry,” I blurt. “Are my hands cold?”

“No, you’re good. It feels nice to have them on me.”

His quiet admission makes me lean forward and press my lips to his sternum. That familiar scent of him—warmth, spice, laundry detergent undercut with deodorant—tickles my nose. My hands slide down to his hips to tug him a little bit closer, so I can kiss looping trails up to his collarbone and over his broad shoulders. Trapezius, I think as I press my open mouth to the crook of his shoulder and drag my tongue over his skin.

“Are you trying to give me hickeys, Holiday?” Vincent rasps.

“Maybe,” I murmur. “You want one?”

He lets out a sound that’s half groan and half laugh.

---