Page 84 of Night Shift

“Absolutely not.”

“Any other compliments you want to shower me with before I kick you out?”

Vincent frowns pensively and reaches a hand out to stroke his fingers through my tangled hair. His palm settles flat against the side of my neck. The touch sends a bolt of electricity down my body—sort of like hitting a funny bone, but in a good way.

“You’re beautiful,” Vincent tells me. “You have the best laugh. You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. And you smell so good. Why do you always smell this good?”

“It’s probably my three-in-one soap.”

“Shut up.”

With his hand still anchored against my neck, Vincent pulls me close and brings his smiling mouth down to meet mine. He kisses me slowly. Lazily. Like we have all the time in the world. And I appreciate the tenderness—I really do—but the second I taste him, everything I felt in the attic of the bookstore comes rushing back to knock me off my feet like a fifteen-foot wave.

I pull back to say, with feeling, “I am so sorry I elbowed you.”

Vincent shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

“Are you sure I didn’t break your jaw or something?”

“Does my jaw feel broken to you?”

He slots his mouth over mine again, and no, it’s definitely not the kiss of an injured man. I let out a sound that might be a moan and flatten my chest against his. Vincent’s sweater is impossibly soft against the bare skin of my stomach, which just confirms that my kink for men in sweaters is still very much alive and kicking.

I pull back and blink at him, dazed.

“Please.” I’m not even sure what I’m begging for.

“Patience.” Vincent kisses the tip of my nose.

Maybe he has a point. This isn’t something to rush. I should probably savor it, and then I take a deep breath and try to enjoy the slow burn of his mouth tracing over the curve of my jaw, down the column of my neck, and across my collarbone. His hands slide up the sides of my rib cage, calluses tickling places that never get touched, until he reaches the underwire of my stupid, inconvenient bra. Before I can offer to burn it, Vincent hooks two fingers into one cup, tugs it down over my tit, and ducks his head to take my nipple into his mouth.

“Yeah,” I gasp. “I’m definitely missing my shift.”

Vincent hums in a way I take to mean, You think? The vibration against my breast sends goose bumps up and down my arms. I laugh, a bit erratically, as my brain—without prompting—composes a draft of the email I could send my supervisor.

Dear Margie, I won’t be able to come to work tonight. Vincent Knight has my tit in his mouth. Sincere apologies! Best, Kendall.

“What’s so funny?” Vincent asks.

“It tickles when you do that.”

He hums again, drawing a high-pitched squeal out of me, then stands up straight with a triumphant smile that knocks the breath out of me.

“Can I take this off?” he asks, tugging my bra strap.

“You don’t want me to do it? I could aim for your nose this time.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

I concede and hold my arms out at my sides. Vincent reaches around my back, unclasps my bra, and lets it fall to the floor between us. I’m naked from the waist up. It’s weird. All I can do is hold my breath and watch Vincent’s dark eyes roam my bare skin like he’s trying to memorize the sight of me. It’s suddenly too bright in my room. And too cold—my nipples are, like, aggressively hard.

“What’s wrong?” Vincent asks.

“It’s just . . .” It’s weird, I think. What I say is, “It’s just scary.”

His face goes soft. “Kendall.”

“What?” I demand, folding my arms over my chest and then dropping them when Vincent’s eyes go wide at the sight of my pushed-up breasts. “It is! Not like scary scary, but . . . I don’t know. It’s intimidating, okay? Nobody ever sees my boobs.”

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