Page 87 of Night Shift

“All that human biology tutoring really paid off.”

He rolls his eyes. “Get on your back.”

My head hits my stack of decorative pillows with a soft whoosh. As soon as I’m sprawled across the duvet, I become hyperaware of the fact that I’m completely topless and Vincent’s got nothing but a neon pink condom on. My heart kicks hard against my rib cage. I briefly consider how embarrassing it would be to go into cardiac arrest right now.

“Is this a pop quiz?” I ask.

It’s a joke, of course, but my voice comes out all wobbly and high-pitched. Vincent must realize that I’m using humor as a defense mechanism again because he shakes his head solemnly.

“No pop quiz. No test. No games.”

“Oh.” I swallow. “Good.”

He pats my hip. “Lift up for me.”

I press my knees into the mattress and push myself into a half-bridge. Vincent peels my jeans down over my thighs. I flop back down and let him guide one ankle and then the other out of my pants legs. I open my mouth to ask if he’s forgotten my underwear, but then he runs his hands back up the length of my legs—his palms mapping every curve, freckle, patch of cellulite, stretch mark, and spot I missed shaving—before he hooks his fingers around the waistband of my panties and pulls them off.

And then, finally, we’re both naked.

Took us long enough.

Thirty-three

Vincent makes a point of setting my underwear on my bedside table—where we won’t lose it this time around—before he climbs up onto my mattress with me.

The rustle of my duvet, the creak of the bed frame, and the patter of the rain on my windows are almost loud enough to drown out my heavy breathing. Almost. I swallow hard as I let my thighs fall open so Vincent can slot himself between them, his hands braced against the mattress on either side of my shoulders. My skin sparks with electricity everywhere our skin brushes, his body radiating warmth that melts right through me. And as I stare up at Vincent, our faces close enough that I could count the faint freckles across the bridge of his nose if he had the patience for it, the gravity of the situation settles heavy on my shoulders.

Virginity is a social construct.

I know that. I know that nothing about a boy putting his penis inside me is going to fundamentally alter me as a person. It’s really not a big deal.

But, to me, it kind of is.

I’m soft. I’m sentimental. I’m a romantic. And I want to hate myself for it, but then I remember what Nina told me: I’m allowed to feel this way. I’m allowed to be shaky with nerves and giddy with excitement in equal measures, and I’m allowed to feel the weight of this moment with my whole chest.

“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” I warn Vincent, “so please don’t roast me if I do something weird.”

“No promises.”

I smack his bicep. His lovely, sculpted bicep.

He arches an eyebrow. “Is that the hardest you can hit?”

“Keep making fun of me and you’ll find out, Knight.”

Vincent brings his mouth to my ear and whispers, “Joke’s on you. I like it rough.”

But he’s not rough. He’s heartbreakingly gentle as he rocks forward, the muscle in his forearms flexing like a live-action sculpture out of Greek antiquity. My eyes lock on his left wrist—the one that was in a brace and a sling the night we met—and my heart hiccups. This is it.

My little moment to myself is interrupted when Vincent shifts his arms again, trying to find better purchase on my too-soft mattress, and catches a strand of my hair where it’s splayed out around my head.

“Ow,” I hiss. “Hair, hair, hair.”

“Shit, sorry.”

Vincent quickly lifts the offending hand and presses it flat against the wall above me instead. We lock eyes. We’re both a little bit mortified, but as soon as we see it’s mutual, we’re snorting and smothering our laughter like kids in the back of a classroom.

“I swear I know what I’m doing,” Vincent says.

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