Page 88 of Night Shift

“Sure, sure. You seem like you’re a real—”

He pulls his hand off the wall, reaches down between us, and plunges two fingers inside me.

“Cheap,” I gasp.

I think Vincent tries to give me that smug smile he always wears when he manages to prove me wrong, but his eyelids flutter as he wiggles his fingers against tensed muscles and then works them in and out in slow, seeking strokes.

“Fuck, Kendall,” he curses. “How are you this wet?”

“Now you’re fishing for compliments,” I say hoarsely.

Vincent keeps his eyes on my face as he withdraws his fingers, leaving me suddenly and achingly empty. Thankfully, he’s quick to wrap one hand around his erection and line our hips up. I feel the gentle but insistent nudge of him between my legs. And then it happens: the head of Vincent’s cock nudges just inside me.

My face scrunches up against my will.

“Give me a status update, Holiday.”

My only response is a very earnest, “Oof.”

Vincent winces. “You’re too tight. I should’ve warmed you up.”

“I don’t think I can get much more warmed up,” I admit with a pinched laugh. “Really. I promise. It’s just—it’s just, like, the initial nerves. I’ll get over it.” That’s how it always works in romance novels, at least. An initial burn that fades. A pain that becomes pleasure. God, I really hope that’s not just another trope that doesn’t apply to real life. “You can keep going. Seriously. I want to know what it feels like when you’re all the way in.”

Vincent doesn’t look totally sold.

“Stop me if it’s too much?”

“All right, big boy,” I say with a roll of my eyes, “you’re not that massive.”

But he kind of is, and my attitude gets a swift adjustment when he accepts the gauntlet I’ve thrown down and sinks another two inches inside me. I hiss in a breath through my teeth and clutch blindly at my sheets.

“Breathe, Kendall.”

I meet his eyes and do as I’m told. Two deep, slow, measured breaths. In, out. And again.

He nods. “Good girl.”

Vincent knows what that does to me—and he must feel the way my abdomen tightens up, because his eyelids flutter again and color appears high on his cheeks. He looks feverish. Wild. I brace my hands on his shoulders and give them a squeeze, urging him on, and Vincent resumes his slow push inside me, filling me until I’m sure I can’t take anymore—but I do. With one last press of his hips, Vincent sinks inside me right to the hilt. We both groan. My muscles flutter and contract, trying to adjust to the stretch of him. Vincent lets out a ragged laugh.

“Don’t do that,” he says under his breath. “Please. I won’t last long.”

“M’sorry. Not doing it on purpose.”

I’m really not. I’ve never felt so full. It’s a new sensation, but it’s not painful. Not like one of those scenes in a historical romance where the wedding night ends in tears and blood-speckled bedsheets. I’m a modern woman, thank fuck, and I’ve had fingers (my own and Vincent’s) inside me. But when he moves—just one slow, experimental thrust—there’s way too much friction. Maybe he really is too big. Maybe I’m just too tensed up. Whatever the cause, there’s a sharp sting where our bodies are joined. My entire body goes rigid with panic.

What if I can’t do this? What if, even though my brain is fully ready for this, my body hasn’t gotten the memo? What if I’ve somehow ruined everything?

“Wait,” I gasp. “It’s—it’s too much.”

Vincent goes still. I’m briefly horrified that he’s going to do what he did back at the bookstore and shut this down at the first sign of even the slightest bit of discomfort on my part, so I dig my fingernails into his shoulders until his skin goes white.

“Kendall,” he says very calmly, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Okay,” I squeak.

“What do you need?”

“Huh?”

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