Page 90 of Night Shift

I think I get why Vincent is a human biology major now. Shit’s cool.

“Little bit harder,” I request.

Vincent arches an eyebrow and snaps his hips once, roughly.

He’s joking. I’m not.

“That,” I gasp. “Fuck. Do that.”

Vincent ducks his head into the crook of my neck and takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to collect himself. Then he starts pumping into me, bottoming out on each stroke and stretching me until I’m full. So full it brings tears to my eyes. When his rhythm picks up speed, it’s all I can do to hold my thighs wide apart and clutch at his shoulders, his waist, his stupidly muscular ass, and try to keep my eyes from rolling back into my head.

“More,” I urge, tilting my hips up to meet each thrust.

I know I’m whining. I can’t help it.

“Jesus Christ, Holiday,” he groans. “You’re out of your mind.”

I manage a laugh. “Thought you—liked it—rough.”

Vincent hooks one hand under my knee, wraps my leg around his waist, and drives into me like a man with a point to make.

And it’s so good. It’s so fucking good. Better than I thought it would be, because I’ve fantasized about this. About Vincent. I’ve spent a solid month imagining him and myself as the stars of every romance novel I could get my hands on—soft and sweet, hot and heavy, dark and deliciously depraved. Every dynamic. Every trope. Every position. But this is different. This is more. My imagination couldn’t make a composite picture: the heat of his breath on my forehead; the warm, slick slide of our thighs; the familiar hum of his voice, his grunts and muttered curses reverberating in my bones and drawing the muscles in my stomach tighter and tighter.

Oh, I am in trouble.

I’m going to say ridiculous things.

Things like harder or more or literally just crush me, Vincent.

“You’re making faces,” he tells me. “Talk to me.”

“You can’t make fun of me,” I mutter.

“I won’t.” Vincent’s pace slows. “I promise. Give me your worst.”

He shifts his weight onto one arm. The new angle makes me squeeze my eyes shut. It’s glorious. So glorious that it takes me a second to register his lips on my cheek, my nose, my eyelids. I tilt my head up blindly, and Vincent puts his lips on mine without being asked to. It gives me a burst of courage.

“You’re so big,” I groan against his mouth.

“You’re so warm,” he shoots back. “And so fucking wet.”

“Wet for you. Oh my God, I’m sorry. That was so bad.”

“You’re a bad girl, huh?”

A laugh rips out of my mouth. “What was that?”

Vincent laughs, too, his eyes twinkling with self-deprecation and affection.

“I don’t know. Not very poetic of me, huh? Maybe I need some more tutoring.”

“I’m not sure if I’ll be much help. I mean, fuck, I’m in the honors English program—I’m supposed to be the articulate one here—and I’m like ten seconds away from going, Oh, Vincent, hold me down and make me take it.” Vincent makes a choked sound. I power on. “See? Batshit. People don’t really talk like this during sex, do they? That’s just in bad erotica.”

I’m joking, of course.

But then Vincent’s hand comes down on my shoulder, his thumb pressing hard against my collarbone and effectively pinning me to the bed, and it’s not a joke anymore.

“Be a good girl for me, Kendall,” he says without a drop of humor, “and take it.”

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