Page 91 of Night Shift

Thirty-four

I try to laugh.

Really, that’s what I intend to do. But somehow the sound that bubbles up in my throat is the lowest and loudest moan I’ve ever uttered. Vincent doesn’t tease me. His eyes stay on mine, patient and dark with hunger, as he gives me a moment to get over my embarrassment. I wrap a hand around his wrist—the one pinning me to the mattress—and nod.

When he moves again, it’s not slow, or shallow, or gentle.

“Look at you,” Vincent murmurs. “So good for me. Taking all of it. Knew you could.”

Maybe if he weren’t buried inside me to the hilt, and maybe if he were laughing at me, I’d have the strength to remind him how cheap I find dirty talk. But I must be off my game, because everything coming out of Vincent’s mouth is starting to sound like poetry.

More, I think deliriously. Say more.

Vincent reads me like an open book.

“Messy girl,” he says. “Who made you this wet? Who’s this for?”

“You,” I gasp.

“Whose pussy is this, huh?”

I sob out a laugh. “Mine.”

Vincent’s hand leaves my shoulder to grip my chin, squeezing my cheeks just hard enough that my lips are forced into an open-mouthed pout.

There’s laughter in his eyes. He looks utterly furious about it.

“You and your smart—fucking—mouth.” He punctuates each word with a snap of his hips that makes my eyelids flutter and my breath catch. Then he ducks his head and kisses me so hard I see stars. “I set myself up for that one. But nicely played.”

“Thank you,” I squeak. “Could you please—”

I don’t have to finish the thought.

Vincent shifts his weight on one arm again and reaches down between us. He presses his palm down just below the soft curve of my lower stomach and grinds the pad of his thumb on my clit. I return the favor by clenching in that way that made him gasp earlier, and I’m rewarded with the brief stutter of his hips before he finds his rhythm again.

It’s too good. Too much. The pressure is unbearable and glorious, and, when he tunnels into me, I can feel every single inch of his perfect cock drag against the tender spot inside me. My thighs are tensed and trembling, my toes curled, one hand grasping hard around his wrist—entranced by the way I can feel his muscles and tendons work under his skin as he plays with my clit—and the other hand clutching frantically at his bicep, his shoulder, his dark, disheveled hair. Anywhere to hold on while the tide rises higher and higher.

“Please, please, please—”

“Come on,” he says. “You can do it. I’ve got you.”

My back arches. My abs contract. My fingernails carve into his skin.

“Vincent,” I gasp.

It’s the eye contact that does it.

His hands and his dick and his encouraging words have dragged me to the point of no return, but I am, as I’ve established, a soft and sentimental bitch. So, it’s the sucker punch of Vincent’s pretty brown eyes, heavy-lidded with lust and bright with affection, locking with mine that shoves me over the edge.

The aching pressure low in my belly coils tight and then, abruptly, explodes.

My eyelids flutter and threaten to slam shut, but I force them to stay open. I need to see Vincent. I need the tether of him watching me while I come undone. And Vincent—my rock, my anchor, the boy who always keeps the door open for me and gives me more than I’ve ever thought I deserve—holds me as I come apart and back together again, the aftermath of my orgasm leaving me limp and gasping.

But he doesn’t stop thrusting.

Stupid, unselfish, people-pleasing bastard. He’s going to kill me.

I groan and lift my head to tell him that there’s really no need to be such an overachiever, but then I notice the little wrinkle of distress between his eyebrows. He keeps glancing down where our bodies are joined like he’s trying to calculate something, to time it just right. I hate it. I hate that he’s preoccupied with anything other than enjoying himself.

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