Page 93 of Night Shift

For a very long moment, we’re both too spent to do anything but try to catch our breath.

And then, slowly, my brain starts to reboot.

Holy shit.

I try to press my lips together and keep quiet, because it seems rude to start full-on laughing after sex, but Vincent must feel me shaking on top of him.

“Shit.” He tries to sit up. “Did I hurt you?”

I lift my head to look at him, equal parts exasperated and elated.

“Oh my God, Vincent! I’m fine. Holy shit. Why didn’t we do that weeks ago?”

The pinched concern on his face immediately dissolves.

“That good, huh?” he asks with a smug grin.

“It was . . .” I trail off, shaking my head in disbelief. “Perfect. It was perfect.”

I’ve thought a lot about how I’d lose my virginity.

Worst-case scenario, I knew it could involve either a complete lack of enjoyment or—and this was something that I’d tried not to think about—a lack of consent. Best-case scenario, I figured Harry Styles would notice me at the back of one of his concerts and whisk me to an unspecified European city to do adorably artsy date activities before we eventually made love, by candlelight, on a bed of rose petals (a girl can have her dreams, and this was one I’d nursed since high school and gradually tacked more plot points onto over the years).

But this? This was better.

It was clumsy and frantic and messy and perfect. Vincent and I communicated—even when it was more practical than provocative—and we laughed—even when we were making complete fools of ourselves—and we both came so hard I think it’s going to take us a solid half hour to come back down to reality, so I’m chalking this one up as a big fat win.

All the romance novels I’ve read and the wildest fantasies I’ve entertained can kiss my ass.

They don’t measure up to this. To me and Vincent.

“It was perfect,” he agrees.

I beam at him. And then I say, very quietly, “I’m really glad I waited for you.”

Vincent’s face scrunches up.

“Shit, Holiday. Don’t get soft on me.”

His voice is tender, and his eyes are suspiciously shimmery. I think maybe what I just said means more to him than he’s entirely ready to admit. I cup my hands on either side of his face and scoot up to kiss him, gently but firmly enough that I hope he can feel what I’m not ready to admit either. When we pull back and look at each other, I have the unshakable sense that we’re thinking the same thing: it’s half terrifying and half exhilarating to realize you’re falling for someone, but it’s a little bit easier when you know you aren’t alone.

“That was really fun,” I whisper.

Vincent nods. “Yeah, we’re definitely doing that again. But you’re gonna have to give me some time to recover. That was . . . a lot. I really didn’t plan to be that rough with you.”

I push up onto my elbows.

“Hey,” I say, fingertip pressed to his sternum, “I asked you to be.”

There’s no way I’m letting him beat himself up and play martyr for something I very expressly requested. If anything, I’m the one who’s going to apologize for not warning him, in advance, that he was opening up a can of tightly pent-up sexual tension.

But Vincent just snorts. “I know you did. I was there.”

I press my lips together and tuck my chin against his bare chest sheepishly. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t my brightest idea to ask for it hard and fast when my body isn’t used to the impact. I’m going to be sore. Probably not as sore as I was the last time I tried to keep up with Harper at the gym, but there’s definitely going to be ibuprofen and a lot of groaning involved.

Vincent looks a little worse for wear too. Hair dark with sweat and sticking out in every direction. Tiny pink scratches and half-moon divots peppering his chest and arms where I clung a little too tightly. Body flushed and sweat-damp and shaky. He looks like he’s just won a brutally competitive championship game in overtime.

“I might have been a little overambitious,” I concede.

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