Page 97 of Night Shift

“You don’t want to take the stairs?” Vincent asks, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the staircase that’s literally five steps to our left.

“Stairs are out of commission.”

Vincent hums. I can’t look him in the eyes.

The elevator arrives with a cheery ding. I dart through the open doors. Vincent follows me inside, smacking the button for the second floor and then advancing toward me in a slow prowl. He crowds me into the corner with eyes so dark I can see myself reflected in them.

“You,” he says, lowered voice echoing off the walls, “are a shitty actress.”

“Stop talking.”

He smiles wickedly. “Make me.”

I wait until the doors slide shut before I grab his face and haul him down so I can kiss him. He meets me halfway, like he always does. We’ve kissed hundreds of times now, but somehow, we still come together with the primal force of two waves crashing against each other. I’ll never get sick of it.

Distantly, I’m aware of the elevator stopping. The doors slide open, I guess, because Vincent’s walking me backward and I hear carpet under our feet. Our movements are clumsy and slow, since we’re grabbing at each other’s shirts and giggling breathlessly as we try to keep our mouths locked. It’s not until Vincent sets his hands on my shoulders and holds me at arm’s length that I realize what section he’s led me to.

British literature.

“You sentimental little shit,” I accuse. And then, softer, I tell him, “I’m really glad you took that shitty poetry class.”

“I’m glad I didn’t drop that shitty poetry class.”

“Is that shots fired at Professor Richard Wilson? I thought you were besties.”

Vincent groans at his name.

“I still hate that fucker,” he mutters. “He was such a dick about that first essay. I tried to tell him my wrist was fucked up and I needed an extension, but he shot me down. I was fucking miserable. All I wanted to do was sleep, but the team was throwing a party, so I had nowhere to go, and I figured I’d just power through. That was almost the worst week of my life.”

“Almost?”

“Well, yeah. It sucked. But it was worth it, because I met you.”

I reach up—without thought, just pure muscle memory—to thrust my fingers into his soft hair. Vincent’s shoulders sag the way they always do when I play with his hair, and then he ducks down to kiss me.

“Pick me up,” I demand.

Vincent nips at my bottom lip. “Ask nicely.”

“I’m jumping. One, two, three—”

He catches me with a sigh that’s both exasperated and affectionate. His wide, strong hands slide under my thighs, supporting my weight and pressing me close to him, so I can feel the hard wall of his abdominals in the cradle of my hips. I briefly forget where we are and let a content moan slip out.

Vincent gives my ass a tight squeeze. Not enough to hurt, but enough that I yelp.

“Greedy girl,” he scolds, voice low and rough.

“Says the man with his hands on my ass.”

“I need you to keep quiet,” Vincent whispers against my parted lips, “because if we get caught, I’m not sure how the hell I’m supposed to stop kissing you.”

The opening to be a smart-ass is just too appealing.

“You don’t want me to recite any poetry?”

“Kendall, I swear to God—”

“If thou must love me, let it be for nought—”

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