Night Shift

In my head, taking off my shirt was a smooth and seductive move.

In practice, the collar catches on my nose, and my right elbow flails and knocks into something very solid. I let out a sharp curse as a dull tingle shoots up and down my arm—funny bone—and Vincent grunts, because the hard object I just elbowed was definitely his chin.

“Sorry! Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

Vincent lets out a slightly pained laugh.

“Are you okay?” I ask, still stuck inside my upturned shirt.

“I’m fine. You’ve got a killer right hook, though.”

This is humiliating. I don’t think I want to take my shirt off anymore, because I’m pretty sure I can’t look Vincent in the eye, but I also don’t want to put it back on, because that means I’ll have to admit that I really suck at this whole romance thing.

Maybe, if I’m lucky, I think, I’ll just die right now.

Vincent sighs. “Come out of there, Holiday.”

He grabs my shirt and helps me wrangle it off. My hair crackles with static and goes everywhere. I brush it back into place, take a bolstering breath, and look up to find Vincent staring at my chest with that same frozen expression I’ve decided to call his buffering face. I can’t tell if this is a good or a bad thing. My bra is beige. No lace. No nonsense. I also have lines across my stomach where my jeans were cutting into me earlier, but I’m not worried about any of that. Vincent isn’t going to change his mind about me because of some boring underwear and weird jeans indents.

Still, I wish he’d stop staring.

“What?” I snap.

“Your tits look fucking phenomenal.”

I’m so mad that I laugh. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Any other compliments you want to shower me with before I kick you out?”

Vincent frowns pensively and reaches a hand out to stroke his fingers through my tangled hair. His palm settles flat against the side of my neck. The touch sends a bolt of electricity down my body—sort of like hitting a funny bone, but in a good way.

“You’re beautiful,” Vincent tells me. “You have the best laugh. You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. And you smell so good. Why do you always smell this good?”

“It’s probably my three-in-one soap.”

“Shut up.”

With his hand still anchored against my neck, Vincent pulls me close and brings his smiling mouth down to meet mine. He kisses me slowly. Lazily. Like we have all the time in the world. And I appreciate the tenderness—I really do—but the second I taste him, everything I felt in the attic of the bookstore comes rushing back to knock me off my feet like a fifteen-foot wave.

I pull back to say, with feeling, “I am so sorry I elbowed you.”

Vincent shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

“Are you sure I didn’t break your jaw or something?”

“Does my jaw feel broken to you?”

He slots his mouth over mine again, and no, it’s definitely not the kiss of an injured man. I let out a sound that might be a moan and flatten my chest against his. Vincent’s sweater is impossibly soft against the bare skin of my stomach, which just confirms that my kink for men in sweaters is still very much alive and kicking.

I pull back and blink at him, dazed.

“Please.” I’m not even sure what I’m begging for.

“Patience.” Vincent kisses the tip of my nose.

Maybe he has a point. This isn’t something to rush. I should probably savor it, and then I take a deep breath and try to enjoy the slow burn of his mouth tracing over the curve of my jaw, down the column of my neck, and across my collarbone. His hands slide up the sides of my rib cage, calluses tickling places that never get touched, until he reaches the underwire of my stupid, inconvenient bra. Before I can offer to burn it, Vincent hooks two fingers into one cup, tugs it down over my tit, and ducks his head to take my nipple into his mouth.

“Yeah,” I gasp. “I’m definitely missing my shift.”

Vincent hums in a way I take to mean, You think? The vibration against my breast sends goose bumps up and down my arms. I laugh, a bit erratically, as my brain—without prompting—composes a draft of the email I could send my supervisor.

Dear Margie, I won’t be able to come to work tonight. Vincent Knight has my tit in his mouth. Sincere apologies! Best, Kendall.

“What’s so funny?” Vincent asks.

“It tickles when you do that.”

He hums again, drawing a high-pitched squeal out of me, then stands up straight with a triumphant smile that knocks the breath out of me.

“Can I take this off?” he asks, tugging my bra strap.

“You don’t want me to do it? I could aim for your nose this time.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

I concede and hold my arms out at my sides. Vincent reaches around my back, unclasps my bra, and lets it fall to the floor between us. I’m naked from the waist up. It’s weird. All I can do is hold my breath and watch Vincent’s dark eyes roam my bare skin like he’s trying to memorize the sight of me. It’s suddenly too bright in my room. And too cold—my nipples are, like, aggressively hard.

“What’s wrong?” Vincent asks.

“It’s just . . .” It’s weird, I think. What I say is, “It’s just scary.”

His face goes soft. “Kendall.”

“What?” I demand, folding my arms over my chest and then dropping them when Vincent’s eyes go wide at the sight of my pushed-up breasts. “It is! Not like scary scary, but . . . I don’t know. It’s intimidating, okay? Nobody ever sees my boobs.”

“Well, that’s a travesty. You’re a work of art.”

I roll my eyes.

“Holiday,” Vincent says, voice low, “I mean what I say to you.”

Elizabeth Barrett Browning taught me that actions are louder than words.

When Vincent’s wide palms smooth over my breasts to cup them and test their weight, I think I finally agree with her, because Vincent touches me like he means it. Like the invitation to touch me is a fucking honor, and he’s prepared to do whatever I ask of him for the privilege to keep touching me. I shiver when Vincent brushes his thumbs over my nipples, dark eyes lifting to watch my face as he pinches them into tight peaks—softly, first, and then just enough to draw a keening whine out of my lips.

“Too much?” he asks.

I shake my head feverishly. Not enough.

Vincent takes his sweet time with his hands and his mouth, dancing back and forth between being cautiously delicate, like I’m a glass artifact he can’t afford to break, and rough, like he’s a little bit mad that the universe has kept my tits from him for this long.

“Okay,” I squeak. “That’s—that’s good.”

Vincent has mercy on me. “Bed?”

“Yes, please.”

He grabs my hips and lifts me, like I weigh nothing, up onto the edge of my mattress. I have one of those semilofted beds you sort of have to hop up and launch yourself onto—standard college furniture—but Vincent is tall enough that when he stands between my knees, our hips are perfectly lined up. I look up at him, my mouth open to point out how well we always fit together, but he’s already smiling at me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

We’re the perfect size for each other.

“I really, really want you,” I whisper.

“Good,” he whispers back. “Because I’m all yours.”

I really do love when we’re on the same page.

Vincent’s hands settle on my thighs and give them a squeeze.

“You’re in charge, Holiday. What’s next?”

“Take this off,” I say, plucking at the front of his sweater.

Vincent’s lips twitch. “Yes, ma’am.”

He reaches one hand behind his back, grabs a fistful of buttery-soft material between his shoulder blades, and pulls the whole thing up and over his head in one swift tug. I don’t have time to brood about how much smoother that was than my attempt at undressing because the sight of his naked chest knocks my train of thought right off the rails.

I’ve never seen him shirtless before. Not in person, at least. There’s a video of Vincent taking his jersey off to swap it out with another one right before one of last season’s games (a video that I may or may not have saved to a private YouTube playlist that I will take to my grave). He was sweat-soaked and pale under the harsh arena lights, and he was magnificent. It was horrible. This is somehow worse, because all that beautifully carved torso is now standing between my legs while I’m sitting on my bed, and my little overloaded brain can’t decide what it wants to do with him first.

I settle for pressing my palms flat against his pectorals.

Vincent shudders.

“Sorry,” I blurt. “Are my hands cold?”

“No, you’re good. It feels nice to have them on me.”

His quiet admission makes me lean forward and press my lips to his sternum. That familiar scent of him—warmth, spice, laundry detergent undercut with deodorant—tickles my nose. My hands slide down to his hips to tug him a little bit closer, so I can kiss looping trails up to his collarbone and over his broad shoulders. Trapezius, I think as I press my open mouth to the crook of his shoulder and drag my tongue over his skin.

“Are you trying to give me hickeys, Holiday?” Vincent rasps.

“Maybe,” I murmur. “You want one?”

He lets out a sound that’s half groan and half laugh.

“I thought you said you’d behave.”

“Yeah, but it’s really not fair, is it?” I sit back. “You’ve had your fun. I’m dying over here.”

He offers me a mock-sympathetic pout. “Poor thing.”

My only comeback is to shove my hand into his jeans and beneath the waistband of his boxers. He’s already hard, but when I wrap my hand around him, he twitches and swells in my palm.

“All right, joke’s over,” Vincent croaks. “I need to be inside you.”

“Thank you.” About fucking time.

Vincent steps back to push his jeans and black boxers down his hips. His phone tumbles out of his pocket and lands on my carpeted floor with a muted thud, followed by the second, softer thud of a slim black leather wallet. Vincent sighs, bends down to retrieve his fallen phone, and sets it on my bedside table. Then he reaches for his wallet.

His face suddenly falls. “Shit.”

“What?”

Vincent shakes his head in disbelief and devastation. “I don’t have a condom. Please tell me you have one somewhere in this apartment, Kendall, because I can’t walk into CVS like this. I mean, I will if I have to, but—shit. I really didn’t expect this. I had no idea I’d even see you today—”

Later, I’ll let myself laugh at the mental image of Vincent Knight sporting the most glaringly obvious erection that the CVS on the corner of campus has ever seen while he shoots death glares at everyone else using self-checkout. But right now, my brain is a little too preoccupied with the realization that Nina is the greatest whore best friend a girl could ask for.

“My bookshelf. Check my bookshelf. There’s a paperback on the second shelf from the top. Black spine with the red cursive. No, to the right—that one!”

Vincent plucks the book off the shelf and examines the cover.

“Bedding His Secretary?” he reads in a monotone.

“Don’t. Say. Anything.”

Vincent looks back and forth between me and my porn.

“Do you want me to read it to you?” His smile is teasing, but there’s an acceptance in his eyes that tells me he’s very much down.

I tuck the idea away for later.

“Just toss it to me,” I say, clapping my hands out in front of me.

Vincent lobs the book to me underhanded. It soars across my bedroom in the gentlest and most graceful arc, perfectly aimed into my waiting hands. I somehow manage to let it slip through my fingers. It lands hard against the side of my knee.

“Ow. Jesus.”

“You going out for the softball team?”

“Fuck off,” I grumble, gripping the paperback by its spine and shaking it over my duvet.

Out tumbles the “bookmark” that Nina gave me for my birthday last year: a row of condoms in leopard print foil. I pluck them up and examine the back of the packets.

“We’re good,” I announce, holding them aloft like I’ve got a winning lottery ticket. “We’re fine. They don’t expire for another two years.”

Vincent snatches them out of my hand, rips one off the end of the row, and tears open the corner of the packet with his teeth.

“We’ll be lucky if these last us two days,” he says. “You want me to put this on myself?”

It’s less of a challenge and more of an open invitation. I hold out a hand, and he passes me the opened packet and sits back on his heels so I can demonstrate how much I remember from high school sex ed. The condom is neon pink, because of course Nina would give me neon pink condoms in leopard print foil. I pinch the tip. Roll it down. Make absolutely certain my fingernails don’t puncture the ultrathin latex.

“Ta-da,” I announce with a proud flourish.

“Nicely done, Holiday.”

“All that human biology tutoring really paid off.”

He rolls his eyes. “Get on your back.”

My head hits my stack of decorative pillows with a soft whoosh. As soon as I’m sprawled across the duvet, I become hyperaware of the fact that I’m completely topless and Vincent’s got nothing but a neon pink condom on. My heart kicks hard against my rib cage. I briefly consider how embarrassing it would be to go into cardiac arrest right now.

“Is this a pop quiz?” I ask.

It’s a joke, of course, but my voice comes out all wobbly and high-pitched. Vincent must realize that I’m using humor as a defense mechanism again because he shakes his head solemnly.

“No pop quiz. No test. No games.”

“Oh.” I swallow. “Good.”

He pats my hip. “Lift up for me.”

I press my knees into the mattress and push myself into a half-bridge. Vincent peels my jeans down over my thighs. I flop back down and let him guide one ankle and then the other out of my pants legs. I open my mouth to ask if he’s forgotten my underwear, but then he runs his hands back up the length of my legs—his palms mapping every curve, freckle, patch of cellulite, stretch mark, and spot I missed shaving—before he hooks his fingers around the waistband of my panties and pulls them off.

And then, finally, we’re both naked.

Took us long enough.