Night Shift

It’s unspeakably satisfying to watch the smug smile get wiped clean off Vincent’s face, but I only get a moment to soak in my victory.

Because after I unbutton his jeans, drag his zipper over the impressive curve of his erection, and tug his black boxers down, Vincent’s dick springs free—and it’s simultaneously the most glorious and most intimidating thing I’ve ever seen. Longer than my hand, nearly as thick as my wrist, pink at the tip and darker at the base, standing proudly at attention. I don’t know why I didn’t see this coming. I don’t know why I wasn’t mentally and emotionally prepared for the fact that of course this particular part of Vincent is just as big and beautiful as the rest of him.

Don’t say it, I think. Don’t say it, don’t say—

“You have a ridiculously pretty dick, Vincent.”

He makes a choked sound that I think is supposed to be a scoff.

“Shut up,” he says. “Dicks are not pretty.”

They’re really not. Harper’s been on Bumble since freshman year, so she’s forwarded an extensive collection of unsolicited dick pics to our apartment group chat. I think she enjoys terrorizing us. She always waits and sends them when we’re sitting in the same room as her, so she can watch our faces contort in horror and—sometimes—laughter, because dicks aren’t exactly one of nature’s most aesthetically pleasing creations.

But Vincent’s is.

“I take back what I said before,” I tell him. “You are perfect. And so is your dick.”

Vincent doesn’t have a comeback this time. He just hums in that yeah, okay way that tells me he thinks I’m full of shit. I think he’s just being humble, but there’s a blush crawling up the column of his neck that makes me wonder if he’s genuinely flustered by the praise. I know how much courage it can take to let someone put their mouth on you like this. I remember how nervous I was for him to eat me out—to taste me, to smell me, to see everything up close. For all the bravado and big talk Vincent can throw around, he’s also human, and he’s never done this sober.

To break the ice, I ask, “Is this what you meant when you said you’d tutor me in human biology? Because if there’s a pop quiz at the end of this—”

Vincent pinches his eyes closed. “Don’t make me laugh right now, Kendall.”

“—with one of those anatomical diagrams—”

“I’ll be so mad at you.”

“—and fill-in-the-blanks—”

“All right. You’re done.”

Vincent reaches for the front of his jeans to tuck himself back into his boxers.

“No, wait!” I grab his wrists. “I’m sorry, I’ll stop. I promise.”

Vincent is obviously strong enough to shake me off, but he lets me push his arms back to his sides. I offer him an apologetic smile. Then, still clasping his wrists, I lean in and bestow a soft, chaste kiss to the tip of his beautiful cock. I’m not expecting much as far as a reaction, but Vincent surprises me: his breath hitches. His thighs tense. His dick twitches. My jaw drops, because holy shit, I did that. When my eyes flicker up to Vincent’s face, he smooths his expression over and tries to play it off like I didn’t just make his whole body shudder with one little touch.

“You good?” I ask, so smug I sort of hate myself for it.

“I’m fantastic,” he deadpans.

But when I reach out and rub the pad of my index finger over the head of his dick, featherlight and exploratory, Vincent drops the cool and collected facade, hissing like he’s been burned.

“I barely touched you that time!”

“I’m very aware,” he says through gritted teeth. “Forget foreplay, all right? I’m already so hard it hurts. You can just . . .”

He gestures meaningfully at his erection.

Because I sort of enjoy watching him squirm, I ask, “Just what?”

His eyes flash.

“Get it wet.”

There’s a slight edge to the command—a hint of snapped patience—that makes me clench down on nothing. But I’m not about to let Vincent see just how much I liked that, because I know it’ll go straight to his head. I’m trying to humble him here. So, I lean forward and lick one quick, gentle stripe up the length of him, from the root to the head. Above me, Vincent lets out a soft grunt but holds perfectly still. I lick another stripe, a little slower and with a little more pressure this time, cataloguing the feel of his hot skin against my tongue and praying my long-term memory stores this one safely.

And then, at last, I build up the nerve to wrap my hand around his shaft.

Immediately, I feel like a kid at a petting zoo. It’s an utterly absurd metaphor that I will not think about right now, because the last thing I want to do to this sweet boy is laugh into his crotch while I’m holding his dick. Vincent covers my hand with his. I’m convinced he’s read my mind and decided playtime is over, but then I realize he’s not trying to stop me. He’s showing me exactly how tight he wants me to grip him. It’s tight. Really tight. And when he uses my hand to pump up and down his spit-slicked shaft in one slow stroke, it’s rougher than I would’ve dared to.

I look up at him, wide-eyed. “Really?”

His lips twitch. “You won’t break it, Holiday.”

He says my last name like it’s a term of endearment, and there—in the eaves of my favorite bookstore, with Vincent Knight’s dick in my hand—I have a major life revelation.

I’m done being afraid of asking dumb questions or making a fool of myself. I refuse to let my fear of embarrassment cause me to miss out on something I really want to do, like getting white girl wasted with Nina and Harper, or writing my own romance novel, or giving the boy I’m completely obsessed with a blow job. This is me letting go of my nerves. This is me learning to put my pride aside, for both our sakes, and reminding myself that this is Vincent. He’s frustratingly good at calling me out on my shit and pressing my buttons, but he’s not going to purposefully make me feel ashamed for doing anything weird or wrong.

So, I grip him tight and pump my hand once, like he showed me.

Vincent’s chest rumbles with a hum of approval.

“Attagirl.”

When I cast a glance up, I find him watching me through heavy lashes with desire-drunk eyes. The unabashed appreciation on his face hits me like a shot of Nina’s top-shelf tequila sliding down my throat and pooling low in my belly—all heat.

“I’ve thought about this a lot,” I admit in a whisper. “About you.”

“I think about you all the fucking time,” Vincent says. “I had a chem exam yesterday, Kendall. I didn’t even study. I couldn’t. I kept thinking about how your voice gets all serious when you read poetry and how your nose scrunches up when you’re mad at me and how you taste.”

Something tightens in my chest.

It makes me bolder. I let my hand wander to the solid muscle of his thighs; to the tensed muscles of his abdominals; to the delicate trail of dark hair that starts just below his belly button and becomes a soft thicket around the base of his cock. He inhales sharply when my knuckles brush his balls. I’m briefly mortified that I’ve hurt him—because all I know about testicles is that you’re not supposed to go around smacking them—but Vincent reaches out to stroke my hair.

“You’re fine,” he says. “Sorry. Just surprised me.”

There’s a vaguely pleading look in his eyes that compels me to reach my hand up again and, very gingerly, cup his balls in my palm. I roll them a little, testing their weight, and the muscles in Vincent’s thighs and belly tighten up.

I didn’t realize how responsive male anatomy could be. It’s really feeding my ego.

“Is this okay?” I ask.

“It’s so fucking good,” Vincent says hoarsely. I think he realizes that I wasn’t kidding about wanting some directions, because he adds, “Keep touching them just like that, or you can—you can put your mouth on them—”

“Like this?”

I lean in and swipe my tongue over his hot skin.

Vincent sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.

“Okay, that’s—that’s a little too good.”

He takes himself in one enormous hand, all golden tan and flushed pink skin and veins, and reaches out with the other to catch a piece of hair that’s fallen out of my bun. He tucks it safely behind the shell of my ear, fingertips lingering for a moment. He’s just . . . staring at me.

“What?” I demand.

He shakes his head. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

My whole body warms with something decidedly different from lust. I’m pretty sure I’m blushing. I don’t know what it says about me or how badly I’m down for Vincent that one compliment is capable of reducing me to a puddle of feelings.

“Less sweet talk, more action,” I grumble.

Vincent arches an eyebrow and pumps himself with one slow stroke of his hand.

“You gonna give me somewhere to put this?”

Wherever you want to put it.

What I actually say is a very soft: “Uh-huh.”

“Open your mouth for me, Holiday,” Vincent whispers.

I don’t have to be told twice. I brace both my palms flat against Vincent’s thighs and tip my chin up so he can guide the head of his cock between my parted lips. His other hand cups my jaw like I’m made of glass as he rolls his hips forward, slow and careful, until he’s filling my mouth. It’s all so gentle, so fucking nice, that it makes me wild and needy and impatient. I take the initiative and press my head forward. His cock slides right over my tongue, just as hot and hard as the velvet-wrapped steel romance novels have always told me to expect—but nothing prepares me for how quickly I feel the weight of him hit the back of my throat or how sharply my body convulses at the intrusion.

I jerk back, Vincent’s cock slipping out of my mouth, and splutter out a cough.

“Shit,” he curses above me. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

He says it with more concern than genuine reprimand, but my face still heats.

“Didn’t hurt,” I grumble.

I clear my throat and scoot forward, determined to prove that I’m capable of doing this. I’m capable of being the heroine who drops to her knees, all wanton and seductive, and makes a man beg for relief. But Vincent palms the back of my head and knots his fingers into my hair, like he’s prepared to pull me back as soon as I do something stupid again, and the fact that he’s still sane enough right now to worry about me burns far worse than my gag reflex.

“I can do it,” I snap. “I can. Just let me practice.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Vincent snaps back.

“You won’t.”

The words come out easily because they’re the truth. I trust him. But as Vincent shakes his head, I notice the persistent tremble of his abs and the sweat beading on his forehead. He’s a rubber band pulled taut, ready to snap—and he’d choose to deprive himself of relief if it meant making sure I was comfortable.

“I’m not doing this for you,” I blurt, throwing his words from earlier right back at him.

“Kendall—”

“I meant what I said. I’ve thought about this. About making you come. Like, a lot. I’ve wanted to do it for weeks. So let me. Please.”

Vincent swallows hard and eases his grip on my hair.

“You’re in charge, Holiday.”

My heart hiccups.

“I’ll go slow,” I promise.

This time, I try to be patient and enjoy the process. I brace one hand on the back of Vincent’s knee, denim rough against the hypersensitive pads of my fingers, and place open-mouthed kisses down the length of his cock. I try to make a mental note of the places where his breath catches or his knee buckles against my hand when I touch him.

When my tongue flicks over the tip, Vincent lets out a soft grunt.

“S’good right there,” he says.

It feels natural—instinctual, really—to pop my thumb in my mouth before I reach for him again and trace slow, wet circles against the head of his cock. Vincent’s eyes flutter shut, and his head falls back against the shelves behind him. I watch his face for a moment, appreciating the column of his throat, the sharp angles of his jaw, the way his face scrunches up in a way that walks the line between ecstasy and agony.

“Please,” he rasps.

He’s begging.

Apparently, this is a turn-on for me. I’m learning a lot about myself today.

Luckily for Vincent, I’m not about to deny him when he asks nicely.