Night Shift (Daydreamers Book 1)
Chapter 3

My mouth falls open in shock.

“I don’t read—it wasn’t—it’s not porn.”

Vincent holds his hands up, palms out in surrender. “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with a little self-indulgence. I won’t judge. And I promise I won’t report you for reading on the job, either, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He’s teasing me. My blind panic is replaced with exasperation. I lift my chin and glare at him with unbridled fury, but rather than looking intimidated, Vincent simply presses his lips together to hold in a laugh.

“Fiction,” I snarl, “is a healthy way to exercise the imagination—”

“Come on. You don’t need an imagination. You could walk into the nearest house party and replace a line of guys willing to do whatever you want.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, Vincent’s nose crinkles, like the idea sounded better in his head.

I fold my arms over my chest. My lack of experience with sexual intimacy is a sore spot, and he’s prodded it like a fresh bruise.

“I’m fully capable of hooking up, if I wanted to,” I say. “But I don’t, because college boys are immature little gremlins who play video games in dingy basements and say misogynistic shit for laughs and can’t replace the clitoris. The men in my novels are passionate and accomplished and—”

“Fictional.”

At the sight of my withering glare, Vincent raises an eyebrow, daring me to say he’s wrong.

Instead, I say, “So, you admit that college boys are trash?”

Vincent laughs. I refuse to be proud of myself for drawing the sound out of him and instead turn to one of the shelves, my eyes dancing over the spines but not really catching any of the author names or titles.

When I risk another look at Vincent, he’s smiling at me like he’s found the last corner piece of an elaborate jigsaw puzzle.

“I get it now,” he says.

“Get what?” I demand.

Vincent lifts the book in his hand. “There’s a reason you love that poem so much.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because you’re scared too.”

I laugh, more with bitterness than with humor. “Scared of what?”

“It’s Friday night. You’re young and pr—pretty smart, and you’ve got your head buried so deep in a romance novel I practically had to drag you out of it. So, either you think you’re above it all or you’re scared of putting yourself out there. You don’t want to give up control, and you don’t want to do anything if you can’t look up spoilers for the end. But love me for love’s sake. Books don’t change. People do. You”—he points at me with Engman’s Anthology—“are a coward.”

Rage floods my veins like wildfire, so hot and horrible it makes my eyes sting.

“You’re wrong.”

“Am I?”

No, a voice in my head whispers. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

I stare at him. He stares back. And then, just once—so quick I could blink and miss it—Vincent’s self-assured gaze flickers to my mouth.

“Prove it.”

It’s like the world tilts beneath my feet. Like suddenly I’m Alice down the rabbit hole or Lucy Pevensie through the wardrobe—a girl stumbling headfirst into a fantasy.

Maybe it’s the challenge sparkling in Vincent’s dark eyes, or maybe it’s my anger that makes me so brave, so determined to show him that he doesn’t know shit. Because one moment I’m glaring at him, chest heaving and heart hammering, and the next moment I’m up on my tiptoes with my hands braced on his shoulders and my fingernails digging deep into the cotton of his black T-shirt. Like I can punish him for being so utterly infuriating, so full of himself that he had the nerve to psychoanalyze me in my own sacred space.

I kiss him. Hard.

Vincent groans against my mouth, his lips parting against mine and his chest rumbling beneath my palms. For a moment I’m proud, because I think I’ve surprised him, but then I feel the Velcro of his wrist brace snag my shirt and realize his injured arm is trapped between us.

I peel myself off him and stumble back a step.

Did I really just do that?

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry,” I say, breathless and mortified. “Is your arm—”

I don’t even get to finish the question.

Vincent drops Engman’s Anthology. The moment it lands at our feet with a heavy thud, his now-unoccupied hand circles the back of my neck. Vincent may be built like a brick wall, but there’s a gentleness in the way his hand anchors me. It’s not demanding. It’s a patient, supportive touch.

He gives my neck a soft squeeze, silently asking me to meet his eyes. I do. There’s a fire burning in them that matches the fire in me.

“Stop apologizing,” he says, very seriously, “and try that again.”

This is wild.

How is he making me feel like I’m the one in charge here? Like I’m the one calling the shots? Because by all accounts, Vincent is the one holding me together in one hand while my body threatens to shatter.

“I’ve never kissed anyone sober,” I admit, my entire face flushing with heat.

Vincent’s face softens.

“Then practice on me,” he offers. “I’m here. I’m all yours.”

He doesn’t try to press the matter or talk me into it. Instead, he holds still and steady for me—like a rock I can cling to in the crashing waves of my anxieties—and gives me the time I need to collect my thoughts.

I want to kiss him. That’s a given. And unless Vincent is the world’s most convincing liar, he’s definitely open to the idea of kissing me too. But my scrambled brain can’t make sense of the equation. Normal people don’t make out within ten minutes of meeting each other unless they’re drunk off their asses—even if those ten minutes include some heated banter and reading sonnets in a dark corner of a nearly empty library.

Real life is never like the novels.

What’s the catch?

Vincent misreads my hesitation. “If you’re not into this, you can go back to your book. My ego can take the hit, I promise. But don’t hold out on me because you’re scared.”

The fire in me reignites. “I’m not—”

Vincent’s hand squeezes my neck again, more urgently. “Then come here,” he murmurs.

Fuck it, I tell myself. Yes, my hair is a mess and my makeup is several hours old. Yes, the fluorescent lights and dingy carpet aren’t exactly setting the mood. I wish I felt more put-together, more prepared to be held and touched.

But Vincent doesn’t seem to mind that I’m not perfect, and maybe that’s all that matters.

Life is far too short to let my shot at feeling like I’m in a romance novel pass me by.

With a deep breath to bolster my bravery, I tilt my chin up again and offer my mouth to Vincent. He holds me with his thumb on my pulse point and his fingers in my hair as he brings his head down to kiss me once, gently, and then again. They’re quick, featherlight brushes of his lips against mine—like he’s teasing me. I make an impatient sound in the back of my throat, suspiciously like a whine, and Vincent laughs.

Then he kisses me properly.

I gasp as Vincent’s mouth comes down over mine. My lips part, and our tongues brush, tentatively at first and then with bolder, exploratory swipes and twirls. It’s not like the clumsy, alcohol-soaked kisses I’ve had before—this is something entirely different. It’s purposeful. Deliberate.

This is how it feels to kiss someone when the only thing clouding my head is a desperate need to know what he tastes like.

Vincent’s tongue swipes over my bottom lip, followed by the gentle scrape of his teeth. I gasp. It’s hard to hear anything over my heartbeat pounding in my ears. When he dips lower to brush kisses along my jawline, I shiver and reach up to thrust my fingers into his dark hair. It’s thick and silky smooth.

I give his hair a soft, experimental tug.

Vincent groans against my neck. I feel it deep in my bones, reverberating like an echo and striking me right between my legs. I squirm against him and inhale sharply when I feel it—hardness beneath his soft black joggers. I don’t know why I’m so shocked. I know, from my extensive literary research, how this all works. But the idea that Vincent is sporting an erection for me sends a flood of heat to my center. Instantly, I resent his pants and my own leggings for being in the way. I want them gone. I want only skin and for Vincent to press me open, warm and slick and vulnerable. I slide my hands to his biceps, clutching at the hard muscle under strained cotton, and use the leverage to roll my hips against his.

“Fuck,” Vincent says against my cheek. “You’re gonna kill me, Professor.”

My center clenches at his words. And then a horrible thought occurs to me: He doesn’t even know my name.