I blame the fact that we’re hidden in the shadows and surrounded by stacks of books, only the patter of rain and Vincent’s heavy pants to break up the silence. It’s public, yes, but it’s insulated. Intimate. Quiet and cozy and magical. There’s really no other explanation for how bravely I tuck the head of his cock between my lips and suck.
Vincent’s body arches, his eyelids fluttering and breath hitching.
“Kendall,” he groans. Then, again: “Please.”
I pull back. “I want to try again. Can I?”
Vincent needs no further elaboration or convincing. He immediately presses back against the bookshelf, bracing himself.
“Stick your tongue out for me, Holiday,” he says. “Keep one hand around it—yeah, just like that—and put the rest in your mouth, okay? You can take it. I know you can. Show me.”
I know it might just be wishful thinking on his part, but something about Vincent’s confidence in me makes me feel like I’ve got this. It also makes the muscles in my lower abdomen tighten and tremble, but that’s a me problem. We can sort out how needy and damp I am later.
This is about Vincent.
I keep one hand wrapped around the root as I take him into my mouth again, my tongue pressed flat to my bottom lip. This time, I’m prepared for the size of him. The easy slide, the slow stretch of my jaw, the sensation of being stuffed. My throat spasms a little, but I force myself to stay calm and hold still. To wait until the need for air outweighs the satisfaction I feel from listening to the noises Vincent is trying to stifle as he lets me do what I want to him.
Because I might be the one on my knees, but what Vincent said holds true.
I’m in charge.
“Good girl,” Vincent whispers. “Knew you could do it. Holy shit.”
When I reach up blindly to grip his hip, he responds obediently.
Vincent moves in shallow, tentative thrusts at first. He’s still scared to hurt me, I think, and I can only take about half of him before it’s too much—but we find a rhythm. He keeps his pace predictable, and I time my breathing. He gets a little more confident with each punch of his hips when he sees I can take what he’s giving. I get more confident too, because he never gives me more than I’ve shown him I can handle. His fingers tighten in my hair again, but this time, he’s not pulling me away. He’s holding me steady. The surrender of control gives me the chance to slide my hands up his legs, over his thighs, and under the hem of his sweater. I’m a little bit obsessed with the way his stomach tenses and flexes under my palms.
I hum around him, just to test a theory, and his cock twitches hard in my mouth.
“Do that again,” he rasps. “Fuck, Kendall. Exactly like that.”
The praise, delivered with such raw and strangled reverence, makes me ache. I hum again, and it sort of dissolves into half-maniacal laughter, because holy shit I did not realize that I would enjoy this so much.
“You’re evil,” Vincent accuses, breathless but smiling.
I pull back, catching his cock in my hand when it slips out from between my lips.
“Do you want me to stop?” I ask.
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
With a deep breath, I take half of him into my mouth again and moan. Vincent’s hips instinctively hitch forward to meet me, stuffing another inch of him down my throat, and I think he tries to apologize but it’s a string of unintelligible words punctuated with an equal mix of curses and praise. My eyes water up like crazy, but it’s worth it.
I do, tragically, still have to breathe. I tap Vincent’s thigh twice to let him know. Tapping out is a pretty universal sign, but emotion still flares up in me when he immediately pulls back and gives me the space I need to gasp in air.
I lavish him with grateful kisses and sloppy strokes of my hand.
“We’re such a good team,” I say, my voice a little hoarse.
Vincent laughs weakly. “I think you’re getting MVP.”
“Ha! Most valuable player. See, I know sports stuff.”
Vincent laughs.
I take him into my mouth again, and his laugh dovetails into a groan.
My knees are killing me, and my jaw is starting to ache, but there’s something addictive about making him lose his composure. I realize now that maybe he wasn’t lying when he said eating me out was a birthday gift. Because this? This is glorious—watching Vincent’s flushed face crunch up with pleasure, a few pieces of his disheveled hair sticking to his sweat-damp forehead. Feeling his body twitch and writhe each time my thumb presses that spot on the underside of his shaft that makes his abdominals clench, one hand still resting on the back of my head perfectly still but the other hand clawing at the bookshelf behind him for dear life. Hearing his breath catch when I swallow around him or swipe my tongue over the delicate head of his cock.
“Holiday,” he rasps.
It’s a warning.
I make the executive decision to ignore it.
Vincent catches on to my intentions immediately. There’s a shift in him. His hand tightens in my hair. His breathing becomes rougher. His thrusts get sloppier and harder, the rhythm stuttered and harder to predict. He gets a little bit selfish.
I’m going to make him come.
The realization makes me giddy—and a little bit greedy.
I hollow my cheeks and dig my nails into the muscular curve of his perfect butt. With a low and brutal groan, Vincent explodes in my mouth, hot and salty and slick against my tongue. It’s new, for sure, but not unpleasant. Definitely not as gross as I always assumed it would be. But maybe that’s because it’s Vincent, and the satisfaction of making him come undone like this totally outweighs any squeamishness I have about bodily fluids.
I swallow what he’s given me, sit back on my heels, and wipe the back of my hand across my mouth before I beam up at him with triumph.
“Told you I could do it,” I say.
Maybe I’m a bit of a people pleaser too.
Vincent, still red-faced and breathing hard, shakes his head in disbelief.
“How was it?” I press. “Ten out of ten? Five stars?”
“Does a June wedding work for you?” he asks hoarsely.
I know he’s joking. I totally know that. Also, I’m still not entirely convinced that the patriarchal, capitalist scam that is heterosexual marriage is for me. But that doesn’t stop my stupid heart from lighting up like New Year’s fireworks.
“I’ll have to text my parents,” I say more seriously than I mean to.
Vincent reaches down, hooks his hands under my armpits, and drags me up to my feet with the casually impressive strength of a Division I athlete. I’m glad for the assistance. Both of my feet have fallen asleep. Vincent swaps places with me, so I can lean back against the wall of bookshelves, and braces his hands on either side of me so I can clutch his forearms as I shift my weight back and forth from one leg to the other and try to get the blood flow back.
“How fucked are your knees?” he asks, assessing me for any damage.
“Surprisingly not too bad. Your jacket definitely helped.”
He ducks in and kisses every inch of my face. Forehead. Cheeks. Chin. When his lips connect with the corner of my mouth, I turn away—because I imagine he’d rather not taste himself on me—but he lets out a low grunt of frustration, cups his hand around the back of my neck, and kisses me open-mouthed and insistent.
Because of course he does.
“Thank you,” Vincent murmurs against my lips. “That was . . . yeah. Holy shit. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I snort. “And, um, happy belated birthday.”
I smile at him, and he smiles at me, and then I glance down between us.
“You can probably put your dick away now,” I add.
Vincent nods. “Good call.”
He steps back to tuck himself into his pants. Then he reaches down to retrieve his black jacket, which is thoroughly wrinkled and smooshed down with two distinctly knee-shaped imprints. I have to clap a hand over my mouth so I don’t laugh so loud the people down on the first floor of the bookstore hear me. Still, a snort manages to escape, and Vincent’s head snaps up.
“I can’t believe I did that,” I whisper.
“I can’t believe you did that either,” he whispers back, the corner of his mouth quirking.
“In public. Like, I’m sorry, what? Who am I?”
Vincent shrugs on his jacket.
“My girl.”
He says it like it’s obvious. Like there’s no other acceptable answer.
“Your girl?” I repeat, clearing my throat when my voice comes out a few octaves too high. “You haven’t even taken me out on a date yet. What if I show up three hours late? Or chew with my mouth open? Or order the most expensive thing on the menu and bail before the check comes? Or talk about Maya Angelou the whole time?”
Vincent sees right through my deflection attempts.
“Then I’ll learn to appreciate Maya Angelou. Besides, I like to think Starbucks was our first date, so we’ve already gotten that disaster out of the way.”
“Oh, absolutely not,” I say. “That can’t be our first date.”
“Why not? Because it went so badly?”
“Well, yeah. But also because it’s deeply unromantic. I’m supposed to tell people that we had our first date at Starbucks? I’m sorry, that’s so embarrassing.”
“Would you rather tell people our first date was you attacking me in the library?”
My mouth falls open.
Vincent bites back a laugh.
“Oh, now I was the aggressor?” I demand. “That’s funny—because I distinctly remember someone goading me to prove it and telling me he was all mine to practice on.”
“And you still somehow missed the hint that I was into you.”
My cheeks are on fire. I make a big show of turning around and huffing like I’m done with his shit and fully intend to leave him here in the attic of the bookstore while his dick softens. Vincent hooks his arm around my shoulder and tugs me into his chest, so I can press my nose into the soft cotton of his sweater and hide properly.
“Sorry,” he says, sounding not at all sorry.
“Jerk,” I grumble into his chest.
I wrap my arms around his middle. For the first time, the heat between us isn’t the wildfire burn of lust. It’s a little different. It’s a slower and steadier kind of warmth. I hum. Vincent squeezes me a little tighter. It feels like he’s acknowledging that he feels it too.
“I would invite you back to the house to hang out,” he says, his voice hoarse in a way that tugs at my heartstrings, “but the whole team’s coming over to watch the Lakers game, and I know I said I want to introduce you to everybody, and I do, but I’d really rather have you to myself right now. I just—” He exhales. “I really missed you.”
I know exactly what he means. I want him all to myself right now.
And, by some great stroke of fate, I have that option. Harper and Nina couldn’t have known that leaving me alone for three days would end up like this. They’re going to lose their collective shit when they get back on Sunday afternoon and I sit them down for a PowerPoint presentation entitled So You Left Your Roommate Unchaperoned. Slide one: I Borrowed Your Mug, Harper. Slide two: I Gave Vincent a Blow Job in Public (Oops?).
I press my face into the crook of Vincent’s shoulder to muffle a giggle, but he definitely hears.
“You wanna share what’s so funny?”
“I really do,” I admit. “I think you’re gonna appreciate this one.”
He raises an eyebrow in challenge. “Hit me.”
“My roommates are out of town this weekend.”
Vincent’s face splits into a grin. “Are you serious?”
I bite down on my bottom lip and nod. I want to grab him by his shirt and kiss him until both our legs give out and we’re a tangle of limbs on the floor, fully desecrating this bookstore, but I think we’ve been pushed far enough out of our comfort zones today.
Instead, I say, “Take me home, Vincent.”
