Page 26 of Protecting His Finch

“Do you? Trust yourself?”

She shakes her head. I paint a slow, purposeful line up the crease of her, and she shudders. Her eyes flutter closed.

“Do you trust me?” I ask.

“Um…I don’t know…”

I slip my fingers underneath her panties. Her smooth sex is slippery with want and burning hot. I rub her, teasing her tight little hole and the button of her clitoris. She chokes on a sharp inhale and moans, her eyes screwing shut.

“Look at me,” I demand.

She does. Those beautiful eyes lock on mine. Her hair is a mess, streaked across the pillow, and her cheeks are bright red. The image makes my blood roar.

I pet her sex, working my fingers, and she soaks them completely.

“Do you trust me?” I ask her again.

“Yes,” she breathes, her eyes half-lidded.

“Say it.”

“I trust you.”

I reward her. I plunge my finger inside of her. I have large hands—larger than hers, certainly—and her body clenches so tightly around my single finger.

I work it inside of her, stroking upward in a come hither motion. Her body reacts just the way I want it to; I feel her inner walls tighten around me, squeezing, pulsing.

“Say it again,” I tell her.

“I trust you.”

I use my thumb in tandem to rub against her needy little clit. She gasps and arches into my hand at the dual stimulation. She’s teetering on the brink. I can tell. Her thigh quivers against my arm. She drinks in small, tight breaths, her furrowed brow dotted with sweat.

I push her closer, closer—I will do this all night, even if the muscles in my wrist seize up, even if my knuckles knot. She’s an angel, squirming, gasping, wrapped up in pleasure. Nothing else matters except pushing her closer to that precipice.

Suddenly, she grabs my wrist in both her hands. Panic dances in her wide eyes.

“Please,” she whimpers, “I can’t.”

But she’s wrong. I can feel her impending climax as strongly as if it were my own. She’s there, she’s right there, if only she’d let go. I work her under my fingers, coaxing.

“Yes,” I tell her, “you can.”

“Please, Archer,” she begs again, but insistent now, her voice bright with fear. This time, I stop. My hand goes still. Her nails are pinpricks on my arm. Her body is so hot, so tight, still pulling at my finger in tight, preclimax pulses.

“Okay,” I reassure her. “We’ll stop.”

It takes everything in me to extract myself from her sweetness. She lets out a soft whine as I remove the final digit and gently rearrange her panties to cover her.

I want to lick her from my hand, but I restrain my vulgar impulses. I twist my finger in the sheet on my side of the bed, drying it off.

“Sorry,” she says, panting. Her skin is so warm against my body, and there are tiny dark spots where she’s sweat through my shirt. She pushes her hand up through her hair and leaves it on her forehead. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I can’t…I don’t know what’s wrong with me—”

I cup her face in my palm and draw her to look at me. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” I tell her firmly. “Nothing.”

Her eyes are brimmed with tears. My heart breaks open at the sight. I kiss her forehead, and then I kiss each eye. I draw my mouth to hers, and when I press my lips there, it’s sweet, and I taste the salt of her tears.

“Do you want me to go to my bed?” I ask her.

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