Page 16 of Protecting His Finch

“Madam would be upset if she knew you were pilfering her stash.”

“Then she should keep a closer eye on what’s hers.”

Are we still talking about wine? Hard to say with the way her golden eyes lock on mine. She is still her, but the wine has made her bold—it’s as though it’s taken all the qualities that make her her and dialed it up ten notches.

She’s close. Dangerously close.

If I grip the wine bottle any tighter, I might break the glass.

“You’ve got something on your mind,” I observe.

“Yes.”

“Well? Don’t leave me hanging.”

“For once in my life, I just want to do…what I want.”

“What do you want?”

“I don’t know if I can—”

“Say it.”

“I want you to kiss me.”

I barely allow the last word to leave her before I crush her lips with mine. She tastes sweet. Like roses and red wine. Her mouth is soft and warm, and I push my hand up the back of her neck, cradling the base of her skull. I press my thumb against her jaw, and she opens for me. She’s pliant, and so many years of unattended ache spring to life in my blood, in my groin, and I can’t hold back. I’m certain I’m hurting her, bruising the sweet petals of her lips, but she doesn’t pull away—instead, her fingers curl into the front of my shirt, and she tugs at the fabric, encouraging me closer.

Her consent cracks me open. I plunge my tongue into her mouth, wanting to intimately know every molar, every place she’s kept hidden from me. She lets out a small sigh, and her body melts, pressed completely up against mine. Her breasts are soft, her body warm, and her hips jut forward once, against my thigh.

She wants me. She wants me, just as I want her.

I could have her. There’s nothing stopping me. I could rip her clothes off, pin her to the wall, and fuck her so hard we’d break every bottle on the shelf.

I want it, with an ache that’s growing harder to ignore by the second.

I suck her bottom lip between my teeth. I bite down just enough to make her whimper.

“Finley? Is that you?”

I release her from my grip, and quickly, we cleave apart.

Raphael drops down from the staircase. His footfalls are heavy. Stealth and subtlety have never been a strong suit of his.

Finley’s chest rises and falls in rapid, short breaths. Her eyes have widened, and her cheeks are flushed, lips red and plump from the force of my unrestrained affection.

“Yes!” she calls out, her voice high and sharp. “I’m here.”

I use a trick I learned in the military—I part my lips just slightly and keep my jaw clenched, so I can catch my breath through my teeth quietly, pant without making a sound.

Through wine bottles lined up on the shelf, I can see Raphael step onto the landing and swivel his head back and forth. “What are you doing down here?”

Finley steps around the shelf to better face him. She swipes up her glass of wine sitting on the oak barrel. “I came to get a nightcap.”

“From Mother’s stash?”

She lifts her palms. “You caught me red-handed.”

“Are you alone?”

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