Page 27 of Protecting His Finch

She sniffs and shakes her head. “Can you go back to holding me? Is that okay?”

“Of course.”

She nestles up against my chest, and when I take her in my arms this time, I make sure to wrap her up tight.

“I’m glad you came with me,” she says finally, so quietly I can barely hear it.

“So am I,” I tell her. I mean it.

Eventually, the rise and fall of her breaths deepens, and only then do I let my eyes fall closed.

16

ARCHER

When I wake up, Finley is curled against me like a kitten.

She’s a small ball of body heat. Her breath patters softly against my chest. My arm is still draped over her—I must not have moved all night. Her bare legs are tangled up in mine.

She’s beautiful like this. Swallowed up in my shirt. Her thick eyebrows relaxed, her pouty lips parted ever so slightly. Brown hair splattered across my chest.

My heart is so full, it hurts.

And it’s not the only organ that’s achingly engorged.

I don’t want to move. I want to remain here with Finley safe in my arms. But I need a status update so I can plan our next move.

Gently, I unwind myself from her. I cradle her face in my palm and slowly transfer her from my chest to the pillow. Her eyebrows knit and her mouth screws up briefly, but she doesn’t wake. Instead, she groans and curls into my pillow.

I pet her hair until she stills again.

Only then do I get up, quietly pull my clothes back on, take my phone off the charger, and exit the motel room.

It’s a bitter morning, and I can see my breath. We slept in—it’s nearly ten—and across the parking lot, a cleaning lady shuffles from room to room, dragging the cleaning cart behind her.

I punch a familiar number into the burner phone, put the phone to my ear and—

Pause.

My fingers still smell like her.

It’s faint, but it’s there. The heady scent of her sex.

My blood relocates south so fast, I go dizzy. I force myself to focus.

This is why I don’t fuck the women I work for. I need to keep alert. I need to think with the head on my shoulders, not the head buzzing between my legs.

I activate the call. It rings a couple of times before he picks up.

“Jacobi.” The voice is curt, all business. There’s a hollow sound in the background; he’s in the car, and he’s got me on speaker.

“It’s me,” I say and wait.

There’s a pause, and when he speaks again, it’s with a familiar sigh, and I can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s alone in the car. “Jesus fucking Christ, kid. What have you gotten yourself into?”

I pace the length of the hall and then back. “I know it’s bad.”

“Bad is forgetting your mother’s birthday. This is life-ending. Madam’s been spitting fucking fire. What the hell are you doing, running off with that girl?”

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