Page 65 of Protecting His Finch

I lift her up and place her in bed.

This time, we make love.

Our bodies roll together, still slick, skin furnace hot. She makes small, breathy gasps every time I piston myself inside of her.

I could do this for hours. Days. Forever.

I look in her eyes, and they’re honey warm. For the hundredth time, I feel impossibly lucky. Lucky to be alive, lucky to be the man she chose, lucky to be in the arms of the woman I love.

I start to tell her. “Finley, I lo—”

But she stops me, her hand suddenly clasping over my mouth.

“Not like this,” she says, her voice full of breath. “Not while you’re inside of me. That’s cheating.”

I want to argue, but her palm turns my protests into a muffled grunt.

“Tell me another way,” she whispers. “Tell me by coming for me.”

I do. So hard, it nearly blinds me.

A man shouldn’t be capable of orgasming this hard, this many times in a day. But if nothing else, Finley and I have taught each other that there are no limits.

“What time is it?” Finley asks. We’re tangled together, and she holds my side, her thumb absently stroking my hip bone.

I don’t wear a watch when I’m on vacation, but I have a pretty good internal clock, so I tell her, “Six. Maybe six thirty.”

Time is an illusion on this island.

“I think I’m hungry,” she says.

“What would you like to eat?”

“Cake,” she announces without missing a beat.

I snort a laugh. “For dinner?”

“You’ve activated my sweet tooth,” she argues.

I give her rear a soft pat. “Stay here. I’ll see what I can do.”

I get up and pull my sweatpants over my hips. I walk downstairs. Our beach bag is still outside by the showers, so I take it inside before the parrots get to it. I’ve learned the hard way that the birds have a penchant for shiny objects. My phone is dying, so I plug it into the outlet near the sink.

There’s a small, circular bar in the kitchen, and I make myself a whiskey sour as I let my phone re-juice. The drink is good; practice makes perfect, and I’ve certainly had enough practice these past couple of months.

I unplug my phone after a moment and carry the phone and the drink to the reading nook. There are no real walls here, only screens, and I can get a better view of the purple-red sunset punching a bruise into the sky. In the not-far distance, the ocean crashes and then hisses on the sand. The phone glows brightly as I scroll through it, trying to figure out our best bet for something sweet.

A flutter of wings catches my attention. I avert my eyes from my phone just long enough to see that same red parrot in a nearby tree. He cocks his head and watches me, examining me like I’m his own personal nature show, not the other way around.

“Hello, you,” I tell the parrot.

“Hello,” it repeats. “Hello, hello.”

I put the glass to my lips and sip it slowly. “What else can you do?”

“Don’t stop!” the parrot sighs. “You’re a good girl!”

“You’re going to get me in trouble,” I inform it.

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