Wren

“Ezra,” I croak, his hands slide up and down my thighs. “I don’t think we should—”

“I’m not doing anything to you, Birdie,” he rasps with a chuckle. “I asked you a question.”

We both watch his fingers as they trail up my skin in featherlight touches, as if they were only whispering, teasing at the things they could do to me.

God, did I want to find out.

“You can’t ask me things like that,” I reply, clearing my throat but it doesn’t help.

“Mhm,” he ...