Wren

He tsks. “How do you sound?”

My hands freeze on his skin. “Excuse me?”

“If we weren’t interrupted,“ he drawls. “I would have found out what you sound like when you come.”

“You wouldn’t have because I wouldn’t let you touch me.” I tie up the thread and place a band aid over it, a little harder than necessary.

He hisses, chuckling. “I would believe you, I swear. But if I recall, you were begging me to kiss you. ‘Kiss me, Ezra,’ who said that?”

Heat ...