"And you're mine. My Woman." he said quietly. "Which means I get to protect what's mine. From bullets. From nightmares. From this stupid mansion bed that's comically huge for one person. From the ache you've been ignoring since before I was old enough to understand why you took those long showers."
She made a sound—half sob, half moan—as her thighs clenched involuntarily around his leg, the damp heat of her soaking through both layers of thin cotton, her clit dragging against him in a slow, helpless roll that drew a shaky exhale from them both.
"When did my little boy get so damn wise?" she managed, voice husky.
"Had an excellent teacher," he said, smiling despite the lump in his throat. "And I'm not going anywhere until you sleep. Real sleep. Not the fake kind where you pretend for twenty minutes then jerk awake to check if we're all still breathing—only to slide a hand between your legs and pretend it's not my name on your lips."
"Peter—"
