Warning; This chapter might later contain obsessive love and feelings, tendencies and actions.

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The AMG One didn't just accelerate; it devoured space. The world outside became a liquid blur of midnight green and asphalt grey, the trees flanking the winding road merging into a single, streaking wall.

The roar of the hybrid powertrain was a living thing—a deep, mechanical snarl from the V6 punctuated by the shrieking whine of the turbochargers and the electric whir of the MGU-K, a symphony of controlled fury contained within a carbon-fiber tub.

My hands on the Alcantara-wrapped steering wheel were not just guiding the car; they were an extension of its will. Every input was precognitive, a dance of micro-corrections made long before the chassis could even think about protesting.

The car was a scalpel, and I was the surgeon, slicing through the night.

As much as I wanted to stay buried in the warmth of my women, to feel Sarah's quiet contentment or explore the new vulnerability in Charlotte's eyes, I couldn't. The image of Mom, alone in that vast mansion, was a sharp hook in my conscience.

She was putting on a brave face, but I could feel the undercurrent of her worry through her texts.

This was the first night in their entire lives that the twins wouldn't be under the same roof as her. We weren't just her children; we were her ecosystem, her gravity. The thought of her lying awake in that silent house, even with ARIA's omnipresent protection, was unbearable.

A tight, left-hand bend materialized ahead. I didn't brake. I downshifted, the dual-clutch transmission firing off a cannon-shot crackle on the overrun.

The rear end tightened, the car rotating around me as I fed in opposite lock, my right foot already back on the throttle, bleeding power to the front wheels to pull us out of the slide. It was a four-wheel drift, executed at a speed that would vaporize a lesser driver.

The g-forces pressed me into the bucket seat, a sensation I absorbed and enjoyed.

I wondered how mom would cope when Sarah and Emma made the permanent move to my estate. The emptiness would be profound. The thought of conquering her faster, of forcing that connection to ease her loneliness, flickered in my mind but was dismissed.

No. Mom, like Charlotte, required a different approach—a slow, seductive erosion of inhibitions, a soothing romance built on trust and undeniable, magnetic attraction.

It couldn't be rushed.

My phone vibrated insistently in the passenger seat—Tommy, again. I let it ring. He could wait. My focus was absolute.

I ravved the engine, the needle on the digital tachometer sweeping past 10,000 RPM as I hit a straight section. The acceleration was a physical blow, pinning me back as the car surged forward with teleportative urgency.

Another corner, a decreasing-radius right-hander. This time, I trail-braked, shifting the weight onto the front axle, turning in with razor precision before stomping on the power, the rear tires finding just enough grip to propel us out without a hint of drama.

Masterful. Effortless.

In the distance, the lights of Lincoln Heights began to glitter, a constellation of wealth separated from the dark cocoon of the forest. I wasn't complaining about the isolation of my estate; the dense woods were a silent, natural moat. I passed my old house, a fleeting glimpse of a forgotten life.

The very road where I used to pedal a bicycle was now being assaulted by a hypercar from another planet. The late hour meant the roads were mine alone, a private racetrack laid out under the stars.

I was Peter Carter, and in this machine, I was also a driving god. The car was an instrument of my will, every perfect line a testament to a power that went far beyond the physical. I was going home to my mother, not as a boy, but as a king returning to his most important domain.

The day had been fruitful, the money spent a triviality.

But this drive, this demonstration of absolute control, was the perfect punctuation to it all. I clicked up another gear, and the AMG One screamed its approval into the sleeping night.

The mansion was a tomb of silence as I approached, the only sound the fading hum of the AMG One's engine as the garage door sealed shut. The grand, empty spaces felt cavernous after the vibrant chaos of the penthouse.

And there, in the heart of all that quiet, was the reason I'd raced home.

The moonlight wasn't just light; it was a liquid presence, spilling across the polished concrete floors and climbing the plush expanse of the sofa like a silent tide. And there, in the center of it all, was Linda.

She was curled into the corner of the sectional, a single thread of cream-colored cashmere thrown loosely over her legs, a concession to modesty that was utterly failing. The moonlight didn't just illuminate her; it seemed to possess her, carving the landscape of her body from silver and deep, velvet shadow.

She wore a pajama set the color of a twilight sky—bias-cut lilac silk that shimmered with every faint, rhythmic rise and fall of her breath. It wasn't modest clothing; it was a second skin, a liquid whisper that clung to every dip and swell.

The delicate straps traced the clean lines of her shoulders, drawing the eye down to the shadowed valley between her breasts, where the silk gathered in soft, suggestive folds.

As she slept, one hand had crept up to rest just below her collarbone, her fingers lax, her wrist a fragile curve in the silver light.

The blanket had slipped, pooling around her hips, leaving one leg entirely bare. The silk of her pajama shorts had ridden up, exposing the long, muscle-toned length of her thigh, all the way to the delicate, shadowed crease where her leg met her hip. It was an unconscious, innocent display that was more erotic than any intentional pose.

I could see the faint blue tracery of veins beneath the pale skin of her calf, the subtle, perfect architecture of her ankle bone.

This wasn't the unflappable nurse who could command a chaotic emergency room with a single glance. This wasn't the fierce, protective mother who had faced down gods and monsters for her daughter. This was Linda, unguarded. The woman who sighed in her sleep, whose lips were slightly parted, whose dark lashes fanned out against her cheekbones.

She was a masterpiece of vulnerability. And watching her, hidden in the darkness of the moonlight of the room, I felt a unfamiliar, tightening ache in my chest—a sharp, possessive hunger that went far beyond simple lust.

It was the overwhelming, primal urge to climb onto that sofa, to pull that soft throw away, and to wrap himself around her so completely that the silver moonlight would have no choice but to recognize them as one single, indivisible being.

This was Linda stripped bare, vulnerable to her very core. Her face, relaxed in sleep, was peacefully beautiful, each feature a testament to a life of care and strength. But more than lust, seeing her like this, so defenseless, ignited something primal and ferocious in my chest—a protective obsession so deep I would have incinerated the world to keep this single image safe.

I didn't wake her. I didn't even sit beside her on the sofa.

I lowered myself to the floor, the thick carpet soft beneath me. I sat on the ground next to the sofa, my side pressed against its frame, putting me at her level. Gently, so gently, I reached out and brushed a stray strand of dark hair from her cheek. My fingers lingered for a heartbeat, feeling the incredible softness of her skin.

Then, I laid my head down on the cushion right beside hers, our faces separated by mere inches. I just looked at her. I watched the steady, shallow rise and fall of her chest. I studied the faint lines at the corners of her eyes, each one a story I cherished.

In this silence, she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

I closed my eyes for a moment and just breathed. Then, I leaned in closer, until I could feel the warmth of her breath washing over my face. It was a soft, rhythmic caress, each exhale a whisper of life. It smelled faintly of sleep and the mint toothpaste she always used. It was the most intimate scent in the world.

I leaned into that breath. I let it wash over me, a silent baptism. This wasn't about desire in a physical sense. This was something harder, deeper, more core. It was a devotional act. It was the quiet, obsessive love of a son who had become a man, of a man who held unimaginable power, yet who found his greatest purpose in this single, simple act: being present. Guarding her sleep.

Anchoring her world.

I didn't move. I just stayed there, on the floor, my head beside hers, breathing her in, existing in her orbit. The world outside—the empires, the deals, the harem—melted away into irrelevance. In this moment, there was only Linda, and the fierce, silent vow to protect the adorable, profound vulnerability she represented. I would stay there all night if that's what it took. For her, it was no sacrifice.

It was everything.

Would we survive tonight without fucking despite the promise to go slow on her?

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