Langdale Pike, human book of reference upon all matters of social scandal, celebrated gossip-monger whose columns are published in numerous magazines and newspapers.
Don't believe the rumours; I am the very picture of journalistic integrity.
That might be sooner than you’d want, Sebastian thought dryly before he leaned down and kissed the top of Lang’s head. Seb was exhausted, but his annoyance and anger had drained away and he was left wondering what he should be feeling right now. Turning over onto his back, he kept Langdale close, his arm closer to the other man wrapping around him, his hand kept on the back of his neck.
“Go to sleep.”
Langdale frowned. The sniper had no idea how many hours of sleep Lang had already lost over him. How many restless nights he’d spent in this very bed, willing the images of scars to go away. Now they were here for him to stare at ‘til his eyes bled. Now he could feel the warmth of Sebastian’s body against his, fantasy made flesh, and he was supposed to sleep?
But the presence of Sebastian’s hand on his neck had a strange effect on Langdale. He’d learned that the day of the shootings, when the criminal had told him to shut up and steered him by the neck while the reporter tried valiantly not to fall apart inside at the carnage he’d witnessed. The hand had been a guiding force, then, an authority he had no choice but to trust in and obey. It was calming.
"You’re not the boss of me," he muttered. But he kept his eyes closed, nuzzling into Sebastian and giving a little sigh.