"The boy in my head and me"

We're lying down on the bed. It's evening. We spent the day at home. Weary of cooking, chitchatting, joking with one another, watching movies; dim light, right before we go to sleep, we're doing the bed time talk. Calm. Tranquil. Stubborn, not obedient, proud, just and honest, harsh and bitter, the me knowing everything is as innocent as a sheep, feeble but never miserable, trusting him, wrapped in his warm, safe arms; my head on his chest, while breathing quietly his chest hair is swaying back and forth like waves hitting a sea shore. I'm on his right side. My head on his right chest. My head grabbed by his right hand. But he's not stroking my hair, he's just lying like that. That hand protecting me. The mighty me is shrunk in his arms, I'm the littlest girl in the world. I'm Alice. He's reading me sections from Alice's Adventures In Wonderland, with the manner of reading to a 5 year old daydreamer girl who can't even read or write. Clearly, gently. I become sleepy more and more. I start breathing deeply on his chest. When he sees me falling asleep he puts the book on his chest without closing it, he takes off his glasses and puts them on the side table. Then he puts the book on the side table placing his finger where he last read. Making small moves he turns off the bedside lamp. He sleeps with me not changing my position. Carelessness, defenselessness. But only when we're at home. Or else, he's the master. The MAN. Everything's balance and tone is so perfect at him. Lying on the sofa worn out, with his upper waist on his back, below his waist is on his side, his knees slightly bent. The belt part of his jeans a little bit moved up to his waist, loose. I can see his pelvis and belly. He's waiting for the dinner I'm preparing. He loves my food and eats them with such an appetite. Even the way he's holding the fork is full of appetite. Lustful. In love. He's so in love with me. I'm in love.