Page 58 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
Bloody hell.
Fuckinghell.
I was so completely, utterly screwed.
9
Theodore
Warmth. That was my first conscious sensation. Warmth and the soft rhythm of another person’s breathing against my chest. My nose was buried in something soft that smelled like citrus and pine—Rory’s hair. One of my arms was wrapped around his waist, my hand splayed across his bare thigh, thumb grazing his hipbone. His back was pressed firmly against my chest, his body fitting perfectly into the curve of mine.
I froze, suddenly wide awake.
What the bloody hell had happened to the Great Pillow Wall of China we’d constructed last night? The defensive barricade had been standing tall and proud when we’d gone to sleep, with me pointedly facing away from Rory, clinging to the furthest edge of the mattress like a man afraid of drowning.
Now the pillows lay scattered and defeated around us, as if they’d never stood a chance against whatever gravitational pull had drawn me across the bed and directly into Rory’s personal space.
Thank fuck I’d worn an old T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, so there was some semblance of barrier between us—Rory had declared he was sleeping in just his underwear last night, saying he was hot from the run. Wolf thing.
This was all absolute madness. Yesterday’s realisation in the woodlands—that I wasattractedto Rory fucking Thorne—had thrown my entire self-concept into disarray.
I wasn’t sure what was more shocking: that I was attracted to another man, or that I was attracted to Rory Thorne, who openly referred to me as his “archnemesis.”
Besides, I wasstraight. Always had been. Right?
Yet a tiny voice reminded me of moments I’d carefully filed away over the years: the lingering glance at my university roommate as he changed after rugby practice; the inexplicable tension whenever my sergeant at the academy stood too close during firearms training; the way I’d often avoided the locker room at the gym…
Perhaps “straight” had been a convenient simplification, a path of least resistance. My father had been the epitome of traditional masculinity—a dedicated cop who’d married young, raised a son, and died in the line of duty. Following his footsteps had been easier without added complications.
With so much of my life being an uphill battle—hiding my telepathy, facing racial prejudice in the force, caring for Ma after Dad died—perhaps I’d subconsciously decided not to overcomplicate things further. One less battle to fight. One less difference to explain.
Not that I’d even managed to date many women. My romantic history was embarrassingly sparse for a man in his thirties—a handful of short-lived relationships that fizzled out before they truly began, leaving nothing but awkward memories and unanswered text messages.
My telepathy made dating a minefield of unintentional intrusions—catching stray thoughts during intimate moments, hearing unspoken disappointments, sensing when someone was losing interest before they’d even admitted it to themselves. I’d never even gotten as far as considering telling a partner about my “gift.” The mere thought of that conversation was enough to make me break out in a cold sweat. Far easier to keep relationships brief and superficial.
Loneliness had become so familiar I hardly noticed it anymore—just another constant, like the weight of my job, or the persistent hum of London traffic outside my window.
And yet here I was,wrapped around another person like my life depended on it, my body betraying years of careful distance in a single night of unconscious movement. Not just any person, either. Rory Thorne—infuriating, chaotic, wildly beautiful Rory—who’d somehow burrowed his way past defences I’d barely understood I’d built.
I needed to extract myself from this compromising position before he woke up and realised what I’d done.
I held my breath, listening to the steady rhythm of Rory’s breathing. If I moved carefully—very, very carefully—Imightbe able to free myself before he woke up. Before he realised. Because I’d never live this down.
…look who’s the octopus now, Teddy…I can’t believe he’s done this after being disgusted the other morning…I wish I could reach my phone…take a picture for evidence…
Due to the fact we were squished like sardines, Rory’s thoughts easily filtered through my mental barriers. Not asleep, then. Not asleep at all.
The little shit was awake and fully aware of our current situation. And enjoying my discomfort. Again.
I kept my breathing deliberately slow and even, feigning sleep while my mind raced. Being this close to Rory made it impossible to maintain any level of barrier—his thoughts flowed into my consciousness like water through a sieve.
…he’s still asleep. Perfect. Let him wake up and realise he’s the one who can’t keep his hands to himself…
Rory’s smug satisfaction radiated through his thoughts…
Which then took an unexpected turn.
…god, he’s so warm, though. Like a bloody furnace…
