Page 60 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
Cannot calm what chaos has been writ.
“Fuck it,” I muttered, taking myself in hand.
Do not think of Rory, lying in that bed,I commanded myself.Do not think of his warm, firm body under your hands, the shape of his mouth, or those porn-worthy images he projected, or—
Oh, who was I kidding?
My hand moved faster, grip tightening as my imagination took over, fuelled by Rory’s earlier fantasies still seared into my brain. The cold spray faded from my awareness as heat built inside me, a gathering storm beneath my skin.
For some inexplicable reason, my mind fixated on Rory’s fantasy where I was on my knees before him, looking up as he loomed over me. His fingers pawing roughly at my hair, controlling me as he used my mouth at a punishing pace. I’d never before fantasised about a dick in my mouth, but now I wondered desperately about the feel of it on my tongue. What it would be like to surrender completely, all control abandoned as Rory took what he wanted from me.
He’d be so loud about it—of course he would be loud, it was Rory—making those obscene noises in the back of his throat. The same breathy sound he’d made against me in bed that had nearly undone me completely.
I stroked myself with bruising intensity, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak. My breath came in harsh pants that echoed off the tile walls.
Then I heard something—a faint, rhythmic sound from beyond the bathroom door. Was it possible? Was Rory touching himself right now, lying on that bed where I’d left him?
I could find out. I could lower my barriers, reach out with my mind, try to hear his thoughts from here…
It was an invasion of privacy. Unethical. Wrong.
I did it anyway.
His thoughts crashed into mine like a tidal wave—fragmented, chaotic, and burning with desire.
…so fucking hot…want him so much…Christ, his cock…want to suck it so bad…need to…
Rory’s euphoria flooded through our connection, his climax building in tandem with mine. The double sensation—my own physical pleasure layered with the echo of his—was overwhelming.
When his orgasm hit, the force of it reverberated through our mental link, pushing me over the edge. I came with shocking intensity, streams of release pulsing from me as waves of pleasure crashed through my body. I had to shove my knuckles into my mouth to muffle my cry of ecstasy.
I rested my forehead against the cold tiles, my chest heaving. What the actual fuck had just happened?
My blood pounded in my ears as the connection faded, leaving me alone with the aftermath of the most powerful orgasm I’d ever experienced—and the damning knowledge that I’d just crossed a line that could never be uncrossed.
I staggered to the sink and gripped the porcelain, forcing myself to look in the mirror. The man staring back at me looked wrecked—eyes wide and pupils still dilated, a flush burning across my cheekbones. The water from the shower had made the hint of silver at my temples more pronounced against the tight coils. I ran a shaking hand over the fade at the sides, a futile attempt to restore some semblance of control.
“Get a grip, Theo,” I muttered to my reflection. “This is Rory fucking Thorne we’re talking about.” The thorn in my side. The same infuriatingshifter who challenged every decision I made. The same person whose mind I’d just invaded in the most intimate way possible.
I dragged both hands down my face. Then I marched back outside dressed only in a towel, determined to pretend nothing had happened. The cool morning air hit my damp skin immediately—the window was wide open, curtains billowing in the breeze.
Rory had stripped the bed completely. The sheets and pillowcases were bundled in his arms as he turned to face me.
“Thought I’d help the cleaners,” he said, gesturing to the bare mattress with his chin. His hair was tousled, cheeks flushed.
“Right.” My voice came out embarrassingly hoarse. I cleared my throat, adjusting my towel.
Rory looked at me, his eyes tracking a water droplet as it slid down my chest. With every ounce of my energy, I maintained my mental barrier. Something flickered across his face before his usual mask of irreverence slipped back into place.
“I still can’t believe you manhandled me like that this morning,” he said, tossing the bundle of bedding onto the floor. “I think I’ve got bruises from your death grip. Do you always cuddle your prisoners that aggressively, Detective?”
I didn’t respond. My pulse hammered a desperate rhythm—be normal, be normal, be normal—while my tongue lay frozen. Each heartbeat only stretched the crackling tension tighter.
“I mean, if you wanted to cuddle, you only had to ask,” Rory continued, his voice taking on a nervous, rapid-fire quality. “Though I should warn you, I charge extra for spooning. Consider last night a free trial. Method acting for later, I suppose? Getting into character for our star-crossed lovers routine?”
Stomach churning, I gathered my clothes and retreated back toward the bathroom without meeting his gaze. There was no way I could have Rory’s eyes on me right now—not when the memory of what I’d done was still so fresh, the awkward confusion still churningin my gut.
“I’ll just get changed in here,” I managed, already closing the door between us.
