Chapter 9 Theodore
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 was attracted to 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 was straight. 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—I might be 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…
I felt him shift slightly, settling more comfortably against me, and his thoughts drifted in a new direction.
…his arm is so heavy. All muscle. How did I not know he was this fit? Wonder what the rest of him looks like. Always hides under those suits…
Christ. This was veering into dangerous territory. I should move, should break this connection, but that would mean admitting I’d been awake, listening to his private thoughts. And we still had days of this trip ahead of us.
…wonder how big his cock is. Surely as big as the rest of him. Feels pretty damn generous pressed against my back. Bet he’d fill my mouth perfectly. Thick and heavy on my tongue…
I fought to keep my breathing steady as Rory’s thoughts became increasingly explicit.
…bet he tastes so good. God, I’d love a taste. Would he be gentle or would he grab my hair and take control?…
The vivid imagery flooding from Rory’s mind made it increasingly difficult to maintain my charade of sleep. My body flushed from head to toe, and I focused on counting backward from one hundred, desperately trying to ignore both Rory’s fantasies and my dick’s traitorous response to them.
Because one wrong move now would make the rest of this trip unbearably awkward.
…wonder what he’d look like on his knees for me. Those intense eyes staring up through those sexy glasses, all that authority completely surrendered…
Rory’s imagination spiralled, painting vivid flashes of mental pictures that flooded into my consciousness. Me on my knees, mouth stretched around his cock, him thrusting into my throat. Rory’s waves of imagined pleasure shot straight to my own groin, and I clamped my lips shut to suppress a groan.
…his mouth would be so hot and wet around me. I’d grab his head with both hands, make him take all of me…
The vision continued to unfold in graphic detail, each image more explicit than the last. Rory had a fantastic imagination, I’d give him that.
…I’d finish all over his face, get my cum all over him, watch him with those glasses splattered…
It was no use. I couldn’t control my body’s reaction anymore.
My cock hardened painfully against the thin fabric of my tracksuit bottoms, pressing unmistakably against Rory’s lower back.
Panic surged through me as I realised there was no hiding it—the evidence of my arousal was firmly wedged against him.
…bloody hell, is that his dick?! Jesus Christ, it IS massive…
To my horror, instead of pulling away, Rory deliberately pushed back against me, shuffling so that the crevice of his ass nestled my straining cock, the movement sending shockwaves through my entire body.
…shame he’s straight. And that he hates me. I think he actually might be quite nice, as well. Maybe I should stop terrorising him…
His thoughts paused briefly before concluding:
…nah. That’s boring…
Each tiny shift of Rory’s body against mine sent fresh waves of agonizing pleasure through my groin. When he arched his back slightly—perhaps stretching in his pretend sleep—my cock throbbed painfully.
Christ, how long had it been? Eight months? A year? The dry spell had clearly affected my self-control because the pressure building at the base of my spine was unmistakable. I was genuinely at risk of coming in my briefs like a bloody teenager, just from this contact.
Rory wiggled his hips back against me. Even biting into the side of my cheek didn’t stop my dick from pulsing, desperate to rut against him.
My heart pounded a frantic rhythm as I realised I was dangerously close to the edge.
If I didn’t move now, there would be no hiding the evidence. The mortification would be complete.
Then Rory made a sound—a soft, breathy little noise in the back of his throat—half sigh, half moan.
That tiny sound broke me.
Without any plan, I quite violently shoved him away from me, leapt to my feet, and practically ran towards the bathroom.
“Morning, Detective Teddy Bear.” Rory’s voice was thick with sleep and smug satisfaction. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
I slammed the bathroom door behind me, turning the lock with trembling fingers. Spinning the shower dial to its coldest setting, I yanked the water on full blast. The pipes groaned in protest, but water soon cascaded down in what I hoped would be an icy deluge.
I stripped off my clothes with desperate haste, then stepped under the spray, bracing for the shock of cold.
But even as icy water pelted my skin, raising goosebumps across my chest and shoulders, my cock remained stubbornly, painfully erect.
It jutted out from my body, proudly swollen, twitching with each pulse of my heartbeat, completely unmoved by the freezing temperature.
If anything, the contrast of cold water against my burning skin only heightened every sensation.
Ice cannot quench what fire has lit,
Cannot calm what chaos has been writ.
“Fuck it,” I muttered, taking myself in hand.