Touch - Chapter 1

What if you were a touch telepath? What if every time you made physical contact, bare skin to bare skin, with anybody else, be it a handshake or a brush of an arm, you immediately drowned under a crashing wave of all of their feelings, thoughts, and emotions?

What if those intrusive thoughts, those momentary ideas that split into our mind how bad we think a beloved person looks that day how we wish maybe we didn't have our child in that brief moment when they’ve been annoying us thoughts that aren't the true whole of what we think about somebody but what if that somebody had access to those very thoughts would of a youngboy could read those frustrated feelings about how different he was directly from his mother what kind of impact would that have on your life? What if there was one person at least that you knew of in this world who could potentially touch you without all of that happening? What if you loved them? What would that love mean to me? Would you wonder if you only loved them because they were the only person who could touch you? Would they worry that you only loved them for that reason?

Also, what if you were a really grumpy, lanky, hilarious Expat Britt who is so fucking adorable I wanna put you in my fucking pocket?

Status: WIP 
Genre: Paranormal Romantic Thriller
 Romance: M/F TW:

• Psychic Coercion and Abusive Relationships: The story explores mind control, emotional manipulation, coerced romantic attachment, violations of mental and physical autonomy, possessiveness, stalking, kidnapping, and an abusive former relationship in which consent was compromised by psychic influence.

• Mental Health and Trauma: The narrative includes severe anxiety, panic attacks, touch aversion, intrusive thoughts, nightmares, trauma responses, emotional breakdowns, low self-worth, social isolation, and references to past psychiatric institutionalization.

• Violence, Death, and Disturbing Imagery: The book contains murder investigations, contact with dead bodies, descriptions and psychic impressions of violent deaths, threats, abduction, physical injury, and disturbing fantasies involving torture and murder.

• Substance Use: Alcohol is used frequently as a coping mechanism, including heavy drinking, blackout drinking, and mixing alcohol with prescription anti-anxiety medication.

• Medical and Institutional Exploitation: The story includes psychiatric treatment, experimental medication, unethical use of psychic abilities, manipulation by authority figures, and a morally ambiguous institution that prioritizes power and usefulness over individual wellbeing.

• Sexual Content: The book contains explicit consensual sexual content, including masturbation, voyeuristic accidental observation, oral sex, manual stimulation, penetrative sex, and intimacy involving psychic sharing. Themes of consent, power imbalance, and the distinction between chosen and coerced desire are central to the story.

Chapter 1

“Dammit, Seth! Open the door!” I banged for the third time on the heavy wood. I could hear the blast of dark, screamy music thudding behind it. I was getting exasperated, which, if I’m honest, was often my state when dealing with the man on the other side. I finally resorted to kicking the door, punctuating each kick with a yell.

“Open! The! Damn! Door!” It finally swung back as I kicked again, and my foot hit the shin of the lanky man standing there, who danced back, yelling.

“Fucking CHRIST!” I watched him hop on one foot, clutching at his shin. “What the fuck was that for?” 

“I was kicking the door, not you.”

“Fuckin’ feels like you kicked me, doesn’t it?” He snapped and hobbled back, grimacing. I sighed and moved through the doorway slowly, giving him time to stutter back out of the way. He stopped, rubbing his shin with one hand as he jerkily pulled his gloves from his pocket wih the other, sliding them on quickly. I was careful not to touch him, well, shin kicks notwithstanding. 

Seth would not tolerate my presence without the gloves. He’d told me once, when he was drunk… well, drunker than usual, about how it had been when he was old enough to realize what was actually going on with him. His parents had initially thought it was a weird affectation. It quickly became clear, however, that for Seth, wearing gloves was a means of survival. When he was younger, hespent time in mental facilities until he learned how to hide what he was. Well, at least until Mobius found out about him.

Seth Roche was a touch telepath, and an extremely powerful one at that. I knew from our extensive file on him, however, that the overwhelming tide of someone else’s thoughts and emotions rolling over him and dragging him under could, for the most part, be stopped with fabric or thin leather, thank goodness. 

But it also meant that Seth had spent most of his life without skin-to-skin touch. He was a prickly, slightly gloomy man, though oddly endearing at times, who usually cringed away from physical interaction at all costs. Clothes could block the connection, but Seth was scared to even risk it. So, he never wanted to touch or be touched. Which, after Erin, was fine with me. 

I watched him skulk back into the dark cave of his apartment, then I wandered in after him, and headed straight to the kitchen.

“Leave off!” he called after me, annoyed. I ignored him. Seth wouldn’t feed himself properly if I didn’t make sure decent food was available to him. Sure enough, his fridge only held multiple bottles of ale and some Chinese takeout that looked at least two weeks old. I curled my lip and threw it out, then pulled my phone out and started a grocery order as I walked back into the den. Seth was sprawled out, long legs everywhere. He growled in annoyance at me when I walked over and settled in the armchair next to the sofa he was flopped out on.

“I’m not a fucking child.”

“Then act like a fucking adult and get yourself actual food that can sustain life once in a while.” I said mildly, not looking up from my phone.

He huffed and rapped long, leather-wrapped fingers against one slender, denim-clad thigh.

“Get me some of those, eh…” He tapped the same finger on his chin, eyes rolled up to stare at the ceiling. “Y’know, the things I like.”

“Jesus,” I muttered, trying to hide the small smile that wanted to curl my mouth as I added Rainier cherries to the order. When they were in season, Seth would practically gorge himself sick on them. He smirked, then sobered as he cocked his head up to look at me. 

“So what is it this time?” he asked, draping his gloved hands on spread thighs. I often came over just to spend time with him, but he could read my body language and knew this was not that kind of visit. I watched him slump back, his expression growing apprehensive.

Seth was all angles; tall, at six-four, and lanky. He was a little too thin. That was, in my opinion, due to him forgetting to eat half the time. I would have dispared for his overall health if I’d allowed myself. Trying to put off admitting what he was facing, I focused on the grocery order. Seth watched me for a long moment, then gave a miserable hiss.

“Fuck, it’s another croaker.”

I sighed and met his unhappy gaze. 

“Yeah. Sorry, Seth.”

“Bollocks,” he muttered and stood, wandering into the kitchen.

“Seth, it’s eleven in the morning. Save the drinking for after!” I called. I heard muttered curses, but surprisingly, he wandered back out. I watched as he came over and stood staring down at me, his fingers flexing at his sides. The soft, thin leather did not creak, but it did make a slight sound as it tightened over his clenching hands. 

“I hate fucking croakers, Mads,” he muttered. I looked up at him and sighed. 

“I know, but that’s the job.”

“That’s the job,” he echoed in a sarcastic tone and then rolled his neck and looked off toward his bedroom. “The arsehole will be there, won’t he?”

I didn’t even bother to argue the insult with him. “Yes,” I sighed. “Alistair will be there.”

“Gets better and better,” he muttered.

“Go on, go shower. You’re crusty.” I scowled when he grinned and shoved a hand up under the thin fabric of his T-shirt, scratching lazily at his belly. I caught a glimpse of pale skin and abdominal muscles standing out in sharp relief. 

“You need to eat better.” 

That earned me a snort. 

“Do you have any clean clothes?” I asked, as history had proved Seth to be spotty, at best, with keeping up on domestic chores in general.

“Mmm, did a load, yeah.” He craned his head back toward his room, then hitched a thumb over his shoulder and smirked. “Wanna wash my back?”

“Sure,” I said easily, rising and stepping towards him, shucking off my coat. I advanced smoothly, and Seth skittered back, eyes widening. 

“Let’s get this over with, all that sexual tension, whew! Need to get my hands on you.” I reached out. Slightly panicked, Seth knocked my hand away and stumbled backwards.

“Back off!” he yipped, his voice a register higher than usual. “Not funny, is it?”

I stopped and frowned at him. “Here’s the thing, Seth, I am just trying to do my fucking job. You don’t like that? Then how about you be more professional, then so will I.”

“Christ, Mads.” Seth frowned, staring down, unwilling to meet my eyes. His pale face had spots of high color. He rubbed the back of his neck, his shoulders hitching up. “Didn’t mean nothin’.” 

I stared at him and felt a stab of guilt. He teased like this on occasion and I usually accepted it with good humor. I didn’t know why I was feeling so testy. I usually was much more lighthearted with him. 

He had retreated from the world at a very early age, unable to touch others, unable to even be around too many people at once. His ability prevented him from living a normal life. It was also the thing that made him an extremely valuable asset to The Mobius Institute, my employer. 

For their part, Mobius had given him the life he’d requested: one of safety and separation. They had a scary-smart, but somewhat beleaguered psychiatrist who worked with Seth weekly, and meds that took the edge off and helped him sleep. I’d even heard tell that they were working on a drug that could dampen the abilities of people like Seth, offering some real relief. What he took now was for the almost crippling anxiety he lived with. He wasn’t supposed to drink on them, of course. 

Then there was me. 

The best term for what I am might be Seth’s handler. Doesn’t really do justice to what I sometimes had to do to keep that hot mess of a human being functional. Don’t get me wrong though, Seth’s situation was not his fault, and he was… broken by what he could do. Although, it was also true that he didn’t try very hard to improve his situation. 

But look, the truth was, if I was honest about admitting it, I liked Seth a lot. I really did. He had a dry sense of humor and was smart and funny. He had a quirky way of looking at things that I appreciated. He was… sweet… even affectionate, in his own awkward way. But he could also be a little exhausting. And right now? I just felt tired. 

I didn't like croakers, as Seth liked to call them, either. I especially didn't like how dealing with them affected him. I knew I’d likely be scraping Seth off the floor by the end of the night. 

Still, tired though I was, I needed to show I was keeping on top of things. Like a shark smelling blood, Seth could sense any weakness. I had to stay firm to boundaries as the lanky fucker was always testing them. I needed to keep him on task and then from unraveling in the aftermath. I needed to be an oasis for him, the person he could rely on.

I was likely the most central figure in Seth’s life. For the last couple of years, I’d have to admit, he was probably the most central figure in mine.

Christ.

I watched him as he hunched his shoulders up further. “Sorry,” he finally mumbled and then slunk off to his bedroom. 

I collapsed back into the armchair with a sigh and stared at my phone. The groceries would be delivered soon, then we’d head off to the airport and the private plane that was all Seth could tolerate. I blew a breath out and tugged my Kindle out of my bag as the sound of the shower started up.