Chapter 3 Tessa
TESSA
My pen slips from my fingers and clatters onto the desk. Madison glances over, but I can't even acknowledge her. My entire body has gone rigid.
It's him. It's definitely him.
He never took off his mask. I never saw his face.
But I'd know that voice anywhere—the deep rumble that ordered me to spread my legs wider, that called me beautiful while he made me come apart.
I'd know those hands, currently gripping a marker as he writes on the board, the same hands that gripped my thighs, my waist, my everything.
My stomach drops. This can't be happening. What are the actual odds? Halloween was last night. And last night, I did the most reckless thing I've ever done in my life. And now he's here, teaching my graduate seminar.
The universe has a sick sense of humor.
Heat crawls up my neck. Part of me wants to grab my bag and run off. But my legs don’t move. I'm paralyzed, watching as he turns to face the class.
"As I was saying," he continues, his voice perfectly steady.
"I'm filling in for Professor Harlan indefinitely.
The remainder of this course examines how individuals justify deviant behavior to themselves and others.
We'll explore the masks we wear, both literal and metaphorical, and how anonymity impacts moral decision-making. "
The sound of his voice sinks into me. I know exactly how that voice sounds when it's growling commands against my ear.
I want to die. Actually die. Right here in this uncomfortable desk chair.
Did he seriously just say that? Masks? Anonymity? Is this some kind of twisted joke?
Madison shifts beside me, whispering, "This professor is hot. Like, inappropriately hot. Did you see…"
"Shh," I hiss, unable to look away from him.
He's moving now, pacing slowly across the front of the room as he talks about expectations for the rest of the semester.
My face burns hotter.
"Today," he says, pulling up a slide on the projector, "we’ll focus on situational ethics. How ordinary people make extraordinary choices when placed in extraordinary circumstances. How we rationalize crossing lines we never thought we'd cross."
His eyes flick to me again, just for a second, and I swear I see something hungry in them before he looks away.
This is torture. This is actual, literal torture.
I force myself to look down at my notebook, to write something, anything, so I don't have to meet his gaze. But my hand is shaking so badly the words come out illegible.
Situational ethics. Crossing lines. Rationalization.
I crossed so many lines last night. I had sex with a complete stranger, a masked stranger, in a sex club of all places. I’ve never even had a one-night stand before.
And now that same man is my new professor.
"You," he says suddenly, and my head snaps up.
He's pointing at a guy in the front row with his hand raised. I exhale shakily, realizing I've been holding my breath. He wasn't calling on me. Of course he wasn't.
But he will eventually. He'll have to. That's how classes work.
Madison leans over again. "Are you okay? You look like you're about to pass out."
"I'm fine," I whisper, even though I'm very much not fine.
The lecture continues. He talks about conformity and deviance, about how social contexts shape behavior. Normally, I'd be taking detailed notes, asking questions, engaging with the material. I love this stuff. It's why I'm in this program.
But right now, all I can think about is the way he looked at me while he was inside me. The way he told me I was beautiful. The way he said he wasn't done with me, like he could've had sex with me for days on end.
"For next class," he says as the hour winds down, "I want you to read chapters ten through twelve. We'll discuss the psychology of evil and whether ordinary people are capable of extraordinary cruelty under the right circumstances."
Students start packing up, sticking laptops into bags. I shove my blank notebook into my backpack with trembling hands. I need to get out of here. Now.
Madison stands, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Want to grab lunch? I'm starving."
"I can't," I interrupt, my voice coming out strangled. "I need to... I have to talk to the professor. About the homework."
She raises an eyebrow. "Okay, weirdo. Text me later?"
I nod, watching as the classroom empties. Students file out in clusters, laughing and complaining. And then it's just us.
Me and him.
The door clicks shut behind the last student, and the silence is deafening.
He doesn't move from behind the desk. Just stands there, hands braced on the lectern, staring at me with those ice-blue eyes.
"Ms...?" he prompts.
"O’Reilly," I manage. "Tessa O’Reilly."
He moves from behind the lectern, taking his time as he walks toward me. He stops just short of touching distance.
“This doesn’t change anything,” he says, like he’s strangling the words. “What happened... it can’t happen again. Do you understand?”
I should agree. I should say yes, of course, absolutely, let's pretend it never happened and maintain appropriate boundaries like reasonable adults.
But I can't stop staring at his mouth - the mouth that did incredible things to me, now pressed into a hard, unyielding line.
"I understand," I whisper.
“Good.” But he doesn’t move. Neither do I.
“We’ll be seeing each other regularly. In class. Around campus. You need to be able to handle that.”
“I can handle it.” Can I? I have no idea. But I say it anyway.
His jaw tightens. “Can you? Because right now, you're looking at me like…” He cuts himself off, takes a breath. When his eyes meet mine again, they’re colder. “Like you shouldn’t be looking at a professor.”
Shame rushes in. He’s right, of course. This is my education, my future. I can’t throw it away because of one night of madness. Even if it was the best night of my life.
“I should go,” I say, stepping back toward the door.
“Ms. O’Reilly.”
I freeze, hand grazing the knob.
He moves across the room like a storm about to break. His hand comes up, not to push me away, but to curl gently around my throat. Not choking. Just holding. Controlling. His breath ghosts over my lips.
One more inch and he’d kiss me.
But he doesn’t. He holds me there against the classroom door.
“As much as I’d like to take you right here in this classroom, Ms. O’Reilly, we can't do what we did last night. Ever again.”
His eyes betray him, lit with the same hunger I saw when he was buried inside me.
“I should go,” I say again, barely able to breathe.
He releases my neck, clearing his throat.
“If you want to transfer to another class, I’ll sign the paperwork. No questions asked.”
It’s an out. A clean break.
“I don’t want to transfer. I’m not going to let... complications... derail my education.”
His jaw ticks. “Then we maintain appropriate boundaries. No exceptions.”
“Agreed.”
“You don’t come to my private office hours unless absolutely necessary.”
“I never used office hours with Professor Harlan anyway.”
He turns away, packing up his briefcase like he didn’t just have his hand wrapped around my throat, but his eyes flick to me. Once. Then again.
I’ve never felt a pull like this. Not ever. Not for anyone. It’s reckless. It’s wrong. And it’s ruining me.
But I force my feet to move.
I make myself walk out.
I make it back to my apartment, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. What the hell am I supposed to do now?
I drop my bag, pull out my laptop, and open a browser.
Professor Cain. Criminal Psychology.
The search results are sparse. Just a handful of mentions from academic conferences and consulting cases. But one headline jumps out at me among dry citations.
Former Sheriff Lachlan Cain Testifies in High-Profile Human Trafficking Case.
I click.
Lachlan. The name rolls through my mind like a spark sliding across dry tinder. It sounds good in my head. It would sound even better tangled up in bed while he’s inside me.
I shake the thought away.
The article opens with a grainy photo of him in uniform. Same sharp jaw. Same intense eyes. The piece details a sting in a small town called Raven’s Creek, Nevada. Girls had gone missing for months before anyone started asking questions.
I click through, skimming the article. It's from five years ago.
Sheriff Lachlan Cain, 37, led a months-long investigation into human trafficking operations in rural Nevada, resulting in the arrest of sixteen individuals and the rescue of twenty-three victims. The case, which drew national attention, revealed a complex network of…
I keep reading, my heart pounding harder with each paragraph.
Lachlan blew the whistle. Testified against his own deputies. Took down the operation and walked away.
I sit back in my chair, pulse thrumming in my ears. I knew he was intense. I knew there was something about him. But this?
Now I’m sure of one thing.
There’s a lot more to Professor Cain than what he lets anyone see. And all I can think about is how desperately I want to know more about him. About whether what we felt last night was real.
Or just another mask we both wore in the dark.