2. Tessa
TESSA
My eyes flutter open slowly. Everything feels wrong.
The light filtering through my curtains is too bright. My mouth tastes stale. And between my legs?—
Oh God.
I'm sore. Not just sore. Deeply, achingly tender in a way I've never experienced. My pussy throbs with each small shift of my hips.
"Ow..." The word escapes before I can stop it.
I lift the blanket, look down at myself. I'm wearing my sleep shorts but nothing else. My bare breasts are exposed, nipples peaked in the cool morning air. I don't remember taking off the hoodie.
Wait. Where is the hoodie?
I pull the waistband of my shorts away from my body and peek inside. My breath catches.
Dried blood. Sticky wetness coating my inner thighs. The fabric of my shorts is damp, stained.
He did it. Theo actually did it.
My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat. Heat floods my face, spreads down my neck and chest. I reach down with a trembling hand, touch myself gently through the fabric.
The soreness makes me wince, but there's something else underneath it. A deep, satisfied ache. Evidence that my body was used, filled, claimed.
He took my virginity while I was asleep.
I lie back against my pillows and stare at the ceiling. The events of last night replay in my mind—what I can remember, anyway.
I'd been so nervous writing those notes. Each one more explicit than the last, a trail of breadcrumbs leading him straight to my bedroom door. My hands had shaken as I write the final note: Please. Make me yours.
Then I'd taken a melatonin to ensure I'd actually sleep through it. I'd been too anxious otherwise, worried I'd wake up or that he'd never find the notes or that he'd be disgusted by what I was asking for.
After that... mostly darkness.
But there are fragments. Sensations that felt like a dream but now I know were real.
Heat. Pressure. Fullness stretching me open.
Pain—sharp and burning, making me cry out even in sleep.
Then pleasure washing over me in waves, building and cresting until I couldn't breathe.
A voice, deep and rough: "That's my good girl."
Strong hands gripping my hips, holding me steady.
I'd thought it was just an incredibly vivid sex dream. The kind I'd been having about Theo Blackwood for weeks now.
But the evidence is real. The blood, the soreness, the sticky proof of what he left inside me.
This is my first time. Was my first time. Theo took my virginity.
I should probably be angry. Or scared. Or something other than what I'm actually feeling.
All I feel is arousal and a desperate, aching need for more.
I force myself out of bed even though my legs feel shaky. I grab my robe from the hook on my door and wrap it around myself, then collect clean clothes from my dresser. Jeans. A soft sweater. Fresh underwear.
The bathroom is just down the hall. I lock the door behind me and start the shower, letting the water heat while I examine myself in the mirror.
I look the same. Same light brown eyes, same brunette hair falling past my shoulders, same slim build and delicate features. But I feel completely different.
I'm not a virgin anymore.
The thought makes my stomach flip.
I drop the robe and step under the hot spray. Water sluices over my body, washing away the dried blood and cum from between my legs. I touch myself gently, exploring the soreness.
My pussy is swollen, tender. Clearly been used for the first time.
Three months. I've been living with Theo Blackwood for three months.
I remember moving in day so clearly. I'd answered his ad for a roommate—female preferred, close to Pemberton University campus, cheap rent. It had seemed perfect. Too perfect.
Then I'd met him.
He'd opened the door and I'd just... stopped. Frozen on his doorstep with my mouth hanging open like an idiot.
He's six-and-a-half feet of solid muscle with full sleeve tattoos covering both arms—intricate designs that wind from his wrists to his shoulders in dark, mesmerizing patterns.
Black hair threaded with silver at the temples, sharp gray eyes that seem to cut right through whatever mask I'm wearing and see straight into my core.
And his face—God, his face. Devastatingly handsome with that mature masculine edge that makes college boys look like children in comparison.
Sharp, defined jawline dusted with stubble, high cheekbones that cast shadows in the right light, and those fine lines around his eyes that somehow make him even more attractive instead of older.
He looks lived-in, experienced, dangerous in a way that made my breath catch in my throat.
He'd looked at me with those intense gray eyes for a long moment, his gaze traveling from my face down to my beat-up duffel bag and back up again. His expression had shifted—something between resignation and refusal crossing his features.
"How old are you?" he'd asked, his voice a deep rumble that I felt in my chest.
"Twenty," I'd answered honestly, gripping the strap of my bag tighter. "I'm a junior at Pemberton."
His jaw had tightened. He'd started to close the door. "This isn't going to work."
"Wait!" I'd reached out instinctively, my hand catching the edge of the door. "Please. I know I look young, but I'm a good tenant. I'm quiet, clean, I pay on time?—"
"You're a kid," he'd said flatly, already shaking his head.
"I'm not." Desperation had leaked into my voice.
I'd been looking for a place for three weeks by then, sleeping on my friend's couch and running out of options fast. "I really need this.
The rent is perfect and the location is exactly what I need and I promise I won't be any trouble.
Please. I'll sign whatever lease you want, give you references, whatever you need. "
He'd stood there in the doorway, broad shoulders blocking most of the light from inside, studying me with an unreadable expression. I'd held my breath, clutching my bag like a lifeline, trying not to look as desperate as I felt.
Finally, he'd sighed—a heavy sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. "One month trial. Any problems, you're out."
The relief had nearly buckled my knees. "Thank you. Thank you so much, I promise?—"
"Don't make me regret this," he'd said, stepping aside to let me in.
I hadn't understood the weight of those words then. Hadn't realized what he'd meant.
Those first few weeks had been so painfully awkward.
Stilted small talk over coffee in the mornings where I'd struggle to meet his eyes and he'd give one-word answers from behind his newspaper.
Avoiding each other in the evenings—me timing my return from class to when I knew he'd be in his home office, him seeming to arrange his schedule so we'd rarely be in the common areas at the same time.
I'd retreat to my bedroom as soon as I got home, closing the door firmly and only emerging when I was certain he was occupied elsewhere.
But the awareness built steadily despite our best efforts to ignore it.
I'd catch him watching me when I came out for water or a snack.
His gaze would linger when I walked past in my sleep shorts and tank top, tracking my movements with an intensity that made my skin prickle and my pulse quicken.
Those gray eyes would follow me across the living room, down the hallway, and I'd feel the weight of them even after I'd disappeared into my bedroom.
I started stealing his hoodies from the laundry basket in the bathroom.
They were massive on me, hanging nearly to my knees, the sleeves so long I had to roll them multiple times.
But they smelled like him—clean and masculine with hints of cedar and something darker, something that made my head spin.
I'd wear them to bed and touch myself while breathing in his scent, imagining his large, tattooed hands on my body instead of my own smaller ones, imagining what that deep voice would sound like saying my name in the dark.
He never made a move. Just watched with that dark, possessive hunger in his eyes.
Until I couldn't take it anymore. Until I wrote those notes and left them as a trail, a plea, an invitation.
And he accepted.
I finish showering and dry off carefully. Get dressed in the clean clothes, put on minimal makeup, brush my hair. My hands tremble slightly as I prepare to face him.
What do I even say? "Thanks for taking my virginity while I was unconscious?"
I open the bathroom door and the scent hits me immediately. Coffee. Bacon. Toast.
He's cooking breakfast.
My stomach flips, but not from hunger.
I walk down the hallway slowly, each step feeling momentous. When I enter the kitchen, he's standing at the stove with his back to me. Black t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, jeans riding low on his hips. His tattoos are visible, muscles flexing as he flips bacon in the pan.
He doesn't turn around, but his voice rumbles through the kitchen. "Morning."
He knows I'm here. Of course he does.
"Morning," I manage. My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
Theo continues cooking, still not looking at me. The tension is suffocating, thick enough to choke on.
Finally, he turns. His gray eyes lock onto mine and I feel pinned in place by the intensity of his stare. He's assessing me, reading my reactions, looking for... what? Regret? Fear?
"How do you feel?" Direct question, voice low and rough.
I shift my weight, pressing my thighs together. "Sore."
Heat floods my cheeks but I hold his gaze.
His eyes darken. Satisfaction flickers across his features. "Good."
The single word makes my pussy clench despite the soreness. Good? What does that even mean?
He turns back to the stove and plates up breakfast. Two servings: scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, buttered toast. He sets both plates on the small kitchen table.
"Sit. Eat."
Commands, not requests.
I obey automatically, sinking into a chair. He sits across from me, those intense eyes watching as I pick up my fork.
We eat in silence for a minute. I can't stand it anymore.