3. Theo
THEO
I've been staring at the same goddamn spreadsheet for over an hour.
The numbers blur together, meaningless columns and rows that might as well be hieroglyphics. My brain refuses to process them. Every time I try to focus, my mind circles back to the same place.
I fucked my twenty-year-old roommate while she was asleep.
Took her virginity. Claimed her.
And she wants me to do it again.
My cock hardens in my jeans at the memory. I shift in my desk chair, trying to alleviate the pressure. Doesn't help. Nothing helps except thinking about something else, and I can't seem to manage that simple fucking task.
The sight of her asleep in my hoodie. The way her body had responded even unconscious, hips lifting to meet my thrusts. The blood on my cock when I'd broken through her hymen, marking me as thoroughly as I'd marked her.
Mine. She's mine now.
I adjust myself again, grip the edge of my desk hard enough that my knuckles go white.
This is pathetic. I'm a thirty-three-year-old man obsessing over a twenty-year-old girl barely out of her teens.
I should be working. I have reports due, emails piling up, three conference calls I'm supposed to prep for.
Instead I'm sitting here rock-hard and useless, counting down the hours until she comes home.
I check my phone. 11:47 AM.
She won't be back for hours. She has classes until at least four, maybe later if she stops at the library like she usually does on Thursdays.
"Fuck," I mutter to the empty office.
I close the laptop, give up the pretense of productivity. I've worked from home for years, built my consulting business on discipline and focus. Today I have neither.
I wander out to the living room, restless energy thrumming under my skin. The apartment feels too quiet without her in it. I never noticed that before, but now it's glaringly obvious. Three months she's lived here, and somehow she's become essential to the space. To me.
My feet carry me down the hall to her bedroom door before I consciously decide to go there.
I push it open, step inside.
Her scent hits me immediately. Something floral and sweet, distinctly feminine. The bed is made—she'd tidied up this morning before rushing off to class. Everything neat and proper, like she didn't leave cum and blood-stained sheets for me to find last night.
I sit on the edge of her bed, right where I'd knelt between her spread thighs. Close my eyes and remember the feel of her tight pussy gripping my cock, the way she'd moaned softly even in sleep. The perfect give of her hymen breaking.
I'm losing my fucking mind.
My hand moves without permission, reaching for her nightstand. The drawer slides open easily. I know this is wrong, invasive, a violation of her privacy. I do it anyway.
Inside: lip balm, a bookmark shaped like a cat, her student ID with an unflattering photo that somehow still looks cute, a small notebook with a worn leather cover.
I pick up the notebook, flip it open.
It's a journal. Entries dated sporadically over the past few months, her handwriting neat and looping. My eyes catch on my name halfway down the page.
Theo looked at me today and I couldn't breathe. Just a glance while we passed in the hallway, but it felt like everything stopped. Is this normal? Am I going crazy?
The date: two months ago. September.
I flip further, find another entry.
I think about him constantly. When I'm in class, when I'm trying to study, when I'm lying in bed at night.
It's getting worse. He's so much older—thirteen years.
That should bother me more than it does.
But I can't help it. I want him to notice me.
Really notice me, not just as the girl who rents his spare room.
My chest tightens. My cock throbs.
Another page.
I stole his hoodie again. The gray one he left in the dryer. I sleep in it every night now. I press my face into the fabric and breathe him in and touch myself and pretend it's his hands instead of mine. I'm pathetic.
"Jesus Christ," I breathe out.
I keep reading, hungry for every word. She's been obsessing over me just as much as I've been obsessing over her. Every entry reveals more—fantasies, frustrations, desperate longing.
The most recent entry, dated yesterday.
Tonight. I'm going to do it tonight. Leave him the notes. Tell him what I want. I can't wait anymore. I need him to touch me. I need to know if he feels this too or if I'm completely alone in this. If he doesn't come to my room, I'll know. And maybe that will finally break this spell.
I close the notebook carefully, put it back exactly where I found it. My hands shake slightly.
She's been gone for me just as long as I've been gone for her.
We're both fucked.
I leave her room feeling even more possessive than before, if that's possible. That notebook is evidence of her want, her need. She didn't just consent last night on a whim. She's been building to it for months.
The hours crawl by with excruciating slowness.
I try to work again. Fail again. Make lunch I barely taste. Shower. Pace.
At 6:14 PM, I hear her key in the lock.
I straighten from where I've been pretending to read on the couch, book forgotten in my lap. The door opens and she enters, backpack slung over one shoulder. She's wearing the same jeans and sweater from this morning, hair slightly mussed from the wind, cheeks flushed pink from the cold.
Our eyes meet across the room.
The tension slams into me like a physical force. Electric. Undeniable.
"Hi," she says softly.
"Hi." My voice comes out rougher than intended.
She sets her backpack down by the door, shrugs off her coat. Hangs it on the hook. Normal, domestic movements that feel charged with significance.
She moves into the kitchen, opens the fridge, starts pulling out leftovers.
"I was thinking we could have the pasta from last night?" she calls.
Like this is normal. Like she didn't give me explicit permission this morning to use her body whenever I want.
"Sure."
I watch her move around the kitchen. The sway of her hips, the curve of her ass in those jeans. I imagine bending her over the counter, shoving those jeans down, burying myself inside her while she grips the edge and takes it.
Soon.
We eat at the small table again. Conversation is stilted, awkward. Every silence feels loaded with everything we're not saying. She keeps glancing at me, then away. I don't bother hiding my staring anymore. She knows what I want.
"How was class?" I ask between bites.
"Fine. Boring lecture on Renaissance literature. Professor Mason went on for an hour about Petrarchan sonnets."
"You're an English major?"
She nods. "Yeah. I want to be a writer someday. Novels, maybe."
I file that information away, add it to the growing collection of details I know about her.
"You'll be good at it."
She looks up, surprised pleasure lighting her features. "You think?"
"You're intelligent. Creative. I've seen your books." I gesture toward the shelves in the living room where she keeps her overflowing collection.
Her smile widens, genuine and beautiful.
I want to make her smile like that every day.
We finish eating, clean up together. My hand brushes hers when she passes me a plate. She jumps slightly, electricity in the brief contact. I let my fingers linger, watch her pulse flutter in her throat.
This is torture.
"Want to watch a movie?" she suggests, voice higher than normal.
"Sure."
We settle on the couch. She pulls up Netflix, scrolls through options without really looking. Picks something at random—some thriller neither of us cares about. She sits on one end of the couch. I take the other.
There's a full cushion of space between us.
Ten minutes into the movie, I can't take it anymore.
I shift closer, stretch my arm along the back of the couch. My fingers brush her shoulder. She stiffens but doesn't pull away.
"Is this okay?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Yes," she breathes.
I pull her closer until she's tucked against my side. She fits perfectly, small and soft and warm. My hand rests on her hip, thumb stroking slowly through the fabric of her sweater. I feel her shiver.
Twenty minutes pass. The movie plays on, unwatched. My hand slides from her hip to her thigh, rests there heavy and possessive. Her breathing changes, becomes shallower.
I squeeze gently. Feel her tense.
"Relax," I murmur into her hair.
"I'm trying," she whispers back.
My hand inches higher, toward the juncture of her thighs. She shifts, legs parting slightly. Unconscious invitation or deliberate signal, doesn't matter. I accept it.
I cup her through her jeans, apply pressure. She gasps, head falling back against my shoulder.
"Theo..."
"Shh. Just feel."
I rub slowly, feel her heat even through the denim. Her hips move slightly, seeking more pressure.
"I'm still sore," she admits, embarrassed.
"I know. We're not doing that tonight."
"Then what?—"
I cut her off with a kiss, turning her face toward mine. Deeper than this morning, more demanding. She opens for her immediately, lets me take control. My tongue strokes against hers while my hand continues working between her legs.
She moans into my mouth. "Mmm..."
The sound goes straight to my cock.
I break the kiss, breathing hard. "I want to taste you."
Her eyes widen. "What?"
"I want to put my mouth on your pussy. Make you come on my tongue."
Her face flushes crimson, all the way down her neck. "I—I've never?—"
"I know, baby. That's why I'm going to show you."
I stand, pull her up with me. Sit her on the edge of the couch and kneel between her legs. My hands work her jeans open, pop the button, lower the zipper.
"Lift," I command.
She obeys automatically, raising her hips. I slide the jeans down her legs, toss them aside. Her panties are simple white cotton, already showing a damp spot.
So fucking innocent.
I hook my fingers in the waistband, pull them down too. Now she's bare from the waist down, exposed to my gaze.