I tried to avoid her the next morning.
Stayed in my room too long, pretended to be busy unpacking boxes I didn't care about. Anything to give myself space from the mess of last night — the music, the wine, the way she'd stood there with that little smile and told me I shouldn't look at her like that.
Because she was right.
I shouldn't.
She was married to my father.
By afternoon, I was losing the battle with myself. I drifted downstairs, hoping she'd gone out or was in the garden. But the house was too quiet.
I found her in the living room, curled up on the couch with a book. Legs bare, just a loose cotton dress that slipped off one shoulder.
Her eyes lifted the second I stepped into view. A slow smile spread across her lips.
"Hey you," she said, voice low and warm. "Haven't seen you all day."
I swallowed, tried to keep it casual. "Just busy."
She set her book down, tilting her head. "Too busy to say hi?"
I started to answer, but she pushed off the couch, crossing the room with that lazy grace that made my pulse jump.
Before I could step back, her hand was on my chest. Her palm warm, fingers splaying just slightly.
"You're tense again," she murmured.
I flinched. "I'm fine."
"No. You're really not."
Her thumb moved in a small circle over my shirt. I should've stepped away. Instead I stood there like an idiot, breathing too hard, staring at her mouth.
Her eyes searched mine. Then she let out a soft sigh and dropped her hand.
"I didn't mean to make things weird," she said quietly. "Last night. I'd had too much wine. I was lonely. That's no excuse, but…"
Her voice trailed off. She looked down at the floor, teeth sinking into her lower lip.
"It's okay," I heard myself say, even though it wasn't. Even though I'd replayed her words in my head a thousand times since midnight.
She peeked up at me through her lashes. "Is it really?"
My mouth was dry. "Yeah. Don't worry about it."
Her smile was small, grateful. But something else was there too — something darker.
Then she surprised me by stepping forward again, rising on her toes to press a quick kiss to my cheek. It was innocent, technically. Except her lips lingered a fraction too long, warm and soft.
By the time she pulled back, my heart was jackhammering.
"Thank you," she whispered.
I escaped upstairs, half-hoping that was the end of it. But hours later, after dinner, after my father had retreated to his study with a drink and his endless spreadsheets, there was a knock on my bedroom door.
I opened it and nearly forgot how to breathe.
Tessa stood there in a silky robe, tied loose at her waist, bare legs peeking out. Her hair was damp, curling slightly around her shoulders. She smelled faintly of shampoo and vanilla.
"Can I come in?" she asked softly.
I hesitated too long. Her smile flickered, almost nervous. That alone made me step aside.
"Sure."
She walked past me, looking around. "Still feels like your old room."
"Yeah." I tried to keep my voice even. "Didn't see the point in changing it."
Her fingers trailed over my desk, the edge of my bookshelf. Then she sat on the edge of my bed, crossing her legs slowly. The robe slid up her thigh.
I couldn't stop staring. My chest felt too tight.
"I used to have a room like this," she said after a moment. "When I was in college. Posters on the walls, laundry everywhere. No idea what I wanted out of life."
I swallowed. "And now?"
Her eyes lifted to mine. "Now I know exactly what I want. Most days, anyway."
Something in her voice made my stomach flip.
Then she reached out, catching my hand. Her fingers curled around mine, soft but insistent, tugging me closer.
"Sit with me?"
I didn't trust myself to speak. I just sat beside her. Too close. I could feel the heat of her skin through the thin robe.
She turned slightly, her knees brushing mine. Her hand lifted to my chest again, this time bare against my skin where my T-shirt dipped at the neck.
"You've really grown up, Ethan."
My breath caught. Her hand flattened, sliding just slightly across my chest. I felt every slow inch.
"Tessa—" I tried, but my voice broke.
She looked up, eyes dark, lashes heavy. "I think about you too much. I shouldn't. But I do."
Her fingers trailed lower, to my ribs, then back up again. I shivered under her touch.
"I tried to ignore it," she whispered. "Tried to pretend it was just harmless curiosity. But then you got here and…"
She trailed off, biting her lip. Her eyes dropped to my mouth.
I didn't move. Couldn't.
Then she leaned in and kissed me.
Soft at first, almost testing. Her lips barely brushed mine, her breath warm and shaky. When I didn't pull away — when I leaned forward instead — she made a tiny sound, hungry and desperate, and kissed me harder.
Her hands slid up into my hair. My own found her waist, feeling the silk of her robe under my fingers, the heat of her skin beneath.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard. Her forehead pressed to mine.
"This is wrong," I rasped.
"Then why does it feel so good?" she breathed.
Her hands tugged at my shirt, pulling it up. I let her. Couldn't have stopped her if I tried. Her palms spread across my bare chest, tracing every line, every breath.
"You're perfect," she whispered. "And I can't stop wanting you."
Her mouth found mine again. This time it wasn't soft. It was hungry. Her tongue slid against mine, her body pressing closer, the robe falling open enough to reveal a flash of lace underneath.
I groaned, hands tightening on her waist, pulling her flush against me.
I didn't care anymore. Didn't care who might hear, who might find out.
All I cared about was the way she sighed into my mouth, the way her body melted against mine like it had always belonged there.