Page 17 of Untamed Sinner

The air changes.

We're standing too close—close enough that if I leaned forward, I could kiss her. Close enough that I can see the way her pupils dilate, the way her breath catches just slightly when my gaze drops to her mouth.

This is a mistake. I know it's a mistake. But I've spent five weeks trying to forget her, and she's standing in my kitchen offering me exactly what I want—a reason to keep her close, a reason to justify the obsession I can't shake.

"Five days," I repeat softly.

"Five days," she agrees.

Neither of us moves. The electricity between us hums, live and dangerous, and I know with absolute certainty that this isn't about the notebook or Ashford or the job.

This is about us. About the collision we've been hurtling toward since the moment we met.

Every instinct I have says to step back.

None of them are winning.

18

MANDY

Hendricks definitely does not have a pencil dick.

How do I know?

Because when we were in the kitchen earlier, negotiating me staying over the next five days, he got hard, and the outline of his cock pressing against his slacks was impossible to miss. I watched it happen—I watched him get thicker under the thin, fine fabric.

And then I moved closer and brushed it with my hip.

A girl has to make sure what she’s seeing is true.

The memory alone is enough to make my pussy clench.

Now, at 2:47 a.m., I'm lying in his guest room bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of water running through the pipes.

Hendricks is in the shower.

Hendricks is naked in the shower.

Hendricks is naked and wet and probably thinking about something completely mundane like tactical assessments or weapon maintenance while I'm in the bed in his spare bedroom losing my mind.

I roll over and press my face into the pillow, trying to block out the sound of the water.

It doesn't work. All I can think about is him under that spray, water running down his chest, over his abs, down to⁠—

“Fuck.” I throw off the covers and get out of bed.

This is ridiculous. I'm not some lovesick teenager obsessing over a guy. I'm a woman who's spent the last decade systematically dismantling sex trafficking networks. I've tortured men. I've killed men. I've looked into the eyes of predators and felt nothing but cold satisfaction when I ended them.

And yet here I am, unable to sleep because I can't stop thinking about Hendricks's cock.

The water shuts off. I hold my breath, straining to listen. The pipes groan as he turns off the valve. I hear the thud of a door and then the soft sound of him moving around his room. Getting dressed. Or not getting dressed.

My breath catches at that thought.

I should stay in my room. I should lock the door and put my earbuds in and pretend I don't know he's moving through the house. I should maintain the professional distance that's the only thing keeping this situation from spiraling completely out of control.

Instead, I pull on a tank top and yoga pants and pad downstairs in bare feet.