Page 32 of Untamed Sinner

Why?

"We're going to Turner's house," he says, refilling the empty glass.

That snaps me back to the moment. “Seriously?”

He nods. "We’ll search for connections between Turner and Ashford. Financial records, correspondence, anything that ties them together."

It's a good plan. Logical and practical—exactly what I'd expect from him.

It's also going to put us in close quarters for hours, and I'm not sure either of us can handle that right now. I was annoyed when he went out and left me here, but it was also a relief. Being close to him—seeing him in action—is going to test my limits.

Is that going to be worse than being cooped up in this house with him, twiddling my thumbs? Doubtful. Besides, if we get a sense of what Ashford and Turner are to each other, it’ll be helpful.

"Fine." I push off the counter. "Let's go."

His eyes drop to my chest, then back to my face. "Get dressed first."

I look down at myself—black leggings, the oversized gray T-shirt I took from his laundry bin, and bare feet. "I am dressed."

"Put a bra on."

The bluntness of it makes me laugh. "Why? Worried you'll be distracted?"

"Yes."

The honesty catches me off guard. I recover quickly, leaning against the counter and arching my back. "You'll be able to feel me up better without one."

The air in the kitchen changes instantly.

Hendricks sets his glass down slowly, deliberately, and turns to face me head-on. His expression is unreadable, but there's something in his eyes—something fiery and barely restrained.

"I would never feel you up," he says, his voice low and even. "Not unless you give me a clear green light."

I look down my body. My nipples are visibly tight and aroused under his shirt. "Isn’t that what this is?"

"No. This is a dare." He takes a step closer, and I have to tilt my head back to hold his gaze. "I don't care how much I want you. I don't care how hard I get every time you walk into a room. I won't touch you unless you explicitly ask me to, and putting yourself in my way and daring me to take you isn’t the same as telling me you want me."

My heart is pounding, and I hate that he can probably see it in the pulse at my throat. "That's very noble of you."

"It's not noble." His jaw tightens. He’s so close I can practically hear it creak. "You've had men take from you without your permission and with force. I won't be one of them."

The words hit me like a physical blow, and I jerk involuntarily. I want to make a joke. I want to deflect with sarcasm or a cutting remark.

But I can't. He's just drawn a line in the sand that I didn't expect—a line that says he sees me, understands what I've been through, and refuses to cross it without my consent.

It's the sexiest thing anyone has ever said to me.

And also the most terrifying.

"So," I say finally, my voice steadier than I feel. "The ball's in my court."

"Always has been."

We stare at each other for a long moment, the tension between us so thick I can barely breathe. I'm aware of every inch of space between us, every detail of his face, the way his hands are clenched at his sides like he's physically restraining himself. But he's not going to move. Not going to push. Not going to take.

He's waiting for me.

I push off the counter. "I'll go get dressed.”