Page 18 of Untamed Sinner

I tell myself it's because I can't sleep anyway. I tell myself it's because I need to keep working on the notebook, keep trying to identify the girl. I tell myself it has nothing to do with the fact that I want to see him, want to be in the same room as him, want to feel that electric pull between us that makes my skin feel too tight and my thoughts scatter like startled birds.

I'm lying to myself, and I know it.

The kitchen is dark when I get downstairs. I flip on the small light over the sink and set my laptop on the counter. I should open it and take a look at the files again, but my concentration is shot. I glance up at the ceiling, remembering the way his cock felt against my hip when we were standing too close in this very kitchen.

I'm so focused on not thinking about him that I almost don't hear the footsteps on the stairs.

Almost.

But I do hear them—slow and deliberate. He's not trying to hide. He knows I'm down here.

My pulse kicks up, and I hate myself for it. I hate that I'm acutely aware of every sound he makes, every movement. I hate that my body responds to him like this—like he's a drug and I'm an addict who's been clean for too long. I thought I was done with that sort of lack of control the second I got free ten years ago.

The footsteps reach the bottom of the stairs and pause. Then they continue toward the kitchen.

I boot up my laptop and pretend I’m absorbed in it, pretending my heart isn't hammering against my ribs.

He enters the kitchen, and I feel the shift in the air—the way the space suddenly feels smaller, warmer, and charged with something I don't want to name.

I can't help it—I lift my head.

And I immediately regret it.

19

HENDRICKS

Iknow how to dress for success. I also know how to undress for success.

By the look on Mandy’s face, tonight, the latter is proving very effective.

20

MANDY

Hendricks stands in the doorway wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips. His chest is bare, still damp from the shower. Water drips from his dark hair onto his shoulders, trailing down the defined lines of his torso.

My mouth goes dry.

I've seen plenty of shirtless men, but none of them have ever made my pulse quicken or my thighs clench or my brain short-circuit the way Hendricks does right now.

Maybe it's the scars, the way they map violence across his skin—a knife wound below his ribs, a bullet graze on his shoulder, something that looks like a burn on his left side. It’s hot in a way tattoos could never be. He's a canvas of survival, and my fucked-up brain finds that unbearably hot.

Like recognizes like.

Or maybe it's the way he's looking at me, like he knows that I want to lick a path over each mark on his body. Like he can see the heat spreading through my body, the way my breathing has gone shallow.

"Couldn't sleep?" His voice is low and rough, as if he can feel my gaze like a touch on his skin and it turns him on.

"Working." I gesture to the laptop, trying to sound unaffected, like I'm not creaming the panties I don’t have on.

He moves to the counter, opens a cabinet, and pulls out a glass. His back is to me now, and that's somehow worse. I can see the flex of muscle as he reaches up, the way the sweatpants slip even lower on his hips.

This is ridiculous. I force my eyes back to the laptop. I'm thirty-four years old. I've been through hell and come out the other side with a body count and a skill set most people can't imagine. I don't get flustered by men, attractive or otherwise.

Except I'm not just flustered—I'm wet. My pussy throbs with need, and the more I try to ignore it, the more heated I get.

Hendricks fills his glass with water from the tap, then turns and leans against the counter. He's facing me now, and I make the mistake of letting my gaze drop.