Page 33 of Untamed Sinner

Something flickers in his eyes—relief, maybe, or disappointment. I can't tell.

"Good.” He steps back. "We leave in ten minutes."

I head upstairs, my mind racing. When I get to my room, I close the door and lean against it, pressing my palms to my flushed cheeks.

What the hell just happened?

I've spent years perfecting the art of control—of keeping men at a distance and using sex as a weapon instead of a vulnerability. But Hendricks just flipped the script. He's not trying to take control—he's giving it to me.

That's more dangerous than anything else he could have done, because now I have to decide what I want.

And I'm terrified that what I want is him.

34

HENDRICKS

Iwait until her bedroom door clicks shut. Then I exhale.

I’d like to pretend this is discipline—that I was in complete control. Except for thirty-seven seconds, every instinct I have was telling me to put her on the counter, step between her thighs, and take her.

Thirty-seven seconds.

I counted.

My cock is still hard. My hands are shaking. I drag them over my face, trying to get a grip on something that's already gone.

I meant it when I said I'm giving her a choice, but the truth is uglier than that. I'm not being noble—I'm being strategic. If I take what I want without her asking, I become every predator she's ever known, and I'd rather cut my own throat than be that for her.

So I'll take the cold showers. I'll take the restraint. I'll take the slow burn of wanting her so badly I can taste it, knowing she's upstairs in my house, in my space, and I can't touch her.

Not until she asks.

And when she does—and she will—I'm going to make her lose control the way she's making me lose mine.

35

MANDY

Ipull on a black sports bra and a fitted tactical shirt, then lace up my boots. The routine is familiar—comforting, even. Gear up. Move out. Concentrate on the goal.

Except this evening, the mission includes Hendricks.

I can't stop thinking about the way he looked at me in the kitchen. The way he told me he wouldn't touch me unless I asked.

My plan to taunt him was stupid. I’ve barely implemented it and it’s already backfired.

I shake my head, forcing all that away. Focus. The girl in the notebook. Turner's house. Finding answers.

When I go back downstairs, Hendricks is waiting by the door, keys in hand. His eyes flick over me, quick and assessing. I see it—the flicker of approval—before he masks it.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Ready."

We walk to the truck in silence. I'm hyperaware of him beside me—the way he moves, the controlled precision of every step. He opens the passenger door for me and waits.

I’m not used to gallantry from men. I hesitate before I get in. Then I brace the door open with my palm, looking up at him. "Hendricks."