18. Mandy
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.
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.