20. Mandy
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.
The sweatpants don't hide much, especially not that cock.
And he’s getting hard.
Before I can catch myself, I inhale sharply, but I don’t divert my eyes. I can see the outline of him through the fabric, the way his body is responding to what's happening between us.
He's not trying to hide it. He's just standing there, drinking his water, watching me with those cold gray eyes while his cock thickens against the gray cotton as I ogle him.
"You need to wear a shirt," I say, and my voice comes out sharper than I intended. But—damn it—we need to establish some kind of boundary before this spirals completely out of control.
He raises an eyebrow. "Do I?"
I scowl at him. "We're living together for the next five days. There need to be rules."
"Rules." He sets the glass down and crosses his arms over his chest. The movement makes his biceps flex, and I hate that I notice. "What kind of rules?"
"Basic decency. You wear a shirt. I wear a shirt. We keep our hands to ourselves. We don't”—I gesture vaguely between us—"do whatever this is."
"This?” He raises his eyebrow.
I roll my eyes. "You know what I mean."
He's quiet for a moment, studying me. Then he pushes off the counter and takes a step closer. "I make the rules in this house, Amanda."
Jesus fuck, I think I just came a little at his tone of voice.
I grip the edges of my laptop like it’s a lifeline. You’d think I wouldn’t like that after everything I went through, but like I said, my time in captivity fucked me up regarding what turns me on. “Don’t call me that. And that's not how this works."
"Isn't it?" Another step. "You're here because I agreed to help you. You're staying because I'm allowing it. My house, my rules."
I lift my chin, refusing to back away. "So what, you're just going to walk around half-naked for the next five days?"
"If I want to."
I step in, needing to level the playing field.
Only it doesn't help. If anything, it makes it worse because now we're so close, and I can smell him—soap and something darker, something that makes my body respond in ways I’m not used to.
I shake my head. "Whatever the fuck is happening right now is a bad idea. "
"Nothing's happening." But his eyes drop to my mouth, and I know he's lying. We're both lying.
"You want me to put on a shirt?" He takes another step, closing the distance until there's barely a foot between us. "Make me."
The challenge hangs in the air, electric and dangerous. I should walk away. Should go upstairs and lock myself in the guest room and stay there until morning.
Instead, I hold my ground.
"Five days," I say. "We have five days to figure out who that girl is and why Ashford wants me. That's it. We don't complicate this."
"Too late."
He's right. It's already complicated. It's been complicated since the moment I broke into his house and sat down to wait for him.
Maybe it's been complicated since the first time I saw him, when he strode into the kitchen at Blackthorn ranch and took charge of the Turner raid, when I realized he was just as damaged and dangerous as I am.
"Go to bed, Mandy. You’re tired." He nods toward the notebook. "We'll start fresh in the morning. You can debrief me on what you have so far."
I want to argue, to tell him I don't take orders from him. But he's right—I'm not making progress, and sitting here in his kitchen at three in the morning while he stands half-naked in front of me is only making things worse.
I close the laptop and gather everything. Our eyes meet, and the air between us crackles with everything we're not saying.
"Good night, Hendricks," I say as civilly as I can.
"Good night."
I walk past him, careful not to let our bodies touch. But I feel the heat of him anyway, feel the pull of whatever this is between us.
I make it to the stairs before I hear his voice again.
"Mandy?"
I stop but don’t turn around. "What?"
"I don't make promises I can't keep."
I know what he's saying. He's not promising to keep his hands to himself. He's not promising this stays professional. He's not promising anything except that when this thing between us finally breaks—and it will break—neither of us is walking away unscathed.
"Just remember you started this," I toss over my shoulder. I scurry upstairs and lock myself in the guest room, my heart pounding and my body aching.
I need to buy a vibrator—the loudest vibrator I can find. We’ll see who begs first.
I drop my head against the door. Fuck, I hope it’s not me.