30. Hendricks
HENDRICKS
By the time I pull up to the house, I've almost convinced myself I'm back in control.
Almost.
Mandy’s truck is parked facing out, like she might want a quick getaway, and I park directly in front of it to block her in.
Two can play this game.
I go inside and freeze.
The house is quiet. Too quiet. Something feels different. The air is warmer, charged with a presence that wasn't here when I left. The scent of sweetness, like cookies, lingers in the air. I do a quick sweep—kitchen, hallway, living room.
In the living room, on my sofa, there’s a god-awful pillow with bright flowers on it and HOME SWEET HOME scrawled across it.
I stare at it. I never knew a pillow could mock you. I contemplate throwing it in the trash, but it has to mean something. I’m just not certain what yet, so I leave the fucking thing exactly where she put it and head upstairs.
Her door is shut. I pause, listening, but I don’t hear anything. She doesn’t seem like a napper.
I think about knocking, to check on her, but I can hear Luke call me a mother hen, so I continue down the hall to my bedroom.
The door is open. I always close it.
I don’t wonder what happened. It’s Mandy, of course. Frowning, I step inside. Feeling like I’m a bear looking for evidence of Goldilocks, I glance at my bed, relieved it looks undisturbed and unmolested by embroidered pillows.
However, the bathroom door is ajar.
Pushing it wide open, I stand in the doorway and look around.
The first thing I notice is the candle—vanilla-scented, which maybe accounts for the sweet smell through the house.
Steam still clings to the mirror. The air is humid, thick with the scent of soap and shampoo.
Her shampoo. I can smell it from here—clean citrus and a soft floral note.
My brain catalogs it before I can stop it, and I know I’ll recognize that scent anywhere.
There’s a purple poof hanging in my shower. On the shelf, where my soap normally is, there’s a bottle of shampoo. I pick it up and inhale, though I know it’s hers.
She used my shower.
My jaw clenches. She didn't just use the guest bathroom down the hall. She came in here, into my private space, and made herself at home in the one place that's supposed to be mine.
I enter the bathroom to reclaim it, and that's when I see them.
Her panties.
Pink lace, delicate and expensive, draped over the edge of the counter like a fucking invitation.
I stare at them unbelievingly. I don’t know what part is hardest to parse: that they’re on my bathroom floor or that they’re pink. In no universe would I have thought Amanda Reed would wear pink. But I also didn’t expect her to eat a donut with rainbow sprinkles.
She left them here on purpose.
The realization hits me like a fist to the gut.
This wasn't careless. This wasn't an accident.
She knew exactly what she was doing. She used my shower, left her scent all over my bathroom, and then left her underwear where I'd find them—a deliberate taunt, a calculated move designed to fuck with my head, no doubt revenge for me being shirtless in the kitchen.
And it's working.
Bending, I pick them up. The lace is soft, still warm from her body.
They're damp.
Before I think about it, I lift them to my nose and inhale.
Her scent hits me full force. It's intoxicating. It's maddening. It's everything I've been trying to resist for five weeks, and now it's in my hands, undeniable and overwhelming.
My cock hardens immediately, and I hate her for it. Hate that she can do this to me. Hate that she knows she can do this to me. Hate that I'm standing here gripping a scrap of fabric like it's the most important thing in the world.
Fuck it.
I lock the bathroom door—I wouldn’t put it past her to barge back in. I undo my jeans, pushing them and my underwear down. My cock springs free, hard and aching.
I wrap her panties around my shaft.
The sensation is immediate and devastating. The thought that the fabric had been touching her makes me groan. I start stroking, fast and rough, no finesse, no control—just raw, desperate need.
I picture her in my shower, water running over her skin, her hands sliding over her body, touching herself in my space.
I think about her standing here, naked and wet, deliberately leaving her underwear for me to find.
I think about the smirk she'd have on her face if she could see me now—completely undone, jerking off into her panties like a man who's lost his fucking mind.
Because I have.
"Fuck." Closing my eyes, my hand moves faster.
I'm not gentle. I'm not careful. I'm chasing the release like it's the only thing that matters, like it's the only thing that will make this ache go away. But I know it won't. I know this is just going to make it worse, make me want her more, make me more desperate and more unhinged.
I don't care.
I picture her under me, my hands on her hips, my cock buried deep inside her while she moans my name. She’d look at me with those hazel eyes, that mocking smile, daring me to lose control.
The pressure builds at the base of my spine, sharp and overwhelming. My strokes become frantic, almost violent, and I'm completely lost in the fantasy of her—the real her, the one who's smart and lethal but eats donuts with sprinkles and uses purple poofs.
She’s systematically dismantling me piece by piece.
When I come, it's brutal. I spill into the lace, into her panties, marking them in a way that's primal and possessive and completely fucked up. The orgasm rips through me, and I brace myself against the counter, my breath coming in harsh gasps.
For a long moment, I just stand there, staring at my reflection in the steamed mirror. At the man I've become—a man so obsessed with a woman that he's jerking off into her underwear. A man who knows he's being played and doesn't care.
I clean myself up mechanically, then stare at the panties still in my hand. I should throw them away. I should burn them. I should do anything except what I'm about to do.
Folding them carefully, I tuck them into the back of my closet, behind the safe where I keep my weapons and cash and the things I don’t want anyone to find.
Like evidence of my complete loss of control—a trophy I have no right to keep.
Still naked, still hard, I lie down on the bed and stare at the ceiling, my body still humming with the aftershocks of release. My mind is clearer now, sharper, and the truth settles over me like a weight.
She's winning.
She knows exactly what she's doing, and she's winning. Every move she makes is calculated to unravel me, and it's working. I'm coming apart at the seams, and she's the one holding the thread.
The worst part?
I don't care, I think as I take my cock in my hand again.