34. Hendricks
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.