37. Mandy
MANDY
By the time we pull into Hendrick’s driveway, the tension is bouncing off us like heat on asphalt.
He kills the engine but doesn't move—just sitting there, staring straight ahead, his fingers clenched on the steering wheel.
I should get out and go inside. I should put distance between us before this thing we're dancing around finally detonates.
I’ve never been good at shoulds.
He exhales. "Mandy."
His voice is low—a warning wrapped in my name—and I shiver. "Yeah?"
"Don't do that again."
It’s on the tip of my tongue to play dumb and reply “What?” But I turn to look at him, and even in the dark I can see the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders are locked tight. He's holding on by a thread.
So am I. Tormenting him is boomeranging back to me tenfold.
When I don’t say anything, he meets my eyes, and what I see there makes my breath catch. It’s confirmation that he wants this as much as I do—and that he's barely keeping himself from crossing the line he's drawn.
"Next time," he says quietly, "I might not be able to walk away."
The words hit like a physical blow, only it’s not a threat but a promise.
He gets out of the truck and heads inside, leaving me sitting there in the dark.
I slump against the leather seat. I want to follow him, knowing I should go to my room, lock the door, and remind myself why this is a terrible idea.
I've spent thirteen years building walls—thirteen years making sure no man ever had power over me again.
Thirteen years weaponizing my body, my mind, and my rage to turn myself into something sharp and untouchable.
And now I'm sitting in Hendricks's truck, wet and aching, wishing he'd lose control.
Wishing he'd take the choice away from me.
The thought should terrify me.
It does terrify me, because wanting him to take control means I've already lost it.
“Fuck.” I lean my head back against the seat, staring up at the roof of the truck.
My heart is pounding. My skin feels too tight.
Every nerve ending is screaming at me to go inside, find him, and finish what we started in Turner's office.
Hell—what we started the first time we laid eyes on each other.
I’m so tempted. I want to let him touch me. I want to let him fuck me. I want to let him see all the broken, jagged pieces I've spent over a decade hiding from everyone—including myself.
That scares me more than anything Turner’s henchmen ever did to me.
I close my eyes and force myself to breathe. “Get it together, Mandy.”
But I can't, because for the first time in thirteen years, I don't want control.
I want him.
Shoving the truck door open, I step out into the cold night air. I slam the door shut and stalk toward the house. He's in there, probably pouring himself a drink. He’s probably trying to forget the way my body felt pressed against his in Turner's office.
“Like hell if I’m going to let him,” I mutter as I let myself into the house. If I’m going to suffer with this horniness, so is he.
I prowl through the first floor, ending up in the kitchen. The lights are on, but Hendricks is nowhere to be found. He’s probably got a Batcave somewhere that he’s hiding in.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the counter where we negotiated our deal. Where he told me I had to ask. Where he drew the line I've been trying to cross ever since.
Don't do that again.
Next time, I might not be able to walk away.
I head upstairs to my room, my mind already working. He said he makes the rules. He said I have to ask.
Stepping into my room, I close the door—but not all the way. I leave it cracked open just enough. He’d call it a dare, and maybe he’s right. It’s a calculated move from someone who's spent thirteen years learning how to weaponize everything, including desire.
He said he won't touch me unless I explicitly consent.
“Fine.” I yank my top over my head and toss it aside. I can work with that.