48. Hendricks
HENDRICKS
She's thinking too hard.
I can see it in the way her breathing hasn't settled. There’s tension in her shoulders despite the fact that she's wrapped in my arms. Something shifted during the sex—something beyond the physical release.
I felt it—the moment when this stopped being about obsession and became something else entirely. Something permanent.
She felt it too. She’s too aware not to have. I run a hand down her back. She won’t like it, so I’m going to have to ease her into it.
"Have you ever been in love before?" she asks almost accusingly.
Case in point. "No."
She lifts her head to look at me. "Never?"
"Never." I hold her gaze.
Her mouth purses into a faint frown. “Not in high school?”
I’m amused, but I don’t let it show. I value my cock. “No.”
She arches her brow. “Not even some prissy twat who strutted around the Pentagon in pencil skirts?"
"I didn't spend much time at the Pentagon." I take the opportunity to kiss her neck. "I worked in the field mostly."
She shivers, nudging me with her foot. “That’s no answer.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No.” She shifts onto her elbow, staring down at me. “It’s an evasion. You’re annoyingly good at those.”
I shrug. The CIA trained me well.
“So what happened?” She waves her hand. “You just skipped the whole falling-in-love thing? For what, forty-five years?”
“Forty-five?” I take her chin. “Are you asking for a spanking?”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-eight.” I watch her process that.
“Thirty-eight years and you’ve never been in love,” is what she says.
“How many times have you been in love?” I ask, knowing I’ll hunt down each asshole and put him in the ground.
“That’s not the same thing,” she says with a scowl. She pulls away from me, sitting up. "I need water."
I don't stop her. Just watch as she slides out of bed and grabs my T-shirt from the floor, pulling it over her head as she walks out of the room.
I give her thirty seconds, long enough to think she has space but not long enough to believe I'm letting her get away.
Then I follow. I don't bother with clothes. I need to make something clear: she doesn't get to retreat from this. From us. It’s too late for that.
I find her in the kitchen, hands braced against the counter, head down. I move behind her silently, my body pressing against her back, pinning her in place.
She tenses for a second but immediately melts into me. I place my hand around her throat, holding her to me.
"Look at me," I tell her, my hand tilting her chin up and back, bracing her head against my shoulder.
Our eyes meet in the morning light.
“We don’t have to call it love,” I assure her.
She searches my face like she’s waiting for the punchline.
There isn’t one.
My thumb strokes the line of her jaw. “I don’t care what word you use. Attachment, obsession. Bad judgment.”
The corner of her mouth twitches.
I press a kiss to it. “Call it whatever helps you sleep.”
She studies me another long beat. “And what do you call it?”
Honestly? I don’t have a name for what this is to me. I only know facts, and the most important one is that I’m not letting her go. “When this is over, you’re coming home with me.”
She stills.
Lowering my head, I nip where her neck and shoulder meet. “You’re not disappearing.”
Something flickers across her face. Hope. Terror. Maybe both.
“No more aliases. No more motel rooms. No more looking over your shoulder.” I punctuate each phrase with a kiss up her neck. “You don’t run alone anymore. We’ll be partners.”
Her lips part. “You don’t do partners.”
“I do now. Understand something, Amanda.” My hand still cuffed around her neck, I arch her head back to meet her gaze. “I don’t make impulsive decisions, and I don’t change my mind.”