Page 136 of Unconditionally Yours

Fuck. He’s good.

Too good.

Gets in close with laughter and heart and a soft grin that probably makes Delilah want to ruin him. That makes me hate him just a little bit more. Because she has. And I’ve heard every detail in my office straight from her mouth that’s been wrapped around his cock. Bastard.

They follow me. I sign us in, already irritated by the sound of Benji’s humming and the way Jett’s boots echo like accusations. The community center is quiet, low lit, humid with old plaster and soft lighting, designed to soothe. Most of the regulars will already be inside, set up at their usual easels, each guarding their comfort like it’s a fucking fortress. There’ll be a few spares. We won’t sit side by side, thank God. Too much testosterone. Too many open wires.

We’ll spread out. Stay calm. That’s the plan.

Until I open the door.

My breath stops. My heart punches my ribs so hard I almost stagger.

Because she is here.

Pink hair. Lit up like a flare. She’s perched on the modeling stool. A goddamn siren.

Her eyes lock on mine. She shifts, one hip tipping, the light catching the curve of her bare stomach. Her body shimmers.

Bare. Fucking. Skin.

She’s nude.

I jerk back, shoulder-check them both out of the doorway with the force of a linebacker, and slam the door behind me.

“Class is cancelled,” I bark. My voice cracks on it.

Benji blinks. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s…” I can’t make words. “Delilah.”

His eyes go wide, and he steps around me before I can stop him.

Jett straightens beside me, his neck popping like dry knuckles as he cranes his head. “She’s what? Drawing naked people now too?”

Benji pops back into the hall, eyes blown and grin crooked. “She is the naked people.”

“The fuck you say?” Jett says, full snarl.

“She’s the model. Nude. Glowing like a stripper angel,” Benji says. “No wonder you come here every week. Man, I really wanna finger-paint her. With edible paints.”

I press my hand over my face. Not because I’m horrified. No, that would be reasonable. I’m hard. My dick is at full fucking attention, already mentally sketching every shadow on her body in charcoal and precum. This is not okay. And yet, God, yes, it is.

Jett moves in. Inches from me. Heat rolling off him like a furnace. “This supposed to be a joke? You testing my anger management shit right now?”

“She’s not part of this,” I snap, stepping into him. “She’s never modeled before. She’s clearly here to fuck with me, not you. She didn’t know you two would be here. We’re leaving.”

Jett laughs. It’s low and mean. “Oh, hell no, doc.”

“Excuse me?” I stiffen. “I am not gonna be responsible for you losing your shit and turning that studio into a crime scene full of snapped pencils and popped eyeballs,” I hiss.

Benji’s still smiling. “He’s got a point. There are at least five artsy hipster dudes ogling our woman like she’s the damn Venus de Milo. And she is. She’s fucking glowing. Sparkly.”

“She’s naked?” Jett says again, voice tight.

“Yep. All but this delicate little chain at her waist,” Benji hums.

“Did she see you?” I ask, trying to assess how fucked we are.