Page 138 of Unconditionally Yours

Chapter Forty-Five

Delilah

This is supposed to be Rhys-melts-on-sight time. Hour of the Slut Siren. My shining moment. He’s supposed to walk in, see me bare and dewy under those godawful lights, and forget every boundary he’s ever white-knuckled through. He’s supposed to quietly lose his fucking mind, just a little, behind those pretty lashes and that composed therapist jaw.

Instead, I’m on display like a live-action porn exhibit, and he’s brought the boys for group viewing.

Do they talk about me when I’m not there? Trade war stories? Group jerk like a frat cult?

Benji’s grinning like Christmas morning. His whole giant body radiates pride, like I’m some masterpiece he painted himself and hung up for the world to envy. His eyes don’t waver. He’s glued to me. I feel it, thick and molten in the space between us. It’s love. It’s devotion. It’s hunger, bubbling slow and sweet like molasses over fire.

And I love this for us. I do. I can’t wait to see what he’s drawn, bet it’s reverent and sweet and absolutely filthy under the sweetness. Bet I’ll cry. Bet I’ll come.

Jett’s pissed, but not break-furniture pissed. Not stab Chad with a palette knife pissed. No, this is angry because he wants me pissed. Angry because I’m naked and other men are seeing me pissed. That murder-me/fuck-me line is always razor-thin with Jett, and I’d crawl across it on my tongue if he asked.

But Rhys... Rhys is the whole reason I’m here. Rhys hasn’t taken his eyes off me. He’s tense. Jaw clenched, hands a studyin professional restraint. I know that look. It’s the same one he wore the first day we met, trying to stay clinical while something inside him howled.

I want to rub his shoulders. Sink my teeth in. Lick up his neck and whisper every filthy, desperate thing I’ve ever imagined doing to him while he held me accountable with that deep voice and those big, ethical hands on my throat. I want to know if he’ll ever be able to look at me in session without remembering this, my bare skin, my chain, my thighs spread just enough for suggestion but not indulgence.

He probably always saw me naked.

I wonder if he’ll jerk off to this tonight. I hope he does. I hope he feels guilty and hard and too wrecked to sleep.

But why are they all here together? Did he drag them here? Is this therapy for Jett? A surprise test? Benji doesn’t even go to therapy.

When class wraps up, the artists slink out without a word. No eye contact, no awkward goodbyes, just a bunch of quietly boned-up strangers packing their little drawing pads like we didn’t just collectively eye-fuck in a silent, reverent group jerk session.

It’s weird. And kinda hot.

They saw me, gloriously naked, and now they’re just...going to Chipotle?

Rhys pulls Jett off to the side like he’s about to debrief him for a war crime. Benji beelines straight for me like his soul is magnetized to my nipples.

“You were amazing,” he breathes.

“Did you draw me?” I ask, shimmying like a Vegas showgirl. “With boobs and everything?”

He blushes so hard I think I see steam puff out of his collar. “Yes, ma’am. But it probably looks like something a toddler drewduring a fever dream. It’s not gonna do you justice. No one could.”

My whole chest flutters. I want to lick his dimples. “When you said you were hanging with Jett, I didn’t realize that meant Rhys too.”

“We’re layered, complex men. Even got a group chat,” he says, hand gliding down my glitter-slick side. “You’re shimmering.”

“It’s lotion,” I purr, pressing against him. “Now you’re shimmering too. You’re welcome.”

Then Jett appears like an angry shadow. “Your clothes?” he growls.

“Did you draw me?” I ask, all faux-innocence and come-fuck-me eyes.

“I drew something. Clothes?” he repeats.

“I have a coat,” I sing, just as Rhys strolls over and drapes it across my shoulders like he’s trying to convince himself he’s still in control. “You were a lovely subject,” he says, voice slightly strangled.

Benji snorts. “Translation: ‘I jizzed in my pants and now I’m emotionally compromised.’”

Jett shakes his head. “Doc’s still pretending he didn’t nut like a freshman in a strip club.”

Rhys closes his eyes, probably praying for death. “We were...thinking about dinner.”