Page 151 of Unconditionally Yours

Rhys chuckles, already removing his shirt and kicking off his slides, and Jett, grumbling like a wet cat, shucks off his tank top and stalks toward the diving board.

Delilah shifts her weight on my lap, towel completely gone now, her swimsuit still damp and clinging to every place I’ve already memorized with my hands and mouth.

She grabs a grape and pops it into her mouth, then claps as Jett climbs up the board, all shoulders and brooding biceps. “Alright! Let’s rate some ass!”

Jett gives her a middle finger without turning around.

I feed her a grape.

“Ten outta ten for disrespect,” she says around it. “But let’s see that bounce, big boy.”

He dives. A clean, aggressive slice into the water.

She whistles low. “Goddamn. Did you see the way the water rolled off his back like he was built in a sin factory?”

I hum, picking a red grape and holding it to her lips.

She licks it before taking it between her teeth. “Ten for execution. Eleven for the ass.”

Jett surfaces with a glare and a hair toss that might as well be a threat.

Next up is Rhys. Who walks to the board with the calm, predatory energy of a man who has definitely read erotic poetry aloud and positively owns lube in multiple scents.

Delilah fans herself with both hands. “Jesus. He’s about to do a certified sex dive and I’m gonna need to sit on an ice cube.”

He flips. Flips. Like some kind of precision-trained water ninja with a doctorate in seduction. Comes up grinning. Smug bastard.

Delilah screams like it’s a boyband concert. “Ten out of ten for Aqua Freud. Wet cardigan energy! Yes! Yes!”

I laugh, can’t help it. She’s sunshine and chaos and lust cranked to eleven, all bouncing in my lap like I’m her throne.

But then she twists, plucks a grape, and holds it up to my lips.

I open, let her feed me.

She does it with a grin. “You know you’re the only one I trust to catch me, right?”

It’s not the words.

It’s the truth in them.

My chest does something weird and big and tight. I chew slowly, watching her laugh and shout and call Rhys “Moist Analyst of the Year,” but her hand stays on my chest. Her body still flush to mine. She leans back like I’m home. Even while she yells, “Jett gets an eight now ‘cause he splashed my tits. Boo, sexy splash man!”

I feed her another grape. She moans around it.

The guys shake their heads, pretending they’re not half in love with her too.

And I’m just here, heart a little too full, towel forgotten at my feet, hands wrapped around a woman who tastes like sugar and starlight and made grapes feel sexual.

She’s mine. I wouldn’t change a thing.

Journal Entry #10

Saturday August 7th

Therapy Journal

Dear Rhys,