Page 166 of Unconditionally Yours

Is this courtship? Are we engaged? Should I start practicing my signature with your last name? Do you want a shared Google calendar? Should I buy us matching robes? Do we tell the others or let them find out in a chaotic group text at 2am?

I’m going to combust. You romantic terrorist.

Benji journal

I know you picked out that nightie. Don’t play coy, you oversized Disney prince with a dick that ruins lives. I felt your big gentle paws all over that choice. You want me sweet and soft and slinky and fuckable, huh? Well.

I’m wearing it to your place. When I sneak in. And then I’m going to ride you awake.

No hello. No warning. Just me, purring like a sex-crazed housecat in sheer lace and absolutely drenched in shimmer lotion. Which means you are going to be drenched in shimmer lotion. I will make you a glittery monument to my lust. A sparkly, moaning skyscraper of joy.

Your thighs will sparkle. Your chest will gleam. You’ll be too pretty to explain to EMTs if I break you with love.

I love you. You beautiful, beefy, glitter-covered dreamboat.

Jett Journal

You were in my house. I saw the note on the mirror. “I hate you too.” With little hearts. You kissed the glass. Used my good lipstick. You stole shit from me.

That’s not trespassing, babe. That’s soulmate behavior.

The llama? Gorgeous. Perfect. I named her Murder Cupcake and she sleeps beside me now. What did you name the chili pepper?

I can’t wait for our training session tomorrow. Also, can we fuck on the weight bench? Just to, like… claim it? For us? For chaos? For the shared delusion that we’re normal gym-goers and not emotional arsonists with sex drives that could level small countries?

I hate you. I want you. Bring chalk. And a boner.

Chapter Fifty-Three

Delilah

The universe is licking my nipples. Like, with tongue. A little nibble. A little swirl. I think I saw an angel wink at me from a glitter cloud.

Because this morning? Yoga bitch had a meltdown on social media. A full-blown, feral, face-melting fit. She was definitely in a house robe that smells like lemon Lysol and old secrets, scooping microwave mac and cheese out of a mug with a chipped spoon. Mismatched slippers. Crying over her keyboard. The epitome of a seasonal Hallmark divorcee.

It takes a certain kind of crazy to pull that off.

We are rare.

She is not one of us.

And she dumped Hank. Publicly.

Like in a firestorm post with “I KNEW IT” in all caps and at least five red flag emojis. She tagged him. Tagged. Him.

So I guess… Hank and Chad were a thing? Are a thing.

I mean. In what world does my court-ordered ex end up dating the guy my sexy rage monster punched into a restraining order?

This one. This beautiful, fucked-up glitter-dusted hellscape where I get to lay in Benji’s bed, his scent on my skin, his sweat still drying in my thighs, and watch Hank’s perfect, sterile little world implode in real time.

It’s better than revenge porn. It’s reality TV with stakes.

I sip the protein shake Benji left for training day, still naked, tangled in sheets that smell like heat and trust and sin, and scroll, devouring every comment in the symphony of ruin.

Also, maybe Chad hates me not just because I turned his car into a crime scene of craft store sabotage, but because Jett’s into me.

Maybe Chad wanted Jett? And Jett broke his face instead of his heart?