Page 3 of Unconditionally Yours

All I can hear is mouth.

That mouth could wreck me. That mouth could say you’ve been very bad, Miss Darling, and I’d cry and thank him.

I watch the way his hand grips the pen, the little flicks of motion as he writes. Strong. Rhythmic, like he’s disciplining the page. My clit responds at the soul level.

That pen has seen so much. Does it know how lucky it is?

He pauses. “Are you listening to me, Delilah?”

Absolutely not. Not even close. I’m currently imagining what that mouth would look like telling me no. And how fast I’d break him down until it was yes, baby, whatever you want.

I nod, the way raccoons nod right before they tip over your garbage can. “Mmhm.”

His brow furrows slightly. “Can you tell me what I just said?”

“Your sweater’s doing things to me,” I say sweetly.

It is not what he said. It is exactly what I meant.

He blinks. Slowly. Like he’s accessing some internal HR protocol.

That’s fine. Let him report me. I’ll get court-ordered to him again.

He shifts in his chair. I follow the movement like a cat watching a laser pointer. “You’re here voluntarily?” he asks.

“Court-mandated voluntary.” I lean forward just enough to weaponize my cleavage. “I’m very committed to my growth.”

His pen stills.

I wink.

And that’s when I know he’s not immune.

Oh no.

He’s mine. He’s how I move on from Hank’s emotional neglect.

“And your middle initial, P?” he asks, flipping through the form like he’s just now realizing he’s not treating a person so much as an emotional IED with tits and a Lisa Frank trauma binder.

I tilt my head and smile the kind of slow that makes priests reconsider things.

“What do you think it stands for?” My voice goes molasses-thick and legally actionable. “Projection? Penetration? Progress?”

His pen clicks in a warning shot. He blinks. Once. Hard. Like he’s rebooting via pelvic processor.

“I’m going to assign you a task,” he says finally, voice steady enough to make me suspect he’s either biting the inside of his cheek or bracing for divine punishment. “I’d like you to journal every night. Thoughts, feelings. Progress related to your relationship with Hank. Especially your understanding of boundaries.”

“Oh, so homework?” I bat my lashes. “Will there be bonus points for penmanship? Presentation? Provocation?”

He hesitates. Just for a second. But it’s the kind of second you can spread your legs across.

“No,” he says carefully. “This isn’t graded.”

I lean in. Just shy of inappropriate. “Not even for glitter gel pens?”

He exhales. Through his nose. Like a man at war with his own dick.

I grin wider. Victorious. “I’ll use stickers. For emotional nuance.”