Page 2 of Unconditionally Yours
So here I am. Not because I did anything wrong, but because men are cowards, and the justice system is a misogynistic meat grinder for passionate women.
Just because I maybe geotagged Hank’s Prius and gifted his rebound a glitter bomb packed with emotional truths and craft herpes. And maybe borrowed his Amazon account to send myself a mug that says You Belong To Me.
That’s not crazy. That’s love with follow-through.
The door opens.
A man in glasses and a gray sweater with the sleeves pushed up looks at a clipboard, then at me.
“Delilah Darling?” That voice doesn’t belong in a therapy office. That voice belongs in my ear at 3AM, low and wrecked and whispering don’t stop.
Microwave lady gives me a thumbs up.
Oh, no.
Absolutely not.
That’s illegal.
Therapists are not allowed to be hot.
That’s not just inappropriate. That’s practically entrapment. I’m emotionally vulnerable and tragically horny. I came here to fix my reputation, not develop a crush on the prosecution’s expert witness.
That’s how you make problems worse. That’s how people fake progress just to hear you say ‘I’m proud of you’ in that voice again.
My name in his mouth makes everything inside fold like a bad poker hand.
He doesn’t say it like it’s a problem. Doesn’t wince. Doesn’t check my file to see if I’m the reason his malpractice insurance premiums are astronomical. No. He just smiles. Smiles.
Which is criminal.
I stand. Or more accurately, I float, swerve, glide, whatever makes my hips do that thing men usually lose custody over.
His gaze flickers, just for a second, to the pastel hem of my skirt. Or maybe I imagined it. Maybe I’m hallucinating. Wouldn’t be the first time. Once I thought Hank’s new girlfriend was blinking in Morse code to ask for help. She wasn’t. But that didn’t mean she didn’t need help.
The hallway is too narrow. His cologne smells like bergamot and cedarwood. I try not to breathe it in too hard but fail and do a little choke-sniff like a pervert with asthma.
He gestures politely for me to go first. A gentleman. I don’t. I let him lead.
Because the back of him should be studied. Or worshipped. Or licked like a communion wafer.
His sweater fits him too well. Sleeves shoved up just enough to show forearms with veins I want to write sonnets about. Big, blunt hands. Therapist hands. Safe hands. Spankable hands.
He opens the office door. Low light spills out. The air smells like old books, leather, and emotional unavailability.
I get wet immediately.
“Have a seat,” he says.
I do. On the couch. Legs crossed, head tilted, everything about me designed to say I’m unwell but photogenic.
He sits in a chair across from me. Angled slightly. Dominant but not aggressive. Classic predator-prey positioning. I’ve read the research. I’m practically a psychologist myself. Except instead of a license, I have vibes.
He picks up a pen. Clicks it. Starts writing something on his little clipboard. I try not to moan.
I fail.
His mouth moves. He’s talking. Saying words. Probably important ones. Maybe his name. His credentials. Why I’m here.
