Therapy Threesome novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: Hands-On
Third week in Dr. Thorsby's office, he names the tension between Mallory and her stepfather Wade, prescribes exposure therapy, and orders Wade's hand onto her knee.
The leather couch in Dr. Thorsby's office squeaked every time I breathed.
I sat with my knees pressed together and my hands knotted in my lap.
The room was supposed to calm people down.
It had beige walls, a big potted plant, and two lamps that threw a low gold light across the floor.
None of it worked on me.
My stepdad, Wade, sat at the other end of the couch with his arms crossed over his chest.
He was thirty-nine, six foot two, and built like the men he hired to frame houses.
His button-down strained across his shoulders, and he kept his eyes on the plant instead of on me.
Dr. Thorsby sat in the armchair facing us with a notepad on his knee.
He was forty-eight, lean, with silver at his temples and blue eyes behind thin glasses.
He tapped his pen against the pad in a slow, steady rhythm that made me want to confess to something.
We were three weeks into this.
My mom had booked it after she walked in on Wade and me screaming at each other in the kitchen.
I had said he never knocked.
He had said I never put on pants.
She called it tension and told us the family would not survive it.
Wade had grumbled and agreed, and I had no say.
She married him a year ago, when I was eighteen.
I was nineteen now, and I still hadn't figured out how to live in the same house with him.
Today my mother had a showing and wasn't there, so it was only the three of us.
I was glad.
I had worn the blue sundress on purpose.
I told myself it was because the day was warm.
Dr. Thorsby let the silence run until it hurt.
"We've covered the surface," he said finally.
His voice was low and smooth, and every word landed.
"The arguments, the doors, the clothing, the way you two can't share a hallway."
"We've covered it plenty," Wade muttered.
"We have," Dr. Thorsby said. "And I think we've both been avoiding the root."
My stomach dropped.
"The root is sexual tension," he said. "Unresolved attraction. Between the two of you."
Wade made a rough sound in his throat.
"That's ridiculous. She's my stepdaughter."
"That's the problem, isn't it?"
Dr. Thorsby didn't raise his voice.
He just kept looking at Wade, calm and patient.
"You look at her when you think nobody sees. Every session. Her legs, her mouth, the strap of her dress."
Wade's jaw flexed.
He didn't deny it.
"And you, Mallory."
The blue eyes slid to me, and I felt them on my skin.
"You wear that little skirt and those shorts around the house. You leave your door open. You walk past him a little slower than you need to."
Heat poured up my neck into my face.
I opened my mouth to say that was a lie.
Nothing came out.
Because it wasn't.
Wade was rough and quiet and handsome in a way that made my stomach flip when he laughed.
He had big, scarred hands and a deep voice, and sometimes I stood in the hall outside the bathroom after he showered, just to smell the soap.
And yes, I wore the short shorts when his truck was in the drive.
I wanted to see if he noticed.
He always noticed.
"You're embarrassed," Dr. Thorsby said, almost gently. "That's good. It means it's real."
He set the notepad on the side table.
He took off his glasses, folded them, and set them on top.
Without them, his eyes were colder and sharper, and they never left me.
"Talk therapy will not fix this," he said. "You could sit on this couch for a year and describe your feelings, and you'd go home and keep doing exactly what you've been doing."
"So what do you suggest?" Wade asked.
His voice came out lower than he meant it to.
"Exposure," Dr. Thorsby said. "Hands-on."
The word hung there.
I stopped breathing.
Wade turned his head and looked at me for the first time in three weeks.
His eyes were dark, and his chest was rising a little too fast.
I should have laughed.
I should have stood up and walked out.
I did not move, and neither did he.
Dr. Thorsby rose, crossed the room, and turned the lock on his office door.
The click was small and clear.
"Nobody comes in during a session," he said. "Nobody hears. Nothing leaves this room."
He came back and stood over us, tall against the lamp.
"Wade. Uncross your arms."
Wade stared at him.
Then, slowly, he did.
His forearms came down to his thighs, and I saw how big his hands looked.
"Put your hand on her knee."
"Doc," Wade said.
"You want to," Dr. Thorsby said. "You've wanted to since you walked in. I'm not asking you to do something new. I'm asking you to stop lying about it."
The room was very quiet.
I could hear the lamp hum.
I could hear my own pulse.
Wade looked at me, and his eyes asked a question I didn't want to answer out loud.
So I answered it the only way I could.
I uncrossed my knees.
His hand came down slowly onto my bare knee.
It was warm and heavy and rough, and my whole body lit up from that one spot.
My shoulders dropped, a year of tension unraveling at once.
Dr. Thorsby watched, his expression turning dark and satisfied.
"Good," he said quietly. "Now take it higher."
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