Page 23 of The Unexpected

I reach for the legal pad, the motion slow and deliberate. “How have you been since our last session?” I ask, voice gentle but with a purposeful clinical cadence. “Any developments you’d like to discuss?”

Stella glances at Hunter, a flicker so fast most would miss it. He inclines his head, giving her permission, but she waits. I get the sense she wants me to press, or maybe she just wants to see if I’ll ask the right question.

Hunter answers first. “We’ve been exploring,” he says. There’s an edge of amusement, as if he finds the whole scenario deeply entertaining. “Trying to figure out what comes next, if anything.”

I allow a neutral smile. “And did the exploring help?”

Stella’s lips part, but the words stick. She shifts, ankles crossed under the chair, and I can see the pulse at the hollow of her throat. “It’s different, now. Harder to pretend it’s not real.”

There’s a pause—pregnant, as therapists say. I let it breathe. “You mean, the attraction?” I ask, pencil hovering.

Her cheeks pinken, a slow rush of color that reaches her ears. “Yes,” she says, a whisper. “And more.”

I nod, jot a note. The act is theater, but it matters. “You’re not the only people who’ve struggled with this,” I say, meaning every word. “Taboo isn’t about the law, not always. Sometimes it’s the shape of your own shame.”

Hunter leans back, crossing one ankle over the other knee. “Neither of us is ashamed,” he growls, and even I can tell he’s lying. “But we’d like to know how to proceed. Stella’s father—my stepbrother—will return soon enough. We want to be prepared.”

I rest the pencil on the pad, steeple my fingers. “Are you asking for permission, or absolution?”

Hunter’s mouth curves. “Maybe both.”

This is what I like about them: no bullshit, no endless hedging. There’s a hunger here, bright and honest and unafraid of its own implications.

I shift the topic with a soft, practiced glide. “Did you act on your feelings since we last spoke?” I keep the tone clinical, but there’s no mistaking the charge behind the question.

Another flick of Stella’s eyes. This time, she answers. “Yes.”

Hunter adds, “Last night.” Then, after a beat, “And this morning.”

My cock stirs under the desk, unwanted but inevitable. I school my face to impassivity, but my pulse is climbing. “That’s definitely something,” I say, as if this happens all the time. “How did it feel?”

There’s a tension in the air—triangular, triangulated. Stella’s gaze drops to her lap. “It felt…” She hesitates, then looks straight at me, as if daring me to look away. “Like everything I’d ever wanted.”

Hunter slides his hand over the curve of her thigh, a gesture so possessive it’s almost predatory. He’s marking territory, but not just for her. For me.

I allow the silence to grow teeth. “This is exactly the moment where most people retreat,” I say. “But you’re not most people, are you?”

Hunter shakes his head, the movement feline. “We want to go further.”

“Further how?” I ask, watching his pupils.

He grins, full and dangerous. “That’s what we came to ask.”

Stella’s cheeks are nearly crimson now, but her posture is perfect. She’s a contradiction—blushing, but with her chin high. “Is it possible that we’re totally lost?” she asks, eyes luminous. “That’s what I’m afraid of. That we’ve lost sight of land and are totally off the reservation at this point. That we’re deviants, and not normal anymore,” she finishes in an agonized whisper.

I lean back, fold my arms. “Normal is a moving target,” I say. “But it’s not about what’s normal to others. It’s about what’s sustainable for you.” I pause, then, feeling the shift in the room, the air prickling with anticipation. “But I understand what you’re saying because obviously, an attraction between relatives, albeit unrelated ones, is generally considered outside the “normal realm,” and I’d like to address this with you. There is a method—exposure therapy—that’s been shown to be very effective for unwanted, or shamed, behavior. Sometimes, reenacting the thing you fear—in a controlled, safe environment—can strip it of its hold.”

They both look at me. Not incredulous, but as if I’ve just suggested a magic trick. “You mean do it here?” Hunter says, the challenge plain.

I don’t flinch. “If you’re comfortable, yes.”

Stella’s breath is audible, a small, soft gasp. Her hands flutter, then still. “Exposure how? What would that look like?” she asks, voice gone small again.

“Whatever you want it to,” I say. “The idea is to make the hidden, unhideable. To see it for what it is.” I stand, smooth the sleeves of my shirt, and cross to the office door. My shoes are silent on the carpet. I twist the lock, the click quiet but absolute.

The sound lands in the pit of my stomach.

Hunter’s eyes are on me, measured, weighing. I return to my desk and sit on the edge, body loose but focused. “There’s no one else in the building,” I say. “We can be as candid or not candid as you want. Again, I’ll let you choose to reveal what you’re comfortable with.”