Chapter 4: The Guard
The scent of vanilla had faded, replaced by the sharp, clean aroma of disinfectant from the physiotherapy gel Harry had brought with him. Two days had passed, but the memory of Anne’s skin, the heat, the fleeting glimpse, was etched into his nerves. When her text came, a simple “Pain is back. Can you come over?”, his heart had hammered against his ribs. He’d replied with a professional “Of course,” while his mind screamed with possibility.
He’d expected the same intimate silence, the same charged vulnerability.
He was not prepared for Signe.
Anne’s friend was perched on the arm of the sofa, a stark contrast to the room’s softness. She had a sharp, knowing face and eyes that missed nothing. “The healer arrives,” she said, her voice a dry, amused murmur.
“Signe decided to keep me company,” Anne explained from the couch. She was already lying back, but this time a thick, knitted blanket was draped over her legs, a clear boundary. Her eyes met Harry’s, pleading and embarrassed. “And we agreed… panties stay on this time. Strictly professional.”
“Right. Of course,” Harry said, the words tasting like ash. He set his bag down, the sound overly loud in the tense room.
“Don’t mind me,” Signe said, not taking her eyes off him. “I’m just here to make sure my friend doesn’t get taken advantage of by some handsy physio.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. It was a challenge.
Anne let out a tense laugh. “Signe, he’s my friend. He’s helping.”
“I’m sure he is.”
Harry knelt, the familiar position now feeling like an act performed under a spotlight. “Okay, Anne. Let’s see where we’re at.” He focused on her face, on the professional mask he had to wear. The blanket was a fortress wall. He gently worked it down, exposing her legs. She was wearing loose shorts this time, not the revealing panties from before. A small, logical part of his brain registered this as a sensible choice. The rest of him felt a crushing disappointment.
He began, his hands finding the familiar topography of her thigh. He worked the muscle, his movements precise, his concentration a fragile shield against Signe’s unwavering gaze. The room was quiet except for Anne’s occasional sharp inhales.
“So, what exactly are you doing there?” Signe asked, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees.
“I’m releasing tension in the adductor muscles. The strain originates high up, near the hip flexor and the pubic symphysis.”
“Pubis, right,” Signe said, nodding slowly. Her eyes flicked from his hands to Anne’s face and back. “So you’re basically rubbing the inside of her thigh. That’s quite close to her pussy, isn’t it?”
“Signe!” Anne’s face flushed a deep, mortified crimson. She tried to sit up, but Harry’s hand on her leg, a therapist’s gesture, held her in place.
“What?” Signe shrugged, her expression one of feigned innocence. “It’s an anatomical fact. I’m just observing. It’s interesting.” She didn’t look away from Harry. “You must see a lot, working so close. Must be hard to stay… focused.”
Harry’s jaw tightened. His fingers pressed into a particularly stubborn knot, and Anne gasped, her back arching slightly. The movement shifted the fabric of her shorts, pulling the leg opening taut against her skin. He could see the faint outline of the elastic of her underwear beneath. It was a maddening barrier. He wanted to tear the shorts away, to see again what had been so briefly revealed. He wanted to see the full, naked truth of her, not this hidden suggestion. The memory of that pink seam, those soft, blond curls, was a fire in his gut.
“The focus is on the injury,” he said, his voice tighter than he intended.
Signe watched Anne’s reaction, the way her body responded to Harry’s touch. A slow, curious smile played on her lips. “Does that feel good, Anne?” she asked, her tone dropping, becoming more intimate.
Anne’s eyes were closed, her breath coming in shallow pants. “It… hurts. But it’s a good hurt.”
“Right. A good hurt.” Signe’s gaze was locked on the junction of Anne’s thighs. She shifted on the arm of the couch, a subtle, restless movement. “You know, I’ve never actually seen you… you know. All of you. Not since we were kids showering after soccer.”
Harry’s hands stilled. The air in the room became thick, heavy, impossible to breathe.
Anne’s eyes flew open. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m just curious,” Signe said, her voice a low, provocative hum. “We always talk about bodies, about guys. But we never really look at each other. And he’s already seen a bit, right?” She gestured vaguely at Harry. “When your hand slipped.”
The silence was absolute. Anne looked like she’d been struck.
Signe leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that was meant for all of them. “Come on, Anne. Just a quick look. For me. I want to see what all the fuss is about. I bet it’s perfect.”
Harry’s blood was thunder in his ears. This was wrong, a violation spiraling out of control, and yet the dark, possessive part of him howled in agreement. Yes. Show me. Show us.
Anne looked from Signe’s intense, aroused face to Harry’s, seeing the stark hunger he could no longer fully conceal. She was trapped between her friend’s bizarre voyeurism and her therapist’s hidden desire. The professional pretext was crumbling, leaving something raw and primal in its place.
Her hands went to the waistband of her shorts. Her fingers trembled.
“Anne,” Harry breathed, a warning and a plea fused into one word.
She didn’t look at him. Her eyes were fixed on Signe, caught in some unspoken current between them. With a shaky exhale, she hooked her thumbs into the fabric and began to push the shorts down.