Page 29 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

The command when he uses my name is different now. It’s not control. It’s fear that he was too rough.

I hold out my wrist. There is no mark, only the lingering heat of his hand. Rocco turns my arm gently beneath the lantern light, inspecting the skin from both sides.

“I didn’t mean to grab you.”

“I know.”

“You approached from where I couldn’t see.”

“I reached across you without warning. I should have told you what I was doing.”

His gaze lifts to mine. “Don’t make that your fault.”

“I’m not. I’m identifying what happened.”

“I grabbed your wrist.”

“And released it when you realized it was me.”

His thumb remains lightly against my pulse. Neither of us appears willing to acknowledge that he is still holding my hand.

Rocco sits shirtless on the edge of the massage table, close enough that my knees nearly touch his. His hair falls around his face. The sheet covers his waist, but his chest and abdomen remain bare. A second tattoo curves across his ribs, and another scar marks the lower edge of his collarbone.

Attraction returns with enough force to make my breathing uneven. His gaze drops to my mouth.

This is not the playful tension from the booth inspection or the warm awareness of his body beneath my hands. This is sharper. Hungrier. Rocco’s thumb moves once over the inside of my wrist, directly above my racing pulse.

He feels it. His eyes darken.

“We’re finished,” he says.

The words are rough.

I look toward the clock on the cart. “You have six minutes remaining.”

“We’re finished.”

“All right.”

I step back, and he releases me. The absence of his hand feels colder than it should.

“I’ll give you privacy to dress.”

I leave the treatment area before desire overrides professional judgment.

The night air does little to cool me. I press both hands against the sales counter and breathe until my body remembers that I am a licensed professional standing in a temporary booth rather than a woman who nearly kissed a half-naked man beneath a maple tree.

The privacy panel moves behind me.

Rocco emerges wearing his shirt, although he has not fully pulled it into place. The fabric remains caught slightly at his right shoulder. He's controlled again, but the control no longer appears effortless.

“How does it feel?” I ask.

He rotates his shoulder cautiously. The movement is smoother than before.

“Better.”

The single word should not feel like a victory, but it does.