Page 76 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

I place my hand against his chest. His heartbeat changes beneath my palm.

“Now I know something I didn’t know then.”

“What?”

“Being near you doesn’t take from me.”

His hand rises slowly and settles at my waist. “What does it do?”

“I’m still deciding.”

The answer almost makes him smile. I lift onto my toes and kiss him.

For one breath, Rocco does not move. He gives me time to change my mind, even with my mouth against his and my fingers curling into his shirt.

I kiss him again.

Whatever restraint held him still releases. One hand slides into my hair, supporting the back of my head as he takes control of the kiss. His mouth moves over mine with the same focus he brings to everything else, but there is nothing cool or measured about the hunger beneath it.

Heat rushes through me. It is nothing like the vision tearing through my energy or the emptiness it left behind. Rocco does not scatter me.

He gathers every part of me into this moment.

His arm tightens around my waist, drawing me against the solid length of his body. My breasts press against his chest, and the evidence of how thoroughly the kiss affects him rests hard against my stomach. The knowledge sends a pulse of need through me, low and deep.

Rocco slows, giving me another opportunity to step away.

I slide both hands over his shoulders and into the loose length of his hair. His control breaks a second time.

My back meets the door. He keeps one hand behind my head, protecting it from the wood even while his body holds mine there. The care in the gesture should temper the desire building between us. Instead, it makes me want more.

His tongue strokes mine. Coffee lingers beneath the taste of him, warm and dark, while the faint scent of cedar surrounds me. I rise higher against him, and a rough sound leaves his throat.

“Loralee.”

My name against my mouth feels like a question.

I answer by pulling him closer.

His lips move along my jaw and find the sensitive place beneath my ear. My head falls back against his palm as he traces the side of my throat, unhurried now, discovering which touches make my breath catch. When his teeth graze my skin, my fingers tighten in his hair.

His hand moves from my waist to the curve of my hip. The contact is firm enough to reveal what he wants and careful enough to leave every choice with me. I turn into it, eliminating the last thin space between our bodies.

Rocco lifts his head. His eyes are almost black.

The way he looks at me makes this feel like more than a kiss. He is not merely seeing the woman pressed against him. He is seeing the decision that brought me here, the trust beneath it, and every boundary he will wait for me to move.

I touch his lower lip with my thumb. “Again.”

This kiss is slower but no less consuming. He takes his time with my mouth while his thumb moves beneath the edge of my sweater and strokes the bare skin above my waistband. The small contact sends more sensation through me than it should, as though my body has been waiting for him to touch me without anything tragic or mystical standing between us.

For these few moments, I do not see blood on my hands. I do not hear glass breaking or a child screaming.

I feel Rocco’s heartbeat beneath my palm.

Alive. Strong. Here.

The radio at his shoulder crackles.