Page 26 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

“I’ll wait outside while you get situated. Call when you’re ready.”

“Loralee.”

I pause.

“No energy commentary.”

“I remember.”

“No reading anything into my reactions.”

“That may require clarification.”

His eyes narrow again.

“I won’t interpret your reactions aloud,” I promise. “Unless one indicates that you are injured or need me to stop.”

“And no surprises.”

“No surprises. You remain in control of the session.”

Something in him eases. Barely. I step outside the treatment area.

The night has turned colder while the festival emptied. I secure one lantern near the entrance and look toward the main path. Members of Rocco’s team move between the booths. Two uniformed deputies speak near the pavilion. Everything appears calm, but the sense of order does not happen naturally. It exists because people like Rocco remain alert while everyone else relaxes.

“Ready,” he calls.

I return and close the screen behind me.

Rocco lies face down with the sheet covering him from the waist down. He left his pants on, as expected. His arms rest along the sides of the table rather than above his head, protecting the injured shoulder from unnecessary rotation.

For several seconds, I forget every professional thought I possess.

His body is leaner than his clothing suggests, built through disciplined strength rather than size alone. Muscle defines his back and narrows toward his waist. A dark tattoo spreads across his left shoulder blade, disappearing along his ribs beneath the sheet. Several scars interrupt the smooth brown skin of his back. One crosses the top of his right shoulder. Another curves near his spine.

The physical evidence of his history lies openly before me while the man himself remains guarded.

Attraction moves low and warm through my body. I acknowledge it and set it aside. That is part of the work, too.

“I’m going to begin at the left shoulder,” I tell him. “The uninjured side will give me a comparison. I’ll use light pressure first.”

“All right.”

I warm a small amount of unscented lotion between my palms, then place both hands against his upper back. Rocco stops breathing. The response is so immediate that I remain still rather than beginning the first stroke.

“Do you want me to move my hands?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

“Then breathe.”

He exhales slowly beneath my palms.

I begin with broad, light movements across the left side of his back, allowing his body to adjust to contact. His muscles remain hard beneath my hands. They’re not flexed for strength, but held. The tension extends from his shoulders down both sides of his spine, as though relaxing any one part might compromise the whole.