Page 27 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

I work gradually, increasing pressure only when his breathing becomes steadier. The left shoulder responds first. Muscle softens beneath my fingers, and his arm relaxes heavily beside the table.

When I move to his right side, the difference is immediate. Scar tissue tightens the skin near the surgical line. The muscles surrounding his shoulder blade have spent years compensating, some overworked and others reluctant to engage. I trace the border carefully without pressing into the inflamed area.

“Still a five?” I ask.

“Four.”

“Sharp or aching?”

“Aching.”

“Any tingling?”

“No.”

I move along the edge of his shoulder blade using slow, controlled pressure. Rocco’s breath leaves him in a low sound he tries to suppress.

Heat gathers beneath my skin.

Professional distance becomes more difficult when my hands are moving over a man I have imagined touching since yesterday. I concentrate on anatomy, pressure, and the subtle responses beneath my fingers. His body tells me where it will permit contact and where it expects pain before I create it.

The shoulder is only part of what he protects.

“Pressure?” I ask.

“Fine.”

“That isn’t one of the choices.”

“More.”

I increase it carefully. His muscles resist, then release by degrees. Rocco’s fingers uncurl beside the table. His breathing deepens. The controlled energy that has surrounded him since we met begins to loosen, spreading outward instead of remaining compressed around his body.

I say nothing about it. He trusted me to keep that promise.

I work down his arm, supporting the joint while moving it through a limited range. When I return to the shoulder, his body no longer anticipates each touch as a possible threat. That realization arrives with unexpected sadness.

I move to the head of the table and work along the base of his neck. His hair brushes the backs of my hands. Up close, it is dark brown rather than black, with warmer strands catching the lantern light.

Rocco exhales again. His head relaxes more fully into the cradle. For several minutes, neither of us speaks.

The festival sounds continue beyond the privacy screens. A metal gate closes in the distance. Radios murmur along the main path. Someone laughs near the food-vendor lane, then the sound fades.

Inside the booth, there is only breath and touch. Rocco’s body grows heavier beneath my hands. The change is not complete relaxation, but it is closer than I expected him to allow. I move from the neck to his shoulder again, following the hardened line of muscle toward the old surgical scar.

A flash breaks through me.

Darkness.

Metal folding inward.

The hard pull of a restraint across my chest.

Dust filling my mouth.

A voice shouting a name I cannot understand.

The impression disappears as quickly as it arrived.