I’ve Touched You Before

RHETT VOSS

She pushed my hand away again.

“Please don’t touch me without asking first, Mr. Voss. That’s not okay.”

Her voice was tight, but not cold. Not quite. It shook slightly, like it wasn’t just the touch that startled her—but something deeper.

I held up both hands and took a step back. “Fair. Sorry.”

She turned away, straightening things on her desk that didn’t need straightening. Her hands moved too fast, too precise. She was trying to distract herself.

“You’re tense,” I said.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

She paused for just a second, then exhaled and turned around, arms crossed. “Are you always this forward?”

I gave her a half-smile. “Only when the professor looks like she’s about to bolt.”

Her eyes flicked away—and then back. Like she couldn’t help herself.

“I don’t bolt,” she muttered. “I leave. Like a normal person.”

“Sure you do.”

That got me a look. Sharp. But her mouth twitched—almost a smile.

There it was again. That flicker. Not just in her face, but in how she moved. How she spoke. Her voice stirred something in me. Not a memory. A reaction.

Like I’d heard it somewhere else.

I tilted my head. “Are you sure we haven’t met before?”

She froze.

Then calmly said, “Nope. We haven’t. I’d remember.”

Right.

So why did it feel like a memory was clawing at the back of my brain, begging to be let out?

I let it go—for now.

“You want me on the table?” I asked, nodding toward the rehab bench.

She gave a tight nod. “Shirt off. I need to assess the joint’s response to pressure.”

I stripped off my shirt, and her eyes flicked up—then down just as fast. She was trying to stay professional, but the tiny inhale gave her away.

I felt her hands brush my shoulder, testing my range of motion. Her fingers were warm, careful… and just barely trembling.

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” she asked.

“No.” I smirked. “Though you’re acting like I’m going to bite.”

She let out a breath. “You’re imagining things.”

“Maybe.”

A beat passed. Then another.

She focused hard on the chart, like it held ancient secrets. But I saw her glance at my chest again—just for a second.

The pull between us was impossible to ignore. Like we were orbiting each other through fog—close, hot, and blind to the source.

I didn’t know her.

Not really.

But it sure as hell felt like I’d touched her before. And a fuck like that? I’d never forget.

She cleared her throat. “Let’s begin.”

She got to work, checking the shoulder. Her touch was gentle but firm, guiding my arm in small circles.

“Raise your arm for me,” she said. I obeyed, lifting slowly until the strain hit.

A faint grimace tugged at my jaw. She noticed.

Her brow furrowed, and without a word, she stepped in closer. One hand on my back. The other under my elbow.

“Any sharp pain?”

“Just tight.”

“Scar tissue, maybe,” she murmured. “We’ll go slow. No sudden moves.”

“I can take a little pain,” I said.

That made her pause.

She didn’t look up, but her fingers tightened—just slightly—on my arm.

Then she bit her lip.

Again.

I’d seen her do that before. Every time, it made her mouth look redder. Fuller. Like it was made to be kissed—or used.

Her hair was in a messy ponytail, strands falling out and framing her face like an accidental halo. The rest fell in waves down her back.

That’s how I liked it. Long enough to grip.

I exhaled, forcing the thought away. Not now. Not here.

She was standing close—too close. Her breath barely ghosted across my chest, and something low stirred in my gut.

Behave, I warned myself.

Then she looked up—and we were inches apart.

And that’s when it hit me.

Not her touch. Not her voice.

Her scent.

Soft. Warm vanilla. A hint of sandalwood.

I’d smelled it before.

In another room.

On another night.

My throat tightened. The air between us thickened—charged like the second before a lightning strike.

She stepped back.

And the feeling slipped away.

No, I told myself.

It couldn’t be.