Page 16 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
And clearly unaware that I’ve mentally ridden him in at least six positions since breakfast—including one that involved rope, a rock wall, and me saying thank you with tears in my eyes.
And I haven’t even finished my protein bar.
The trail breaks open into a sun-drenched clearing, all filtered gold light and pine shadows, where several structures sit spaced like tiny cabins. Each one’s enclosed in wire mesh and roofed with weatherproof paneling. Wildlife shelters. Or maybe thirst traps, since Caleb is already stalking toward the first one with quiet, devastating purpose.
I hang back under the guise of giving him room, but really? I need a minute. Or twelve. To reset. Breathe. Maybe dunk my head in a creek.
Because watching him move is a violation of every decency law I pretend to follow. The flannel strains across his shoulders as he crouches beside the first feeding station, his spine curving with perfect, dangerous intent. His jeans—soaked in places from trail spray—cling to every muscle they have no business showcasing. And when he bends low enough for the fabric to tighten across his thighs?
I swear my uterus makes a sound.
How does he not know what he looks like?
What that body is doing to me?
What it’s capable of doing?
I sip lukewarm coffee, pretending to focus on the enclosures, while my mind invents ways to trap us both in aconveniently collapsing shelter where I’m forced to wrap my legs around his waist for “stability.”
Or mouth-to-mouth.
Or mutual survival-induced orgasms.
I’m flexible.
“What kind of animals do you rehabilitate here?” My voice barely works, breathy and uneven. I need the distraction. Anything to stop picturing him naked in that same position, jaw tight, hands busy, fixing something I very much broke on purpose.
“Depends.” He checks a metal tray filled with seed, his broad back to me. “Mostly injured birds. Small mammals. Orphans. Things that wouldn’t make it on their own.”
A deep breath rattles through my lungs. Focus on the animals. Not the man. The innocent creatures. The wholesome mission. Not his arms or the way his voice does that thing where it drops half an octave and makes me want to cry.
“You do all the care yourself?”
He moves to the next structure, doesn’t look back.
“Part of the job.”
Of course it is. Of course, he’s not just sexy. He’s an off-grid, animal-rescuing, gear-hauling, wilderness-cooking, emotionally repressed Greek tragedy in plaid. I bet he bathes baby deer with biodegradable soap and reads bedtime stories to injured raccoons.
If he tells me he once bottle-fed an orphaned possum while simultaneously performing CPR on a kestrel, I’ll strip right here in the pine needles.
I follow him through the clearing, taking photos of the shelters with unsteady hands. Most are empty, their trays full, latches secured. But one enclosure isn’t vacant. Inside, perched on a smooth branch, a red-tailed hawk stares back at me—majestic, proud, still.
“She’s beautiful,” I whisper, lifting my camera to frame the bird’s profile.
Caleb crouches beside the mesh. “Wing fracture,” he murmurs, voice gentling in a way that gut-punches something tender inside me. “She’s healing well. Maybe another week, then release.”
That softness. That reverence. It wraps around my ribs and tightens, aching in a place I didn’t know could ache for anything but lust.
I don’t know whether I want to kiss him or sob.
Maybe both.
He moves to the final shelter, and I follow, watching the slight crease between his brows deepen as he inspects a warped latch. Focused. Quiet. Diligent.
He works like I imagine he fucks—steady hands, full attention, unhurried confidence. Not just doing the job.
Mastering it.
