Page 17 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
And suddenly, the phrase wildlife rehabilitation takes on an entirely different meaning.
Mmmmm…those hands.
I trail behind him like a lovesick idiot with a camera, pretending I’m here for the wildlife and not the walking wilderness fantasy currently five steps ahead of me. I capture everything—the way sunlight slants through the trees like golden blades, how the wire mesh catches the light in sharp angles, how leaves rustle like secrets overhead. But it’s Caleb who keeps ending up in the center of every frame.
Always Caleb.
Bent forward, crouched low, stretching tall. Each movement is an accidental masterpiece I want to study with my mouth.
When he finishes checking the last enclosure, he straightens slowly. There’s a moment—a pause so still it hums—where he scans the clearing like he’s reading it. Not withlogic, but instinct. That quiet, animal sense that says he doesn’t just exist here—he belongs here. Shadow and sunlight stripe his face like war paint, and something inside me goes molten.
He hesitates. I see it in the subtle tick of his jaw, the flick of his gaze toward me. Then away. Like he’s debating something.
Please let it be whether or not to kiss me.
Or ruin me.
Or both.
Anything that ends with that mouth on mine, on skin, on the soft places I pretend aren’t already aching for him.
I keep my expression casual, like my brain isn’t melting into erotica about tree bark and flannel. But if he could read my thoughts? He’d never look at another bird feeder the same way again.
“There’s another spot,” he says finally, voice low. “If you’re interested.”
I nod, way too fast. “Always.”
“Fox den. Quarter mile east. Cubs were born last month.”
My heart does a stupid, eager flutter. And… yeah. So does everything else.
“Lead the way.”
Chapter 6
The trail narrows immediately,crowded by dense underbrush and wet ferns, forcing us into single file. Caleb steps ahead, and I try—really try—not to stare at the hypnotic flex of his back under that damn flannel or the way his jeans hug his thighs with the kind of reverence I fully understand.
He walks like a man who doesn’t waste movement. Like he’s carved from the same granite that anchors this forest.
Each step is exact.
Controlled.
Dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with predators and everything to do with what it would feel like to be trapped beneath him, pinned between that body and the earth, learning the weight of restraint undone.
And here I am.
Aroused.
By forestry.
Again.
Great.
The storm-wet trail tries to trip me with everystep—mud grabbing at my boots, ferns dragging across my thighs. But I keep up. Not just because I want to. Because I need to. Caleb doesn’t speak, but every shift of his shoulders, every precise placement of his feet, feels like a command.
And I follow.
