Page 25 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
But the heat?
Still burns. Low and fierce beneath my skin. Curling in my belly. Thrumming between my legs.
He moves to the window and clears his throat, voice neutral again. “Storm’s passing. We should head back before the next system hits.”
I nod, because words are currently a foreign language. Outside, the storm has dulled to a steady patter. I shrug out of the blanket, fingers trembling, and grab my camera, checking that it’s dry under my jacket.
We don’t talk on the hike back. We don’t have to. The silence between us is thick with all the things we almost did. All the things we still want to do.
By the time the ranger cabin comes into view, I’m soaked again. Rain runs down my spine in cold, shivery streams. My clothes cling in all the wrong places. Caleb reaches the porch first, holds the door for me.
I step inside.
Then stop.
We’re standing just inside the cabin, dripping onto the floor, steam rising off our skin as warm air meets cold rain.
And he looks like every dark, primal fantasy I’ve ever had.
His shirt is soaked, transparent, molded to every cut and line of muscle. His chest rises and falls like he’s barely holding it together. And when our eyes meet?—
That’s it.
The air splits.
No warning. No hesitation.
He moves.
One second of stillness, and then he’s on me—closing the distance in two strides like a storm bearing down. His hand comes up—rough, calloused, his—and it’s on my face, cupping my jaw with a kind of reverent urgency that steals the breath from my lungs. His palm is warm despite the chill, fingers splayed across my cheek, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth like he’s trying to memorize the shape of it.
His touch is unsteady. Controlled and shaking. Like he’s fighting every instinct and losing all at once.
He tilts my chin up, dragging my gaze to his. And what I see there? It’s not restraint anymore. It’s hunger. Desperation. Raw, soul-deep ache. Like I’m the first light after a lifetime in shadow. Like he’s drowning and I’m the only thing keeping him above the surface.
And then—God.
Then his mouth crashes down on mine.
No prelude. No gentleness. Just fire. Just need.
The kiss is feral. Consuming. Like he’s trying to drink me in, devour every second we’ve denied this. It’s teeth and tongue and heat, the press of his body against mine, the scrape of stubble against my skin, the taste of rain and restraint snapping clean in half.
He kisses like he’s furious it took this long.
Like I’m the only thing that’s ever made sense—and he doesn’t trust it.
My hands fist in his shirt, yanking him closer, anchoring myself to the storm that is him. His other arm wraps around my waist, iron-tight, hauling me flush against his chest like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. There’s nothing careful in him now. No holding back. Just a silent ache turned kinetic.
My spine hits the nearestwall, and I gasp against his mouth—he swallows it whole, groaning low, deep in his throat, a sound so primal it makes my knees buckle.
We kiss like we’ve already fallen.
Like we’re already burning.
Like if we stop—we won’t survive it.
There’s no hesitation. No caution. Just heat. Hunger. Possession.
