Page 26 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
His lips are like fire against mine, his tongue sweeping into my mouth like he owns it—like he’s finally claiming what he’s been denying himself since the moment we met. I moan into him, clutching his shirt, trying to pull him closer. Trying to feel all of him, the press and burn and stretch of him against me.
He groans—low and raw, vibrating between our bodies.
One arm wraps around my waist, yanking me into him like he can’t stand even an inch of space. The other buries in my hair, angling my head, deepening the kiss until I can’t breathe, don’t want to.
His hips drive into mine, all heat and hardness, and it’s like a match to gasoline. I grind against him, desperate for friction, for pressure, for more.
My shirt sticks when he tries to yank it up—wet cotton refusing to move.
He growls, frustrated, tries again.
Still stuck.
We both are.
Caught in this inferno, clinging to each other like the world might end, and this is all we get.
Then he pulls back.
Just enough to rest his forehead against mine. His breath comes fast. Shaky.
“Fuck.” His voice is wrecked. “This isn’t… I shouldn’t have?—”
I don’t move.
Because I need him to finish. To say something real. To undo or redo what we just did. Anything but leave me hanging here, scorched and shaking.
His hands still rest on my waist. Fingers twitching like he doesn’t want to let go.
But he does.
Steps back, slow and careful, like I’m made of fire and he’s already burned.
His hands lift. Palms up. Fingers spread.
Not surrender.
Distance.
“I’m sorry,” he rasps, voice frayed. “That… shouldn’t have happened.”
But his eyes say the opposite.
His eyes say it had to happen.
His chest rises with a sharp breath—like the air’s been punched out of him and he’s only now realizing he needs it back. But he doesn’t look at me. Not directly. Not after what just happened.
Not after we both let something dangerous and unspeakably real crack open between us like lightning splitting a centuries-old pine.
“You need to get out of those clothes,” he says, backing up another step like I’m the one on fire.
“I’m not?—”
“You’re soaked.” Too fast. Too sharp. He’s not talking about the rain. “Body temp drops fast in this altitude. Hypothermia isn’t something I want on your list.”
My list.
Right. Stranded. Bruised. Heartsick. And apparently one steamy kiss away from sending a battle-hardenedranger into full retreat.
