Page 33 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
I follow.
“That kiss,” I whisper, eyes burning, heart pounding, “was real. Maybe the only real thing you’ve let yourself feel in years.And you’re terrified of what it means if you let yourself want more.”
His breath shudders. One hand clenches at his side.
But he doesn’t deny it.
And that silence? That silence says everything.
We’re close now. Too close.
Breathing the same damp, electric air. His chest rises and falls like he’s just come down off a sprint, though neither of us is moving. His gaze locks with mine, dark and dangerous, pupils blown wide.
The air crackles—alive with the kind of charge that lives in the sky before lightning strikes.
“You’re leaving in a matter of days.” His voice drops, gravelly rough. “Then it’s back to your life. Planes, continents, chasing light through a lens.”
“So?” My voice is low, defiant.
“So this—” his hand slices the air between us, “—doesn’t end well. We start something here, it only ends with regret.”
“Who said anything about happy endings?” I take a step closer, heat rising up my throat like a fever. “Maybe this isn’t about later. Maybe it’s just about now.”
His jaw clenches.
And for a heartbeat, I think he’ll cave.
Then the radio crackles.
Static slices the moment. Caleb spins toward it like it’s a lifeline, not a fucking excuse. His hands move with too much force, twisting the knob, adjusting the frequency with the kind of precision that only comes from needing something to control.
By the time he turns back, he’s hiding behind that damn mask again. The one carved from stone and silence.
But his shoulders are too tight. His hands too still. He won’t meet my eyes.
“It’s for your own good,” he says.
“Don’t.” My voice sharpens, rage cutting through the heat. “Don’t you dare pull that patronizing bullshit. I’m not a porcelain doll. I’m a grown woman who knows exactly what she wants.”
He moves.
One step.
Then another.
Until his chest nearly brushes mine.
His control slips. It shows in the tightness around his mouth, the heat bleeding from his skin, the hunger vibrating off him in waves.
“You don’t understand,” he growls, voice fraying. “I don’t just want you.” His breath hits my cheek. Hot. Shaking. “I want to take you apart.”
Lightning arcs down my spine. My breath stutters.
“I want to hear the pitch of your breath when I pin your wrists above your head and make you beg,” he grits out. “I want your thighs trembling when I bury my face between them. I want you whispering my name like a prayer and cursing me when I don’t let you come until you’re half-wild.”
My knees weaken. I grip the edge of the table behind me to stay upright.
He steps closer—just enough for his voice to go quiet, deadly.
