Page 38 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
Like it’s the only thing stopping him from crossing the room and backing me against the wall again.
I sit, trying not to squirm under the weight of his gaze. I try to breathe normally. Try to ignore the way his forearms flex with every slice. I try to ignore how his shoulders strain under his shirt.
“What’s the occasion?” My voice is thin, a little too high. My voice is too high. Too light. Like I’m pretending this is normal.
“Weather’s breaking.” He nods toward the window, sunlight streaming through the thinning clouds. “Radio says we’ve got a clear window today before the next system moves in.”
“So we’re not stuck inside all day?” I can’t hide the relief—or the disappointment. I want out of these four walls, but I want him to stop pretending we’re safe from each other.
He hesitates, then, softer, “Thought I might show you something. If you’re interested.”
His words are loaded, heavy with everything we didn’t finish last night. I see the storm in his eyes, the restraint stretched thin, ready to snap. I want to push him. I want to see what happens when he finally lets go.
I meet his gaze, let him see the hunger in my eyes. “I’m interested.”
His breath catches, just for a second. The tension between us hums—thick, electric, impossible to ignore. The air tastes like bread and coffee and longing.
I could push him. One word. One touch. One breath too close.
But not yet.
Let him simmer.
Let him suffer.
Let him burn.
He looks away, jaw clenched, fighting for control. I see the tremor in his hands as he sets the knife down, as he pours honey over the bread. I want to lick it from his fingers. I want to ruin him right back.
We eat in silence, every bite charged, every glance a dare. I wonder if he’s thinking about pinning me to the table, about taking me apart piece by piece, about making good on every filthy promise he made last night.
When he finally stands, the chair scraping back, the heat of his gaze blisters my skin. He holds out a hand, steady, but his knuckles are white.
“Come,” he says, voice rough with everything he isn’t saying. “Let’s go.”
And I follow, heart pounding, already burning for the storm I know is coming.
"Where?"
"Something you’ll enjoy."
“The eagle nesting site?” I can’t quite hide the eagerness in my voice. Not after last night. Not after the way his hands left invisible fingerprints on my skin.
He nods, sliding a plate toward me. “Need to check it anyway. Trail might be rough after the rain.”
I take a bite of bread, eyes fluttering closed. The crust shatters beneath my teeth, yielding to a pillowy, tangy center. I moan before I can stop myself.
“This is incredible.”
That almost-smile flickers across his mouth, heat banked but not hidden. “Sourdough. Starter’s over five years old.”
“Something else you brought with you when you left the firefighting crew?”
He nods, gaze dropping to his plate. “One of the few things.” His voice is softer, the usual edge replaced by something quieter, more honest. There’s no wall between us now, only the faint, unspoken ache of restraint.
We eat in a silence that feels intimate, not awkward. Every brush of his hand, every accidental glance, sends a ripple of heat through me. When we finish, he packs water, food, and emergency gear. I gather my camera, pulse already quickening at the thought of being alone with him in the wild.
Outside, the world is scrubbed clean. Sunlight glances off rain-soaked pines, droplets clinging to needles like jewels. The air is cool, alive, scented with earth and resin and something wild.
