Page 46 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
A growl rumbles low in his chest, vibrating against my skin as he dips his head. Lips close overone aching peak. Heat detonates—sharp, scorching—as he sucks hard, teeth scraping just enough to tear another gasp from my throat.
One hand pins my hip to the wall, the other palms my breast, rough and reverent, like he can’t decide whether to worship me or wreck me.
“You drive me fucking insane,” he mutters, breath ragged, voice breaking against my skin. “The way you look at me. The way you moan for me. I can’t?—”
The words cut off as his mouth finds mine again—harder, deeper. Teeth sink into my bottom lip before his tongue plunges in, wild and demanding. I kiss him back with everything I have, giving him everything, holding nothing back.
His hands are everywhere—shoving my jeans down, yanking my panties with them. His touch is feverish, greedy, like he’s been starved, and I’m the only thing that can satisfy the hunger clawing at him. I kick off my boots, clothes tangling around my ankles, and he cages me against the wall with his body, his strength, his need.
I fumble with his buttons, but he’s done waiting. A guttural sound tears from him as he shrugs off his shirt, ripping it over his head. Suddenly, it’s just him—bare skin, sculpted muscle, raw power. Built for work. Built to ruin.
My hands roam over scars, ridges, and heat. I can’t stop touching him. I can’t get enough. He grinds against me, the thick length of him sliding through my slick heat, and I cry out—nails digging into his shoulders, back arching, body strung so tight I could snap.
There’s no reprieve. No pause. Caleb doesn’t give me a second to think, to breathe, to doubt. He’s on me, his mouth dragging down my throat, teeth catching on the ridge of my collarbone, hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise as he pins me tighter to the wall.
Clothes hit thefloor in a blur of motion. When he steps between my thighs, every ounce of restraint is gone. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, my legs locking around his waist, his body a wall of heat and hunger and absolute command.
The bed looms behind us, but he doesn’t look. He never looks away. His eyes lock on mine like a dare, a promise, a threat. Control radiates off him—quiet, terrifying, complete.
And he walks me to the bed, all that heat and virility surging between us.
The second my back hits the mattress, he’s there. On me. Over me. The crush of his weight steals my breath, and his mouth crashes onto mine like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this world.
My wrists are yanked above my head, his fingers threading through mine just long enough to lock me down. The other hand slides lower—slow, deliberate—until it curls around my throat. Not choking.
Just holding.
Claiming.
A silent command that sears straight through my core.
“Before was…” His voice scrapes low, ragged, thick with something unspoken. “Rushed. Desperate.” His thumb skims the hollow of my throat, feeling the frantic beat of my pulse. “I needed you too bad to be careful.” His gaze traps mine—hot, unrelenting. “But this time…” He lowers his weight, his hips pressing into mine, a dark promise in every inch of contact. “This time I’m going to take my fucking time.”
His hand slides over my ribcage, slow, possessive. The other stays at my throat, anchoring me.
“But don’t get confused.” His mouth brushes my ear, breath hot, voice darker now. “Slow doesn’t mean gentle. I’m too wound up for that.”
A shiver rips through me.
“You good with that?”
The question cuts through the haze. A demand wrapped in heat.
I nod, dizzy.
“Say it,” he growls.
“I want everything,” I gasp, arching into him. “Don’t hold back.”
“Good. Because I’m done pretending I can resist you.” A wicked smile twists his lips.
Fumbling for protection, he barely pauses—just enough to tear the foil, roll it on—then he’s back, settling between my thighs in one fluid, possessive thrust that knocks the breath from my lungs.
His rhythm is brutal from the first stroke. Hips snapping. Muscles locked. Each thrust grinds me deeper into the mattress. Every drag of his body against mine is a claim—every broken sound he rips from my throat, a victory he savors.
My wrists stay pinned, his fingers tightening around them as his other hand closes over my throat, not enough to hurt—but enough to own. My breath stutters. The world narrows to him. The pressure. The power. The heat.
“Look at me.” The command cuts through the haze, voice frayed and low.
