Page 49 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
“Better than okay.” I nuzzle closer, letting myself sink into him, grateful that awkwardness hasn’t replaced what we built in the dark. “You’re a surprisingly good pillow for a man who spends most of his time glowering.”
“Are you saying I’m not soft?” A low chuckle rumbles through his chest, the sound vibrating into my bones.
“I’m saying you’re comfortable. And I like it.” I let my fingers drift over his chest, tracing the scars and muscles, staking a silent claim. "As for being soft… you’re hard in all the right places."
“Damn straight, and you’re not going anywhere. Not yet.” His hand slides up my spine, fingers splaying wide, possessive.
The touch is gentle, but there’s nothing tentative about it—he’s still in control, even in this quiet moment.
The words send a shiver down my spine—part fear, part exhilaration. I’m not used to being wanted like this. I’m not used to letting myself want, either.
He rolls me beneath him in one smooth motion, his body pinning me to the mattress, eyes searching mine.
“You with me?” The question is soft, but it’s not a request—it’s a command, a check-in, a promise all at once.
“I’m with you.” My voice is barely more than a whisper, but it’s the truest thing I’ve ever said.
His lips find mine, and thekiss is slow, deep, a claiming that’s more about connection than conquest. There’s no rush, no urgency—just the steady, inexorable heat of two people who know exactly what they want and aren’t afraid to take it.
His hands explore me with a reverence that borders on worship, mapping the places that made me shatter the night before, coaxing new sounds from my lips.
When he finally joins our bodies, it’s not frantic—it’s profound, every movement a conversation, every thrust a confession. I cling to him, letting myself drown in the sensation, the emotion, the sense of being utterly known and utterly claimed.
After, we lie tangled together, bodies slick with sweat, hearts pounding in sync. He doesn’t let me go. His hand stays heavy on my hip, thumb stroking lazy circles into my skin—a silent promise that, for now, I’m his.
The radio crackles, shattering the peace. Caleb sighs, pressing a kiss to my temple before slipping from the bed, pulling on his jeans with a grace that makes me ache.
I watch him go, drinking in the play of muscle beneath tanned skin, the way he moves with purpose even now. I stretch, cataloging the sweet ache he’s left in my body, the marks of his possession hidden beneath the sheets.
When I finally emerge, clothes rumpled, hair a lost cause, Caleb stands at the radio, posture stiff, face shuttered. Something in the air has shifted.
“Copy that. Sierra Station out.” He sets the handset down, turning to me with an unreadable expression.
“What is it?”
“Road crews made better progress than expected.” His voice is neutral, too careful. “They think the main road will be open by tomorrow afternoon.”
Relief should flood me. Instead, disappointment stabs deep, sharp, and unexpected.
“That’s…good.” The word tastes wrong in my mouth.
“Yeah. Good.” He doesn’t meet my eyes, turning away, shoulders tight.
The awkwardness we managed to outrun all morning settles between us now, thick and heavy. Caleb busies himself with coffee, his movements clipped and precise. I hover, uncertain, the distance between us suddenly more daunting than any mountain trail.
I want to reach for him. I want to ask for more. But I don’t know how to bridge the gap—not when the end is suddenly so close, and I’m terrified of wanting something I might not be allowed to keep.
“Caleb.” I approach slowly, uncertainty threading my voice as I rest a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
He stills beneath my touch, muscles coiled tight, not leaning in but not pulling away.
“Fine.” The word is clipped, too controlled. “Just thinking about everything I’ll need to catch up on once the roads clear.”
The deflection stings. The man who stripped me bare last night—body and soul—has retreated behind the armor of routine, as if my impending departure triggered some primal defense. I let my hand fall, the distance between us suddenly colder, sharper.
“I should check my equipment. Make sure everything’s ready.” I turn away, needing space to gather myself, to make sense of the ache blooming in my chest.
By the time I return, the kitchen smells of coffee and toasted bread. Caleb has set out breakfast—oatmeal with dried fruit, the last of his homemade bread drizzled with honey. He looks up as I enter, something softening in his eyes.
