Page 12 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger (Angel’s Peak #5)

His hand twitches. Once. Twice. Like he’s seconds from giving in.

“There’s a boulder at the overlook,” I say, breath hitched, heart in my throat. “Every time we passed it, I imagined you bending me over it. One hand holding me down, the other wrapped in my hair while I scream your name into the wind.”

His head tips back like he’s in pain. His throat works once. Twice. Then his gaze drops to mine—feral. Starved.

“Jesus Christ.” It’s not a prayer. It’s a warning .

He stares at me like I’ve torn something open inside him.

I take one step closer.

“You want to dominate me?” My voice is hoarse, rough with need. “Then stop talking about it and do it.”

His restraint shatters.

He lunges.

One second of stillness—then chaos. His hands grip my face like he’s drowning, his mouth crashing onto mine with zero finesse and absolute need. I gasp, and he takes it—drinks it down like it’s oxygen.

Then he spins me, slams me back against the wall, not hard, but hard enough to make my breath catch.

“Tell me to stop,” he growls against my lips.

“No.”

“Tell me you can take it.”

“I can take it.”

His hands are everywhere—at my hips, up under my shirt, dragging a moan from my throat as he presses every hard inch of his body against mine. There’s no space left. No oxygen. No sanity.

“Caleb—”

His name is a gasp, a plea, a spark.

He bites my lower lip, then kisses the sting like an apology he doesn’t mean. His fingers thread into my hair and tug my head back, forcing my gaze to his.

“You wanted wrecked?” His voice is a vow now. “You’re about to be fucking ruined.”

He’s on me, his mouth crashing into mine, nothing gentle, nothing soft. Just raw, hungry, carnal need. His hands are on my hips, dragging me into him, pressing me against the wall.

I gasp into the kiss and he growls, deep in his throat, a sound that says he’s seconds from losing control completely.

But he doesn’t.

The kiss is brutal, hot, and deep, and utterly consuming. His mouth crashes into mine with enough force to drive me back against the wall. His hands grip my hips like he’s afraid I’ll disappear, like I’m the only thing anchoring him to this earth.

I moan into him, helpless and greedy, as his thigh wedges between mine, grinding upward, forcing a cry from my throat. One of his hands slides up my torso, fingers curling around my throat—not tight, just there—a promise.

And I arch into it.

“Say it.” He pulls back just enough to look at me—really look. His breathing is ragged. His pupils are blown wide.

“I need you to fuck me,” I whisper.

His eyes search mine. Something unspoken trembles between us. His hands fist my shirt. The damp fabric clinging to his calloused palms, and then—he stops.

Just… stops.

His whole body shakes like he’s hanging on by a thread.

“Fuck,” he grits out. “You have no idea what you’re asking.” A tremor rolls through his arms like he’s shaking from the effort of holding himself back.

“I do.” My lips brush his. “You don’t scare me. Not even a little.”

His next breath is sharp, brutal. He steps back, his muscles shaking, and his breath ragged. One hand drags over his mouth like he’s wiping away the taste of what he almost did.

“Caleb?” I can barely get the name out. "What?—"

“I can’t.” His eyes squeeze shut. When he speaks, his voice is shredded.

“Why not?”

“Because if I touch you now, I won’t stop. I won’t be gentle. I won’t slow down or ask questions or check in.” He looks at me, wrecked and raw. “And I can’t risk that. Not with you.”

“You think you’ll hurt me? ”

“I know I will.”

And there it is—the fracture line beneath all that mountain steel.

He isn’t scared of wanting me.

He’s terrified he’ll break me.

“I need air,” he says, voice broken. “I need to go before I hurt you without meaning to.”

I reach for him, but he shakes his head, already grabbing his jacket.

“Get out of those wet clothes or you’ll get hypothermic,” he mutters, not looking at me. “There’s a blanket by the stove. I’ll check the water line.”

And just like that—he’s gone.

But this time, it’s not a retreat.

It’s restraint. The kind forged in fire and beaten into bone.

Because even a man built from granite knows when to stop.

Because real control doesn’t come from taking—it comes from knowing when not to.

When he comes back, storm-washed and steel-eyed, boots heavy with mud and decision… He won’t hesitate.

He’ll take.

He’ll strip me bare like bark from a tree, bend me over anything that’ll hold my weight, and make me beg until I forget my name.

Not out of anger.

Out of hunger.

And I’m done pretending I want anything less than to be wrecked by him—mind, body, and every aching inch in between.

Let the mountain bear witness.

Next time, I won’t be the one trembling.

I’ll be the one begging him not to stop.

I press myself into the corner of the window seat like it might anchor me, trying to make sense of the chaos he left behind. My heart pounds. My thoughts snarl, too tangled to unravel, too loud to silence.

The rain continues its steady patter against the glass, amplifying the charged silence in the cabin.

Somewhere out there, he waits.