Page 26 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger (Angel’s Peak #5)

Caleb’s eyes darken, pupils blown wide until there's barely any green left. Just black hunger. His jaw works, tendons flexing beneath skin that smells like woodsmoke and pine. Every breath he takes is measured, controlled—the way he always is when he's fighting something inside himself.

Then he steps in. Closer. Into my space. Into me. I back up. Back. Back. Back, until my boot hits the porch step. Caleb follows as the air between us thickens, charged with everything unsaid. My skin prickles with awareness as his body heat radiates across the inches that separate us.

Too much distance.

Not enough barriers.

"You want me to take control?" His voice drops into that place that turns my spine liquid, that dark register that promises things my body remembers even when my mind tries to forget. "You want me to lead?"

My heart slams against my ribs. I nod, swallow hard around the lump in my throat. "Yes. I want?—"

"Then listen." His words cut through me, sharp and clean. My stomach twists with anticipation, that familiar ache starting low and deep. The air feels too thick to breathe. I'm ready to say yes to anything—to kneel, to bend, to break myself open for him again.

"You'll take the Australia assignment." He leans in, mouth brushing my ear. His breath ghosts across my skin, raising goosebumps.

The words hit like a slap.

I jerk back, stunned and stumbling. My mind reels, trying to reconcile what I thought was happening with what he just said.

"What? No—Caleb, that's not?—"

"You said you want me to lead. To make the call." His voice is ice and fire. Calm on the outside, thunder underneath. The muscle in his jaw ticks—the only tell that this is costing him something. "I'm not asking. I'm telling you to go."

My lungs constrict. "I came here ready to stay. To choose you . And you're pushing me away?"

Pain flashes across his face—there and gone so fast I might have imagined it, but his stance doesn't waver. "I'm doing the one thing you said you wanted—giving you orders. Not just the ones you like. The real ones. The hard ones."

"That's bullshit." The words explode from me, sharp with betrayal. "You just don't want to take the risk. You don't want to fight for this."

Something dangerous flares in his eyes. He steps forward, all six-foot-plus of controlled power looming over me. His hands are fists at his sides like he's physically restraining himself.

"You think that's what this is? You think this doesn't cost me everything?"

Rage and hurt surge through me. I shove him. Hard. My palms connect with his chest—solid muscle that doesn't yield. "Then show me. Stop pretending you don't want me to stay and show me. "

His control snaps.

He grabs my wrists. Slams my back against the wall hard enough to rattle picture frames.

My arms are pinned above my head before I can breathe.

His body crushes into mine, every inch of him pressed against me, his erection obvious through his jeans.

His mouth hovers an inch from mine, breath ragged, eyes wild.

"You really want this, Harper?" His voice is gravel and broken glass. "You want that side of me?"

My breath comes in pants. Everything in me screams yes. I nod.

"No nodding. Words." His grip tightens, fingertips digging into my pulse points.

The command shoots straight to my core. I’ve been craving this: a man who knows what I need before I do. The one who can take me apart and put me back together stronger.

"Yes." The word comes out as a whisper.

His eyes darken further. Green swallowed by black. That last thread of restraint visibly frays.

"Then strip. Right. Now."

My pulse slams through my veins. For a heartbeat, I hesitate—old fears, old doubts rising up.

"I said now." His voice drops, quiet and lethal.

The tone brooks no argument. It's the voice of a man who expects obedience, who demands it. And God help me, I want to give it to him. He backs me up until I’m pressed against the door, then he opens it, ushering me inside.

My fingers tremble as I reach for my flannel. Buttons slip through holes with agonizing slowness. His eyes track every movement, burning paths across my skin before I'm exposed. The flannel hits the floor. My tank top follows, over my head in one motion, leaving me in just a bra.

"Keep going."

The rasp in his voice makes me shiver. My hands shake harder as I work the button of my jeans. The zipper sounds obscenely loud in the charged silence. Denim slides down my legs, pooling at my feet. I step out of them, kicking them aside.

I stand before him in nothing but black lace—the set I put on this morning without consciously admitting why.

He doesn't move. Doesn't touch. Just watches with predatory stillness that makes my skin feel too tight.

"All of it."

My breath catches. This is the moment. The precipice.

I reach behind my back. Unhook my bra. Let it fall.

My nipples tighten instantly in the cool air, or maybe from the weight of his gaze. I hook my thumbs in my panties and push them down. The last scrap of fabric whispers to the floor.

I'm bare. Exposed. Vulnerable in ways that have nothing to do with nudity.

Yet, I've never felt more alive.

He leans into me slowly, deliberately like a wolf assessing prey. His heated gaze licks down my spine. Every nerve ending screams for contact.

The silence stretches, thick with tension. My skin prickles. My core clenches on emptiness.

"You thought control meant keeping you here." He stops in front of me and catches my chin with calloused fingers. Forces my eyes to his. "But real power is knowing when to let go . When to walk away. When to make someone else walk away."

His thumb brushes my bottom lip. I fight the urge to suck it into my mouth.

He steps forward. Crowds me back until cold wall meets heated skin. His clothed body presses against my nakedness—rough denim, soft cotton, hard muscle.

"And you—Harper—you would've stayed." His breath feathers across my face.

" You would've twisted yourself in knots trying to be what you think I need.

And six months from now, you'd wake up beside me with resentment in your eyes.

You'd blame me for what you gave up. And that?

" His grip on my chin tightens. "That would kill what we're building before it ever had a chance to start. "

Tears prick my eyes because he's right. Because he sees me too clearly. Because he's willing to hurt us both to save us.

"So this is for my own good?" My voice cracks, thick with emotion and arousal.

"No." His eyes burn into mine. "If you're talking about me fucking you, that's going to be for me—to remember you during the next six months, and for you to decide if you want to return to me.

" His thumb traces my bottom lip. "If this is what you want… If I’m what you want, then you'll honor my wishes.

Go to Australia. Think about what you want, and whether that means more of this. "

"But that’s not… It makes no sense."

"Not asking." He looms closer, towering over me. "This is me choosing us by letting you go. You’d resent staying. That resentment would rot everything we’ve started."

"Then prove it," I snap. "Show me."

A beat. Then another. His eyes darken—not with anger, but something else. Something deeper. Wreckage and want, grief and need. A storm I feel in my bones.

He closes the distance.

His mouth crashes into mine, a brutal, desperate kiss that tears the air from my lungs. This isn’t softness. It’s not seduction. It’s obliteration. Teeth. Tongue. Hunger. He devours me like he’s drowning and I’m the only breath he’ll ever get.

When he pulls away, we’re both gasping, chests heaving. His forehead rests against mine, our breath mingling in jagged rhythm.

“You don’t get it, do you?” His voice is wrecked. “This is me loving you. ”

The words hit harder than any touch ever could. My knees almost buckle.

"Outside. Now."

He takes my hand and leads me into the night.

Barefoot, breathless, nerves alive, I follow. The cold bites, sharp and bracing, but I barely feel it over the wildfire under my skin. The scent of pine and woodsmoke. The silence of snow-draped forest. Moonlight turns the clearing silver, dreamlike.

The boulder behind the house waits, still warm from the day. He stops beside it, turns to face me, and cups my jaw in one broad, calloused hand.

“You remember what you said… about this stone?” His voice is low, rough, vibrating through me. “What I said I wanted to do to you? Out here like this?”

Heat floods my face. My breath catches.

I nod.

His mouth curves in a wicked, knowing smile. “Yeah. You remember.”

I swallow hard. My thighs press together involuntarily, breath quickening.

But then—he lets go.

Steps back.

The loss of contact makes me sway. The sharp edge of disappointment slices through my belly. Until his hands are suddenly at my waist, lifting me effortlessly onto the boulder. It’s smooth against my bare skin, warmed by the sun but cooled by evening, grounding and solid beneath me.

He parts my thighs.

Kneels.

My heart stops.

“Caleb—”

“This is what you get,” he says, his gaze blazing up into mine. “For now.”

His hands curl around my hips like he owns them. Like he owns me. The first swipe of his tongue steals my breath.

He worships.

Not with cruelty. Not with control. But with devotion.

“If you come back—if you choose me—we’ll talk about fantasies.” His voice is darker now, full of promise and warning. “But this? This is what I want you to remember.”

Then he leans in. Every stroke is reverent. Every growl against my skin is a benediction. I arch. I tremble. I shatter, again and again, until I’m boneless, breathless, broken open and whole in the same heartbeat.

And everything else disappears.

The trees. The stars. The night itself.

All gone.

Replaced by the heat of his mouth, the relentless rhythm of his tongue, the low growls of satisfaction vibrating against my skin. My fingers tangle in his hair. My head falls back. Every nerve lights up with need. With knowing.

I’ll never forget this.

Not if I live to be a hundred.

When he rises, his lips glisten and his pupils are blown wide. He kisses me like he’s never going to stop. Like maybe he never should.

Then he lifts me again, this time into his arms, cradling me like something precious. Like something he already knows he can’t afford to lose.

He takes me back inside and lays me on the bed, and then…

He fucks me like he's angry. Like he's grieving. Like he's already missing me. Like he’s leaving pieces of himself inside me to carry to Australia. Branding his name beneath my skin.

I meet every thrust, hands scrabbling for purchase. The wet sounds of our joining fill the air along with our ragged breathing, my whimpers, his growls.

"Remember me." His free hand finds my throat. Not squeezing, just holding. Possessing. "Remember this feeling when I’m not there."

The words break something in him.

This angle is deep. More primal. He sets a punishing rhythm that has me climbing toward release embarrassingly fast.

I whimper. Try to hold back the tide building inside me, but he knows my body too well. Knows exactly how to push me to the edge. His fingers find my clit, circling with devastating precision.

He pulls almost all the way out. Slams back in.

I shatter.

My climax rips through me like lightning, every nerve ending firing at once. I scream as my body convulses around him. He fucks me through it, prolonging the waves until I'm sobbing from overstimulation.

Only then does he let himself go. His rhythm falters. His grip tightens. He buries himself deep with a roar that sounds like my name and empties himself inside me.

When we collapse together afterward, tangled and raw, I don’t feel broken. I feel whole .

For long moments, neither of us moves. Just harsh breathing and racing hearts, gradually slowing. His weight pins me, grounding me as I float in a state of bliss.

Eventually, he pulls out carefully. Gathers me in his arms. I curl into his chest, boneless and sated. His fingers card through my tangled hair. Lips press against my temple.

When he finally speaks, his voice is gentle. “Go to Australia.” His arms tighten around me. “Chase the thing you’ve worked for. Prove to yourself that you can. Shine as bright as you can, and if you still want this with me—want us —when you come back, I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere. ”

I want to argue. Want to rage against the logic of it, but deep down, I know he’s right.

If I stay, I’ll wonder.

That what-if would poison us.

“I hate that you’re right,” I whisper against his chest.

“I know.” His chest rumbles with a quiet laugh. "I hate it, too."

We don’t sleep. Not really.

Instead, he makes love to me again. And again. Slow and tender, as if memorizing the exact shape of my body beneath his hands. Then harder, rougher, and frantic with the urgency of goodbye.

There are moments when we laugh breathlessly into each other’s mouths, and moments when he fucks me like it’s the last thing tethering him to the earth.

When the first light of dawn slips through the window, we’re tangled in each other, sweat-damp and aching, skin marked with the memory of everything we didn’t say.

Because today, I leave.