His Wild Desire: A Curvy Woman Mountain Man Romance (Rugged Peaks Book 1)

Chapter 3

Ashaft of early morning light filters through the cabin window, rousing me from a surprisingly deep slumber. I squint against the brightness, grimacing as a dull throbbing emanates from my tender ankle. Yesterday”s events come flooding back in a disorienting rush—the ill-advised solo hike, the tumble that nearly cost me more than just my pride, those piercing eyes that seemed to stare straight through me...

Caleb.

Shifting beneath the pile of thick quilts, I glance around the rustic space, my eyes instantly landing on the source of the noise that woke me.

He”s shirtless and barefoot, stoking a simmering fire in the old pot-bellied stove with casual, well-practiced movements. The muscles of his broad back ripple beneath his tanned skin, and I feel an unexpected flutter low in my belly at the sight. Get a grip, Whitmore.

”Caleb?” My voice still rasps with sleep as I struggle upright, mindful of my immobilized ankle. ”Any chance you could help me get back down the mountain today?”

He glances over one shoulder, those stupidly blue eyes locking onto mine with far too much intensity for this hour. ”And just how d”you expect me to do that, princess? I don”t exactly have a four-wheeler idling out front.”

My mouth instantly presses into a thin line. ”Well, I can”t just lay around here indefinitely,” I argue, gesturing to the shabby furnishings. ”I have things to do and meetings to attend. A life, in case you”ve forgotten what that looks like.”

”You got yourself into this mess,” he drawls, turning his attention back to the skillet sizzling over the fire. ”Now you gotta sit tight and let that ankle heal up. A couple of days, minimum.” He shoots me a pointed look over one broad shoulder. ”That is, unless you wanna make the trek out with that janky ankle and end up stuck out here even longer.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the rich scent of sizzling meat and melted butter hits my nose just then, short-circuiting further protests. My stomach rumbles hungrily, reminding me that it”s been over a day since I last ate.

”Is that bacon?” I can”t quite mask the eager anticipation in my voice.

Caleb smirks knowingly as he gives the pan a deft flick of his wrist. ”Hickory-smoked, straight from Old Ernie”s smokehouse in town,” he confirms, his tone taking on a hint of smug satisfaction. ”Man knows how to cure a mean rasher.”

My mouth is practically watering as I watch him plate up a hearty portion of the thick-cut strips alongside a couple of fried eggs and a stack of buttery toast. He crosses the room in a few strides, setting the simple meal on the battered side table beside the bed.

“It’s no eggs benedict,” he says teasingly, “but hopefully it will suit your tastes.”

I narrow my eyes at that arrogant smirk, but the truth is, the rustic fare looks absolutely heavenly after the breakfast smoothies I”ve been choking down at the office lately.

”I guess it will just have to do, won’t it?” I counter loftily. Snatching up the fork, I carve off a crisp corner of bacon and pop it in my mouth, unable to suppress the moan of sheer bliss as the smoky, salty flavors explode over my tastebuds.

Caleb watches me with an unmistakable gleam of amusement, his full lips still curved in that infuriatingly sexy half-grin. Bastard. He knew I”d love it.

”Okay, fine,” I mumble reluctantly after polishing off half the plate. ”I”ll give you this one. Your backwoods cooking isn”t half bad.”

His rumbling baritone chuckle fills the small space as he settles on the end of the bed, his plate balanced on one denim-clad knee. ”Told ya. Sometimes simple”s better.”

I roll my eyes at the smug tone, even as a small smile tugs at my lips. For all his rough edges, I have to admit—Caleb has a certain roguish charm when he isn”t being a completely insufferable ass.

”Speaking of fine cuisine...” I drawl, scooping up another bite of egg. ”What”s the most memorable meal you”ve ever had?”

He considers the question for a moment, those eyes crinkling in thought.

”Gotta be the elk backstrap I bagged on my twenty-first birthday,” he replies at last. ”Packed it in over three days, made camp by the river, slow-grilled it over the coals with just some wild herbs and a nice cabernet I”d hauled in.”

A reminiscent grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, those vivid blue eyes seeming to gaze inward at the memory. I can”t help picturing it—the rugged mountain man, silhouetted against a breathtaking alpine vista as he tends to his campfire feast, a Mason jar sweating beside the dancing flames. The image is... surprisingly romantic.

I shake myself out of the unbidden reverie, refocusing on Caleb”s expectant expression. Clearly, it”s my turn to reveal my own fine dining experience.

”Well, mine was this seven-course tasting menu at the three-Michelin star restaurant in the Plaza,” I begin, unable to repress a smug grin of my own. ”Each plate was a work of art, from the sashimi and caviar amuse to the butter-poached tenderloin and foie gras. Of course, it was all perfectly paired with a sommelier-selected vintage from their five-thousand-bottle cellar and served in a private dining room draped in white Italian silk...”

My voice trails off at Caleb”s utterly blank look, clearly lost somewhere around the mention of a Michelin.

”You”re fuckin” with me, right?” he mutters, shaking his head in patent disbelief. ”All that fuss over some food that probably didn”t fill you up?”

I bristle at his dismissive tone, my spine stiffening defensively. ”It”s not just about stuffing your face,” I shoot back hotly. ”It”s about the artistry, the presentation, the wine pairings, the ambiance...”

My voice trails off as I realize I”ve already lost him.

I huff out an exasperated breath, raking my fingers through my tangled bedhead in frustration. ”You know what, forget it. I can”t expect someone who lives in the wilderness and eats Bambi”s relatives to understand.”

”Damn straight you can”t,” he rumbles, unperturbed by my dig at his rustic lifestyle. ”But that”s okay, princess. We”ll make a mountain woman outta you in no time.”

After breakfast, I do my best to handle my morning necessities, as embarrassing as it is in such close quarters with this hot mountain man. I manage to get dressed in my clothes from yesterday, my cheeks flushing as I catch Caleb”s gaze lingering a little too long on the curves accentuated by my form-fitting hiking attire.

I wonder what I”m going to do all day, stuck in this rustic cabin with no cell service or internet connection to occupy me. But Caleb seems to have other plans.

Once we”re both dressed and ready, he scoops me up in one effortless movement before I can so much as squeak a protest. I instinctively latch onto his shoulders for balance as he carries me toward the door.

”Caleb! What are you doing?” I sputter, clutching his warm skin as he nudges the door open with one booted foot.

”Like I said, you”re gonna be here for a couple of days,” he reminds me, his deep voice rumbling against my chest from our proximity. ”Which means it”s time I teach you how we do things out here.”

He deposits me on a battered wooden bench just outside the cabin”s entrance, the warm late-morning sunlight instantly bathing my face. Stretching out my tender ankle with a wince, I shoot him a pointed glower.

”And just what kind of ”schooling” did you have in mind?”

He crouches before me, reaching for the battered old tin coffee pot beside the bench. My brow furrows as he upends it to reveal a pile of straw and twigs.

”Fire”s the first lesson for any greenhorn out here in the wild,” he explains, his lips curved in a wry smirk as my gaze flies up to his in consternation. ”Don”t give me that look, princess. You really want to survive more than one night in these mountains, you better learn how to make one.”

With that, he fishes an ancient-looking firestarter kit from his pocket, placing it on the bench beside me before rising to lean back against the cabin, arms folded across that bare, muscular chest.

”Have at it,” he drawls, eyes dancing with undisguised amusement at my obvious discomfort. ”Just a little flint and tinder. No biggie, even for a city girl like you.”

He arches one challenging brow, and I feel a sudden, inexplicable urge to prove myself to this arrogant, rugged man. Squaring my jaw, I snatch up the archaic fire kit, determination blazing in my eyes.

But no matter how many times Caleb patiently walks me through the process—strike the flint, cradle the sparks, gently blow life into the glowing ember—the damned twigs stubbornly refuse to ignite. My hair is a disheveled mess, strands sticking to the sheen of sweat on my forehead, and I”m pretty sure there”s a smudge of ash streaked across one cheek. But I refuse to give up, my teeth gritted in grim determination.

”Breathe out, not in,” Caleb”s deep voice rumbles beside me, far too close for comfort. ”Blow too hard, and you”ll smother the tinder.”

His rough hand settles over mine, guiding it into a gentle cupping motion around the smoldering straw. I shiver involuntarily at the calloused heat of his palm, my skin prickling in awareness.

”There you go,” he murmurs, his beard tickling my neck. ”Easy, darlin”. You got this.”

I can feel the heat of his hard body radiating against my side, the clean, earthy musk of him surrounding me in a heady cloud. My lungs burn from the exertion as I follow the steady rhythm of his coaching, forcing air in a gentle stream over the glowing embers. I watch, mesmerized, as the tiny flame finally flickers to life, licking hungrily at the dry tinder.

”I did it,” I breathe, unable to bite back my triumphant grin as the blaze grows in intensity. I glance up to find Caleb”s eyes already locked on me, his expression unreadable.

”Not bad for a first try,” he acknowledges in a strangely hushed tone, not looking away. ”Told ya—all it takes is a lot of patience and a little know-how.”

My lips part to respond, but the words catch in my throat as I become abruptly, acutely aware of just how close his face is to mine. His eyes are hooded, those ridiculously long lashes fanning across lightly tanned skin. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and I feel a flare deep in my core, like a flash fire igniting in my belly. My breath hitches audibly in the heavy silence, my chest rising and falling in shallow bursts.

Without warning, he leans in and crushes his mouth against mine.

A strangled gasp escapes me, quickly swallowed by the insistent press of his full lips. Every nerve ending ignites, like my body has been doused in gasoline, and his touch is the spark. I”m utterly powerless against the onslaught of sensation, the dizzying scent and taste of him surrounding me.

Instinct takes over. My hands fist in his thick hair as I kiss him back with reckless abandon, parting my lips to grant his questing tongue entry. He groans deep in his throat, the rumbling vibration stoking the fire smoldering in my core.

Caleb”s arm bands around my waist, hauling me flush against the solid wall of his chest as his other hand cups the back of my head, angling me to deepen the already scorching kiss. I”m a live wire, every brush of his calloused palms and insistent tongue sending electric shocks lancing through me.

This is madness—complete insanity. But I can”t bring myself to care, not when his mouth is against mine.

My fingers trace the ridges of his abdomen, and Caleb growls in response, the sound pure sin, before nipping at my lower lip. The sharp sting has me whimpering into his mouth, my nails dragging down the broad expanse of his back, and suddenly it”s not enough. I crave more—more heat, more friction, more of his weight pinning me down and taking what he wants.

I”m delirious with wanting, aching to feel that hard, muscular form covering every inch of me.

As if he can read the fevered thoughts blazing through my mind, Caleb abruptly breaks the kiss, his harsh panting fanning across my tingling lips. He blinks dazedly, as though resurfacing from a trance, before his gaze finds mine again—dark and heavy-lidded with naked desire.

”Emma,” he rasps, his voice wrecked. The gravelly rumble sends a shiver racing down my spine, and I swallow hard, waiting with bated breath to see what he”ll do next.

But then he”s pulling back, untangling our bodies. I instantly mourn the loss of his solid heat, my limbs still thrumming.

”We should...” Caleb clears his throat roughly, dragging his fingers through those reckless chestnut locks as he visibly reins himself in. ”We shouldn”t.”

I open my mouth to protest, not yet ready to abandon whatever this is that”s blazing between us. But one look at his face—jaw clenched, eyes averted—and I realize the moment has passed, at least for now.

Caleb stands abruptly and clears his throat, not meeting my eyes. ”You can get yourself back inside, right?” His gravelly rumble is strained, like the words are being forcibly dragged out. ”I have... I have, uh, chores to do.”

Before I can formulate a response—a protest, an invitation to join me, anything—he”s turning on his heel and striding away with long, purposeful steps. I watch in a dumbstruck daze as that broad-shouldered silhouette disappears around the side of the cabin, leaving me alone on the weathered bench.

What just happened?

One minute, I”m drowning in the most mind-numbingly hot kiss of my life. And the next, Caleb is shutting me out, leaving me aching and utterly bewildered in his wake.

I let out a shaky exhale, my fingers drifting up to brush my still-tingling lips in a daze. That kiss... Jesus. I”ve never been so instantly and intensely consumed by pure, liquid fire before. Every brush of his calloused palms and stroke of that talented tongue has left invisible brands etched into my very soul.

And now the infuriatingly complex man behind those smoldering caresses has once again reverted to stoic mountain man mode, shuttering himself off like an impenetrable fortress.

Well, screw that.

Squaring my jaw in determination, I scoot to the edge of the bench and loop my arms beneath my good knee, hoisting myself upright with a grunt of effort. My tender ankle twinges in protest, but I stubbornly keep my weight braced as I wobble inside on one leg, using the doorframe for support.

Caleb can run and hide from whatever this blazing attraction is all he wants, but I won”t sit around and mope like some lovestruck teenager. I”m Emma freaking Whitmore. I don”t pine—I conquer.

With a huff, I collapse onto the couch and glance around the rustic space, searching for any distraction from my muddled thoughts and the lingering ghost of Caleb”s touch.

My eyes land on a battered wooden bookshelf crammed with dusty books, and I instantly perk up. Reading has always been my go-to escape, even before I was a high-powered executive juggling a million responsibilities.

Dragging the heavy quilt from the bed around my shoulders, I make myself a cozy nest and reach for the nearest book, its weathered spine proclaiming it to be some obscure classic I”ve never heard of.

But I don”t care—getting lost in the written word sounds like exactly the reprieve I need right now.