The Simple Wild (Wild 1)

“It’s bleeding. You must have a first-aid kit somewhere in here?” I dive down to begin rooting through the bag of basic survival gear—rope, a hunting knife, flashlight, iodine tablets for drinking water, ammunition—until I find a small white kit.

“I don’t do Band-Aids,” Jonah scoffs, tossing my raincoat over the line next to his things.

“Come here,” I command softly, peeling the plastic wrapper away from the beige bandage as I wander over to him.

After a moment’s pause, he holds his large, rough hand out.

With a painstakingly carefully touch, I wrap his injured palm, all the while feeling his intense gaze boring into my face. “There,” I murmur, smoothing my fingers over his forearm, quietly marveling at the corded muscle and the soft tickle of ash-blond hair beneath my fingertips. “You’ve already ruined enough of my clothes with your blood.” Words I never imagined saying to a guy.

“You asked why I kissed you.”

I hazard a glance upward, to find his piercing blue eyes alight with heat. “And you said it’s because you wanted to.”

“That wasn’t the right answer.” He reaches up to smooth the wet strands of clingy hair off my forehead, his gaze wild as it skitters across my features. “You have been driving me fucking insane for days and I couldn’t hold myself back for one more second.”

“Really?” I say weakly, even as the tiny hairs on my nape prickle. This intimidating, sharp-tongued but soft-hearted, beautiful man is telling me he wants me. Badly.

And that’s exactly what Jonah is: a man. All the other guys I’ve ever been with were just boys.

A swirl of nervous energy charges through my body, with a flooding warmth close on its heels.

It happens so fast.

One moment, I’m merely touching Jonah’s arm and he’s merely touching my cheek. The next, his hand is hooked around the back of my neck and he’s pulled my mouth to his. There’s nothing soft or tentative about this kiss. It’s as if he’s been counting down the minutes and hours since this morning, waiting for this moment, and now that it’s finally here, he’s not going to waste a single second.

I am stuck in the middle of an Alaska mountain range, making out with Jonah.

I can’t believe this is happening, but whatever I convinced myself of earlier, this is a bad idea that I’m fully committing myself to for tonight.

His lips ply mine open and I taste his mouth for the second time today as his tongue slides in. Mint gum and traces of the cream soda he had in the plane. I don’t even like cream soda, but on Jonah, I could drink an entire case.

My fingers begin to roam his body, crawling up his chest, reveling in its hard plains and his full, round shoulders, tracing the ridges of his collarbones and where they join his thick neck. Finally I let my arms loop around the back of his head so I can pull those full lips closer. If that’s even possible.

My brain is still trying to process what’s happening when he groans softly, “Calla.”

I can only moan in response, as every square inch of my body below my mouth begins burning for his touch.

He adjusts his stance, setting his feet farther apart. His free hand splays across the small of my back and he pulls me flush to him, our bodies contouring against each other. I feel the hard press of his erection against my stomach.

His mouth leaves mine to find my neck and I let out a giggle-­moan, the feel of his beard against my skin both intoxicating and tickling. It’s followed by a straight-up deep moan as he drags his teeth over the same spot. “Your clothes are soaked,” he murmurs, his hands sliding over my backside to test the hem of my tunic and my leggings, pausing to grip each side of me tightly, his fingertips digging into my flesh in a delicious way. He abruptly pulls away and takes two broad steps back. “Take them off,” he demands softly, his voice low. “I’ll hang them so they can dry.”

He folds his arms over his broad chest and waits quietly, patiently, his fierce gaze locked on me, his lips parted.

“You, too.” His pant legs are soaked.

“You first,” he fires back, his eyes burning.

The cabin is dead silent, save for the drumbeat of rain. He’s holding his breath, I realize.

With a deep swallow and a sudden case of nerves, I collect the hem of my long shirt and slide it up over my torso, over my chest, curling my arms to get it past my head.

Goose bumps erupt all over my skin as Jonah’s eyes drift downward over my white lace bra, down over my flat stomach.

He holds out a hand and I toss my shirt to him. And still he waits without a word.

I kick off my rain boots and cast them aside, and then, curling my thumbs under the waistband of my leggings, I peel them away, shimmying the wet cotton down my legs and off my ankles, my socks going with them.

Jonah’s eyes climb up my body and then drift again, stalling several times. “You’re cold.”