I doubt any of my ex-boyfriends had particularly strong survival instincts. I can guarantee none of them have ever shot a gun.

But here’s this rugged Alaskan pilot, his handsome face stony with focus, totally in control as he prepares our camp for the night, probably going through a mental checklist.

And I’m just standing here.

“What can I do to help?”

“There’s a sleeping bag and mattress roll in there. Lay it on the floor over here.”

“The floor?” I cringe at the worn boards.

“Trust me, it’ll be more comfortable than those bunks. Plus it’ll be warmer here, near the fire.”

I follow instructions, quietly wondering if I’m getting this bed ready for him or myself.

Or for us.

My nerves flutter in my stomach at the thought.

Jonah starts peeling off his outer layers and hanging them on one of several wire clotheslines above the woodstove, until he’s down to a clingy cream-colored crewneck that reminds me of long johns with its quilted material. The three buttons at the collar are undone, exposing the hard ridge of his collarbone and the top of the pad of muscle that stretches down over his chest.

“Give me your wet things.”

“All my things are wet,” I mutter, shrugging off the slicker and the flannel jacket. Even the hem of my tunic is soaked.

Jonah’s gaze stalls on my chest a moment—given I can see his nipples pebbled beneath his shirt, I can only imagine what mine look like—before holding out his hand.

I frown at his palm, near the base of his wrist. “You’re bleeding.”

He turns his hand to inspect the gash. “Ah, shit. Yeah, I scraped it on one of the boards over the windows. It’s nothing.”

“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.”