Page 1 of His Untamed Craving

Chapter 1

Daisy

Istroll down Main Street in the heart of downtown Silverpine, phone held up as I broadcast live to my adventure vlog followers.

"What's up, thrill-chasers?" I beam into the camera, my free hand pushing a windswept curl from my face. "This is Daisy Delgado coming at you from the rugged wilds of the Rocky Mountains and the small, idyllic town of Silverpine."

Pivoting my phone, I pan across the picturesque downtown scene. Quirky storefronts line the main street, their rustic facades a charming blend of log cabin chic and modern mountain style. In the distance, towering granite peaks scrape the horizon, their craggy ridgelines daring anyone foolish enough to attempt scaling them.

"Just look at those beauties," I murmur in awe. "Can you imagine the rush of conquering one of those bad boys? Well, that's exactly what a certain legendary thrill master might be doing very soon... live and on camera if I can track him down."

Turning the camera back toward me, I flash a conspiratorial wink. Thousands of viewers are tuned in, their comments scrolling across the bottom too fast for me to read. I've been teasing this trip to my followers for weeks, and it's time for the big reveal.

"You know who I'm talking about," I say, drawing it out. "Wyatt Croft, the ghost of the climbing world himself, haunting only the most insane, unthinkable routes up these monster peaks."

Another wave of comments, lots of exclamation marks and heart-eye emojis. Most of my followers are women, so that makes sense. We may not know much about the elusive adventurer, but we do know from the few pictures that have surfaced that he's the quintessential mountain man—tall, dark, and rugged.

And, coincidentally, just my type.

I'm not here to seduce him, though, at least not romantically. I'm here to get an exclusive feature with him and hopefully convince him to help me raise money for a good cause.

But as much as I search, there's no sign of the man.

I scan the bustling street one last time, my shoulders sagging in frustration. After canvassing every nook and cranny of this town, I'm no closer to tracking him down. The locals are tight-lipped, like they'd rather chew glass than give up any intel on their beloved recluse. Can't say I blame them. If the roles were reversed, I'd be protective as hell over someone like Wyatt, too.

I let out a dramatic sigh for my audience's benefit and say goodbye before switching off the live stream. "Looks like this is another dead end, my thrill-chasers. Don't worry. I'm not giving up that easily, and I'll keep you posted on any developments in Operation: Lure the Loner."

The midday heat is starting to sizzle, and a cold drink sounds like heaven. Tucking my phone away, I wander into Rustic Ridge Outfitters, the bell over the door tinkling cheerfully. Ah, sweet air-conditioned relief. The place smells like a glorious mix of fresh pine and well-worn leather, with a hint of campfire smoke lingering in the air.

My kind of vibe.

I meander over to the drink cooler, debating between an icy Gatorade or one of those sugary energy monstrosities. Both sound equally tempting right about now. As I peruse the colorful array of options, a tanned, muscular arm reaches past me to snag the last remaining energy drink.

"Hey!" I spin around, ready to put my sass to good use on this beverage thief. "What if I wanted that?"

The deep voice that answers practically drips with rugged nonchalance. "You snooze, you lose."

And just like that, I'm staring straight into the caramel-colored eyes of the man himself—Wyatt Croft. Those intense eyes are framed by deliciously tousled locks that beg for a woman's fingers to run through them, and the dark scruff along his chiseled jaw adds an extra dose of brooding mystique.

Hello, tall, dark, and extremely fuckable.

Forcing myself to snap out of my thirst spiral, I blurt out the first coherent thought that comes to mind. "Well, Wyatt Croft. You're a hard man to track down."

Dammit, why did I have to go and end that live stream? My followers would be eating this up with a spoon right about now.

His eyes narrow slightly as he studies me, like a hawk sizing up its prey. There's an amused glint in them, though, a silent challenge simmering beneath the surface.

"Why would a girl like you be tracking down a guy like me?" The low rumble of his voice sends a shiver racing down my spine, and suddenly, I'm hyperaware of how deliciously masculine he smells—like fresh cedar and campfire smoke with a hint of musky sweat.

Definitely doing things for me.

Snapping out of my hormone-addled daze, I stick my hand out in what I hope is a smooth, confident move. "Daisy Delgado, adventure blogger. I was wondering—"

"Nope." His response is flat and instant, effectively shutting me down before I can even make my pitch. So much for smooth and confident.

"But you haven't heard—"

"I don't have to,” he says. “You're with the press, or a blog, or a vlog, or whatever, and that's all I need to know."