Page 20 of Bunker Down, Baby

Maple

By the time the last plate’s scraped clean and someone moans the words ‘no more potatoes,’ Dean already has the cards out like he’s been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.

He doesn’t even ask, just slaps the deck on the table and grins around the room like yes, obviously we’re doing this.

“Strip poker,” he says, like it’s a sacred rite.

Wade raises a brow, not objecting. Evan sighs like someone just asked him to babysit toddlers. Brock… well, Brock looks like he’s halfway between bolting and biting, but he doesn’t leave. That’s progress.

Dean’s already shirtless, because of course he is. Which means he’s starting the game at a strategic disadvantage, zero upper layers, cocky smirk, full menace. Which is also on-brand.

“I’d say this gives me an unfair edge,” Wade says mildly, tossing his flannel over the back of his chair. “But I don’t think any of you were planning to win anyway.”

“Don’t say that,” I whisper, absolutely not looking directly at the way his shirtless chest stretches like barn-raised pornography.

Evan deals without a word.

Dean winks at me across the table. “I’m playing to lose.”

I cross my legs slowly, smiling into my wine. “I know, baby.”

The first few hands are uneventful. Brock doesn’t fold once, even though I’m pretty sure he doesn’t fully know the rules. He’s just staring down his cards like they’ve insulted him personally and he’s planning revenge.

Dean loses a sock, then another. Wade keeps winning like he’s reading minds. Evan loses his belt and threatens the deck with violence.

Wade wins another round.

Dean whoops like it’s Mardi Gras. “Yes! Off with the shirt, sugar!”

“Are you cheering because I lost or because Wade won?” I ask, standing to pull my shirt over my head.

Dean fans himself. “Yes.”

Evan tosses his next hand in with a grimace. “Can we switch to blackjack? I like the odds better.”

“Nope,” Wade says cheerfully. “This is destiny.”

I’m sitting there in my favorite bra, black, lace, and very much intentional, and all of them are looking like I just walked in naked.

Except Brock. He’s doing that thing where he pretends not to look. But he is. Every time I shift, every time I move, his eyes flick like a sniper tracking a target he refuses to admit he wants.

He still hasn’t spoken. But he hasn’t left either.

Wade wins again.

“Oh my god,” Evan groans.

I unclip my bra with the slow flourish of a magician about to saw someone in half.

Dean clutches his heart.

Wade mutters something that sounds like “Lord, have mercy.”

Evan clears his throat and definitely shifts in his seat.

Brock doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink, either.

I lean forward on the table, resting my chin on my hand like this is all very innocent. “You still with us, Brock?”

His eyes lift slowly to mine. “Watching,” he says.

That’s it. Just one word. Low. Rough. But it hits me like a live wire.

Dean snickers. “He’s gonna snap one day, and it’s gonna be biblical.”

I smile, sweet and sharp. “Can’t wait.”

Brock puts down his cards with the kind of quiet finality that makes my skin prickle.

He doesn’t slam them, doesn’t throw a look around the table, doesn’t smirk or snarl or say something dramatic. He just places his hand down, eyes on me, and says, low and calm, “Can I have a word?”

And sweet hell do the words in my brain immediately scramble into fifty-seven positions, none of them rated below NC-17.

A word. A word.

Does he mean in my room? Against the wall? A word with my legs over his shoulders? I’m not picky. I’m not proud. I’m also currently wearing nothing but my pants and one sock, and I’d like to see where this word goes, because I’ve had a long day, I’m full of potatoes, and frankly? I deserve a little post-poker destruction.

Before I can answer, Wade lets out a low chuckle. “Damn, I was one hand away from throwin’ her bare ass in the pot.”

Dean’s head snaps toward Brock, eyes narrowing, protective and pissed off in equal measure. His hand finds the back of my neck like he’s claiming territory. “You want me to cuff him again?” he murmurs, real quiet. Real serious.

Evan, not to be outdone in the silent alpha department, tosses his shirt over my shoulders like a goddamn gentleman assassin and says, “Just in case it’s not that kind of conversation.”

God, I love them.

“I’m fine,” I say, pulling Evan’s shirt around me like a cozy little murder cloak. “Let me see what he wants.”

Brock is already standing. He doesn’t offer a hand. Doesn’t wait for permission. Just turns and starts walking like he expects I’ll follow.

He’s not wrong.

I trail after him down the hallway, barefoot all but one sock, shirt half-buttoned with Evan’s scent clinging to me, already imagining all the filthy, depraved ways this is about to go. The tension between us has been a slow-burn furnace since day one, and I am ready for that fuse to blow.

We step into the corridor that leads to the storage wing, and I’m already mentally calculating how long it’ll take to unbutton his pants before he slams me against the wall.

“I want to see the security,” he says.

I blink. “The what now?”

He turns, crosses his arms, and stares at me like I’m the one being weird. “The perimeter. Camera feeds. Backup power. Defensive strategy. You said this place was secure. I want to see how secure.”

I stare at him for a beat too long. My brain, still in the middle of planning an orgasmic ambush, has to realign hard.

“You don’t want to…” I gesture vaguely at my body, which is, frankly, spectacular right now. “Nothing?”

His brow ticks up. “Didn’t say that. But I don’t fuck people I don’t trust.”

Whew.

Okay.

That… did something.

I spin on my heel and stalk toward the control hub, cheeks flushed, heart pounding in the completely wrong way. “Fine. You want security? I’ll show you security.”

The door slides open with a satisfying hiss, and I flick on the panel lights like a dramatic bitch in a sci-fi movie. The monitors blink to life, showing grainy black-and-white feeds of the land above, field cams, perimeter motion alerts, windmill turbines spinning like lazy death blades in the night breeze.

Brock steps in behind me, quiet as a damn shadow.

“This one’s thermal,” I say, pointing to the third screen. “And this,” I hit a button, “Is the live sweep of the west treeline. The cameras rotate every ten minutes, unless there’s a trigger. Then they freeze on the zone.”

He grunts, approving. “Backup?”

“Solar and wind. Plus two gas generators. One main, one fail-safe. And yes,” I say, turning to look at him over my shoulder, “I rotate the fuel. Label the tanks. Do you think I don’t rotate?”

His mouth twitches. Not a smile, but… maybe the memory of one. “And weapons?” he asks.

I grin. “This way.”

I lead him into the armory, and I swear the man actually makes a reverent sound in the back of his throat when he sees it. Racks. Ammo. Tactical gear. Organized like a bunker-themed gun nut’s Pinterest board.

“I brought yours,” I add, walking to the shelf where his rifle, sidearm, and gear pack are neatly laid out. “Because I know what that kind of thing means to a man like you.”

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just walks to it and runs a hand along the stock of his rifle, fingers it like he’s touching a lover. Then he turns back to me, eyes darker now, more focused. Less wary. “You still don’t know what a man like me is.”

“No,” I admit, taking a step closer. “But I’ve got a pretty good idea what a man like you needs.”

We stand there.

Breath between us.

Tension high.

And if he doesn’t kiss me soon, I might cuff myself to the damn ammo rack just to get his attention.

The silence in the armory is thick now.

He hasn’t touched me. Not yet. But everything about the way he’s looking at me says he’s going to. And that when he does, it’s not going to be sweet, or slow, or romantic in any traditional sense.

It’s going to be real and mine.

I’m still standing by his weapons, arms loose at my sides, shirt still half-worn and buttoned wrong, Evan’s, I think, though I’ve completely forgotten how many of my boys have put clothing on me tonight.

Brock takes a step forward.

Then another.

Like a wild animal that’s finally made up its mind.

I don’t move. I want to. Every cell in my body wants to press into him, against him, under him, but I wait. Because I want to feel what it’s like when a man like Brock decides I belong to him.

His fingers graze my jaw first. Just a brush. A test.

I breathe in sharply and hold. I don’t blink. I don’t dare.

His thumb runs across my lower lip like he’s memorizing the shape. Then he curls that same hand behind my neck and pulls me toward him, slow but sure, no hesitation. Like this moment was inevitable from the second I chained him to that bed.

Our mouths meet like pressure building in reverse. Not a crash. Not a spark. But a slow, heavy roll of heat, steady and firm, like we’re pressing secrets into each other instead of kisses.

His lips are dry, then warm, then hungry. His stubble scratches, his breath hits mine, and suddenly I can’t remember how to stand without leaning into him.

I don’t kiss him back so much as offer myself up to the moment. I open. I melt. I give.

And he takes.

One hand fists in my hair, not cruel but firm. The other slides around my waist, anchoring me like a storm’s coming and I’m the only thing that matters in it.

When he pulls back, just a breath, he says it so low I feel it in my spine. “You planned for everything.”

My pulse skips. “I tried,” I whisper.

He leans down again, brushing his mouth along my jaw. “Even brought my guns.”

“I know what they mean,” I say.

He makes a noise, deep, almost a growl. His hand drags lower, over my ass, gripping like he owns it. “You don’t know what I mean, Maple.”

Oh god.

I might die. Right here. Melt into a puddle of wet heat and bunker-grade lust.

He spins me, pressing me back into the steel locker door behind me with a dull clang, and it doesn’t scare me. It thrills me. His body crowds mine, thigh between my legs, one arm caging me against the wall like he’s not letting me run, like I’d ever fucking want to.

“I was gonna kill you,” he says.

My breath stutters.

His hand finds my throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder. Of what he could’ve done. Of what he didn’t.

“I know,” I breathe. “You’re not the first.”

That gets a laugh. Short. Dangerous.

His forehead presses to mine. “I hated that I wanted you,” he says, voice low and raw. “You cuffed me. Drugged me. And all I could think about was the way your mouth moves when you talk too much.”

“I always talk too much,” I whisper.

“I know,” he says.

His lips crush mine again, rougher this time, needier. His teeth graze. His tongue claims. And something inside me just breaks open.

I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down into the madness.

His hand slips beneath my shirt and finds bare skin. Palm to my waist, dragging upward, like he’s mapping every inch he’s about to ruin.

I can feel the shift in him, something possessive taking hold. And god help me, I want that.

I want the rage, the reverence. The contradiction of it all.

I want him to take his time and still leave me shaking.

His lips trail down my throat, teeth grazing, breath hot. “Tell me to stop,” he says.

I laugh, wrecked and giddy. “You’re adorable.”

His mouth is back on mine, but it’s different now, hotter, hungrier, all sharp edge and need. Gone is the tension of the table, the scowling menace across dinner, the silent fury chained to a mattress. What’s left is this, Brock, unleashed.

And god, he’s beautiful when he breaks.

He presses me harder against the locker door, the cool metal biting into my spine, grounding me in a body that already feels weightless. His thigh’s still wedged between mine, and I grind down shamelessly, chasing the friction, the contact, him. I’m already soaked, already aching, already fucked in the head over this man.

“Fuck,” he mutters against my neck, voice wrecked and reverent at once. “You’ve been driving me insane.”

I laugh, breathless, biting his jaw. “You and the rest of the end-of-the-world fan club.”

He growls, low and dangerous, and drags Evan’s shirt off me in one hard pull. His eyes rake over me, and it’s not appreciative, not admiring. It’s possessive. Like he’s making mental claims with every inch he sees.

“Mine,” he says, like the word tastes good in his mouth.

I should argue. Tease him. Something.

But instead I say, “Then fucking prove it.”

His hands are on my waistband in a blink. Popping the button. Peeling them down. Not rough, exactly, but relentless. Like he’s done playing and now he’s working.

When his fingers slide between my thighs and find how ready I am, he lets out this low, dark chuckle that makes my knees buckle.

“No wonder you talk so much,” he says, dragging his fingers through the slick mess he’s barely even earned yet. “You’re trying not to explode.”

“Maybe I just like multitasking,” I shoot back, voice shaking.

His answer is two fingers, sunk deep without warning, and my snark shatters on impact.

I gasp, grabbing for his shoulders as he curls them just right, like he already knows exactly where I break.

“Say it,” he murmurs, lips at my ear. “Say I’m yours.”

“You’re, fuck, you’re mine.”

He kisses me again, and it’s all teeth and tongue and possession, his fingers still working me open, slow and deep, like he wants me right on the edge before he breaks me.

I reach down, fumbling for his belt, but he’s already there, unbuckled, unzipped, pants shoved down just enough to free what he’s been hiding.

And fuck, he’s gorgeous.

Hard. Thick. Heavy in his hand as he strokes once, twice, guiding himself to where I’m already soaked for him.

When he lines up, it’s not hesitant. There’s no teasing. He just slides in, deep and slow and unforgiving. I clutch at him, at the locker, at anything, because I swear to god I see stars behind my eyes.

“Fuck,” he growls again, forehead pressed to mine. “You were made for this.”

I can’t answer. My body’s too busy breaking.

He thrusts, slow but hard, dragging out every inch, every sound, every ragged moan like it’s a lesson. Like he’s teaching me what it means to be taken by someone who doesn’t do soft, but still feels everything.

My back hits the locker with each roll of his hips. My legs lock around his waist, pulling him in closer, tighter, deeper, and he doesn’t falter, not once. His rhythm is cruel and perfect, slow enough to drive me mad, hard enough to keep me from forming coherent thoughts.

His hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back so he can kiss me hard, then drag his mouth down my neck, biting marks into my skin like he wants the whole fucking world to know what he’s done.

And all the while he’s still whispering.

Not sweet things.

Not promises.

Just truths.

“You’re not like anyone.”

“You make it too easy to lose control.”

“I hated you for this.”

“I’m never stopping.”

Each word lands like a thrust. Each thrust breaks me a little more.

I come hard and fast, shattered in his arms, crying out against his mouth as he fucks me through it like he’s been waiting for that exact sound. He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t let up. Just watches me fall apart and then chases the same edge.

And when he finally loses it, groaning, snapping his hips forward as he spills inside me, it’s with a growl ripped straight from his chest and a bruising grip on my hips that I’ll feel for days.

He fills me, every pulse of him dragging aftershocks through me until I’m trembling, boneless, wrecked.

Perfect.

My back’s still against the locker, cold metal pressed to overheated skin, and my legs feel like they’re made of warm pudding and bad decisions. Great ones. The best ones.

Brock’s still inside me. Still breathing like a man who just survived a war and doesn’t want to talk about it. One hand rests on my hip, firm and grounding. The other brushes a damp strand of hair from my face.

He hasn’t moved to pull out yet.

I kind of hope he never does.

I feel stretched. Claimed. Ruined in the best way. Like someone took a puzzle that was mostly working and slammed in the last piece with so much force it cracked the whole table. And I want to say something witty. Something cocky. Something that reminds him I’m still in control, even though he just rearranged my spine.

But all that comes out is a content, obscene little whimper.

He huffs a quiet laugh, more breath than sound, and finally eases out of me with this slow, filthy drag that makes me shiver. It’s not romantic. It’s raw. Slick. Messy. And I fucking love it.

I slump forward against his chest, and instead of brushing me off or buckling up and backing away, he catches me with one big arm and just holds.

For a second, we stay like that.

Him warm and solid, me draped over him like a human sweat towel, both of us still panting, still tangled in whatever the hell just happened.

He reaches down, grabs my panties from the floor, and wipes me off. Just like that. No fuss. No hesitation. The man is cleaning his come off me like it’s just part of the ritual. Like this is what we do now.

And I swear to god, I nearly come again.

“You’re efficient,” I say, breathless.

“You’re a mess,” he replies. But his voice is softer now. Almost fond.

When he’s satisfied with his very manly, post-apocalyptic paper towel service, he shrugs back into his pants and gives me a look like I’m supposed to get dressed too. Which is hilarious.

I pull the shirt back on, still mostly naked underneath.

He watches me the whole time. Not leering. Just...watching. Like he’s still figuring me out. Like I’m still dangerous.

And then he says it. Quiet. Certain. “That wasn’t just sex.”

I blink, caught off guard. “No?”

“No,” he says.

And then he turns and leaves me there, wrecked, satisfied, sore in the best way, and smiling like a lunatic.

God, I love him.