Page 22 of Bunker Down, Baby

Maple

I’m still floating when I reach his door. Still in one sock. Still dressed in Evan’s shirt, which barely covers my ass. Still glowing from the way my boys promised me the world and meant it.

And that’s what they are now, my boys.

All but one.

I push the door all the way open and step inside, already preparing my ‘hi sweetie, don’t be mad I drugged you and restrained you for days, let’s be a family now’ speech, but Holden’s sitting up. Awake. Alert. Uncuffed.

What the hell?

I blink.

Then spot the empty cuff hanging from the bedpost.

Oh.

Right.

Forgot to reinforce those for the ex-military-grade survivalist I absolutely should’ve reinforced them for.

“Hi,” I say, chipper and unbothered as ever, even though I’m mentally calculating how fast I could scream for Brock if Holden lunges.

He doesn’t lunge. He just watches me.

Eyes like stormclouds over deep water. Cold. Assessing. And suddenly I feel like a rabbit that just hopped into a wolf den in nothing but a boyfriend shirt and good intentions.

“I was wondering when you’d come in,” he says, voice like smoke and gravel and midnight.

“I was giving you time to process,” I say, stepping farther into the room. “Also, I had a lot of laundry and an orgy of emotional bonding.”

His brow lifts. Just slightly.

I don’t think this man’s face does full expressions.

“Radio’s still on,” he says, nodding toward the static-drenched newsfeed droning low in the background. “Things are worse. They’re not hiding it anymore.”

I nod. “I know.”

His gaze drifts down my legs, slow and clinical. I should feel like a specimen, but somehow it makes my nipples tighten like he deserves to look. Like I’m not being objectified, I’m being appraised for value.

Which, let’s be real, is deeply romantic in end-times prepper logic.

“I’m not gonna ask why you picked me,” he says.

Oh good. We’re skipping the part where I list his muscles, his scars, and the way he tracks deer like he could track my orgasms by scent.

“But I know why I’m still here,” he continues. “Because you need someone who doesn’t hesitate. Who won’t flinch when it gets worse.”

“It’s already worse,” I say, softly.

He nods once. “Then you need me now.”

I smile. I can’t help it. “So that means you’re ready to join the team?”

He tilts his head. Just slightly.

Then says, deadpan, “And let’s not pretend there’s still any debate about who the daddy figure is in this family.”

My brain blue-screens. There is actual static behind my eyes.

Did he just…?

“You did not just Daddy-drop me like that,” I whisper.

He doesn’t smile, but I think his mouth twitches. Just once.

“That a problem?” he asks.

I step closer. Hips swaying. Heart doing ridiculous things.

“No, Daddy,” I say, voice syrup-sweet and entirely unrepentant.

And okay, yes, that probably made my thighs clench in ways that should be illegal.

“I’m uncuffed,” he says simply. “And I’m not leaving. That means you either trust me now... or you need to find stronger cuffs.”

“You think I should trust you?” I ask.

He stands.

God, he’s tall.

He moves like he was carved out of war and solitude, all lean muscle and scarred skin and quiet violence. No wasted steps. No wasted anything.

“I think you already do,” he says, stopping just in front of me. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be in here half-naked with no backup.”

“Oh, I have backup,” I whisper, staring up at him.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, brushing a finger under the hem of Evan’s shirt. “Where?”

I take a breath. Feel it stick.

He leans in, just enough that I can feel his voice more than hear it. “I’ve watched you watch me,” he says. “You were never scared. Just patient.”

I nod, breathless. “You were the one I wasn’t sure I could seduce.”

“You still can’t,” he says. And then his hand slides to the back of my neck and pulls me into the kind of kiss that feels like a locked vault slamming open.

It’s not slow. It’s not sweet. It’s claiming.

His mouth takes mine like he’s been saving this, planning this, and every second of restraint is now breaking loose all at once.

I moan, melt, clutch at his shirt, but he holds me in place like I’m his anchor and he’s mine, and everything else is noise.

When he finally pulls back, I’m trembling.

He doesn’t look smug. He looks ready.

“I’m in,” he says. “All the way. But this doesn’t work unless we’re smart.”

“We are,” I breathe. “We’re really fucking smart.”

“I want to see the full layout. The cameras. The perimeter. I want a rotation. Weapons check. You’ve done the hard part,” he says. “Now let me help you keep it.”

I nod again, still dazed. Still wet. Still completely ruined by a man who probably hasn’t kissed anyone in years and just managed to short-circuit my soul.

“Jesus Christ,” I whisper. “This bunker’s not gonna survive you.”

He leans in again. “Then you’d better reinforce the damn walls.”

He doesn’t move fast. He doesn’t rush. He just takes a step closer, then another, and I swear the air changes like the bunker itself knows something dangerous is about to happen.

Holden moves like heat rising off asphalt. Controlled, unrelenting, inevitable.

He’s already got one hand at my waist, firm and steady, guiding me backwards toward the bed he just spent days chained to. Which, let’s be honest, is kind of poetic.

“You’re not in charge in here,” he murmurs.

“I know,” I whisper, already breathless. Already soaked.

“You like that?” he asks, tilting his head just slightly, like he’s cataloging the way my pupils dilate, the way my breath hitches.

“You have no idea,” I murmur.

The backs of my knees hit the edge of the mattress and he stops. Just for a second. Just long enough to press a hand to my chest and hold me still.

“I’ve been good,” he says. “Didn’t fight. Didn’t break your toys. Let the others bond.”

“Saint Holden,” I breathe. “Do you want a cookie?”

“I want you,” he says, and then he pushes. Gently, but with purpose.

I fall back onto the bed, legs draped over the edge, hair splayed out like a proper sacrifice. And I should be nervous. I should be wondering what this is going to be like, how he’ll compare to the others, how this reserved, quiet, beautifully broken man is going to fuck me.

But the only thing I can think is: Finally.

He slides my, technically Evan’s, shirt up over my head and tosses it away. Then pauses and stares.

Not like the others. Not like Dean who grins, or Evan who catalogues, or Wade who worships.

Holden assesses.

He looks at me like I’m the battlefield and he’s already picked his points of entry.

“You’re thinking,” I whisper.

He kneels between my legs, hands firm on my thighs. “I always think.”

“Well stop. Just…”

He licks up the inside of my thigh and my brain blanks out like someone yanked the power cord.

Oh. Oh fuck.

“Say please,” he says against my skin.

“Please,” I gasp. “Please, please, fuck, please.”

And then his mouth is on me. Not tentative. Not teasing. Precise. Tongue working in slow, devastating circles like he’s memorizing every twitch, every moan, every breath. His hands are steady, keeping me still even when I start to shake. He doesn’t hold me down, he holds me open.

And it’s so good, it’s so good it actually hurts, because it’s not fast. It’s not wild. It’s measured. Every flick, every suck, every soft groan against my skin is done with the kind of discipline that should be illegal.

I come so hard I choke on it. Back arched, hips stuttering, hands tangled in the sheets because if I touch him, I’ll die.

But he doesn’t stop. He adjusts.

And that’s somehow worse. Or better. I can’t tell. I don’t care.

When I come again, I swear I black out for half a second.

By the time he stands, I’m limp. Wrung out. Soaked and smiling like a lunatic.

And he still hasn’t even fucked me.

He kisses me once. Deep. Dirty. Lets me taste myself on his lips. Then he looks at me, eyes gone dark. “You ready?”

“I’ve been ready for weeks,” I pant.

“Good,” he says, pushing his pants down in one smooth motion.

This is the part where I stop thinking altogether, and just let Holden destroy me.

I know I should be bracing for it. But nothing prepares me for how slow he goes at first.

Not sweet. Not gentle. Just intentional.

He lines himself up like he’s about to breach enemy territory, and honestly? Same vibe. My thighs are still trembling, I can feel him pressed right at my entrance, thick and ready, but he just holds there, like he wants me to feel the weight of it. Like he wants me to understand this isn’t a quick fuck.

This is a permanent installation.

A military-grade claiming.

He slides in. Inches. Just a few.

I gasp, head falling back against the mattress, spine already trying to arch, to move, to take. But his hands are on my hips, locking me in place, dragging the friction out like he’s engraving it into my fucking bones.

“Still think you’re in control?” he murmurs, voice a low rasp against my jaw.

“No,” I breathe. “Not even close.”

He thrusts deeper, slow, so slow, until he’s seated all the way inside me. Until I’m full in a way that stretches beyond physical. Like he’s in my nervous system now. My bloodstream.

And then he starts to move.

There’s no rhythm to find because Holden doesn’t fuck like he’s dancing. He fucks like he’s taking ground. Every thrust is a calculated force, every drag out is a reset for the next one. It’s primal and practiced all at once, like he’s been waiting for this so long it’s seared into him.

I claw at his back. I bite his shoulder. I moan so loud the bunker probably shakes.

And he loves it.

“Louder,” he growls, fucking into me harder. “I want them to hear you. Every single one.”

“Oh my God, Holden.”

“Say my name again,” he snaps, voice wrecked. “Say it when I come inside you.”

“Holden,” I gasp. “Fuck, Holden.”

He bites my neck and groans like the sound of his name is the thing pushing him over the edge.

But he doesn’t stop. Not yet.

Not until he’s wrung me out, flipped me, dragged my hips back into his hands, and claimed me from behind like he’s putting his signature on a masterpiece he’s finally decided to sign.

When I come again, it’s a scream and a sob and a thank-you in the same breath. I don’t even know who I’m thanking anymore. The prepping gods? Myself? The unhinged part of my brain that made a spreadsheet of apocalypse boyfriends?

Maybe all of the above.

Holden grunts my name like a war cry, thrusts deep one last time, and shatters.

The silence afterward is thick with steam and panting and the feeling of something finished. Something claimed. Something permanent.

He pulls me back against his chest, breath hot at my neck. “Mine,” he says. Just one word. No flourish. No repetition. Just the truth.

And I smile. Wrecked. Marked. Filled. And finally complete.

I don’t move for a long moment.

Mostly because I can’t.

My legs are trembling. My lungs don’t know what to do with air. My brain is still somewhere back in the middle of that third orgasm trying to reboot like a crashed operating system.

And Holden doesn’t say a word.

He just slides out of me, slowly, which should be illegal, and immediately grabs the blanket off the bed, wraps it around me like he’s swaddling a human weapon he just detonated, then stands to pull on his pants.

“You.” I start, voice hoarse. “You just… walked away.”

“I didn’t walk away,” he says, already heading to the corner of the room where there’s a shelf with bottled water, “I walked five feet to get you hydration.”

He tosses me a bottle. I fumble it. Still can’t feel my fingers.

He smirks. “You’ll need electrolytes next.”

“Are you giving me a post-sex rehydration plan right now?” I ask.

“You think I’m letting you pass out on me when there’s still a flu-maddened, possibly cannibalistic horde brewing out there?” he says.

He grabs his shirt and kneels by the bed again, wiping my thighs without asking. Just handles it. Efficient. Practical. Thorough. Like the same hands that held me down and made me scream now only exist to put me back together.

“Jesus,” I mutter. “No offense to the others, but you’re like the Delta Force version of aftercare.”

“Good,” he says. “Because when the next emergency hits, I need you functional.”

I smile into the blanket, face pressed to his pillow that smells like pine and sweat and silent judgment. “You’re such a romantic.”

He tucks the sheet over me, then presses a kiss to the top of my head. One soft second of quiet. “Next time,” he says, voice low, “We try that with a knife to your throat.”

I choke on the water.

He smirks again, already standing. “Sleep, Maple.”

Just like that. No dramatics. No declarations. Just calm, focused affection wrapped in bloodstained logic.

And yeah, okay.

That might be my new favorite kink.