Page 25 of Bunker Down, Baby

Maple

The first time Brock says good shot, I almost come.

He’s standing just behind me, close, but not touching, and I’m trying very hard to pretend my hands aren’t sweating through the grip of the rifle like I haven’t been around guns my whole life. Because I have. I know my gear. I know my stance. I can hit a target from a hundred yards with both eyes open and a hangover.

But with him behind me?

I forget how to stand. I forget how to breathe. I forget my name for a second.

“Try again,” he says, voice low and smooth, all gravel and cool wind and whatever predator energy he keeps caged behind those unreadable eyes. “Just like that. Shoulders down. Exhale slow.”

My shoulders drop automatically. Because I’m very obedient. When it’s him.

I take the shot. It lands.

And when he murmurs “That’s it,” I swear to God my nipples salute the flag of his approval.

There’s silence for a few beats, just wind rustling the treeline and the soft crunch of our boots in the dirt. It’s peaceful out here, wild, overgrown, quiet in the way only a man like Brock could appreciate.

And I ruin it instantly by turning to look at him, smug and already imagining what it’d feel like to be pinned between a tree and his scarred hands.

“You like watching me shoot, or you just want an excuse to stare at my ass?” I ask, flashing him a grin that I know is all teeth and no chill.

He lifts one brow. Doesn’t rise to the bait. “If I wanted to stare, I’d tell you to bend over.”

I blink.

Yep. There go the panties. Vaporized.

And of course he says it like it’s nothing. Like he’s just stating the weather. Forecast calls for Maple being in heat for the rest of the week.

He steps closer, finally closing the distance, and adjusts the rifle in my hands with careful precision. His fingers brush mine, warm, steady, rough in a way that makes my brain short-circuit and my knees consider quitting their job.

“You’re holding too tight,” he says, voice near my ear. “Relax your grip. Trust your body.”

“Trust it to do what?” I ask, because I’m the worst. “Misfire and embarrass myself?”

His hand curls around my hip without asking. Like he owns it. “You don’t miss,” he says. “I’ve watched you. You overthink, but your instincts are sharp.”

I should say thank you. Or smile. Or at least remember how to be a functional adult woman in daylight. But instead, I whisper, “You been watching me, Brock?”

His fingers flex. Just a little. Just enough to say yes without him saying it. “Long enough to know you don’t need me to teach you how to shoot,” he says, stepping around to face me now. “But you asked anyway.”

I don’t deny it. “Maybe I just like the company.”

“Or maybe,” he murmurs, sliding the rifle from my hands, setting it down with terrifying gentleness, “You like being told what to do… once in a while.”

Oh no.

That sentence goes straight to my clit like a flashbang.

I can’t even play it cool. My whole body goes hot, my breath shallow, my thighs ready to cause problems.

And he sees it. Of course he does. Brock sees everything.

“Thought so,” he says.

He crowds me back until I hit the tree behind me, not hard, just enough to trap me there. His palms settle on either side of my head, big and scarred and grounding. I stare up at him, mouth dry, heart going a mile a minute, and I want to say something clever, something filthy and sharp and confidently insane.

But all I manage is, “You gonna kiss me or interrogate me?”

That earns me the ghost of a smile. Not a grin. Not a smirk. Something quieter. Something dangerous.

“Kissin’,” he says. “That’s your department. I don’t start that.”

“Why not?” I ask, breathless and already rising up on my toes to chase the heat of him.

“Because when I start somethin’, I finish it.”

And then he kisses me. Not soft. Not sweet. Claiming.

Like he’s been holding it back for weeks and decided this, now, is the moment he stops pretending he’s unaffected by me. It’s teeth and tongue and a growl low in his throat when I moan into his mouth, clutching the front of his shirt like I need something to hang onto or I’ll float the fuck away.

And when he lifts me, grabs my thighs and hauls me up like I weigh nothing, and pins me against the tree, I don’t even gasp. I just wrap around him like the shameless, bunkered-up, prepper-crazed nymphomaniac I am and let him hold me there while he takes his time exploring my mouth like it’s a secret he’s waited too long to unlock.

The rifle’s forgotten. The world is quiet. And I am so far gone I might never come back.

Because this man? This grumpy, gun-toting mountain panther of a man?

He’s not following my plan.

And I think I like it that way.

His mouth’s on mine and I’m gone.

Like, full system failure. All wires cut. Prepper.exe has crashed. Please reboot your apocalypse survival software after your orgasm.

Because Brock Tanner kissing me is not a normal thing.

It’s a fucking seismic event.

His mouth is rough, hungry, like he’s starving and I’m the last meal before winter. His hands grip my thighs like they’re meant to be held, like he’s memorizing the shape of me with his palms, and my back hits the tree trunk with a dull thunk that rattles me in all the right ways.

“God,” I pant between kisses. “You’re so intense. Like… sniper-level intense.”

“Thought that’s what you wanted,” he growls against my neck. “A man who doesn’t flinch. Who doesn’t break. Who keeps his promises.”

“And your promise was…?” I gasp, already grinding against him like I’m trying to start a fire.

“To finish what I start.”

Oh, hell yes.

He drops to his knees.

Just like that.

Like it’s nothing. Like kneeling in the woods with his rifle a few feet away and his mouth buried in my thighs is the most natural thing in the world. And it is. Because I planned for everything, the rations, the radios, the reverse-osmosis water filtration system.

But I did not plan for this man.

For the way he grabs my hips like I’m the most important thing in the bunker. For the way his mouth devours me.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t play. He’s not teasing. Brock eats like he fights, silently, with full commitment, and a death grip on victory. His tongue is deep and filthy, and I swear I black out for a second, one hand fisting in his too-long hair while the other claws at the bark behind me.

He pins my thighs open with his forearms and groans low, like the sound of someone losing their mind in real time. And when I come, I shatter. Bark digs into my back, the rifle’s still half-loaded on the ground, and I’m whisper-moaning his name like a girl who didn’t just drug and abduct him a few weeks ago.

He stands, slow. Lifts me with one hand under my ass and kisses me again like he’s trying to press his name into my bloodstream. Then he turns me to the tree and undoes his belt.

Oh, fuck yes.

“Say it,” he growls in my ear, voice dark and deep and absolutely wrecked with need. “Say you’re mine.”

“Yours,” I gasp, already bracing against the bark, pushing my ass back into him. “Always.”

He slides inside me slow, so slow, and I swear to God the stars rearrange. The world narrows to the stretch, the slide, the way his hand wraps around my throat and holds me steady.

He’s not fast. He’s not wild. He drives. Deep and deliberate, like he’s pounding every ounce of resistance out of me. Like he’s claiming territory. Like he’s writing his name in the softest part of me with every single thrust.

“You’re not gonna walk straight tomorrow,” he mutters against my shoulder.

“I’m not walking now,” I moan, already clenching, already about to come again.

He fucks me through it, hand still at my throat, pace unrelenting. “Who keeps you safe?” he rasps, just as I fall apart.

“You,” I gasp, shattered and shaking. “You do.”

“Damn right.” He slams in one more time and groans loud, grinding against me, hips locked, every inch of him deep inside me, marking me.

We stay like that for a beat. For an eternity. Breathing. Buzzing. Built for war and made for each other.

Then he leans in, kisses the side of my neck, and mutters, “That’s the only safety you’ll ever need.”

Brock carries me like he didn’t just absolutely rearrange my insides against a tree. Like he’s not still sticky with sweat and woodsmoke and that one vein in his neck isn’t still throbbing like it’s got unfinished business. Like I’m not boneless and blissed out and clinging to him like a satisfied little backpack with no brain cells left, just vague thoughts about hydration, pancakes, and maybe crying from happiness later.

He doesn’t say a word. Just walks back into the bunker with me slung over his shoulder like a duffel bag full of orgasms and doomsday potential.

The others are in the main room, of course. Pool sticks in hand, radio humming softly in the background, and all of them doing their best not to look like they’ve been betting on which man would break me next.

Wade’s the first to spot us. His mouth tilts into that slow, sweet cowboy smile as he straightens from where he’s cleaning something suspiciously sausage-shaped on a cutting board.

Dean cackles immediately. “I’ll be damned,” he says. “Look at that glow. Maple got tree-fucked and carried home like a prize sow at the county fair.”

“I didn’t squeal,” I mumble into Brock’s back, still too satisfied to even lift my head.

“You moaned,” Brock rumbles, low and smug.

Dean whistles. “That’s a yes. That’s absolutely a yes.”

Brock sets me down on the couch like I’m fragile now, which is hilarious, considering twenty minutes ago he had me not so gently pressed into bark like he was building a shelter out of my soul.

He brushes my hair out of my face, kisses my forehead, then turns to Wade. “Give her some aftercare.”

Wade raises a brow, hands already reaching for the throw blanket and a glass of water like he was born to comfort post-coital chaos. “Yes, sir.”

I blink up at Brock. “You’re leaving me?”

He doesn’t even flinch. “Evan and I have a date at the range.”

Evan, who was trying very hard to not be involved in this moment, goes completely still. Then deadpans, “If that’s what a day at the range looks like, I’ll take my chances with Daddy Holden.”

Dean loses it. “Doc,” he gasps, pointing his pool cue like a sword. “You do not want alone time with Daddy Holden. That man will tactical-debrief your soul.”

Holden, who’s been lurking in the corner like the professional brooder he is, just wipes a hand over his face and mutters, “How’s her aim?”

“Impeccable,” Brock says, without a hint of humor.

“Oh my god,” I groan, dragging a pillow over my face. “Someone drown me in Gatorade and compliments.”

“You heard her,” Wade says, already tucking the blanket around me and handing me a glass. “Gatorade and compliments. Let’s go.”

Dean winks. “You’re a goddess and a menace, and I would still lick bark off that tree for a turn.”

Evan mutters something about needing a sedative.

Holden walks out without a word, probably to draft an emergency rotation schedule.

And me? I take a sip of water, sigh dramatically, and melt into Wade’s arms like the sweet, deranged, bunker-wife I’ve always dreamed of being.

This is fine.

Totally normal.

Absolutely sustainable.

Right?

…Right.