Page 8 of Bunker Down, Baby

Dean

So. Turns out the hot little lunatic who kidnapped me just wants to keep me safe.

And I mean, sure. There’s the whole tied-to-a-bed thing. And the drugging me thing. And I guess technically the unlawful detainment part. But honestly? I’ve had worse first dates.

And she made me pizza with fresh basil.

So, yeah. I’m in.

She’s walking ahead of me now, giving me the grand tour like this is her Barbie Dream Bunker and I just won the contest to move in.

“This is the pantry,” she says, opening the door like she’s proud of her stockpile, which she should be. The shelves are ridiculous. Like a doomsday-themed grocery store. “Canned goods on the left, freeze-dried on the right. Those buckets have flour, sugar, rice…”

I nod like I’m listening, but I’m really not, because she’s bending over to pull open a lower cabinet and Jesus Christ, that ass.

My cock twitches. Just one little warning nudge, like, hey, bro, you seeing this?

Yes. Yes, I am.

She’s wearing jeans and that shirt that’s not quite a T-shirt, like, she wants me to think it’s casual, but the fit? The fit is doing things. It’s fitted like a fantasy. Nips in at the waist. Stretches over her tits like it’s barely surviving.

And she’s talking about beans.

I don’t hear anything after ‘lentils,’ because she tilts her head, that messy ponytail sliding over one shoulder, and her mouth is right there. Glossy, pink, a little smug.

God. I’ve made a lot of bad choices with women.

But none of them had a tactical map of the apocalypse, a month-by-month survival plan, and an ass like this.

I think about my latest ex, Pamela, just briefly, Pamela with her ferret collection and the homemade chloroform and the screaming. Pam didn’t have a pantry, that’s all I’m saying.

“Tools are this way,” Maple says, leading me down another hallway. “I set up a whole workbench. Labeled things. I hope that’s okay.”

“You labeled my tools?” I ask, grinning.

“Well, I don’t know your system yet,” she says, like this is normal. Like I do live here. “But I figured if I started one, you’d just fix it.”

“That’s dangerously close to foreplay, baby,” I say.

She snorts but I see the smile tugging at her mouth.

We stop in front of a locked room. She keys it open like this is her version of sexy lingerie, just here’s your space, sweetheart. Enjoy the bunker. Let me show you where I keep the zip ties.

When the door swings open, I see the workbench.

And damn.

There are tools. Real ones. Good ones. Expensive. The kind you don’t find at some shitty strip mall hardware store. The lighting’s decent, the space is clean, and she even set up a mini fridge with a label on it that says Dean’s Drinks in Sharpie.

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, and just watch her.

She’s in full presentation mode, gesturing at everything like I’m her newest cult recruit and this is our sacred chapel. I’m not even pretending to listen anymore.

I’m just drinking her in.

That little wrinkle between her brows when she’s concentrating. The way she fidgets with the hem of her shirt. The slight flush on her throat when she knows I’m watching her ass again.

I step in close, just behind her. She doesn’t move, but I know she feels it. The heat. The weight of me.

“Just to be clear,” I murmur, “This is still technically kidnapping.”

“Technically,” she agrees.

“And you drugged me,” I add.

“Only a little,” she says, sweetly.

“And you plan to keep me here.”

“Forever.”

I grin, cock hardening as she turns her head to look at me, doe-eyed and dangerous.

“Fuck,” I mutter. “I really should be more concerned about this.”

She beams. “But you’re not?”

“Nope,” I say, stepping around her and sitting on the stool by the bench. “Because Pamela had ferrets, and you have a tool chest and a pizza oven.”

“See?” she says brightly. “You get it.”

I do. God help me, I really do.

She’s unhinged. But so am I.

And at least with her? The sex’ll probably kill me in a good way.

I don’t miss the faint smirk she tries to hide as she turns and starts walking again. And I follow, because now I’m curious.

She’s shown me where we sleep, where we work, where we eat.

So what’s left?

Oh. Right.

Her room.

She stops at the end of the hall and opens the last door with a little flourish, like ta-da, and just like that, I’m inside the wolf’s den.

And fuck me, it’s nice.

Like real nice.

Big bed, soft lighting, candles on the nightstand like some witchy Pinterest board exploded in here. It smells like her shampoo and clean sheets and something sweeter underneath, like sugar and sex.

She walks in ahead of me, gesturing casually. “This is where I sleep. And sometimes read. Or think.”

I close the door behind us and latch it.

“Cool,” I say. “This is where I fuck you.”

She turns and stops. Her brows lift.

“Oh?” she says, mouth twitching.

“Sweetheart,” I say, stalking toward her slow and deliberate, “You dragged me into a bunker, tied me to a bed, fed me homemade pizza and gave me a personal tool bench.” I pause, grabbing her hips, pressing her back against the wall. “You brought me home.”

Her breath hitches, just a little.

And I grin. “You really think I’m not gonna break this bed in?”

She tries to sass me, of course she does, but the moment I press my mouth to hers, she melts.

One second, I’m tasting her, and the next she’s clawing at my shirt like she wants to rip it off with her teeth.

I help her, stripping fast, greedy. She’s just as bad, peeling off her top, wiggling out of her jeans. And when she’s bare in front of me? I stop breathing for a second.

Because fuck, she’s gorgeous.

Body soft in all the places I want to bite. Tight in the places I want to grip. And so wet already I swear she was thinking about this from the second I opened my eyes.

“I knew it,” I mutter, dragging my hand down her stomach, sliding lower. “You’ve been dripping for me all damn morning, haven’t you?”

She nods, flushed, pupils blown wide.

And that’s it.

I lift her like she weighs nothing, throw her on the bed, and climb over her. Kiss her so deep she whimpers. Then I spread her open with one hand and sink two fingers in just to hear the way she gasps.

“Yeah,” I groan. “You’re ready.”

She drags her nails down my back, pulling me close. “Dean,” she breathes, like it’s a confession.

And then I’m lining up, pushing in slow and thick, until we both break.

It’s raw.

It’s messy.

It’s filthy.

She bites my shoulder. I thrust harder.

She wraps her legs around me like she’s trying to keep me. I slam into her like I’m trying to stay.

“Fucking hell,” I growl, voice ragged against her throat. “You feel like a goddamn fever dream.”

She moans something, my name, maybe, or yes or faster, but I don’t really care because I’m not stopping until she screams.

Until she comes so hard the walls echo with it.

Her back arches off the bed like I’ve cracked her open, her nails drag down my spine like she wants to tear her name into me, and her cunt clenches so goddamn tight around my cock it feels like she’s trying to keep me.

“Fuck, baby,” I grunt, sweat slick on my skin as I piston into her, hard enough the headboard slams the wall. “You wanna scream for me? Go on. Fuckin’ scream.”

She gasps, raw, wrecked, and that sound?

It’s everything.

The air’s thick with it, heavy and electric. My hand finds her throat, not squeezing, just holding, just claiming, and her eyes roll like she’s about to come undone.

She’s soaking me. Dripping. Every thrust sounds obscene, wet and hot and perfect, and her body, Christ, her body won’t stop shaking. Like she’s overloaded. Like I broke something inside her and she likes it.

“Dean,” she sobs, voice cracking on it, eyes wild and glassy.

And then she shatters.

It hits her all at once, her whole body locking up under me, mouth wide open in a silent scream before the sound rips from her chest.

A cry so loud it bounces off the walls. Echoes like a fucking war drum. Like victory.

I don’t stop. Can’t.

She’s spasming around me, soaking the base of my cock, and I slam in once, twice, and that’s it. I bury myself to the hilt, grinding deep as I come with a growl low in my chest, like an animal marking what’s his.

My hips jerk once, twice more, just to be sure.

Just to make it stick.

I stay inside her, panting hard, braced on shaking arms while she trembles beneath me, her thighs twitching around my waist, her fingers still tangled in my hair like she forgot how to let go.

And when I finally look down at her, sweaty, dazed, fucked out of her pretty little mind, she smiles.

Like this is exactly how she wanted it.

And fuck me so do I.

This crazy, chaotic, fucked-up little compound?

This is home now.

She’s still wrapped around me like a vice, skin damp and flushed, hair sticking to her forehead. And I’m not pulling out yet. Not until I have to.

Her legs twitch every time I shift, like her nerves are still fried and buzzing. I smooth my hand over her thigh, slow, grounding her, maybe myself, too.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” I murmur against her temple, pressing a kiss there. “You always fuck like the world’s ending?”

She laughs, hoarse and shaky, and goddamn if that sound doesn’t settle something wild in my chest.

She smells like sweat and sex and danger and I’m pretty sure I’ve never been harder for anyone in my life, even after coming. My cock’s still inside her, softening slow, but not in a hurry. She clenches around me once, lazy, and I groan.

“Careful,” I mutter. “Keep that up and I’ll forget you just got wrecked.”

She hums like she wants me to forget. Like she wants me to ruin her again.

I shift us, ease down, arm tucked under her head, legs tangled, chest to chest. She’s looking at me like I’m the fucking sunrise.

My fingers trace her lower back, lazy circles, and I kiss her again, slow this time, soft, tasting the edge of crazy on her lips and liking how it settles under my tongue.

She looks… content. Sated.

And I should probably be panicking. I should be asking more questions. Plotting an escape. Wondering how the hell I ended up cuffed and drugged and okay with it.

But all I can think is this hot little lunatic wants to keep me safe and shit, I’ve made worse choices.

Pamela set my truck on fire and didn’t even know how to shoot a gun. Maple’s got end-of-the-world plans and an ass like sin. She cooks, she fucks, and she wants to play apocalypse Barbie with me?

Fuck it. I’m in.

“Hey,” I say, brushing her hair back, thumb dragging over the flushed heat of her cheek. “Who’s next?”

She blinks at me, lips parted, pupils still blown wide. “What?” she breathes.

I smirk. “You know. Who’s next on your collector’s list? You got a cop? A cook? Maybe someone with lockpicking skills in case your little locks fail.”

She stares at me for a second. Then she giggles.

Actually giggles. Like I just offered to carry her groceries.

“You offering to help me drag the next one in, baby?” she coos, tracing a finger down my chest like she’s drawing a roadmap to hell.

I shrug, kissing the tip of her nose. “Just saying, if you need muscle, I’ve got you. And if you want me to rough ‘em up a little before they get the welcome tour…” I trail off, grinning. “I can be very persuasive.”

She hums, all soft and satisfied, and cuddles closer like I’m her favorite teddy bear she just happens to keep full of gasoline and bad intentions.

God help the next guy.

Because I’ve officially joined the cult.

And I’m fucking smiling about it.