Page 9 of Bunker Down, Baby

Maple

Dean’s hand is splayed across my stomach, warm and heavy, fingers idly stroking the spot just above my hip like he’s petting something precious. Like I’m precious.

God, I love men with big hands.

Especially when they’re attached to shoulders like that, and a cock that rearranges organs. Jesus. My body still feels like it’s dripping down the insides of his thighs. Like I could sink into the mattress and melt if he weren’t holding me together with that perfect fucking palm.

I hum, drunk on everything, him, the sex, the way he looks at me like I’m the goddess of the apocalypse and he’d happily skin someone just to keep me smiling.

And when he says, “Who’s next?” like we’re planning a dinner party and not a strategic survival effort?

My heart sings.

“Well,” I sigh, twining my fingers with his and placing his rough, calloused hand right over my still-sensitive breast, just because I can, “I’ve been thinking about Brock Tanner.”

Dean makes a noise low in his throat, like he’s jealous and horny and entertained all at once. I keep talking. I can’t help myself.

“He’s a hunter. Probably your age. Not a people person, but exactly what we need. Fresh food, security, rifle skills.” I press Dean’s hand a little harder against me. “He could drop a man from the tree line with a clean shot and still be back in time for dinner.”

Dean’s thumb brushes my nipple like he’s saying yeah, yeah, get to the hot part, and I grin, biting my lip.

“He’s tall,” I breathe, “Broad. Built like you, functional muscle. Not some gym rat bullshit. The kind of body that’s earned, not bought.”

Dean huffs a laugh behind me. “Starting to sound like you’re pitching a porno, sweetheart.”

“Oh, babe,” I purr, dragging his hand down my stomach, guiding it between my thighs where I’m still slick, “It’s always porn in my head.”

His fingers slip a little lower, and I shiver, hips twitching as he lazily strokes me. I’m not even sure he means to. He just can’t not touch.

And neither can I.

“He’s got these green eyes,” I murmur, rocking back against his chest, “Sharp and cold. The kind that make people shut up when he looks too long. A real ‘stare into your soul and then maybe shoot it’ kind of thing.”

Dean kisses the back of my neck, laughing. “Damn. You want me to choke you while you say his name or something?”

I giggle, breathless. “Don’t tempt me.”

He groans like it’s actually tempting. I love that for us.

But before I can get him all worked up again, the radio crackles from the corner. Always on, low volume, feeding me scraps of the world unraveling.

“…Shelter-in-place order expanded to the following counties…”

Dean tenses slightly behind me, then exhales slow. His hand slides up my ribs, grounding. “Sounds like things are getting dicey out there.”

I hum, not worried. I’m prepared. Always prepared.

“We’ll be fine,” I say, turning in his arms to face him, pressing a slow kiss to his jaw. “I have everything we need.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Except Brock.”

I grin. “Exactly.”

Dean’s hand slides down to squeeze my ass, hard. “Well, then,” he says, voice going low and dark, “We better go get your wilderness boyfriend before some other psycho puts him in a cage.”

My laugh turns into a moan as he bites my neck.

God, I love him.

And Brock? Brock’s going to love us.

Eventually.

A few hours later and we’re in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, hands moving in sync like we’ve done this a hundred times.

Me, slicing vegetables.

Dean, shirtless and barefoot, rubbing seasoning into the chicken thighs like the man was born to manhandle meat.

There’s something almost romantic about it.

Not the candlelight kind, or the boring wine-and-pasta kind. The kind where you’re whispering about abducting a man while folding napkins and roasting root vegetables with love.

The real kind of romance.

I glance over at him as he smirks down at the spice jar, biceps flexing just a little harder than necessary. He’s doing it on purpose. Tease.

My insides purr.

“I’ve got a plan for Brock,” I say, tossing chopped carrots into the pan. “It’s elegant. Clean. No blood. Very little struggle.”

Dean doesn’t even look up. “You mean I don’t get to wrestle him into the trunk?”

“Not unless something goes wrong. Which it won’t.” I pause, lick a smear of oil off my finger. “He always goes to bed early before a hunt. Like clockwork.”

Dean slides the chicken into the oven. “What’s early? Like old-man-reads-a-paper early?”

I grin. “I mean eight-thirty early.”

Dean laughs. “Jesus.”

I shrug, setting the timer. “Discipline. Routine. It’s part of his charm.”

He leans against the counter, towel slung over one shoulder. “You sound like you already know what brand of boxers he wears.”

“Oh, I do.” I hum, opening the fridge. “He’s a black boxer-briefs kind of guy. Has about eight pairs total. I was looking through his dresser once and dropped something, loud. He didn’t even flinch.”

Dean just stares at me, something dark and amused flickering behind his eyes. “You were in his bedroom?”

“Of course. How else was I supposed to plan his extraction?” I frown. “I had to know his patterns, his layout. The weight of his boots. Whether the back door locks automatically.”

He doesn’t respond immediately.

Instead, he steps behind me, close enough that I feel the warmth of him all down my back, one hand sliding around my waist.

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs against my ear, and I shiver.

I turn, eyes sparkling. “So now that you’re here, I can just give him a mild sedative while he sleeps. Won’t even need to tie him up beforehand.” I brush my lips across his jaw, soft. “You’ll carry him to the car. I’ll drive. We’ll bring him home.”

Dean’s hand tightens just a little on my hip. “Easy as pie,” he says.

“Exactly.” I smile like we’re talking about a bake sale.

He dips his head, lips brushing the shell of my ear, voice a rasp. “You think he’ll adapt quick?”

I exhale, eyes fluttering closed. “Slower than Evan, probably. He’s more of a loner. Less used to people. Less willing to trust.”

Dean chuckles. “So he’ll sulk longer.”

“Maybe,” I say, tilting my head toward him. “But with everything going to shit out there, I expect they’ll both come around. Realize what a gift this is. That I saved them.”

His lips graze my ear, sending a fresh thrill down my spine. “Until they’re ready to thank you,” he whispers, rough and low, “I’ll thank you enough for all of them.”

My knees buckle just a little, but he’s already pulling me closer, holding me steady, his cock pressing against the small of my back like he’s ready to drag me over the countertop and do it again.

I control myself despite the temptation. It’s a fucking miracle But I manage.

Once everything is ready, I unlock Evan’s room with a smile.

He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, hair a little messy, jaw set like he’s expecting bad news.

But I’ve got great news.

“We made dinner,” I tell him sweetly. “And I want everyone at the table tonight. Like civilized people.”

His eyebrows flick up. “We?”

“Dean and I,” I say, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “I let him out. He’s very handy. And sweet. And enthusiastic.”

Evan just stares.

I step inside and pat his knee like he’s a sulky toddler. “He’s settling in great. I think you’ll really like him. But please try to behave? We went to a lot of trouble with the meal. And if you ruin it, I’ll be very disappointed.”

His expression flickers at that, something guilt-colored in the corners.

I leave the door open and head back to the kitchen, where Dean is plating the roasted chicken like he’s auditioning for some unhinged post-apocalyptic cooking show. No shirt. Just jeans and tattoos and that shit-eating smirk. He looks good enough to eat.

God, I’m going to marry him.

And Evan.

And Brock.

And if we manage to grab the other two before society finishes crumbling, well. I’ll cross that bridge when I handcuff them to a bed.

By the time Evan shuffles out, Dean’s already seated, beer in hand, slouched back like he owns the place.

He doesn’t look at Evan like he’s a threat. Doesn’t puff up his chest or posture.

He grins and jerks his chin. “Hey, man. You look less kidnapped than I expected.”

Evan gives me a look, but then, miracle of miracles, he sits.

Dean grabs the serving spoon, loads Evan’s plate without asking. “Eat up. Your girl can cook.”

“Your girl?” Evan mutters, a brow raised.

“Oh honey,” I purr, sinking into my chair and beaming at both of them. “I’m everyone’s girl.”

Dean winks.

Evan sighs, but he takes a bite. And then another. “I’m just saying,” Evan says after a moment, pointing his fork at Dean, “How the hell did you end up as teacher’s pet? I was here first.”

Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m hotter. And I knew where the pepper went.”

“Also,” I add brightly, “He rearranged my pantry by calorie density and potential spoilage timelines. And then he absolutely rearranged me.”

Evan chokes on his bite of chicken.

I pat his back affectionately.

Dean just laughs and lifts his glass to me. “To end-of-the-world efficiency.”

I clink mine against his. “And new family traditions.”

It’s bliss. It’s dinner. It’s unholy harmony.

I watch them eat, Evan still a little cautious, Dean completely at ease, and I feel this warm, melting heat in my chest. Like maybe the world falling apart was the best thing that ever happened to me.

And maybe, just maybe, if I’m very good and they’re very obedient, one day soon I’ll get to bend over this table and have both of them behind me. Dean’s mouth on my neck, Evan’s hands on my hips, and everything finally exactly as it should be.

I hum around my next bite of chicken.

And soon?

Brock will be here too.