Page 100 of Bunker Down, Baby

He freezes. But only for a second.

Then Wade turns.

Slow.

Deliberate.

That voice fades to a hum as he looks down at me, eyes warm, amused, knowing, and I swear to everything holy and unholy that I’m going to start ovulating on the spot.

“Well, hey there,” he drawls, smile tilting into something dangerous. “You bring me a snack, darlin’?”

“Maybe,” I whisper. “Might be you, though.”

He laughs. Deep and rough and full of sin. Then he takes a slow step forward. I tilt my chin up like I’m not about to melt.

“Looks like someone liked the singin’.”

“I think you summoned my soul out of my body,” I say. “And my panties down my thighs.”

He reaches out and runs a single, calloused finger down the side of my neck. “Then I guess we’re just gonna have to baptize you in sweat and hay, sweetheart.”

And then, then, the bastard tips his hat off his own head and puts it on mine.

I swear the world goes silent. Time stops.

The barn might combust from sheer female thirst.

The hat slides down low, casting a shadow over my eyes, and he moans.

“Holy hell,” he murmurs. “You wear that better than I do.”

I don’t even have time to reply. Wade’s got one hand fisted in the back of my hair, the other grabbing my ass like he owns it, and then I’m lifted, just like that. Hoisted off my feet, slammed against the barn wall, mouth stolen in a kiss so deep and possessive I think my bones dissolve on impact.

His hands roam, rough and reverent, fingers dipping under my shirt, trailing fire up my spine. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout this,” he mutters against my lips. “Every damn night since you dragged me here.”

“I didn’t drag you,” I gasp, hips grinding against him, the hat slipping slightly down my forehead. “I gently acquired you for apocalypse snuggles and agricultural superiority.”

“You cuffed me to a bed, sweetheart.”

“And now you’re gonna cuff me to your dick, so I feel like we’re even.”

He growls. Full-on growls. I don’t know what sound I make in response, but it’s probably something obscene and legally actionable in four states.

He kisses me again, hotter, hungrier, and then drops to his knees like the goddamn sex saint he is, yanking my pants down with one swift tug, still humming that same goddamn melody against my skin like he’s about to compose a new national anthem with his tongue.

And he does.

Oh God, he does.

Wade Colter drops to his knees like the floor’s the only place strong enough to hold him.

And he doesn’t just kneel.

He settles. Like worship was always part of the plan. Like dragging his tongue over my thighs is something he’s trained for.

“Hold on now,” he says softly, voice like the warm drag of flannel sheets across bare skin, “Let’s do this right.”

And then his hands are back on me, big and warm and greedy as sin, sliding up my calves, slow and patient like he’s learning me. Like he’s gonna savor the topography of my legs the same way he checks the soil before planting something vital.

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