Page 101 of Bunker Down, Baby

I’m still wearing his hat.

God help me.

It’s low over my eyes, shadowing the barn lights, making this feel like a dream, some filthy, gorgeous, post-apocalyptic fever dream where the air smells like hay and sawdust and sex, and the only law left is do not interrupt Wade while he’s praying at the temple of your thighs.

He nudges them apart with his shoulders and groans, deep in his chest like I’m some sacred discovery he’s just unearthed from the earth he was born to till.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Already so wet for me, sugar. And I haven’t even sung you half the hymnal yet.”

“Hymns usually don’t involve licking,” I whisper.

Wade looks up at me from between my thighs and smiles. “You been to the right church?”

My knees damn near give out. The only thing keeping me upright is the barn wall at my back and his grip on my hips, and even that’s a shaky equation because now he’s kissing me there, soft and slow, like he’s trying to coax open a secret.

His mouth is heat and velvet, tongue teasing like he’s writing sonnets against my folds, each stroke a verse, each breath a confession. He doesn’t rush. God no. Wade eats like a man with nothing but time and appetite and the unbearable urge to make me feel.

And I do. I feel everything.

The rasp of his stubble against my inner thigh. The slick slide of his tongue as he parts me and licks deep, groaning like I taste like salvation. The way his fingers press bruises into my hips because he can’t help it, because this is him losing control, and he’s doing it for me.

“Oh my god,” I whimper, hands flying to the back of his head, gripping tight, needing something to anchor me to this planet while he wrecks me slow.

He hums. It vibrates through me.

The hat slips lower.

I think I come just from that.

And then he flattens his tongue against my clit and drags, slow and heavy, like he’s lapping honey off a spoon, and I shatter.

The orgasm hits like a wave cresting on dry earth. It rolls through me, raw and wild and wide, and I swear I see fireworks, bursting in my vision as I scream his name to the rafters of this barn like it’s a holy chant.

Wade keeps going.

Of course he does.

He’s thorough.

Gentle, now, licking through the aftershocks, tongue slow, like he’s calming a storm of his own making. And when he finally stands, when he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smug and glowing and cocky as hell, I’m still gasping, clinging to the wall with shaking thighs and his goddamn hat tipped low on my head.

“Well,” he says, voice rough and amused and full of country-boy mischief, “Looks like that snack you brought me was real satisfying.”

I’m too busy panting to sass him.

“Should probably carry you back in,” he says, lifting me like I weigh nothing, my legs still jelly and my mind still scrambled. “Can’t have the others thinkin’ I broke their bunker queen.”

“You did break me,” I mutter against his chest, clinging to him like I’m trying to crawl back inside the experience. “And I hope it’s permanent.”

He laughs, all sweet menace and smug delight. “Next time, darlin’? I’ll leave you with bite marks.”

Wade carries me inside like I weigh nothing. Just one big, sun-kissed farm boy with strong arms and stronger intentions, his stupidly perfect hat back on his head and the memory of what he just did to me still wrecking every soft, quivering part of my insides.

He doesn’t even say anything as he sets me gently on the couch like I’m glass, but not in a fragile way, in that reverent ‘this is sacred treasure and I’d fistfight God for it’ kind of way.

I sink back with a dazed little hum, thighs still trembling, hair a wreck, shirt unbuttoned halfway to Jesus. I probably look like someone dragged me through an orgasm tornado and kissed me on the forehead after.

Wade brushes a kiss across said forehead and walks into the kitchen like a man who knows he just altered my molecular structure and is gonna casually get himself a glass of water.

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