Page 37 of Bunker Down, Baby

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.

Chapter Nine

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.”

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