Page 54 of Bunker Down, Baby

He pours me a glass of water from a pitcher on the counter and hands it over with those big, calloused hands that I swear could wring an orgasm out of me without even trying.

“You can sit, rest up,” he says, nodding toward the kitchen table. “You’re safe here.”

God, that voice. It’s all gravel and honey, slow and low and just shy of a drawl. The kind of voice that makes promises without even trying.

I take a sip, keeping my eyes on him over the rim of the glass. He leans against the counter, arms crossed, and holy shit, his forearms are actual pornography. Thick and corded and dusted with sun-bleached hair. I bet he could lift me up against the wall with those arms, spread me open, fuck me senseless, and still have the strength left to milk a cow afterward.

“Thank you,” I say, voice all soft and grateful. “You’re really kind.”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t feel right turning someone away. Not with the world how it is.”

Sweet. Pure. Zero chance in hell I’m letting him go.

I glance toward the front door. “There’s… more I should probably tell you.”

He tilts his head, smile never fading. “I figured.”

I sip the water again and smile sweetly, like I’m not about to upend his entire life. “You’re going to want to sit down for this, Wade. You’re about to be adopted.”

He slides into a chair across from me. Just like that. No yelling, no resistance, no threats. So obedient. I like that. I could eat him up with a spoon and then lick the bowl clean.

“Adopted?” he says, raising one golden brow and giving me a slow, deliberate once-over that lands somewhere between amused and interested. “You got a mommy fetish or something?”

I blink.

And then it hits me.

He just flirted with me.

He just flirted with me and I didn’t even have to drug him, tie him up, or feed him breakfast in bed. He did it willingly. Voluntarily. Like a big, golden retriever of a man with a devastating smirk and arms that could cradle me through the apocalypse.

I wasn’t prepared for this.

I was prepared for grunting, yelling, spitting maybe. Some light sedative juggling. Definitely a monologue. But this? This is Dean-level cooperation and I haven’t even told him the best parts. I haven’t even shown him the bunker yet. He doesn’t know he gets his own room and a stocked pantry and four very hot roommates who all know their way around a toolbelt and my body. Well, they all will eventually.

And he just… flirts.

I feel my eye twitch.

He’s still watching me, too. Watching like he knows I caught the flirt and now he’s just waiting to see what I’ll do with it. I swear to God, he’s trying to short-circuit me. The corners of his mouth twitch like he knows.

I clear my throat and sit up straighter, trying to regain some control of this wildly spiraling situation. “I’ve thought of everything,” I say. “You don’t have to worry about a single thing.”

Now it’s his turn to look confused, and I feel a little better.

Just a little.

I stand and walk the empty glass to the sink, taking my time because it gives me a second to breathe and also because I know his eyes are on me. I can feel it, hot and steady, like the sun on my bare shoulders. I bet his hands could leave handprints on my thighs. I bet he could hold me up against the wall and do my taxes.

Goddamn it, focus.

I glance over my shoulder. He hasn’t moved. Still watching. Still that maddening half-smile on his face, like he thinks he’s in control.

I walk back to him, slow and careful like I’m approaching a wild animal. A sexy, flannel-wearing, too-charming-for-his-own-good wild animal. I pause beside his chair, heart thumping. I don’t want to do it this way. I think, God, I think he actually would come willingly. I think he’d laugh and throw a duffel over one shoulder and ask where we’re headed and if there’s room for his goats.

But I can’t take that chance.

Not with him.

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