Page 87 of Bunker Down, Baby

And he still hasn’t even fucked me.

He kisses me once. Deep. Dirty. Lets me taste myself on his lips. Then he looks at me, eyes gone dark. “You ready?”

“I’ve been ready for weeks,” I pant.

“Good,” he says, pushing his pants down in one smooth motion.

This is the part where I stop thinking altogether, and just let Holden destroy me.

I know I should be bracing for it. But nothing prepares me for how slow he goes at first.

Not sweet. Not gentle. Just intentional.

He lines himself up like he’s about to breach enemy territory, and honestly? Same vibe. My thighs are still trembling, I can feel him pressed right at my entrance, thick and ready, but he just holds there, like he wants me to feel the weight of it. Like he wants me to understand this isn’t a quick fuck.

This is a permanent installation.

A military-grade claiming.

He slides in. Inches. Just a few.

I gasp, head falling back against the mattress, spine already trying to arch, to move, to take. But his hands are on my hips, locking me in place, dragging the friction out like he’s engraving it into my fucking bones.

“Still think you’re in control?” he murmurs, voice a low rasp against my jaw.

“No,” I breathe. “Not even close.”

He thrusts deeper, slow, so slow, until he’s seated all the way inside me. Until I’m full in a way that stretches beyond physical. Like he’s in my nervous system now. My bloodstream.

And then he starts to move.

There’s no rhythm to find because Holden doesn’t fuck like he’s dancing. He fucks like he’s taking ground. Every thrust is a calculated force, every drag out is a reset for the next one. It’s primal and practiced all at once, like he’s been waiting for this so long it’s seared into him.

I claw at his back. I bite his shoulder. I moan so loud the bunker probably shakes.

And he loves it.

“Louder,” he growls, fucking into me harder. “I want them to hear you. Every single one.”

“Oh my God, Holden.”

“Say my name again,” he snaps, voice wrecked. “Say it when I come inside you.”

“Holden,” I gasp. “Fuck, Holden.”

He bites my neck and groans like the sound of his name is the thing pushing him over the edge.

But he doesn’t stop. Not yet.

Not until he’s wrung me out, flipped me, dragged my hips back into his hands, and claimed me from behind like he’s putting his signature on a masterpiece he’s finally decided to sign.

When I come again, it’s a scream and a sob and a thank-you in the same breath. I don’t even know who I’m thanking anymore. The prepping gods? Myself? The unhinged part of my brain that made a spreadsheet of apocalypse boyfriends?

Maybe all of the above.

Holden grunts my name like a war cry, thrusts deep one last time, and shatters.

The silence afterward is thick with steam and panting and the feeling of something finished. Something claimed. Something permanent.

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