Page 9 of Bunker Down, Baby

I smirk. “Are you sure?”

His nostrils flare.

I give his shirt another tug.

He yanks it back down.

God, this is fun.

I lean in, lowering my voice. “Evan, baby. I know what you look like naked.”

His entire body locks up.

I grin. “Get in the shower,” I purr. “Or I’ll put you there myself.”

He glares, muscles coiled so tight I can feel the frustration radiating off him.

But then he smirks. Just the barest twitch of his lips. Like he almost enjoys this.

His fingers flex at his sides, still gripping the hem of his shirt like it’s his last lifeline.

“I don’t even know your name,” he finally says, voice low, cautious. “Shouldn’t that be a prerequisite for communal showering?”

I step closer, tilting my head. “We’re so far past prerequisites.”

His throat bobs. But he doesn’t step back.

“My name’s Maple,” I purr. “Maple Grace Monroe.”

He exhales slowly through his nose, watching me like I’m something wild, something dangerous.

I like that.

“Are you going to wash me?” he asks dryly.

My grin turns wicked. “Do you want me to wash you?”

He scowls.

I roll my eyes. “You’re still groggy. I’m just being helpful.”

“Uh-huh.” His voice is flat, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Right. Just being helpful.”

I nod, all innocence. “You don’t want to slip, do you? Hit your head?”

He blinks slowly. “I think I’d rather hit my head.”

I laugh. “Oh, you are so dramatic.”

His shoulders rise with another deep inhale, but he doesn’t argue this time. Just stares at me, lips pressing together like he’s bracing himself. Then, finally, he peels his scrub top over his head.

Oh, fuck yes.

It’s so much better up close.

Broad chest. Lean muscle. Abs that look like they’ve been through some shit, not the sculpted, gym-rat kind, but the kind you get from actual work, from running on adrenaline and caffeine and pure survival instinct.

A few faint scars.

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