Page 93 of Bunker Down, Baby

His brow goes up. “I was gonna say I brought extra jam but.” He waves a hand. “You know what? Nope. Not interrupting whatever the hell this is.”

Holden doesn’t even move. Just calmly retracts his hand like he’s adjusting a tool belt. “She’s getting breakfast in bed,” he says flatly.

Wade eyes the cuffs. “Is this your version of romance?”

“She started it,” Holden says.

I wave with my free hand, panting. “Totally did.”

Wade sighs. “Alright, fine. I’ll come back later and show you how to properly court a woman without threatening her with cutlery.”

Holden picks up the coffee cup and holds it out to me.

I take it with my free hand, grinning like a lunatic. “I don’t know,” I say. “This is actually kind of working for me.”

Wade walks out shaking his head. “Y’all are insane. Breakfast’s in the kitchen when you’re done playing Saw XIII: Domestic Bliss Edition.”

Holden shrugs and then sits on the edge of the bed and feeds me a bite of toast.

No apology. No explanation. Just the quiet satisfaction of a man who’s claimed something and has zero plans of ever giving it back.

And me? I’m exactly where I want to be.

Tied up. Fed. And one very smug breath away from round two.

God, I love my life.

Holden feeds me a second triangle of toast like it’s part of some absurd post-apocalyptic mating ritual, and honestly, it might be. The way he watches me chew, eyes half-lidded, like the act of me eating something he made scratches some primal, provider instinct buried under years of wilderness solitude and firearm maintenance.

He sets the tray aside, slow and neat, like nothing about this is rushed, like we’re not half a second from doing unspeakable things in his bed with my wrist still chained to his damn headboard.

And I swear to God, it’s the calm that does me in. Not the knife. Not the cuffs. Not even the possessive glint in his eyes when he touches me like I’m something he’s earned. It’s the stillness. That predator-patient quiet that says he could spend all goddamn morning making me fall apart, and he’d do it just to prove he could.

“I think I should feed you more often,” he murmurs, eyes on my mouth.

“I think you should fuck me before the toast gets cold,” I counter, arching toward him.

He huffs a low laugh, and the bed shifts beneath his weight as he leans in, one hand still braced near my shoulder, the other sliding right back where it belongs, between my thighs, dragging through the slick mess he left behind earlier like he’s testing to see how long it takes before I beg.

Spoiler: not long.

“You’re shameless,” he says, almost like he’s surprised.

I grin, sharp and breathless. “I’m a little tied up right now. Not much else I can be.”

And then his fingers slip inside me, and any smart-ass response I might’ve had burns out on my tongue like a sparkler dipped in honey. I groan instead, long and low, tilting my hips toward him, greedy and already throbbing with need.

He watches me. Watches my body respond. Watches my lips part and my thighs tremble and my breath go shallow, and then he shifts up over me, pressing a kiss to my throat like a slow claim.

I feel him between my thighs, already hard, already ready, because of course he is. Men like Holden don’t need much. Just the right trigger. Just the right woman. Just the right chain clinking against a headboard.

He presses in, thick and deep. My wrist strains against the cuff, body arching to meet him like we’re built for this exact kind of feral worship.

He sets the pace. Slow, grinding thrusts that make my toes curl and my eyes roll, each one dragging me closer to the edge with the kind of devastating control only a man like him could have. No rush. No mercy. Just the soft, wet slap of skin and the low, guttural sounds he makes when I tighten around him.

“Goddamn,” he mutters against my neck. “You’re like a furnace.”

I laugh, breath hitching. “You gonna hammer something into me or just admire the heat?”

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