Page 94 of Bunker Down, Baby

His hips slam forward in answer, and fuck, it doesn’t take long.

It never takes long when I’m strung up and used like this, when the man fucking me makes survival look like a religion and orgasm like a goddamn offering.

I shatter. Hard. Loud. Writhing under him, every nerve blown wide open as my body jerks and bucks against the restraint.

Holden follows with a growl, hips stuttering as he buries himself deep, like he’s carving out a place inside me that no one else gets to touch.

And for a moment, there’s nothing else. No bunker. No radio warnings. No men with knives and plans and gruff protective streaks.

Just me, cuffed and coming down, and Holden braced over me like he’s daring the world to try and take this from him.

Eventually, he slips out of me with a hiss, gently presses a kiss to my stomach, then reaches up to uncuff my wrist.

“You good?” he asks.

“Good is a laughable understatement,” I pant, flexing my fingers. “I might be concussed from orgasm.”

“Best kind of injury,” he mutters, then scoops me into his arms like I don’t weigh more than the axe he probably keeps under the bed.

I don’t fight it.

Let the world burn, I’m being carried to breakfast by a man who just realigned my cervix.

By the time Holden carries me into the kitchen, I’ve stopped pretending I’m embarrassed about any of it.

Because why should I be?

I’m freshly fucked, barely dressed in an oversized shirt that technically belongs to Evan but smells like Holden now, and I’m still floating from the kind of orgasm that rearranges your future plans. And the best part? I’ve got a literal buffet of filthy, competent, hilariously possessive men all standing around the kitchen like it’s perfectly normal to start the morning with group snark and a side of sausages.

Dean’s the first to spot us, shirtless and already halfway through a cup of coffee like he didn’t spend the early morning sharpening knives and cracking jokes about the apocalypse being one big horny camping trip.

“Well, look who finally showed up,” he crows, leaning back against the counter like a man very pleased with himself and the world. “Was worried you’d gone feral in the survivalist’s den.”

“Still might,” Holden mutters, settling into a chair with me still in his lap like he’s the throne and I’m the offering.

Evan, deadpan and clinically dangerous even before caffeine, doesn’t look up from his mug. “Kind of rude you didn’t invite any of us.”

Dean lets out a cackle that could shake the bunker walls. “I guess you and I are the only ones confident enough in our masculinity to take her apart together, Doc.”

“You’re not wrong,” I murmur, grinning.

Wade ambles in from the stove, spatula in one hand, his sunny cowboy charm radiating off him like he’s never once considered the bunker anything but a bed-and-breakfast for disaster-dating. “Y’all never told me group sex was on the table,” he drawls, sliding a plate onto the counter. “I got a lotta moves I could’ve brought to the rodeo.”

Dean winks. “Please tell me that’s a metaphor and a promise.”

Brock, sitting at the far end of the table with his arms crossed and that permanent scowl half-worn, snorts. “I don’t need help to take her apart.”

And now I’m smiling like the goddamn devil, because they’re not even arguing, they’re competing. Verbally sparring over who gets to fuck me next like that’s just the next logical bullet point on the day’s agenda.

Which, honestly? It is.

Holden just tightens his arm around my waist and says, voice low and dry, “Daddy always eats first.”

That earns a fucking chorus of groans.

“Jesus Christ,” Evan mutters.

Dean nearly drops his coffee. “I knew it. I knew you had the ‘I chop wood and build fences and breed women’ energy. I knew it.”

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