Page 97 of Bunker Down, Baby

Like, full system failure. All wires cut. Prepper.exe has crashed. Please reboot your apocalypse survival software after your orgasm.

Because Brock Tanner kissing me is not a normal thing.

It’s a fucking seismic event.

His mouth is rough, hungry, like he’s starving and I’m the last meal before winter. His hands grip my thighs like they’re meant to be held, like he’s memorizing the shape of me with his palms, and my back hits the tree trunk with a dull thunk that rattles me in all the right ways.

“God,” I pant between kisses. “You’re so intense. Like… sniper-level intense.”

“Thought that’s what you wanted,” he growls against my neck. “A man who doesn’t flinch. Who doesn’t break. Who keeps his promises.”

“And your promise was…?” I gasp, already grinding against him like I’m trying to start a fire.

“To finish what I start.”

Oh, hell yes.

He drops to his knees.

Just like that.

Like it’s nothing. Like kneeling in the woods with his rifle a few feet away and his mouth buried in my thighs is the most natural thing in the world. And it is. Because I planned for everything, the rations, the radios, the reverse-osmosis water filtration system.

But I did not plan for this man.

For the way he grabs my hips like I’m the most important thing in the bunker. For the way his mouth devours me.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t play. He’s not teasing. Brock eats like he fights, silently, with full commitment, and a death grip on victory. His tongue is deep and filthy, and I swear I black out for a second, one hand fisting in his too-long hair while the other claws at the bark behind me.

He pins my thighs open with his forearms and groans low, like the sound of someone losing their mind in real time. And when I come, I shatter. Bark digs into my back, the rifle’s still half-loaded on the ground, and I’m whisper-moaning his name like a girl who didn’t just drug and abduct him a few weeks ago.

He stands, slow. Lifts me with one hand under my ass and kisses me again like he’s trying to press his name into my bloodstream. Then he turns me to the tree and undoes his belt.

Oh, fuck yes.

“Say it,” he growls in my ear, voice dark and deep and absolutely wrecked with need. “Say you’re mine.”

“Yours,” I gasp, already bracing against the bark, pushing my ass back into him. “Always.”

He slides inside me slow, so slow, and I swear to God the stars rearrange. The world narrows to the stretch, the slide, the way his hand wraps around my throat and holds me steady.

He’s not fast. He’s not wild. He drives. Deep and deliberate, like he’s pounding every ounce of resistance out of me. Like he’s claiming territory. Like he’s writing his name in the softest part of me with every single thrust.

“You’re not gonna walk straight tomorrow,” he mutters against my shoulder.

“I’m not walking now,” I moan, already clenching, already about to come again.

He fucks me through it, hand still at my throat, pace unrelenting. “Who keeps you safe?” he rasps, just as I fall apart.

“You,” I gasp, shattered and shaking. “You do.”

“Damn right.” He slams in one more time and groans loud, grinding against me, hips locked, every inch of him deep inside me, marking me.

We stay like that for a beat. For an eternity. Breathing. Buzzing. Built for war and made for each other.

Then he leans in, kisses the side of my neck, and mutters, “That’s the only safety you’ll ever need.”

Brock carries me like he didn’t just absolutely rearrange my insides against a tree. Like he’s not still sticky with sweat and woodsmoke and that one vein in his neck isn’t still throbbing like it’s got unfinished business. Like I’m not boneless and blissed out and clinging to him like a satisfied little backpack with no brain cells left, just vague thoughts about hydration, pancakes, and maybe crying from happiness later.

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