The Bear's Nanny

by Amy Star

  “Fuck me,” she pleaded softly, drawing his hands up her warm damp thighs. His fingers reveled in the touch of her skin, the jut of her hipbone even as she plowed against him, the wet sucking mess of her pubic hair scraping against his, the feel of her stomach muscles in the act of lovemaking. She was sweating again, fiercely, and finally, her hands guided his to her swaying breasts which he squeezed with renewed vigor.

  She let out a deep gasp, her lips pulling back to reveal the closed tight row of white teeth, her eyes closed against the pleasure and sorrow that had driven them both into each other’s arms. Her hips were moving desperately now, punching against his, and she bent over him, her breasts easing into his chest, even as her backside lifted and fell in loud punctuations.

  He reached down, bracing both buttocks, and thrust up as well, matching her movements, even as she screamed and the orgasm took hold. Still, she buried into him, as if her life depended on it, and he groaned, feeling pain in his member as she fucked him violently, trying to block out the death of Chris by loving him.

  “Fuck… I’m coming!” she screamed into his ear, and he held her head with one hand, his other plying the crease between her buttocks as she shook on top of him, her legs trembling like earthquakes and her whole body convulsing as pleasure rippled through her soft flesh.

  He felt her vagina clenching and unclenching uncontrollably on his member, and bit his lip to keep from coming with her, even as a fresh warm surge exploded between their legs. She gasped, unable to draw in breath except in startled gulps, and he held her firmly. “I love you, Sarah,” he repeated, and felt more tears land on his shoulder blade, mingling with sweat.

  “I love you too,” she moaned, “without words.”

  She slipped off to his side but he held her still, tracing the outline of her jaw with his finger as the flush of blood in her cheeks and sex began to subside. She opened her eyes, black as pebbles polished with rain or surf, and held his gaze for as long as she could. He stroked her whole face, learning the topography of her skin, through touch, and she closed her eyes and let him explore.

  “You didn’t come,” she said after a spell. The candles had shortened to half their wicks, and one of them petered out, putting that end of the cavern into darkness.

  He shook his head. “Not yet,” he whispered. In truth, this small act of intimacy, the gentle embrace of his fingers against her, would have been enough to fill all his years. He wanted to be able to remember her, every facet, every curve of bone and skin, no matter what, even after they had left the confines of the cave. To whatever end.

  “Again, my mate,” she said and her hands played across his chest and moved down to his penis which was already hardening again.

  She took him in her mouth, and he leaned back, his abdominal muscles fluxed as she lowered her lips onto him and began to work at his head with her tongue. He stiffened, opening his mouth in a silent gasp of pleasure, and she looked up at him, her fingers trailing through his pubic hair.

  He reached down, cupping her ear, even as she stared at him and moved her mouth up and down, sucking loudly on his member. Saliva escaped the edges of her lips, slithering down the turgid shaft, and she pulled up, gasping as if she’d broken the surface of a deep dive. Saliva dripped down her chin, and she moved in beside him, urging him behind her as she propped herself on her elbows.

  Taking the hint, he gripped her waist, his hands tracing the edge of her hipbones, and she lifted her buttocks toward him further, opening her legs so that he could glimpse the small pucker of her anus and the drooping wet lips below them.

  “Come in me,” she whispered.

  He moved into her, sharply, and she let out a hiss of pain. Her body convulsed against his, and his hands tugged against her waist as he flexed inside her. Both of them became lost in the moment. For Sarah, it had always been equivalent to the now of bear-thought – that moment of transformation, in which the past and the present and the future existed as one. Or rather, they did not exist at all. There was only a fleeting emotion, a flame of instinct.

  Death was coming for them, as it had come for Chris. And they both accepted it with a mute sort of astonishment; a resignation of an animal who knows its end is near, but fights against it anyway. This act of lovemaking, this movement of their bodies in a final hunting, was a way of paying tribute to it. Dylan groaned, his breathing like a staccato of oxygen, and his hand moved down, tracing the ridge of her buttocks with his thumb, until it glimpsed against her anus and Sarah fell forward, her arms giving out under her as they clenched at the fabric of the sheets. She raised her buttocks higher, urging him to release, and bit her lip.

  Dylan felt himself expand inside her, sliding against the tight walls of her vagina, and in a final moment, her arms pulled tight as bow strings and she squeezed the muscles of her thighs against his member. He gave a loud shout as he came, pummeling against her buttocks. She, too, let out a squeal, as her face pressed into the sheets, and his seed moved against her like a feathered plume.

  He gasped and fell on top of her, flattening her, and kissed at the back of her neck, pulling himself out of her. A slick trail of his own fluids trailed up her backside, and she rolled onto him, pressing her head under his chin.

  “Is love enough?” she finally asked.

  He didn’t know how to respond to that, and stared at the ceiling for long moments, even as another candle sputtered out. “I think it has to be,” he said at last. “It’s all we have.”

  THE FINAL CHAPTER

  When she woke up, Dylan was nowhere to be seen, it gave her a minor panic attack. It took her several tries before she was able to fumble one of the matches on the drawer to light, and get one of the candles to light. She moved the small light around, but save for her, it was empty. She felt something cold nag her naked body.

  The satellite radio was still on the drawer, still broadcasting its directionless signal, but there was no other chatter. The Remington rifle was still there as well where she’d left it, against the wall of the cave. But Dylan was nowhere to be seen.

  A horrible thought crossed her mind, only because she had gotten to know him as well as she’d gotten to know herself. She hadn’t told him what she was about to do, back when they had been tied to the tree. She knew how he would have taken it. But now she couldn’t escape the possibility that he had gone and done something similar.

  Reckless idiot, she wanted to scream, but she saved her energy, and put her clothes back on. Dylan’s little cave was a perfect hide-out; you couldn’t see it until you were almost on top of it. But as he had reminded them, they were dealing with a seasoned poacher, someone who knew the wilderness just as well as they, and had devoted his life to tracking animals through it. If anyone else could find the cave, it would be him. She felt a lump grow in her throat, even as she gripped the rifle and marched toward the entrance.

  “Dylan, where are you?” she asked, but only the wind replied.

  It was daylight, and she gauged the sun to be almost directly above them. There was a small patch of blood near the white rock of the entrance, and she feared the worst, but realized it was probably Chris’. Dylan’s hands, even when he transformed back into a human, had been sticky with it from holding the old bear. Even when they’d made love, some of it had smeared off on her thigh. She felt unclean, warped by sweat and blood and semen and dirt and fear.

  She followed the path, back up to the cliffs. Below she could make out the surf. It had settled a bit since this morning, and the sun was bright again, almost as if had forgotten its rain and thunder and temper from the night before. A bird tweeted somewhere distant.

  From this vantage, she could make out the beach where Chris had been shot the first time, and where he’d injured the first poacher, that fateful day. Everything started from that, like dominoes falling, one after the other. Blood for blood. It was not a foreign concept, in human politics or shifter. But that never made it right.

  There was something white on the sand. She squinted, t
rying to see through the salty atmosphere, and brought up the scope of the rifle, peering through it. It was a boat, the same outboard the four poachers – now one, she thought gritting her teeth – had come into their lives from. There were two figures, walking toward it on the sand, she didn’t need the scope to know who they were.

  Reckless idiot, she cried to herself. What had he hoped to do? Parley for their lives? Or was it worse than that. She knew that only hours earlier she had calculated, bet on the same selfless strategy. He’s trying to lure the poacher away from me, she realized and cursed him aloud, her eyebrows narrowing into daggers and not caring if they could hear her or not.

  No, not like this. Dylan was a hypocrite. I’m not losing anyone else, he had said. And neither am I, you bastard. Her fists bunched at her sides as she slung the rifle onto her back and took off running, her jeans creaking with each long-legged jump she took down the path toward the distant beach. I’m going to beat the crap out of him before this ends, she thought, scrubbing her cheeks with the back of her hand to keep the tears at bay and her vision clear, even as she skidded over tree roots and bypassed switchbacks, sailing through the air and landing hard on the balls of her feet.

  “Just you wait,” she panted.

  ***

  The sand felt good under his feet. He had left his shoes back in the cave with Sarah. He knew she might hate him for what he’d done but he hoped she would understand. But maybe that’s precisely why she would hate him for this. They were one and the same, equal in their passions. It was why they had been such a good match, he reflected, and couldn’t help but smile even as Arthur behind him urged him toward the crude skeletal frame of the outboard down the beach.

  His arm ached where the poacher had pulled it behind him. It might even have been dislocated, he couldn’t be sure. His fingers were numb and tingly, and a dull pain swamped his whole right side. It hadn’t taken much more than a quarter hour of searching to find the poacher; he’d been clumsily following their trail through the underbrush.

  To be honest, he wasn’t sure what he had hoped to accomplish, only to make sure that whatever happened, the rifle-heavy poacher didn’t find Sarah. When he stepped blindly out of the cover of the trees, his arms raised and face passive, he almost expected the older man to kill him there and then. But Arthur had had other plans, and Dylan could only grunt in pain and exhaustion as he was shoved face down in the dirt and his arm pulled brusquely up behind him. The fishing line that wrapped his wrists behind him now was sharp, and had already dug into the flesh like filaments of flame. He felt blood pooling in his slightly curved palms, dripping off his fingernails.

  “Move,” Arthur commanded again, stabbing him in the back with the point of his rifle.

  He hasn’t killed me, Dylan thought. That might mean he had a chance yet. Or it might mean that whatever fate awaited him would be even worse, even more prolonged. It didn’t matter. Through the damp blood-crusted sweep of black hair he let himself glance at the distance white cliffs to his right, further up the island. Sarah was safe, and had the satellite radio. Help would come, he was certain of it. Everything else was secondary.

  “Why are you doing this?” Dylan grumbled, hoping to ease the poacher behind him. His ribs still hurt every time he was prodded. “You could just… go… leave… why…”

  “You broke my boy,” Arthur replied, curt and to the point. “Well, not you, but that big bastard. And, from the looks of ’im, he offed Kyle too. Am I wrong about that?” His prisoner only sunk his head, and that was answer enough. “Thought so… but it doesn’t matter. I wish I’d been the one to put a bullet in that bastard’s neck, but Kyle got to him first… so be it, that’s how I’ll remember him. But you…”

  “What about me?”

  “You’re something else. Not… not even human.” He spat on to the sand. “I’m achin’ to find out what makes you tick. I’m not in the habit of taking trophies alive… but you, I’ll make an exception.” There was no joy in his voice, just a complacent sort of sagacity, as if he were carrying out his actions according to some script. “After that, I’ll come back and find your little girlfriend… she’s not going anywhere.”

  “She’s dead,” Dylan said softly, trying to infuse his voice with sorrow.

  “I saw her alive and shooting. Nice try,” he said.

  “One of you got in a lucky shot… she…” he stopped, giving a necessary pause, “didn’t make it.”

  The poacher stopped, his gait suddenly interrupted, and Dylan prayed that his lie had worked. He knew that in all likelihood, all he was doing was buy time. “That’s a shame,” the man said behind him, sounding glummer than normal.

  Dylan felt another stab of the gun in his back as Arthur coaxed him toward it. “Don’t suppose you’d mind telling me where we’re going?” he asked, trying to sound jovial. Fuck him, if I have to die, I’ll die smiling, he thought. He wondered if it was a good sign or not that he was getting accustomed to his eventual death.

  “I said move. Get in,” Arthur shouted.

  Dylan closed his eyes and tried to push the outboard toward the crash of waves. His feet sunk into the sand again and a breath of cold water splashed against his heels. It felt good, it meant he was still alive.

  “Now,” the poacher said, “let’s go.”

  Dylan shrugged and was about to retort when he saw a glint of movement behind Arthur. No, was his first thought. He thought it would have taken Sarah at least another half hour to discover he was gone, and by then, he would have been long gone. He cursed again when Arthur sensed the movement of his gaze and looked behind him.

  Sarah moved out of the cover of a huge fence of downed interlocking pieces of driftwood, her black tank-top and jeans standing out against the white bleached wood. She was missing her headband, and Dylan was surprised to see how long her bangs actually were. Black spikes arced down over her eyes, shielding the dangerous glare that she cast in their direction. She walked forward, one foot following the other, refusing to break stride.

  Tight against her shoulder, Kyle’s Remington was like another part of her arm, something fixed that had become as integral to her own identity as any other limb. It was the one thing standing between the poacher and her, and even Arthur strained at the sight of her, lifting the muzzle of his own gun and pushing Dylan in front of him.

  “Keep your hands up, or I’ll launch your brains across the beach for the gulls,” Arthur coughed, his voice croaking. “I mean it.”

  “Yeah,” Dylan growled.

  Sarah kept her own gun raised, refusing to lower it, and didn't stop walking until she was fifteen feet away, and even then, she waited for Arthur to speak. Several tense moments passed. Even using Dylan as a shield, he was vulnerable. But she only had one shot and she’d have to reload. He still had five in his semi-automatic clip, and one in the chamber. I have the high ground, but still…

  “You got guts, girl,” he observed, “now why don’t you turn around and take that pretty ass back into the woods? You don’t want to be here right now…”

  “You got that damn right,” she said, positioning the rifle harder against her shoulder. “Now let him go. And I’ll consider not putting this shell through your brain pan.”

  “Big words from a small girl. You think you can get me… you’ll have to go through your little boyfriend here, first.”

  Sarah seemed to pause and looked up over the rim of the scope and nodded at Dylan. His face was freshly bloody again, the gash on his head had reopened. The job she had done on his stitches had come undone, no doubt when he’d given himself over as a prisoner. She flinched.

  “What do you think about that, Dylan? Do you mind terribly if I put a bullet through you, long as I get the fucker behind you?”

  He smiled under his black locks and let out a grim chuckle. “Not one bit, love.”

  She repositioned her aim. Behind Dylan, Arthur shifted his feet, wondering if he’d really pushed the couple far enough that she’d be willing to risk an exit wo
und on her love all in the wild chance of pegging him. No, it was madness. But that look in her eyes, wasn’t that also madness? He snarled.

  “I’ll let you go, princess,” he said, trying to compromise. “All I want is him.”

  “Then we’ve got one thing only in common,” Sarah grated. “You’re out of time. Make your damn decision or I’ll go through with my mine.”

  Dylan let out another chuckle. He had to hand it to her, she could speak as sharp as anyone he knew, and he could feel the pride and confidence in the poacher behind him shrink. “What do you say, poacher?” he breathed huskily. “Care to wager on how crazy she really is? Truth be told, even I’m not a hundred percent certain.”

  Arthur swore behind him. “Shut it. Listen up! I’m in control here and I’ll be damned if a skinny ass whelp of a bit-”

  Dylan flinched, his eyes snapping shut and open again as Sarah discharged her rifle. A wet sound behind him followed by a heavy thud and Sarah cursed and shouted something at him and he ran towards her. “Move!” Sarah screamed at him, he dared to look behind him.

  Arthur was struggling on the sand, cursing to high heaven, and holding the side of his head, which was a bloody mess. She had waited until the last moment to fire off a single shot when the fractional side of his head had been visible over Dylan’s shoulder. The bullet had glanced off his cheek, causing the poacher to reel backwards, and peeling back the flesh like the skin off a grape. The shockwave of the bullet had probably caved in the eyeball too, and some white and wet and indiscernible was leaking down the ruined cheekbone.

  “Bloody goddamn fucking-” they heard the screams filter out into the bay, followed by two more gunshots. The sand to the left of Sarah’s foot exploded in a tiny crater. The other shot gone wild. He was half-blind now, but he was still able to level his good eye down his semi-automatic.

  Dylan and Sarah were almost at the ridge of the driftwood when a third shot rang out and Sarah let out a scream and toppled face-first down onto the sand, gripping her thigh. Fresh blood oozed from it, and Dylan knelt down over on top of her, trying to block any incoming bullets with his body while helping her onto his shoulder.