Bucking Bearback (BBW Shifter Cowboy Western Romance) (Bear Ranchers Book 5)

by Becca Fanning

  He backed off me and stood up. His cock swung through the air, hanging hard and in defiance of gravity. I could see the head was slick with his need, coated with his pre-cum. The curse of virility, the never-ending need to spill your seed.

  I got up on my knees in front of him. He looked down at me, saying nothing. I brought a hand to his shaft, stroking him. I brought my face close to his manhood, smelling his musky scent, feeling the incredibly soft skin stretched over his rock hard cock.

  I planted a small kiss on his inner thigh, and enjoyed feeling his cock spasm in my hand. I took his purple head in my mouth, concentrating on his primal salty fluid. It was thick and coated my tongue. The end of his prick was smooth, and I delighted in running my tongue under his glans.

  He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. Every guy lives for this moment. I guess werewolves are no different.

  I opened my mouth wider, going further down on his rod. I came back up, licking up the streams of saliva escaping down his shaft, then swallowed him again. I lifted his cock, exposing his heavy sack behind it. I softly sucked one of his balls, amazed at the size of it. I wondered how much cum it could hold, and I had a feeling I’d find out pretty soon. I gave long licks to his sac, enjoying the feeling of his balls moving around inside it.

  With a groan he opened his eyes and looked down at me. He grabbed the back of my head and pulled me past him. I fell forward on my hands and knees. His hand held a strong grip on my hair, keeping me on all fours as he positioned himself behind me.

  I cried out as I felt an immense pressure at my entrance. With no compassion or delicacy, he plunged into me. My soaking pussy stretched to accommodate his full girth and length. He bottomed out inside me, the crown of his massive cock bumping my cervix.

  Unable to push in any deeper, he began fucking me like a wild animal, his hips pumping into me like a creature mad with lust. My body flew forward, and it took all my might to not be thrown forward onto my face again. His heavy ballast swung forward with every thrust, smacking my clit and sending a bolt of special pain through me.

  The sense of being full of this man, on my knees in the grass and surrounded by trees, it was amazing. I could still taste his seed in my mouth, still smell his sex in my nose. Now he was ploughing my fields with his virile staff, doing anything his primal mind told him to. He was lost in his animal instinct, the need to relieve the pressure in his balls.

  I could feel him plunge past every ridge of my tunnel as he took me in that field. Each time he pulled back, my pussy screamed in protest, needing him back inside me. He pulled my hair hard, slamming up into me on each relentless thrust.

  He let my hair go, both hands going to my hips. His pace picked up, and I could hear him grunting in quick succession. The idea of his imminent release was more than I could handle, and I came for the third time that night. I squirted all over his cock, knowing my juices went down his shaft and soaked his balls.

  He slammed one more time into me, pushing me down into the ground where he pinned me with his manhood. I felt his cock surge inside me, and I was filled with his hot cream. He pumped into me endlessly, his balls contracting and pulling up towards his abdomen. He filled my womb with his seed, his balls drained for the time being.

  He panted behind me, his cock beginning to wilt. He fell out of me and collapsed next to me, pulling me down to lie next to him. We looked up at the night time sky, the full moon shining down on us.

  “I knew you’d be trouble,” he said.

  The Pirate And The Alpha

  by

  Becca Fanning

  Nothing got me into the mood like a good sea shanty. The fiddler in the corner of the dark room was swinging him arm as fast as he could, the drummer next to him hammering for all he was worth.

  I leapt into the middle of the room, other dancers making way for me. My long skirts shook and swayed as I kicked this way and that. The Queen of England might want my head, but tonight I would drink and dance!

  A lanky lad caught my attention. Dark hair cropped short, his eyes kept darting to the entrance of the tavern. That little act of defiance drew me to him, the need to make him mine.

  No man ignores Lady Brass. I’d been the captain of the Salt Shake these past six years, commanding a crew of the roughest cut-throats ‘cross the seven seas. We’d plundered. We’d done murder. We’d done it all and we’d do it again. And I wasn’t going to have some little land bug ignore me.

  I swayed in front of him, letting my hips do the talking. That’d get his prick nice and hard, ready for me to take him. The thought made me wet, my pussy needing a long hard ride, a good horse to break in. I glanced back and his eyes were only on me. That’s the look I knew, the one I was waiting for.

  I took his hand in mine, dragging him back towards the private rooms. Ignoring the cheers from the common room, I pushed him through the door to my chamber. He fell back on the bed, looking up at me with soft eyes.

  I crawled on top of him. “You ready, boy-o? You’re gonna get nice and stiff for me, give me a proper in and out,” I kissed him, his mouth completely still as my tongue plunged into it.

  My hand went down to his crotch, feeling his member coming to life through his trousers. Maybe I’d let him swab my tongue with it. If I was feeling charitable, that is. I wasn’t known for it.

  “I…” he said, his voice a scared croak.

  Ahh, the poor lad was a virgin. He’d never had his prick wet before. “S’alright, lad. Just let nature lead your hand.”

  “I…I don’t want to die,” he said. His face was pure terror. “Please, have mercy.”

  “No,” I said, though I don’t know where the word came from. “Luck is a fickle mistress. Some have it good, some have it bad. Nothing personal.” Again, my voice, but the words were from somewhere else.

  The man beneath me fell into water where the bed was. Disappearing through dark blue ripples, his face was frozen in shock. In moments he was gone, as if he’d never existed.

  “Nothing personal.”

  My eyes flew open, bright blazing sunlight slamming into them like a canon. The sound of lapping waves was joined by the sensation of water gently running over my feet. A light breeze carried salty spray onto my face. Where was I?

  My whole body ached. The parts I could feel anyway. Gritty sand and salt were everywhere, in every opening. I tried to sit up, but I had no strength to. My whole body protested at the thought.

  I looked down and saw a piece of my ship laying on my chest, a wooden cask with rope binding it to myself. Now I remembered. I remembered every damned thing!

  The merchant ship we’d plundered, and the marine skiff that ran up on us unawares. The battle had been a horrible, bloody affair. Canon answered canon, their solid shells piercing our hull. Our chainshot had scored a direct hit on their main mast, toppling it into the sea.

  Crew of both ships collided into each other in the mayhem of hand to hand combat as the sun set on the horizon. Flintlock pistols licked fire, spraying men with hot peppershot. Men stabbed with daggers, swung long clubs at heads. My first mate, Callus Chris, buried a hatchet in the head of the marine captain. All his fancy buttons and medals didn’t mean spit in the end.

  I flexed my hands and feet, letting the feeling come back to them. Painful pins shot through my body, making me cry in agony.

  Things looked doomed when a fire started on the marine ship. The Salty Shake had taken too many shells to the hull, and it reared up on one end, capsizing. I watched members of my crew get crushed by falling timbers. I watched one man get tangled in a line and pulled overboard. Like bait being taken by a shark.

  The sailor code says the captain goes down with the ship. Shit on the sailor code. The pirate code says you do whatever it takes to live another day, because we’re all surely going to burn in Hades. Best to put that off as long as possible.

  I laughed, my bottom lip splitting and blood pouring into my mouth. So this is the end of the terrible Lady Brass. Shipwrecked on a desert isla
nd. Would I die here on this beach? It would only take the tide coming in, maybe a foot of water at most.

  Or maybe I was already dead. The thought stopped my laughter in my throat. Could this be Hell? It felt like hell, that’s for sure. But where was Ole Pokey Jack? No, I was still among the living. For now.

  I gave another effort to sit up, and my body lifted off the sand. My head swung upwards, my vision going blurry. I breathed deeply, slowly. My gaze went out over the water. Peaceful, lazy waves, like sapphires snoring in their sleep.

  I turned my neck, gritting my teeth through the pain. Up the beach to my left, I could see debris on the beach, possibly more wreckage. To my right the beach curved back around, disappearing behind a copse of trees. Behind me the beach went up about a hundred feet, then the island became thickly wooded.

  I had no idea where this island could be. There were no islands near the merchant vessel when we plundered her. I didn’t know if I’d been adrift for hours or days, or in which direction the sea carried me. Right and proper buggered.

  I untied the cask around my chest, letting it fall to the side. I unplugged the cork stopper on the top, praying it had held tight in the waves. I poured some of the water into my hand. It smelled clean. I dipped my tongue into it, not tasting any salt. I upended the cask, letting the hot water wash down my parched throat.

  I put the cask down, re-sealing it. I wanted to drink more. I needed to drink more. But I didn’t know if there was fresh water on this island. You had to be realistic about these things.

  I stood up slowly, walking down the beach towards the rest of the wreckage on the beach. There was rope, broken planks of wood and torn pieces of sail. I kicked it around, hoping to uncover a box of biscuits or some fruit. But there was only trash.

  Sighing, I walked back to where my water cask was. Twenty feet away I froze. I’d been walking back next to my tracks. Near where I lay, I now saw another set of tracks. Someone had stood over me while I slept.

  My hand went to my belt and closed around the reassuring iron of my flintlock pistol. Soaked through with water, the cartridge was probably useless. But no one else needed to know that. My dagger was still in it’s sheath on the other side of my hip. I didn’t like them, because to use them you had to be close enough for the other bastard to use his on you. Beggars can’t be choosers.

  “You can either wait for trouble to find you, or you go out and get the drop on trouble,” Captain DeTouign had told me once. I’d learned so much from him, up until the British Royal Navy hung him in London Square. Retired by the rope, as we say.

  I began to follow the stranger’s tracks down the beach. I had to find whomever else was on this island. Maybe it was a member of my crew. Maybe it was one of the British sailors. It could even be an island native. Any of them would have cause to slit my throat.

  So why was I still alive? The question nagged at me, like a fish on a hook that wouldn’t let go. I just hope I lived long enough to figure out this riddle.

  The tracks had a long stride, so I knew this person was tall. It was also a large foot, so I was dealing with a man. Not really a surprise, but even knowing that was empowering. Little by little I’d tear down this mystery.

  Then the tracks stopped. Or, rather, they changed. One footprint was a man’s, then a stride away was something else. A paw print. What an odd thing. Was my mind soft, like a sodden sponge? I closed my eyes and shook my head. Opening them again, I looked down.

  Still a paw print. They went further down the beach, around the bend. No point in chasing a dog down the beach. British ships sometimes kept them on board to catch rats. Little bastard had a better shot here than I did.

  The sun overhead was a constant blaze, crisping my already burnt skin. I had to get shelter, and that meant heading into the interior. Even some palm fronds tied together would give me sanctuary from the devilish sun.

  After scrabbling through the brush for what seemed like an hour, I heard water splashing, but not from the sea. Trees were thick in every direction, so this must mean a spring or natural well. I prayed to the gods above and below that it was fresh water. I ran towards the splashing, barging through a thick row of bushes.

  A large pond extended out in front of me, perhaps fifty feet to the other edge. The water was crystal clear, and was cascading down a rocky hill that ran upwards out of sight.

  And swimming around in the clear water was a naked man. He hadn’t seen me yet, so I ducked behind a tree so I could get a good look at him. Then I would know my next move.

  He had long blonde hair and broad shoulders. Arms that were thick and muscled, like a good piece of meat from a butcher. As he dove down into the water I saw his firm rump, perfect for biting under other circumstances. He had a small belly, but not enough to betray an indulgence in drink.

  In other words, not a pirate. Not one of my crew. A British sailor then. Not much to be done for it. I’d have to kill him, but I’d have to do it away from the pond. Blood turns water foul faster than anything else.

  “Are you going to hide behind that tree all day?” he said.

  I cursed myself silently. I’d lost my element of surprise, and for no gain. Stupid milk coddle idiot!

  “We’ve got you in our sights. Move and we fill ye full o’ lead!” I said, trying to sound imposing.

  I heard a chuckle from the pond and a splash as he dove under the water. He re-emerged closer, coming up on my side of the pond. Better than him going back for a weapon.

  “I said don’t move! Do you know who I am?” I shouted.

  “Aye, you’re the Dread Lady Brass. Scourge of Her Majesty’s seas. You’ve plundered ten ships, sent over two hundred good men and women to Davy Jones’ Locker,” he said. But he kept getting closer.

  I had my flintlock in one hand, my dagger in the other. I stepped out from behind the tree. “That’s far enough, minnow.” I leveled the pistol at his chest.

  He had a hard face, the kind that had been in more than a few bar brawls. His nose had been broken at least once. A thin scar ran down one cheek, But it was a strong face as well. Proud cheekbones and a chin like a rocky outcropping.

  “Minnow?” he said, his lips turning up in a grin. His eyes glanced downward, and mine followed. He was hung, hung like a bull moose.

  “Well, some minnows are bigger than others,” I said, “But yer minnows all the same. Name and rank.”

  “Corpsman Fentin Potswain, ma’am! Proud to sail in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy!” he said, snapping to a sharp salute.

  “You seem upbeat for a dead man,” I said.

  “Dead, am I? Then I do say my last day alive was wonderful,” he said, slowly walking closer. The water dripped from his hot body.

  “Wonderful? What was so wonderful about today?” I said, my pistol hand getting heavy. I wasn’t used to parley: normally I would’ve let the flintlock do the talking. Any followup conversation would be done with cutlass and hatchet.

  “I woke up, alive, on a tropical island. The sun shone down on me, the waves lapped lazily at the shore. And I found a sleeping beauty, a lass trapped by a curse. A lass in need of a kiss,” he said, now a step away.

  Those eyes…blue like the Adriatic Sea. He stepped closer, his body pushing the barrel of my pistol away. The stubble on his cheeks was a rainbow of colors: black, brown, blonde, and even some coppery-red.

  “Watching me, were you?” I said, dropping my blade to lay against his manhood.

  He inhaled sharply, his eyes going wide in shock.

  “Did ye tug your root while ye stood over me? Like a boy at a peephole?” I said, enjoying this. I rarely played with my prey.

  “Watch it, lass. You play with fire,” he said, his voice lower, like rumbling thunder.

  “For some girls, fire is the only thing worth playing with anymore,” I said, but I ran the dagger up from his prick. It scratched a thin white line up his belly, his chest, up to his neck where I pressed the blade. “This better?”