Only one more to go!

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oOo

PART THREE:

WAR OF ATTRITION

oOo

This time it's she who takes the wrong step.

One moment she's few paces before me, pushing the bike steadily and carefully through the dunes morphing into rocks. And then a sharp shriek as she vanishes below ground is all the forewarning I get before she disappears. Almost in a puff of smoke, as the sand rises in a sheer cloud above the gap, she fell into.

I throw myself flat on the ground and crawl toward the hole, but then an unfamiliar sound makes me freeze dead in my tracks.

A splash?

A moment later I see the ground before me crumble and disappear too.

"Oh, fuck, shit, hell… "

I land not-so-gently into a pool of freezing water. It's dark, oppressive and my clothes are like lead weights - not to mention the actual metal contraption on my leg - dragging me down. Bubbles tickle my skin, as they race up to the surface, giving me a direction to go to. If only I weren't so heavy... A strong palm grabs the fabric around my arm, and I remember to kick and try to get upward. It feels like hours before I manage to emerge from the icy depths.

We're in a cave. A fucking underground cave with stalagmites and shit, and no obvious way up.

She laughs hysterically between gulps of air, keeping one hand clawed into my bicep, kicking desperately to keep us both afloat. I'm more of ballast than help. Why would she even keep up with rescuing me time and time again? It's stupid. She should have left me to die back in that ravine. Would take all of my supplies and be on her way.

Acceptance almost has the upper hand when the irritation kicks in.

If I drown, that will take the fucking cake. Of all the ways to die…

Salvation comes in the shape of a small rocky shelf at the edge of the water. I'm grateful to have something steady and flat to lay down on. The woman is panting, as am I, but she rests sitting up, looking towards the ceiling, her hands working nimbly, but absentmindedly on her gear. She disrobes as if I wasn't there, gracefully and without unnecessary flair. I'm still shaken from the fall I should be bent on finding a way out, in preserving all my weapons… But I let myself just watch her, for a little while.

The sinkhole got bigger as I went, but thankfully it didn't reach the Reaver. The gap is wide enough to shed a beam of sunlight straight down into the cave. The water is crystal clear, and I can see the woman's bike on its side at the bottom of the lake.

She dives in, and it's mesmerising to watch her lithe body wiggle closer, and closer to her goal. Her skin is so pale it's almost glowing.

It's like those old-timey paintings, art deco it was called I think, all flowing lines and tempting curves. A gentle reminder of ages when the luxury of swimming wasn't impossible to find.

I frown, wondering when did she learn to swim in the wasteland.

When she emerges, I can't take my eyes off of her. A mermaid, stretching her hand to drag me to the deep. Generous breasts peek shyly from under the surface of the water, droplets of the liquid bead on her lashes like crystals, the thin sheen of moisture making her lips look so inviting...

There's something in her tattooed palm.

"I've got a rope. Help me get the bike out."

I grunt in agreement.

She dives again to secure the line to the machine. This time, when she comes back, I have to make myself look up at the sinkhole. She obviously doesn't care about her nudity, and I wonder why it irks me the way it does.

We grab the line and pry the mass of steel out, inch by inch. Buoyancy helps a lot, but the last stretch has us on our knees by the edge, heaving the bike out with great effort.

My shoulder is killing me. I lay down, panting, as soon as the work is done. She is just beside, chest heaving with deep breaths.

I can't help noticing, from the corner of my eye, that she shivers slightly. The muscles relax after the exercise, letting the chill of the cave seep into our bones.

I could lick the water off her skin to warm up.

The thought, so clear and abrupt, makes me sit up.

I take all of my gear off, methodically and angrily. I'm sure my lips are set in a cruel line, but I can't make myself change the expression, as I can't loosen the rigid muscles stiffening my back. All I want now is to escape the cold, wet fabric.

When I take off the shirt I hear her gasp - that tattoo is hard to miss - and as soon as I have the boots and harness off, I get back up to slid off my pants. No time for shyness.

I go in feet first. Now that I expect the plunge and subsequent pull it's easier to stay afloat. The water is cold, but that's okay. It's just what I need. I drink greedy mouthfuls as I swim and let myself just experience.

After a while I'm drifting on my back, shamelessly soaking up the warmth from the sun. But the water's too cold.

She watches me in turn as I swim to the shore, a pensive turn of her head and slight frown telling me all I need to know about her state of mind. Inquisitive and curious. She surprises me with her words though.

"You really are handsome."

I snicker at her remark. What does it matter anyway?

Then I realise the error I made in underestimating her words. She has the look. The one every man knows.

The dumbstruck expression I sport probably doesn't help in keeping up the heady air of interest. It's too unusual to stay collected though.

Her tattooed palm slides up to pick softly at that pink bottom lip.

Oh, fuck.

The spell is broken - she laughs - I must have said that aloud. Again.

Then she clicks her teeth in mock discontent and slides away towards her pile of clothes.

I sigh a quiet breath of relief. That was close.

She rummages through the wet sacks on the bike, exclaiming excitedly when she finds something worthwhile. It's the bar of soap.

Just when I thought I'm safe.

oOo

I'm not looking.

She is quiet, and all I can hear is a soft splash of water when she wets the rag, or a rustle when she scrapes the bar to make some foam. Then total silence when she lathers her skin.

I don't have to look, to know what I'd see.

The worst thing is the smell. It's sweet and flowery, alien and forbidden, welcoming and familiar, all at the same time.

"What is it?" she asks.

Have I been mumbling to myself again?

I drop my hands (when did I cover my ears?) and grunt something noncoherent, but hopefully reassuring.

I won't look.

She sighs, and I know, I know exactly what's about to happen.

"Could you help me?"

"No."

"Jerk."

I snort a sharp exhale and sit further still, nearly hugging my knees to stay warm. How to get out of here?

"Do you climb?" she asks again.

"If I have to."

"Right, the leg, and the arm." Scrub, scrub, scrub. Splash, slosh and a sigh.

Fuck.

I'm not looking.

"I think I can make it up. The rope won't be enough, but you should have some more by your bike, right?"

I turn around. A mistake.

She's kneeling on the shore, stretching out to fill the canteen. One hand braces her weight on the rock, an extended leg keeps her in balance. Her hair flows down in ropes over her shoulders, obscuring her face in a lacy fringe. Like fisherman's net. The movement has her hips high in the air, and I can admire the plumpness and graceful curve of them.

Shit, I shouldn't look.

One good thing though, I'm actually warmer now.

"Right?" Her question startles me a bit. Didn't she notice, or does she simply not care?

"Yeah, it's strapped to the left sack."

At least one thing I can do right. Have something serviceable on me.

I feel pretty useless.

"No, you're not. You're my bodyguard."

I scoff at that.

Like hell I am.

At least this time I make sure not to mumble my thoughts aloud.

"I'm done," she announces.

Sitting there, like a fucking mermaid, long hair braided on one side, she's finishing a neat thread just as I twist towards her. Her back is straight, and she is comfortably leaning sideways, her legs folded, like on that ancient painting…

She looks up at me.

I grunt and turn back toward the cave wall, frowning. Why would she say she's done before putting her clothes back on?

My eyes wander everywhere around, to keep myself from looking at her. There's no apparent way out, other than the sinkhole. When she climbs up, we'll attach the bike, and I'll try to make the climb with the rope. Then it's only hoping that the line won't break while we'll be hauling the vehicle up.

For now, though, I'm trapped here, in a cave from another world. The cold and dampness is a welcome respite.

I could use the time to trim my hair, and maybe steal some of that soap. The water isn't perfectly still when I move to look in my reflection on the surface. I do have a mirror, but it's stashed on the Reaver.

When I'm almost convinced to use the side of one knife as a reference while cutting with the other, I hear the woman nearing me with measured steps.

"I'll lend you a hand."

"You have your job set for you," I argue, motioning with my hand towards the sinkhole.

"I want to rest first."

That's rare.

"My bike is still there," I remind her, sternly.

"I doubt many more lunatics would trek through the mountain, instead of over it."

Probably not.

I grunt and roll my eyes. There's no way I can make her do, what needs to be done, before she decides it's time, apparently.

"Besides, it's midday. No point going back there in the worst sun," she argues.

I can't find any more excuses to just run away from here. She's right. This little place is a miracle, and who knows when would be the next time I'll have to opportunity to just take care of myself and enjoy what little comfort some water and soap can bring.

It's just too tempting.

"Here," she gives me the bar. My piece is safely hidden in the bag upon the Reaver - she knows that -, and I'm sure she'd want some back. But it's still nice to be handed that smooth rectangle, and a piece of cloth. With a smile.

"Let's cut your hair first, okay?"

I nod and can't seem to look anywhere but at the fragrant thing in my hands.

"How long do you want it?"

"Crop it close to the skin."

She hums an affirmative, and I hand her one of my knives. After a little while, I'm able to let go of the blade.

The mood is sombre, and the air carries a fragile kind of silence. My body is taut with tension, while she tries to appear both relaxed and purposeful.

The first cut is sure and easy. She dangles that dirty lock of hair before my face and grins. The rest comes down in a flash since she's not making a pretence of shaving it, only shortens everything as quickly as possible.

"I can smooth out the sides when we'll get rid of the beard."

I run my fingers through now unfamiliar bristly hair. I used to wear it like this all the time. I used to have a razor and a reason to work it. And a will to keep using it.

"Get clean first, shaving can wait," she says, trying to bring me out if my sulky mood. She gathers the hair together with care, making sure all strands face the same way. Then she binds one end with a string. It will be useful.

I'm still amazed at her contradictions.

She looks up at me before getting up and walking to her stack of clothes.

"Go on," she urges with a soft smile.

Right, I still clutch the soap and that rag.

She offers me her flask and some privacy, and I get to cleaning. It's surprisingly satisfying, not only because of all the dirt coming out but also for the simple pleasure of seeing an instant result. Like running a hand over a dusty lamp. Wham-bam-done! Clean and tidy.

It's also nice to watch the lather form on a scrap of fabric in my hands and to smell that sweet flowery scent. The scrubbing is not exactly pleasant, but there's merit to it, and I'm far from being hurt by some friction.

As I pour the water over my back I hiss, the dislocated shoulder making itself heard again. That fall certainly didn't help.

Without any prompting on my part, or questions on hers, the woman is suddenly beside me, her hand outstretched expectantly towards the rag.

So I just give it to her, and resign myself into her hands, my outstretched arms resting comfortably on my knees. The position gives her plenty of room to work on my back, and I have the opportunity to hide away my face.

Because I know, I'll like it.

First, she splashes some water onto the cloth, and I'm almost hopeful, that the look I saw earlier was just a little mistake. I can hear her work the bar over the fabric, wet and slick splashing reminding me of something entirely different than bodily hygiene… Then she's pressing the rag to my skin and the feel of it, of someone else than myself touching me, is electric. I can't take it.

My breath deepens, in a futile effort to calm the ingrained drive to run, or neutralise the intruder - or possibly both.

And then, her fingers stray over the cloth, the fabric must have rolled with movement or something, and the actual touch, skin on skin contact, breaks what little is left of my composure.

I jerk away, turn towards her and just growl.

She fucking smirks.

"I'll sit on you to shave your face. Get used to it."

Am I the crazy one here? It doesn't look like it, not anymore. I can't fathom why she has this much faith in her abilities or that amount of trust towards me? Stupid. Moronic. Illogical.

She was raped a few weeks back, and now she's practically pouncing on me, completely unashamed not only of her own nudity but also unbashful about mine.

What the actual fuck?

"Come on," she says, clicking her teeth impatiently, "We haven't got all day."

"I want the beard after all."

"Oh, really?"

Her hands are stretched towards me again, motioning to get closer and turn back.

And I do just that.

"It's better to leave it on. Shields from the sun," I murmur absentmindedly.

Her hand, covered with the fabric, is between my shoulder blades. Circling slowly, the pressure firm and assuring.

"Let me shorten it at least, then."

She shifted right behind me, working with slow, but purposeful movements. She splashes some more water directly onto my shoulders and adds the other palm. I can feel the change in coverage, plus she nearly embraces the joint now. Soon, her hands work in a gentle rhythm. I sway with the movement, for once giving in to the ministrations of someone else on my body.

It does feel fucking awesome.

She hums absentmindedly. I don't know that tune, but it brings back memories.

"I barely remember what I look like, underneath."

She grunts softly at that. There was a generous dose of surprise when she said I was handsome earlier today. Perhaps she really thinks that.

Well, one thing is certain - I am not the only barmy one around here.

Her hands push lower, along the ridge of my spine, and with them, all the blood I had in my head sinks down too. It's a tingling I didn't feel for quite a while. And in a second it turns into a pulsating, insistent throb.

Next time she sloshes water on my back, it's like a silky caress, the cold liquid welcome on overheating skin. I'm almost dizzy when her palms slide up and down my back. I'm waiting for it, welcoming it.

I don't care, for a moment, don't think.

And she uses that, she can see my temporary lapse in judgement. One kind of insanity nullifying the other. With a smile she slides sideways, slithering gracefully over my thighs.

I let her.

My hands automatically close over her hips. Still smiling, she lathers the soap onto my beard, working the bar in tight little circles, wasting the precious resource on something that will grow back in a fortnight. Slick foam covers my lips. I can pretend I can't speak.

I won't.

But then she calmly rests the soap on the rag by my side and continues to caress my jaw with just her fingers.

I am truly speechless.

Not motionless, though. When she reaches for the knife, my palm closes on her outstretched wrist.

"Let me."

I can't.

"Yes, you can," she argues. "Here," she says and brings our hands up. All the way to her throat.

This is pure madness.

The blade scrapes over my cheek, too close for comfort, but I'm mesmerised with the idea of being in control. Deep down I know, I'm not. But it's like with any belief. The heat clouds my rationality. And even my insanity seems temporarily gone. I feel her strong pulse under my skin, both over her jugular and in the thick vein in the hollow of her hip. My own heartbeat echoes with pulsating throb at the pit of my stomach.

She's fastidious, never missing a hair, scraping the years of neglect laboriously away. It's better than anything I felt in decades.

It's worse than my most vivid nightmares.

As long as she works on my cheeks, I can keep my composure. Then, she has to scrape away the moustache, and she makes me suck in my lips. She giggles, stupidly. Corners of my mouth turn upwards.

"Don't move, you fool," she warns me.

One quick look into my eyes and she's going in with the blade, gingerly working on the narrow patch of skin under my nose.

The hand I have on her throat slackens, while the other grips the flesh bolder than I ever would. She doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she smiles wider for a moment, before she bites her bottom lip and frowns in concentration. The chin is challenging.

Her palm guides my head upwards.

I'm exposed, willingly offering my throat to a stranger with a knife.

It's too much.

All I can focus on is the unbearable discomfort of keeping my head back. Only after a while, I realise that she doesn't move. Laboured, panicked breathing echoing in the cave is not only mine. I have to make a deliberate, conscious effort to relax the hand that squeezed hard on her throat.

Her left palm still keeps my head turned up, thumb caressing my jawbone.

"Let me," she says softly.

I move the hand crushing her throat down. Her heartbeat is drumming powerfully in her ribcage. The muscles in her belly tighten and squeeze when I slide lower still.

I hold on to her hips and suck in my bottom lip, keeping the pressure of my teeth steady to ground myself.

Soft breaths caress the skin of my throat. The blade tickles. Falling hair is irritating. She works fast and sloppy, but that's okay. Her hand is sliding surely, which is all that matters.

It's over in an instant. The blade clinks on the rocks, discarded without care.

She guides my head back to its proper position and doesn't take her hands off. Instead, her fingers slide through the short scruff on my neck, scratch on my scalp, glide over my temples.

When her thumbs reach my lips, I close my eyes.

Each stroke leaves my ears buzzing with the rush of blood. I hold on to her hips still, panting but otherwise still. Bracing for her next move.

She doesn't ask permission before her tongue glides, wet and warm and sinful, over my parted lips. I open my mouth wider, catching her with my teeth, anything but accidental. The move is met with a hum of appreciation, and I can feel it all the way down to my cock.

She rises up on her knees to kiss me deeper, pushing her pelvis into my stomach. Delicate fingers sneak to the back of my head, and I allow her to angle it back. This time it's not capitulation, it's acceptance.

The wet slide of a tongue tasting my mouth doesn't feel like an invasion. I welcome it, just as I welcome foreign moisture dripping down the skin of m abdomen.

She moans in satisfaction when I give back as good, as she delivers, adding hungry teeth to the entanglement of our lips.

My right hand trembles slightly with excitement. I press my fingers hard into the supple flesh of her breasts, trying to hide it with roughness. She hisses and grabs my wrist, ending the kiss.

As she looks into my eyes, panting heavily, she guides our hands again. I can see her brows knitting in concentration.

I nod, and she bites on her bottom lip.

Then, her hand leaves my wrist, and she grabs my shoulder for support.

I gulp down the moisture overflowing in my mouth.

There. Darkness engulfs me, when I slide my knuckles through her folds, gathering moisture, stoking up the fire. She whimpers, and I open my eyes to admire the destroyed look in her eyes. The palm I had on her hips has a life of its own, holding her possessively at the base of her thigh, pressing her even closer.

I let myself feel only the pleasure of the task. Even though I am not the recipient of it, even though her attention is focused purely inward, I still moan with her at the slick dripping from her cunt, I still bite my own lips and furrow my brows with concentration when my fingers enter her gently and carefully.

Just one digit, but already I can feel the muscles closing greedily around it.

Her head drops down, resting her forehead on mine. The fast breaths and sharp gulps of air she takes fan out on my overheated skin. But I can only focus on one place, I have eyes for one thing only.

I lean back a little bit, keeping her in place. Now, we both have a good view of my palm, dark and damaged, disappearing between her pink lips. My index finger goes in without resistance, coming back glistening with her desire. Then I add another, slowly, torturing her with the rough pad stretching her opening.

The moan she lets out does sound like she's in pain. But it's obvious that she's enjoying the burn. She can't hide it, practically riding my hand for more friction.

She surprises me, abruptly pushing back. Another kiss, hot and wet and needy, has me distracted enough that her small palm at my cock is a shock. It feels like both too much and not enough at the same time. I moan into her mouth and find my way back to her core, enjoying the growl she gives me when I fill her out with three fingers this time.

It's not rushed, which amazes me.

She pulls on my cock with much enthusiasm and little skill, and I shove my hand up against her clit. But the movements are drawn out, deliberate. The heat is there alright, as id the need, but none of that is violent. Even my biting is more of a sign of hunger than malice. Her bruising grip on my skin is a way to anchor her in this moment.

Humanity is not something one easily finds in the wasteland.

My eyes dart between her face and my hand, sometimes straying to admire her perfect, bouncing breasts. The end is rushing at me, I can feel it in tightening at the pit of my stomach, in the saliva overflowing my mouth.

With a half-realised memory, I press my thumb to her clit, using her own slick to roll it around easily. Twice is all it takes before her eyes widen, her mouth falls open, and she arches her head back. The palm she had on my cock moves to my wrist, keeping me immobile, lodged deep inside her body, as she rides the duration of her orgasm.

It's enough for me to grab my shaft and pull a few times, and I'm spent too. The jet of creamy fluid falls mostly on my hand and her thigh. It's as warm, as blood.

Coming down from the high I pant deeply, fighting to keep my eyes open.

Finally, she lets go of my wrist, grabbing my jaw instead, diving in for another deep and wicked kiss. Contrary to how I feel, she seems invigorated, grinning at me when she's done.

"Let's clean up, and get out of here," she says simply.

Sxevlbtch: Oh I do know. I can't read it until I finish this one, because I'm afraid of duplicating River.