by Jade Allen
“When I saw you put this on,” he said, lightly tracing circles around her nipples over her bra, “all I could think about was taking it off of you again. God bless French lingerie makers.”
Dylan lifted her up once more, moving his hands to her back; his deft fingers worked the clasp free while he kissed her hungrily. Rachel felt him shifting against her as the fabric slid along her skin, falling away. She somehow managed to finish unbuttoning his shirt and tugged it down over his shoulders, along his arms, tangling her limbs with his as she struggled to get him naked. The first time they made love, it had been in Dylan’s bedroom in the dark; since then, no matter how many times she saw it, the impact of Dylan’s body still had power over her: the deep muscling of his chest, the ridges and valleys that formed over his abdomen, the deep cut of his hips, all thrilled her. The fact that he found her body gorgeous, impossible to resist—his words from their first time together, that any man who wouldn’t try to make her scream with pleasure was a fool, echoed in her mind—was difficult to believe, but impossible not to respond to.
Her clothes fell away as she focused on stripping Dylan. As his hand slipped up along her bare thighs, moving up to caress her already-drenched folds, Rachel shivered. Her legs spread wider from instinct; her hips pushing down as Dylan stroked her, his fingertips feather-light and then more firm, teasing her with touches that sent hot and cold tingles through her body. Rachel reached down, realizing that she somehow succeeded in getting the last of Dylan’s clothes off, and wrapped her hand around his hard, throbbing cock. Dylan groaned, his fingers working her faster, his lips trailing all over her face, her neck and chest. Rachel writhed and twisted underneath him, panting and gasping; her fingers tightening around him. She felt the slickness of his fluid beginning to flow against her fingers and brought her thumb up to rub it against the tip.
“Woman, you’re going to kill me,” Dylan said between panting breaths, bringing his lips back up to hers, kissing her hungrily as they moved together. Rachel cried out as he slipped two fingers inside of her all at once, rubbing her clit with tight, swirling movements of his thumb as he probed her wet, tight inner walls. His voice dropped lower, growling in her ear, “You always feel so good, Love. So hot, wet and tight...I just can’t stop myself from thinking about you constantly.”
He nipped sharply at the sensitive patch of skin just beneath her jaw, where her pulse fluttered. Rachel tilted her head back, pushing her hips down to meet his thrusting, rubbing fingers as she stroked his cock faster. She felt him twitching, his hips bucking as she touched him, and knew that he was struggling to keep himself under control—to keep from succumbing to the eroticism of their foreplay.
Dylan’s fingers brushed up against her g-spot and Rachel gasped, shuddering, her whole body going tense in reaction. He smiled against her skin, finding her pleasure center once more and stroking it slowly as his thumb played with her clit. Rachel was too distracted by sensation to continue pumping him, her hand nearly falling away as she pitched and arched with reaction to the pleasure that was so intense, it was on the verge of being pain.
She cried out as she tumbled over the edge, Dylan’s fingers thrusting into her as she gushed around him. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her as she writhed, pressing her body against Dylan’s, holding onto him for dear life. Rachel gasped and panted, moaning over and over again. Dylan worked her continuously, backing off of her clit and g-spot just long enough to prolong her climax for as long as possible. It was only as her spasms of pleasure began to abate that Rachel felt Dylan’s fingers begin to slow down, to retreat gradually from her body, stroking more lightly, almost soothing her as her muscles clenched and released erratically in reaction.
Her arms fell from around him, her head falling back against the throw pillows and cushions, panting as jittering impulses of sensation danced up and down her nerve endings. She barely felt his lazy kiss against her lips as Dylan shifted on top of her, his arms moving to support her, cradling her shoulders. The stubble along his jaw rasped against her skin as he nuzzled her, dragging his lips along the column of her throat, murmuring words she could barely hear—praise, compliments, sweet things her hazed brain barely took in. It was in moments like this that Rachel really thought there had to be something more between them than convenience and paid duty.
She recovered quickly, able to feel the heat and hardness of Dylan’s cock pressing against her hip; Rachel brought Dylan’s face back up to hers and kissed him hungrily, reaching down to touch him. “If I feel so good, why would you only give me your fingers?” she asked him.
Dylan chuckled, shifting down between her legs, his fingers sliding along her folds in a teasing caress. “I never said anything about only, Love. But you can come twice without having to wait; it’s a little tougher for me to pull that off.”
He rocked his hips against hers and Rachel let out a noise—not quite a gasp, moan or whimper, but something between all three—as his hot, hard length rubbed against her, sliding along her lips, the tip of his cock pressing against her already-sensitive clit. Dylan shifted again and they both moaned in unison as he thrust into her all at once, pushing past the token resistance her inner walls made, her slickness making it impossible to go slow. They fell into a steady, even rhythm together, their bodies falling into a tidal flow, Rachel twisting her hips and pushing them down to meet Dylan’s thrusts, taking him deeper and deeper.
He kissed her everywhere, murmuring in her ear how sweet she was; how good she felt wrapped around him. “You fit me like a glove, Rachel. God, I love how you move.”
He picked up his pace, thrusting harder and faster. Rachel found herself matching him, her heart beating faster, her body tingling as Dylan’s hands wandered over her, caressing and teasing. He rolled and twisted her nipples between his fingers, nipped along her neck, and brought her breasts up in turn to his mouth, sucking and licking and kissing until Rachel thought she couldn’t possibly hold back her orgasm any longer. One of his hands slipped down between their bodies, his fingers finding her clit by touch—by memory it seemed—stroking and rubbing her as he continued to push deeper and deeper inside of her body.
Rachel’s thighs tightened around Dylan’s waist, her hips arching up from the couch cushions, pushing down seemingly of their own volition. She couldn’t control herself as the pleasure mounted in her body, hot and cold flashes of sensation crackling along her nerves. She felt Dylan’s body growing more and more tense, holding back as long as possible even as the inexorable need for relief consumed them both. Rachel moaned louder and louder, the sounds turning into cries, near-shouts of pleasure as the tip of Dylan’s cock brushed against her g-spot; his fingers working away at her clit, dissolving any ability to think. It seemed like only a matter of moments before her whole body went rigid, every muscle tensing in an instant before the first wave of pleasure crashed through her.
Rachel hit her second orgasm, grabbing at Dylan in desperation, crying out as her fingernails dug into the skin of his shoulders and her inner muscles flexed around him. Spasms of sensation shocked through her that were so intense, she barely felt Dylan reaching his own climax. His cock began to twitch inside of her, the flood of his sticky-slick heat gushing along her inner walls. They continued moving until they were spent; their hips slowing to a halt, their bodies sagging together and their limbs tangling as the last ability to hold themselves up evaporated. Rachel panted, her mind reeling, her body tingling with aftershocks. She smiled to herself as she felt his weight against her, the sweat from their bodies mingling, trickling down between wherever their skin touched. For the moment, everything that bothered her, everything that made her restless and irritated and insecure, was gone from her mind; all she could think of was how good she felt, how pleasant the feeling of Dylan’s body was against hers. Rachel succumbed to the deep pull of relief and satisfaction, burying her face against Dylan’s shoulder and slipping into a doze she couldn’t resist even if she wanted to.
****
&n
bsp; A few days later, Rachel’s frustration about her fugitive status had not gone away; instead, it had steadily increased. Every time she thought about it, she found she could justify her benefactor’s actions less and less. Yes, it was very nice of him to have provided her with a bodyguard and protector—someone to be the brains behind the operation and keep her safe. But if he had given her the money in a better way—or, she had to admit wryly, if he hadn’t given her the money at all—she wouldn’t need a protector. Granted, she also probably wouldn’t have ever met Dylan.
They were eating breakfast, lazily discussing what adventures they might have that day, and Rachel’s irritation crested. “Exactly what the hell is he doing? It’s been over a month since this shit started, and I’m no closer to being able to go home.” Rachel put down her mug of hot chocolate and looked at Dylan. Somehow they’d both come into the habit of simply referring to her benefactor as “he” or “him” without referencing the name of the man who had started the mess she was in.
“He’s on the run, too. Kind of hard to get all your ducks in a row if you can’t stay in one place. Besides, I thought you liked Rouen.”
Rachel scowled at him, picking at her croissant. “Except that, apparently, I don’t even get to stay here—I have to leave again on some cross-continental expedition to get to wherever we’re going next by the least traceable route.” Rachel could appreciate the necessity of avoiding detection even while she resented it.
“There are some who’d enjoy never having to stay in one place, you know,” Dylan countered.
Rachel snorted. “It’s not a matter of not having to stay here, it’s a matter of not being able to. I don’t share your romantic attachment to being a nomad.”
Dylan smirked at her, finishing his coffee with a slurp. “Might as well see the bright side of things,” he suggested. “Maybe we’ll head to Spain, and you can enjoy the flavors of Catalonia next.”
Rachel shrugged, looking irritably at her half-finished breakfast. “Why can’t we just…I don’t know...do something? I mean—you know who it is, right?” It occurred to Rachel that she couldn’t actually be sure of how much Dylan knew of the broader situation. He told her more than once that he didn’t ask questions that weren’t pertinent to the assignment at hand. But he had also informed her, once the necessity of fleeing the country had arrived, that the people after her were not part of the company her benefactor had failed to strike a deal with, but rather members of his own company.
“I know a few names, but what kind of action do you think we can even take?” Rachel frowned. “If you seek them out, you’re going to lead them right to your door. What exactly would you say to them?” Dylan’s voice was not quite mocking. “They were willing to torch your apartment building to get at you—I don’t think ‘Please leave me alone and accept your losses’ is going to accomplish much.”
Rachel stood, her cheeks burning. “Haven’t you ever heard that the best defense is a good offense? Maybe we could track them down and start taking them out, one by one.” Dylan shook his head.
“I get that you’re restless, Love,” he said.
Rachel’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to need you to stop calling me ‘Love,’ especially when you’re laughing in my face.”
Dylan’s smile, if anything, became broader. “But you’re such a Love, especially when you’re angry.”
Rachel took a deep breath, shook her head and turned away, walking towards the bedroom. Whatever tentative plans they had formed for that day—Dylan had suggested maybe they could catch a train into Paris, lose themselves in the crowds for a few hours and get a change of scenery—she suddenly had no interest in. I want some time to myself. I want to be able to sleep alone for once. Or go into a store without someone two steps behind me. Or just leave the apartment without any particular plans and wander around!
Rachel threw herself onto the bed she shared with Dylan. How much of his attention towards her was due to the fact that he actually liked her, and how much was merely due to convenience and opportunity? If he hadn’t come into her life as her bodyguard, would they have anything in common at all? Would she have even gone on a single date with him? Rachel chuckled to herself, turning her head into the pillow. Who are you kidding? Of course you would have gone on a date with him—he’s gorgeous. And you’d have brought him home at the end of the night, too. The lilting Irish accent didn’t hurt either. But under normal circumstances, Rachel couldn’t imagine that they would have been together—much less living together—if it weren’t for his need to constantly protect her from the mysterious henchmen.
Rachel’s irritated thoughts were interrupted by the chirping of her phone. Like Dylan, Rachel had gone through four phones since she fled from her apartment; this was the latest one, with a number she didn’t even know. It almost seemed like a formality rather than something that actually had a function; no one who actually knew her had her phone number—and most of them were probably still living under the assumption that she was dead. The fact that she had just received a message—a text, by the particular tone—was strange enough to stir her to pull herself up off of the bed and find the phone.
The number that flashed on the screen was encrypted; just like the number from her first phone call from the people who were chasing her, it didn’t have enough digits to be a real number. Rachel frowned. She unlocked the screen and opened the message.
What do you really know about the people who claim to protect you? Do you want to know the truth? Or do you want to continue going along with plans you aren’t even privy to?
Rachel stared at the screen. The timing and the encrypted source of the message were suspicious. Had “they,” whoever they were, just been waiting for her to become disenchanted with fugitive life? It was too convenient. Clearly, Rachel thought, they were having trouble hunting her down—though the fact that they had her number implied they at least had some idea of who she was and where she was, and they wanted her to make a bigger move out into the open.
In spite of her suspicion, Rachel was more than a little curious. What truth could they possibly have to tell her? For a moment, Rachel decided she was going to delete the message completely—but maybe it would be better to tell Dylan about it. If they had found her new phone number, they were probably close to finding her. In the back of her mind, almost like a tickle, she had the impulse to respond—to ask what the hell they thought they were doing and why she should trust them any more than the people who’d kept her alive, providing her with more money than she could realistically spend over the next twenty years.
She grappled with the idea for a few minutes, pondering. Rachel knew that if she told Dylan about the text message, he’d insist that they had to leave—soon, if not immediately. And she would be inclined to agree with him, just in theory. If they had her number, they had a lead on her. Maybe not a great one, but a lead, nonetheless. If she didn’t tell him, that would give the people after her time to track where the text message ended up. She might not be as lucky to already be out of the apartment when they decided to attack. But the message itself gave her a feeling like an itch deep in her brain; what did she know about Dylan? About her mysterious benefactor? Only what she had been told.
By the time she decided to hedge her bets and tell Dylan about the text message, Rachel found that it had disappeared. She sighed; her decision seemed to have been made for her. She couldn’t really tell him about a message that was no longer there, and her apprehension rose at the fact that whoever had sent her the encrypted message also had the ability to then extract it. Dylan would never believe her if she told him she’d not only received a text from “them,” but that he couldn’t see it because it vanished from her phone. She’d just have to hope that he was as good at his job as he claimed to be.
Dylan was making dinner—coming from the same system, he was more comfortable with the settings on their stove than Rachel was. Just then, the second text message came through; once more, Rachel was torn between telling him ab
out it immediately and keeping it to herself—or even responding.
How do you know you can trust the people you’re with? Wouldn’t you rather make up your own mind instead of being told who’s good and who’s bad?
A third one came while she was in a public restroom, a few days later.
How do you know who really started the fire in your apartment?
Each time, the messages disappeared as abruptly as they showed up. Each time, Rachel debated whether or not to tell Dylan. The fact that no one had yet attacked them—that Dylan hadn’t remarked on them being followed—implied that whoever was behind the text messages, and whoever was after her, didn’t know exactly where she was. Or did it? Surely someone who could put messages on her phone and then take them off again was just as capable of discovering her whereabouts based on where the messages went. It was as good a tactic as any, Rachel had to admit. Getting her to come out of hiding would save some trouble in sending people after her. It also preyed on the very doubts she’d already had about Dylan, and about her mysterious benefactor. She had just accepted the idea that the people who’d threatened her had been the ones to start the fire in her apartment; after all, she had been with Dylan when it happened—it couldn’t have been him. But did it have to be the others?
“You’re rather lost in thought lately,” Dylan commented as they ate lunch sitting in the front section of a café. One thing that Rachel had quickly appreciated about French culture was the extended midday meal; eat a few bites, sip some wine, maybe smoke a cigarette, eat a few more bites. The leisurely attitude that considered an hour for lunch to be the bare minimum was definitely something that Rachel, being a longtime slave to the time clock and before that, a rigid school schedule, appreciated.