by Meg Ripley
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.
****
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 t
o 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 about 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.
“Just wondering how long I’m going to be on the run before things get settled for good,” Rachel said, hedging slightly. She glanced over the top of her wine glass at Dylan. He was smoking a Gauloise, the food on his plate for the moment forgotten.
“If it makes you feel any better, you can come back to Rouen and live here as long as you like as soon as it’s all over with,” Dylan suggested.
Rachel shrugged. “Doesn’t really help me now,” she pointed out. She noticed—her mind already suspicious—that he said that she could come back to Rouen, not that they could come back. The shifting around of increasingly frustrated thoughts started to crystalize, and Rachel thought to herself that she’d have to find a way to make a real move—for better or for worse—soon. She needed more information than Dylan was willing to give her. She needed to know what was really going on; what the other side of the story was. Even if she found that the other side of the story was unbelievable, she wanted to know what it was. Rachel finished off her roast duck and potatoes, trying to decide how she would go about getting in touch with people she didn’t even know, whose whereabouts were a complete mystery.
They made their way back to the apartment that evening, while Rachel continued to ponder the best way to contact people who should—by all indications—already know where she was, who she was with, and what she was doing. If they knew, why hadn’t they moved? Why had there been no attacks, not even the faintest sign of someone tailing them? Rachel didn’t doubt that Dylan would be hyper-aware. Even if he hadn’t been entirely honest with her, if there was someone after them, he had a vested interest in not being caught himself.
“Hey, Love,” Rachel’s ruminations cut off at the sound of Dylan’s voice. She startled slightly as she felt his strong arms wrap around her from behind, coiling about her waist. “Do you realize,” he murmured lowly, his lips brushing against her neck, “That you and I have not made love in twelve hours? I think that’s a damn shame.” Rachel laughed, her heart beating faster from a mixture of arousal and doubt.
“Has it really been that long?” she asked, keeping her voice light. “My hips feel like it’s been more recent than that.” Dylan’s teeth grazed her skin and Rachel shivered, her body beginning to heat up.
“I’ve been counting every last minute,” Dylan told her lowly. “It was before breakfast—maybe you were half-asleep, but I was definitely awake for that.” His hands wandered over her body, caressing her, cupping her breasts and then dropping down to her hips.
“I was starting to worry that maybe you don’t like me as much anymore.” Rachel snorted.
“How much would that really matter when I’m stuck with you, regardless of what my feelings are?” Dylan’s hands faltered for just an instant. He kissed the nape of her neck gently.
“Well for one, there would go my ability to get laid for the foreseeable future,” he said lightly, his hands coming to life once again. He tugged at the drawstring on her soft, linen pants, untying it with nimble fingers. “For two,” he added, slipping one hand under the waistband, his fingertips skimming the lace underneath, “It’s much harder to protect someone who doesn’t want to be around you.”
In spite of her misgivings, Rachel began to respond to his touches, leaning into his hands, arching back against Dylan’s strong body behind her. A soft, half-whimpering moan left her lips as Dylan began to stroke her through the thin lace of her panties, his other hand teasing one of her nipples until it began to harden to his touch. Rachel tilted her head back and to the side, resting it against Dylan’s shoulder, gasping as Dylan’s hand slipped underneath the lace to stroke her already-wet heat.
She could feel the hard ridge of Dylan’s erection pressing against the curve of her back as she rubbed against him instinctively, her deeper need overriding any concerns about his intentions or feelings towards her. Dylan wanted her; that was enough for the moment. Rachel twisted and squirmed as Dylan’s fingers continued to work her, his other hand leaving her breasts to tug the hem of her shirt up along her abdomen, past her ribcage. His lips trailed along her neck and shoulder, barely parting as he pulled her blouse over her head and cast it aside.
Dylan made quick work of her clothes, and in an instant Rachel found herself down to nothing more than her panties, soaking wet and tingling all over with hot and cold flashes of sensation. She reeled as he turned her around quickly in his arms to face him, pulling her up an
d kissing her hungrily, his hands squeezing her newly-bared breasts. Rachel tugged at the hem of his shirt, distracted by Dylan’s lingering caresses and the sharp jolts of pleasure that shot through her as he rolled and twisted her nipples between his fingers.
In an abrupt movement, Rachel felt Dylan lift her up. He cradled her hips in his strong arms, holding her body flush against his with her legs dangling on either side of his waist, her feet no longer on the floor but somewhere in the space behind him. She could feel the hardness of his cock straining at the confines of his jeans, pressing against her through the fabric of her panties, rubbing slightly as he carried her to the bedroom.
Dylan tumbled Rachel onto the bed. She looked up, her eyes drinking in the sight of him from where she sprawled, her legs spread wide. Dylan stripped out of his clothes in quick, determined movements, tossing his shirt across the room. He pushed his jeans down over his hips and kicked off his shoes at the same time, leaving him in nothing more than his boxer-briefs. The late afternoon light seemed to almost gild the ridges and lines of muscles across his broad chest and narrow waist, highlighting his strong shoulders, tinting his dark hair reddish.
The next moment, Dylan launched himself onto the bed with her, covering her body with his own, his lips descending on Rachel’s before she could even form any kind of objection—not that she could think of anything else she wanted more at the moment than to feel his body against hers. Her hands wandered over his back, exploring the crests and valleys of his shoulder blades, the knobs of his spine, as Dylan rocked his hips up against hers, pressing the ridge of his cock seemingly right against her clit through the fabric of their underwear, rubbing against her constantly. “Isn’t it so much nicer when we’re like this?” Dylan murmured, barely breaking away from her lips. “Let’s see how long I can make you stop thinking.”