by Meg Ripley
His mouth moved down over the mounds of Rachel’s breasts, his tongue darting out to lick and tease each nipple on the way. Rachel threaded her fingers through his hair as he continued his descent, taking his time. When he nuzzled her hip, nipping sharply at the sensitive skin just at the inner curve, she was trembling with anticipation, moving in reaction to his fingers playing away at her clit. Dylan buried his face against her pussy and Rachel cried out, arching up off of the bed, her grip on his hair tightening as her legs moved to close around him instinctively. She heard Dylan’s low, self-satisfied chuckle the moment before he began to lick her, dragging his tongue along her drenched slit, teasingly avoiding her clit until she was convinced she couldn’t stand it anymore—that he was actively attempting to torture her to death.
Dylan sucked her into his mouth, his tongue flicking back and forth against Rachel’s clit; she shook with pleasure, twisting and writhing against the sheets as he lit up her nervous system. She moaned out, words tumbling from her lips that she barely knew or even paid attention to. While his lips and tongue worked her clit, Dylan spread her folds apart, plunging two fingers deep inside of her fast enough to wrench a half-surprised, half-delighted cry from Rachel’s throat. He broke away from her, fingers and lips retreating at the same moment; Rachel keened, writhing and pushing her hips down, hungry for the orgasm so close she could nearly taste it.
“Patience, Love,” Dylan said with a chuckle, pressing a kiss to the curve of her hip. He slithered up along her body, dragging his lips along her skin, teasing her as she shivered. Dylan shifted against her and Rachel felt the heat and hardness of his cock brush against her soaking wet pussy, tantalizingly close. She moaned against his lips as Dylan rocked against her, rubbing the length of his erection along her sex, teasing her already-sensitized clit with the tip.
“Not that I don’t love the way you taste,” he murmured against her lips, “But I couldn’t wait much longer.” Dylan thrust into her slowly, pushing past the instinctive flex of her muscles as pleasure rippled through her. Rachel held him close, kissing him everywhere her lips could reach as they moved together. She moaned as Dylan pushed deeper and deeper inside of her, rubbing along her inner walls, the friction steadily building up between them. Rachel’s legs tightened around Dylan’s hips as she pushed down to meet his thrusts, every nerve in her body tingling.
In a matter of moments, it seemed she was no longer on the edge as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her. Rachel clung to Dylan, her hands slipping against the sweat of his back, her hips moving automatically as her orgasm intensified. She kissed him hungrily as she felt his cock beginning to twitch inside of her. Rachel gasped, shuddering; he drove up into her harder and faster until reaching his own climax. Slick heat gushed into her as they both continued to move, touching each other everywhere, twisting and writhing as spasms of pleasure took them both over. Rachel felt Dylan slump against her, his hips slowing to stillness, and slipped into a deep, satisfied sleep; her cheek pressed to his shoulder, her body—for the moment—content.
She was soaking in the tub when her phone—playing Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ “Phenomena”—chirped. Another text message.
If you want to know the truth, the text message read, make sure to be at the entrance of the Joan of Arc church at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.
Rachel frowned; obviously, they knew she was in Rouen. Did she really want to go through with it? Could she trust the people pursuing her? They torched her apartment, outright threatened her, and sent some kind of hired heavy to attack her. But if they knew what city she was in, they surely had sussed out where she lived—and yet they hadn’t attacked her. At the very least, Rachel thought, they had clearly decided another approach was in order. What would happen if she showed up at the rendezvous? Would they attack her and Dylan?
Rachel set her phone aside as the message magically disappeared, climbing out of the tub. She would sleep on it; the next day, she would decide if it was worth the risk. A little voice in the back of her mind suggested that if she hadn’t told Dylan about the text messages yet, she had already decided her course of action—but Rachel pushed it aside.
****
Rachel’s heart pounded in her chest as she and Dylan neared the church of Joan of Arc. She had made an excuse of wanting to see it during lunch. She didn’t know if Dylan was suspicious of her sudden interest, but he went along with the plan anyway, barely giving her a glance as he lit a Gauloise.
“For a woman with no religion, you’ve got a keen interest in churches,” he’d commented as they started to make their way across the city. At least, Rachel thought, it wasn’t entirely out of character for her; she had visited several cathedrals within the city during their stay so far—she just hadn’t made a point of visiting this one as of yet.
She wondered if the people looking for her—intent on giving her the truth of the situation, or so they said—knew that it was a meeting place where she could go without attracting much suspicion from Dylan. Did they know her habits that well? Or was it simply a lucky guess—a tourist destination within the city that wouldn’t raise many eyebrows? Assuming I’m making the right choice, I guess I’ll know about it soon enough, she thought.
Rachel glanced at the time on an enormous clock set up on one of the buildings nearby. It was ten minutes to 2. Her skin crawled as she tried to imagine how exactly this was going to go down—was someone watching for them, already in position? They had to be.
They arrived at the front of the church with only a few minutes to spare; beads of sweat started to form on Rachel’s brow. She stopped short of actually going onto the grounds, telling Dylan, “It’s not like we’re on a schedule here—I want to look at the outside first.” Against the stately, picturesque gothic and medieval cathedrals of the city, the modern lines of the 1970s-built church were almost a disappointment, though she had to admit that the sweeping, curved lines of the roof were at least breathtaking.
Suddenly, she saw something move in her peripheral vision. Rachel felt Dylan’s grip on her hand tighten as they were abruptly surrounded by a group of men in the uniform of Gendarmes de Rouen, quietly penning them away from the flow of people moving through the city center. Dylan immediately moved to pull her away, but there was no way for them to escape—and he saw it in an instant.
“Mademoiselle, venez avec nous s’il vous plait.”
Dylan refused to let go of her hand, and Rachel realized that the men were not—as their uniforms suggested—actual police officers. The uniforms were too clean, too immaculate, and too new. They were ushered quickly away from the public street.
“No one here is authorized to harm either of you,” one of the fake police officers told them, as they were gently, but inexorably, led towards a waiting car. “But if you struggle, we will immobilize you, and then silence you.”
Dylan looked at her and Rachel felt her heart lurch in her chest. He knew. None of the men tried to attack them. “You couldn’t have just told me what was going on, could you?” Dylan asked her.
“Why should I? You’ve never given me that courtesy.” Rachel pressed her lips together, feeling guilty without being certain of why; Dylan hadn’t told her anything more than he absolutely had to for the entire time they’d been stuck together.
Rachel saw the car door open. The next moment, the crew of false police officers pushed them both towards it; Rachel ducked her head, climbing in, not knowing whether or not she had made a horrible mistake. Dylan’s grip on her hand fell away as he slipped in behind her.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” she heard someone say. Turning her head, Rachel saw the car door close, and then spotted the man they had been brought to.
He was seated across from them at the back of the low limousine. The man’s hair was graying at the temples, the rest of it a dull dark brown, combed immaculately back from his forehead. The car began to move, and the man smiled slightly. “Thank you for joining me, Rachel,” he said. He glanced at Dylan. “It’s good to see you ag
ain, Dylan. Though I’m sure you probably have a million places you’d rather be.”
Rachel looked over and saw that Dylan’s hands were behind his back, his wrists bound by handcuffs—when had that happened? She remembered his touch falling away from her as she went into the car.
“Okay,” Rachel said, feeling the sweat building up on the small of her back; her palms getting clammy. “Just what the hell is going on here?”
“My name is Jeffrey Brock. I am the current CEO of Vantech Incorporated, having taken over the position after my predecessor, James Whitley, was ousted for erratic and irresponsible behavior.”
Rachel glanced at Dylan; his jaw was set, his lips pressed firmly together. She turned her attention back to Brock. “That doesn’t exactly answer my question.”
Brock smiled again, more broadly this time. “Very astute of you.” Dylan shifted as the car turned, pressing against Rachel. She felt his fingers grope for her hand to communicate something he wasn’t willing to say in front of whoever this man was. “As for what’s going on...I’m sure you’re probably less than inclined to trust me.”
“Well, considering that you—or at least, some people working for you—threatened me, tried to attack me, and then burned down my apartment, no. I’m not.” She caught a flash of a smile on Dylan’s face.
“How do you know that all of those things were done by me, or at least by my command?”
Rachel furrowed her brow. “I suppose there’s a possibility that someone decided to give me a ton of money and then torture me with the fear of being killed over it to get his jollies off, but I kind of doubt anyone’s that depraved.”
“I didn’t say none of those things were at my behest,” Brock countered. “Just that not all of them were.” He glanced at Dylan. “The phone call, regrettably, I have to take credit for. It wasn’t me who made it—but it was made under my directions. The man who broke into your house was an agent of mine, much like Dylan here on retainer. He exceeded his instructions and, Dylan, I’d be glad to pay you a reward for taking him out of circulation.”
Rachel looked at her bodyguard and erstwhile lover; the tension in his shoulders, above and beyond the constraints of the handcuffs, was unmistakable. “So, then you’re telling me that the fire in my apartment building had nothing to do with you,” Rachel said, looking from Brock to Dylan.
Brock shrugged. “I didn’t order it, and none of my people on the ground reported having done it. I had already decided that the best course of action was to appeal to you directly and without threats. So, you should ask yourself a question, Rachel: who would benefit the most from getting you away from me?”
Rachel stared at Dylan. He couldn’t have set the fire—he had been with her all along. “Dylan, what do you know about this?” she asked him, her throat tightening with a growing sense of betrayal.
“I don’t know anything,” Dylan said. “I told you, I don’t ask questions.”
Brock sat back in his seat. “Dylan is excellent at following orders—in fact, that was why I originally brought him to Jim’s attention. He goes where the money is. How much is Jim paying you for this escapade, Dylan?”
“That’s between me and him,” Dylan said, his voice nearly a growl.
Brock turned his attention back onto Rachel. “By my estimate, he’s making about as much as you are from this transaction—it’s rather arduous, guarding someone who thinks they’re being constantly pursued.” Brock’s lips twitched. “Which brings us to the main problem—and also an opportunity. The money James Whitley gave you wasn’t his to give—it belongs to the company I now control. It was earmarked for a merger that we still very much want to go through with, and the accounting for it is…let’s say, less than amicable to the IRS. If we don’t get it back—if it stays as a mark in our ledgers as it stands right now—we could be in serious trouble.”
“So basically, you’re trying to convince me to give it up. Doesn’t sound like an opportunity to me: Rachel, you’ll be stranded in a foreign country—but you’ll have our eternal gratitude for keeping us clean with the IRS!” She shook her head in disbelief.
“The opportunity would come with the reward earmarked for the fund’s return,” Brock said quickly. “You have to understand—I don’t necessarily care that the money came to you. In the overall scheme of our profits, it’s a drop in the bucket. What I care about is a long, drawn-out audit that costs us a fortune. If you’re willing to return the money to us, I have the authorization to give you a five-million-dollar reward—provided you are also prepared to testify against James Whitley in an impending lawsuit we have filed against him.” Rachel stared at the man in shock, barely noticing the fact that the car had come to a stop. “As a gesture of good faith, I will give you two weeks to decide what you want to do. You can leave freely right now.”
Rachel glanced at Dylan. “He’s handcuffed, you ass,” she said to Brock. Brock’s eyes widened and then he nodded, evidently only just realizing the significance.
“There are some more…personal police standing outside the car. They’ll free him the moment you step out,” he said. Rachel looked from one man to the other incredulously.
Brock reached over and pushed the car door open. Dylan followed her out of the car, and true to Brock’s word, there were several more fake police stationed around it, apparently at attention. Rachel caught a flicker of movement and then Dylan’s hands were freed. The car pulled away and the “police” began to drift off, one by one, as if called by other duties.
“We need to get back to the apartment, get your things together and go,” Dylan said quickly. Rachel opened her mouth to protest; for a moment, she saw a flicker of fear in Dylan’s eyes. “Don’t argue with me right now. I swear, I will explain it to you later.” He grabbed her wrist and started pulling her down the street, still shocked by everything that had happened.
****
As they hustled back to the apartment, Rachel’s head was spinning over the information Brock had given her. She glanced over at Dylan, embittered by what little she had been able to pull out of him about his assignment and the man who paid him for it.
Just then, Dylan’s phone rang. Without stopping, Rachel watched as he pulled it out of his pocket and began talking the moment he tapped the accept icon.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know. Yes—yes, we were just with him. No, we didn’t stay for tea. I’m going to get her out of the city as fast as I can. It’s all gone to shit.”
He hung up without waiting, and Rachel’s mind reeled; once more, she realized she had no idea what the hell was going on in her life—and now, she had no idea if she could even trust the man who was supposed to be protecting her.
PART THREE
Rachel found herself at a table, on the terrace of a tiny brasserie, in a tiny town whose name she was no longer even sure of, somewhere in the border territory between France and Switzerland. On the table in front of her were a pack of cigarettes, a tiny coffee cup with deep, dark coffee thick as syrup, a shot of myrtille eau-de-vie, a lighter, an ashtray, and her phone. As she looked out from the terrace from behind a pair of sunglasses, she watched a man re-loading his beat-up van with leftovers from the market that was dispersing. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, reaching for her packet of Gauloises bleus. Note to self: if you ever do quit smoking, do it in a country that doesn’t love cigarettes so much. She had never been much of a smoker before she had met Dylan; but then, Rachel thought wryly, she had done a lot of things she wasn’t accustomed to since Dylan had dropped into her life.
Dylan was no longer, technically, in her life. Rachel lit a cigarette and took a long draw of the smoke, closing her eyes behind her sunglasses as she exhaled. She had left him a little over a week before, after she had met with the man Dylan had painted as her enemy, and learned that the situation regarding her mysterious newfound fortune was much more complicated than it had even initially seemed.
Rachel’s phone buzzed and she started; even without the constant suspici
on that every blind corner might bring a henchman to grab her off the streets and carry her away to be either killed or somehow forced to relinquish her fortune, Rachel had grown so accustomed to the jittery feeling of anxiety that it was hard to give up. She didn’t want to admit to herself that she missed the feeling of protection that had come along with Dylan’s presence. She picked up her phone and unlocked the screen, taking a deep breath again to steady her nerves. She set her lit cigarette down lightly on the rim of the ashtray and picked up the jigger of myrtille-flavored liquor. It didn’t, technically “go” with the coffee, but the eau-de-vie was more popular in the Alps than Calvados, and of the flavors available, Rachel had favored the wild blueberry sweetness more than any of the others.
The number listed was unidentifiable; it wasn’t even a European number. Rachel frowned; she knew it couldn’t be Brock—he wouldn’t be calling her quite so soon to get her decision. She bit her bottom lip for a moment before knocking back the burning, faintly sweet liquor to steady her nerves. She set the tiny glass down and brought the phone up to her ear. There was a message—another sign that it wasn’t Brock contacting her. Rachel swallowed convulsively, deciding that she might as well hear whatever it was.