Hunter's Desire

by Meg Ripley

  Dylan. Jesus. Rachel shuddered and put her phone down, the sound of shrieking, distorted guitars and yearning wails of lyrics filling her mind. She picked up the tiny cup of coffee and sipped at the syrupy-bitter liquid, a hot tear rolling free of one of her eyes as she sighed. She could remember the events that had led to her current state, sitting on the terrace, in the middle of nowhere, as clearly as if it had been hours instead of days before.

  They had gotten back to the apartment after her meeting in Brock’s car, Rachel trailing in Dylan’s wake as he led her through the streets of Rouen. Rachel’s mind had still been reeling from the information she had received from Brock. “We need to get the hell out of here as soon as we get the call, so you’d better start packing, Love,” Dylan had told her, propelling her through the front door and towards the bedroom.

  “Why do we need to leave?” she had asked, stumbling slightly as she stopped her headlong run and turned to face him.

  “Listen; I know he came off nice in the car, but Brock is not a man who has your interests in mind.” Dylan’s slightly swarthy skin had been pale.

  “He’s offering me more money to give up what I got illegally,” Rachel countered. “While I’m sure he’s not Santa Claus that doesn’t seem like a terrible offer.”

  “He’s faking you out,” Dylan had told her. “I know him. I’ve worked for him.” Rachel’s insecurities began to rise up inside of her mind, along with all of the questions she had been asking herself since their sexual liaison had begun.

  “Yes, you have,” she had said, pinning him down with her gaze. “And now you’re working for some dude who apparently thinks endangering my life and forcing me to live as an international fugitive with a fake name are great enhancements to my life.”

  “That wasn’t in the plan,” Dylan had countered. “The plan was just to give you the money, instead of going through a merger that would have hurt the company.”

  “Why’d he have to do it an illegal way, then? Just what is your boss hiding?” Dylan had rolled his eyes at her, sighing with exasperation.

  “We don’t have time for this,” he said. “Once we’re out of the city, I’ll explain what’s really going on.” Dylan had closed the distance between them, his hands falling to her waist. “I know you’re anxious and worried,” he had said quietly. “We’ll get the hell out of here and hopefully it’ll take Brock a while to track you down again.”

  “I’m not anxious, and I’m not worried,” Rachel had said, pulling away from Dylan’s touch. “I’m frustrated and I feel like I’m being lied to by everyone.”

  “Have I ever given you a reason not to trust me?” Dylan had asked her.

  “Plenty! You have given me plenty of reasons not to trust you. Until Brock’s people torched my apartment building you wouldn’t even tell me anything about anything! And now…” she shook her head. “I don’t know who to believe.” Dylan grabbed at her waist carefully, pulling her towards him, and Rachel found her body beginning to respond in spite of her irritation and distrust, reacting to the proximity of his muscled body, the scent of his cologne, the heat of him.

  “Believe me,” Dylan had told her, his voice dropping to a low almost-growl. Rachel had struggled slightly in his arms, not quite resisting as his lips brushed against hers, as his hands tightened on her hips, pressing her body against his. She couldn’t honestly say that she didn’t want him, but Rachel wanted answers more—she wanted answers to her questions, she wanted to know who to trust, what to believe.

  “You said we don’t have time,” Rachel had murmured as Dylan’s hands slipped underneath her blouse, caressing her bare skin with a feather-light touch that trailed up from her hips to just underneath her breasts.

  “We always have time for this,” Dylan had replied, claiming her lips once more to stop her from talking. He cupped her breasts, giving them a slow, firm squeeze through the fabric of her bra, and Rachel had moaned, arching into his touch as her thoughts and questions began to evaporate like alcohol in the desert. She broke away from Dylan’s lips, intending to tell him that he couldn’t expect to distract her—that she was going to pursue the issue—but before she could form words, Dylan’s mouth dropped to her throat, his lips, teeth and tongue teasing her sensitive skin until Rachel moaned again, her head falling back to give him better access.

  Dylan had slipped her blouse over her head in a flash of a movement, his lips trailing down from her neck to her collarbones, and Rachel found herself groping for the hem of his shirt, irritated by the separation between their bodies rather than her unanswered questions. She wanted to feel his skin pressed to hers, she wanted—needed—to feel him inside of her. Rachel’s body heated up, and she felt the slick, hot feeling along her labia as her inner muscles flexed convulsively. Dylan tugged the thin, lacy fabric of her bra down, freeing her breasts and bringing first one and then the other up to his mouth. Rachel let out a cry, her breath catching in her throat as Dylan claimed each of her nipples in turn, worshipping them both with lips and tongue and careful grazes of his teeth.

  He guided her towards the bedroom, lifting Rachel up into his arms almost effortlessly when she tripped over her own feet, no longer certain they were real; they certainly seemed rather remote and abstract as her brain focused almost entirely on the sensations Dylan was creating in her breasts and tight heat that built up somewhere deep down in her hips as she became wetter and wetter by the moment, more and more turned on. Dylan laid her down carefully on the bed, pulling back from her breasts to look down at her with such unmistakable lust in his dark hazel eyes that Rachel decided—for the moment—that nothing mattered as much as the satisfaction she knew she was going to get from him. She gasped as Dylan tugged her skirt down over her hips, pulling the fabric along her legs and casting it aside without any concern for where in the room it would land. “See? You must trust me,” he said, his voice little more than a murmur as his hand slid along her inner thigh, moving up to cup her soaking wet pussy through her panties. “Or else you wouldn’t let me see you naked, would you, Love?”

  “If you don’t stop talking,” Rachel had told him, tugging his shirt over his head and throwing it across the room. “I am going to start remembering why I don’t trust you.”

  “Can’t have that, can we?” Dylan asked, raising a dark eyebrow with a faint grin as he began to rub her slowly. Rachel pulled his face back down to hers, kissing him hungrily as the heel of Dylan’s palm pressed to her clit through the fabric, sending tingles of hot-and-cold electricity through her body. Dylan nipped at her lips playfully as his fingers slid underneath the lace, brushing against her bare skin, stroking her, slipping along her soaking wet folds to find her clit. “You want me, don’t you, Love?” Dylan asked her lowly, barely breaking away from the kiss.

  “Mm,” Rachel had replied, pushing her hips down to meet his touch, for better contact between his fingers and her pleasure-center. “I told you to stop talking.” Dylan had chuckled, his fingers withdrawing for a moment; just long enough to hook into the flimsy, thin fabric and pull it down over her hips. Rachel reached out, grabbing at the fly of Dylan’s jeans, struggling to locate the button or the zipper—anything that might bring her closer to getting him naked. Dylan broke away from her lips and began to kiss a path downward along her body, lingering at her breasts to kiss and lick and suck, making it impossible for Rachel to focus on anything. She growled with frustration, tugging at the waistband of Dylan’s jeans, and he chuckled against her ribcage, nipping sharply at the ticklish skin as his hands left her body.

  She felt him shifting against her, pushing her hands away, and then there was nothing between them but the thin fabric of his boxer-briefs; Rachel moaned as the heat and hardness of his erection pressed against her thigh, slightly damp where his precum had begun to flow at the tip. Dylan continued his path down along her body, nibbling playfully just below her navel, and Rachel shivered, combing her fingers through his hair as her hips moved automatically, pushing down and twisting to meet him.
Dylan slipped down below her hips, and spread her legs wide, and Rachel moaned long and low as he nuzzled his lips against her labia slowly. He parted her labia, his tongue darting out to lap at her fluids. Rachel clutched at Dylan’s hair, breathing in sharply through gritted teeth as he teased and tasted her.

  Rachel squirmed and writhed as Dylan flicked his tongue along her slick folds, probing and tasting, working his way upward towards her clit slowly. She moaned out and grabbed at his shoulder, tugged at his hair as he teased her, barely missing her pleasure center. She felt the vibration against her skin as Dylan moaned, his tongue sliding closer and closer to the bundle of nerves that needed attention the most, and Rachel’s hips moved as if with a mind of their own, twisting and pivoting, her body trying desperately to get the contact it craved.

  She cried out as he thrust two fingers inside of her, his tongue sweeping up at the same time to lap at her clit, swiping at it playfully before beginning to flicker faster and faster. Her nails dug into his skin as Dylan sucked the bead of nerves between his lips, his fingers working inside of her, rubbing along her inner walls as her pleasure built up more and more. She heard the wet, slurping sounds of his attentions as her fluids flowed more freely, felt her muscles tightening around him as if her body itself didn’t want to let go of him, didn’t want to let him leave.

  Rachel reached her climax seemingly all at once—a shockwave of pleasure crashing through every nerve ending, making her muscles tense in spasms as more and more waves washed through her. Dylan was relentless, continuing his assaults on her only too willing body as Rachel pitched and arched up off of the bed, grabbing at him in the desperate need to hold onto something. He only backed off as the spasms began to abate, pulling back gradually, his tongue slowing against her clit before he retreated.

  Dylan kissed a path up to her mouth, his hands soothing her just enough for Rachel to stop trembling, and just when she felt the last of the tremors abating, he began to rock his hips against hers. She felt the heat of his cock brushing along her drenched labia and wrapped her legs around his waist, bringing his face up to hers to kiss him hungrily. Dylan nipped at her bottom lip as he guided himself up against her pussy, rubbing her clit with the tip of his erection in a final tease before he thrust into her, filling her up in one fast movement.

  They fell into a rhythm together, touching each other everywhere, their hips meeting as they moved, and Rachel for a moment couldn’t believe that she had ever doubted that there was something between them—something more than just the relationship between a bodyguard and his charge, something more than convenience. As they kissed each other wherever their lips could reach, and Rachel felt the pleasure building up inside of her again, tension mounting and mounting to an inevitable climax, she ceased to think about all of her misgivings about Dylan, about Brock, about her benefactor; all she could think about was how good she felt.

  She clung to him as the first wave of sensation washed through her, muffling her moans against the side of his neck. Rachel felt Dylan tensing against her, felt his cock twitching inside of her, and he followed her into orgasm, shuddering slightly as the pleasure gripped them both.

  Rachel was ripped out of her reverie by the sound of her phone vibrating again. She glanced at her cigarette; it had burned down to the filter while she had been woolgathering. Once more, she glanced at the screen and saw an unrecognizable number, a message. Rachel glanced around; no one seemed to be near, no one was paying any attention to her—all of the other terrace inhabitants were locked in their own conversations. She reached into her purse in the chair next to her and withdrew a pair of ear buds and plugged them into her headphone jack, taking a final sip of her coffee and lighting another cigarette.

  The message started with throbbing, heartbeat-steady drums, with a winding, wandering guitar coming in over, bass weaving in between. Unmistakably sensual, Rachel shuddered; it was the sonic embodiment of slow, lazy lovemaking—she could almost feel Dylan’s hands on her. “Have you got color in your cheeks/ D’you ever get that fear that you can’t shift like summat in your teeth/ Are there some aces up your sleeve/ have you no idea that you’re in deep, I dreamt about you nearly every night this week/ How many secrets can you keep? ‘Cause there’s this tune I found that makes me think of you somehow and I play it on repeat…” Rachel gritted her teeth and closed her eyes, breathing in slowly. She exhaled, feeling a mixture of intense desire and dread. “Been wondering if your heart’s still open and if so I wanna know what time it shuts…”

  She opened her eyes and picked up her phone, clenching her teeth as she ruthlessly tapped the icon to delete the message. Rachel swallowed against the lump forming in her throat and took her sunglasses off, looking around for a server. She wanted another shot, she wanted another coffee, and she wanted, more than anything, to forget that the last two weeks had happened.

  It had been after the sex, when her mind was finally clearing from the haze of multiple orgasms, that Rachel had remembered her misgivings. She had sat up in their shared bed and pinned Dylan down with a scowl. “I told you,” she had said, pulling away from him, moving out of easy range of his caressing hands, “I wasn’t going to be distracted forever. You’re going to tell me what the hell is going on and how you figure in all of this.”

  “We have to get ready to get out of town,” Dylan had said.

  “Oh, but we had time for you to fuck my brains out? You keep telling me I’m in danger—but…” She remembered Brock’s words. How did she know that the guy who’d been at her apartment had really been one of his henchmen? How did she know that her apartment building had been torched at Brock’s orders? Dylan had shown up so conveniently after she’d gotten the first threatening phone call.

  “I told you,” Dylan said, sitting up in the bed with her, reaching out to pull her back to him. “I’ll explain everything when we get out of here—it’s not safe.”

  “Tell me one thing,” Rachel had said, pushing him away and slipping out from underneath the blankets. She had looked around for her clothes in irritation, feeling vulnerable and somehow like prey in her naked, sexed-up state. “Are you…” she had taken a deep breath, both needing to know the answer to her question and dreading it. “Are you having sex with me because you want to, because it’s convenient, or because… because it makes me—it keeps me complacent?” Dylan had looked at her for a long moment in silence, and Rachel had clenched her teeth and gathered up her clothes.

  “Love, it’s not as simple as that,” he had protested.

  “Really? Because from where I’m standing it seems pretty damn simple. Why are you having sex with me? I mean it’s not like it keeps happening accidentally.” She had dressed quickly and began grabbing things from around the room almost at random, her eyes blurring with tears.

  “You came onto me the first time,” Dylan pointed out. “You practically threw yourself at me, Love.”

  “So tell me the truth!” Rachel had shouted. “Are you just screwing me because it’s a way to pass the time, or—or…” her heart had pounded in her chest. “You know what? Fuck it. I don’t even want to know.” She had found her purse, grabbed it quickly, and ran out of the bedroom, out of the apartment, as quickly as she could; she had barely heard Dylan’s shouted protest over the sound of her own blood roaring in her ears.

  Her card and her rudimentary French skills had gotten her a ticket to Paris; an hour later she got off of the train at Gare Saint Lazare, her head still spinning. She lost herself in the crowds for a while, going outside for a cigarette and watching all around her in defensive anxiety.

  A series of impulsive decisions sent her to Lyon, and then quickly to Geneva on the TGV and a reserved first class seat on a commuter rail. The pristine alpine city with its churlish people had palled on her after two days, and the urge to keep moving—to get away from both Dylan and Brock—sent her back into France, to the Haute Savoie region close to the border; close to a major city but buried at the same time in rural splendor. It was between s
easons, and while the pickings were slim, Rachel managed to find a house for rent on a per-month basis, and set about navigating a new town.

  She knew Dylan was looking for her; she knew that if Brock’s henchmen were able to track her movements in Rouen, they would certainly have known that she had fled the city. What Rachel did not know was whether Brock had taken that as a sign that she hadn’t believed him. She had received no more messages from the man who had been painted as her enemy, who had treated her with a mixture of condescension and courtesy when they met, but Rachel was wise enough to realize that the lack of messages didn’t mean much of anything at all. Her skin crawled with the sensation she felt of being constantly watched. She knew she should get rid of her phone; if Dylan was still reaching out to her that way, then she could be tracked by it.

  What she wanted, more than anything, was to know what to think. She wanted to know how to react, what to do, whom to believe. She wanted to be able to sleep a full night without waking up three or five times wondering if it was a noise that had stirred her out of her dreams, and whether that sound was something she could react to or just the regular noises of a wood-and-stone house shifting in the night.

  A waitress appeared at the table, and Rachel summoned up her best polite smile. “Un autre café, et un autre myrtille, s’il vous plait,” she said. The waitress gave her a much more genuine smile than Rachel could bring herself to exchange, quietly collecting up her dirty cups and nodding her agreement to the order before walking briskly away. Within a few moments, another tiny, steaming cup of dark coffee, another clear jigger of liquor, and a paper-wrapped cube of sugar was in front of Rachel once more, and she took a deep breath. She had to think; she had to figure out what her next moves were. She peeled the paper from around the sugar cube and dropped it into her coffee, sitting back and opening up her music library on her phone. She knew she was being a glutton for punishment, but she didn’t care as she flipped through the songs she had filled the phone with and found “Everlong.” The gloomy, glittery sound filled her ears, and Rachel knocked back her shot, setting the glass down and picking up the coffee spoon to stir the dissolving sugar into her coffee. “Breathe out, so I can breathe you in/ hold you in/ And now, I know you’ve always been/ out of your head, out of my head I sang…”