Hard & Lethal: A Bad Boy Romance

by Jade Allen

  “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 and 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.”

  Rachel moaned as Dylan’s lips trailed along her jaw, dropping down to the column of her throat, his breath hot against her skin. His hands slid down her body, lingering only briefly at her breasts to give her a teasing caress on their way to her hips. Rachel felt his fingers hooking into the waistband of her panties, tugging them down—somehow never losing contact between their bodies. Dylan’s teeth grazed the pulse in Rachel’s neck, making her gasp and arch against him, her eyes falling closed, her body beginning to move with a will of its own. He reached down between her legs and began to stroke her slowly, teasing her—barely touching her at first and then pressing more and more firmly along her inner folds. Rachel became wetter and wetter by the moment, her pussy tightening convulsively as she reacted to Dylan’s touches, the feeling of his lips against her skin, the pressing of his body weight into her.

  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 again, 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 l
east, 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?”