by Meg Ripley
Before their departure from the US, Dylan had retrieved a collection of credentials, cash, and paperwork from a bank lockbox—some of which he had shown her, most of which he had not. Rachel discovered that she was already half a million dollars richer by the time they landed in Amsterdam, with a notation on the transfer that said Running money. In Rouen, she had a different last name, a couple of credit cards and a passport with her new identity. Their apartment was leased under a completely different identity—a dummy name one of her benefactor’s many alter-egos, according to Dylan—but one that had been under the radar for over a decade, making it safe.
“No need to try and keep it all in mind,” Dylan told her when she asked how they would ever keep up with the various identities and backstories involved in their evasion. “I don’t even keep the half of it stored up here unless it’s relevant at the moment.”
The day after her shopping spree, Rachel had put Dylan through another afternoon of boredom when she booked a long appointment at one of the city’s top-rated salons. She hadn’t altered her hair completely, but she got a drastic haircut; Dylan had suggested with surprising helpfulness that highlights would transform her dark hair still more, just enough to make her a little more difficult to identify
By the end of her splurge, Rachel’s first burst of agitation had eased; she was now an entirely new woman. She occasionally had moments of fear where she wasn’t quite sure how much she could trust to Dylan’s diligence to keep her safe, but she had explored her new city with gusto, taking in the museums and wandering respectfully through cathedrals. She was bowled over by the constant, breathtaking beauty of Rouen; the contrast between genteel, slowly decaying remnants of the old splendor of France and super-modern structures and stores. The Rouen Castle, the Jardin des Plantes de Rouen and the Pont Gustave-Flaubert all danced across her hungry eyes.
Rachel tugged at Dylan’s arm, pointing towards a street vendor who was quickly pouring batter onto a large, round griddle. She had never understood the allure of crêpes until the first time Dylan had persuaded her to buy one for herself as they waited for the train in Samoëns. That first crêpe, stuffed with deeply colored preserves from a berry called myrtille, had satisfied a craving that Rachel never suspected she had. Ever since, whenever she saw a crêpe stand, it was nearly impossible for her to not stop and try another filling wrapped up in the delicate, thin, soft pancake.
Dylan rolled his eyes with a slight grin, and the two walked towards the street cart, hand in hand. Again, Rachel wondered if his public boyfriend behavior was just to serve for good cover, or if it was instead guided by any kind of affection for her. They stood off to the side as a line of people gathered, heeding the siren call of the sweet, eggy batter sizzling on the griddle. Rachel’s gaze traveled over the menu, her brain laboriously translating crêpe au fromage, crêpe au fraises; flicking through the different fillings offered: bananas and Nutella, thinly-sliced apples and cinnamon, ham and cheese and roasted chicken. She pointed out what she wanted to Dylan and he nodded crisply, maneuvering them into the line.
“Bonjour, Monsieur,” he said, baring his most charming smile. “Une crêpe avec sucre et citron, et une autre avec de confiture de framboise, s’il vous plait.” The man nodded, smiling at the two of them. He asked a question; Rachel interpreted it as “Have you been together long?” Dylan shrugged, glancing at Rachel with warmth in his eyes, and replied that it had been a little over a month.
Within moments, their crêpes—lemon, sugar and butter for her, and raspberry jam for Dylan—were in their hands, and Dylan was waving a thankful goodbye to the street vendor. As they walked away, Rachel took the first bite of her snack and moaned softly as the warm, slightly caramelized, lemony sugar coated her tongue. She closed her eyes, putting her trust into Dylan to keep her from running into anyone or anything, savoring the taste. It was hard to believe that something so simple could be so incredibly delicious.
“Careful with those noises,” Dylan said, giving her hand a squeeze. Rachel realized that she had moaned again with her second bite, which somehow seemed to taste even better than the first.
Dylan’s voice dropped lower, and she felt his breath against her ear, along her neck. “I doubt you’d want to attract attention by driving me to pull you into an alley to make you scream.”
Rachel opened her eyes and gave Dylan a playful shove, shaking her head. “For a guy who’s supposed to be the brains of this outfit, you have a hard time multi-tasking,” she told him airily.
“Oh, I’m great at multitasking,” Dylan countered. “I could pin you up against a wall, get you off, and keep a lookout for jack-booted assailants all at the same time.”
Rachel chuckled, taking another bite of her crêpe. Every once in a while, she was startled by her sudden spring into resilience—by the fact that she had been so deeply afraid for what had seemed like an eternity, only to change into confidence and nonchalance seemingly overnight. What startled her more was that the transformation didn’t seem to be a surprise to Dylan at all.
They made their way back to the apartment, talking sporadically about what they would do to amuse themselves the next day. While Dylan mostly let Rachel organize and plan their activities, he had a rule that by nightfall, they were back in the apartment.
“Too easy to get caught unaware on the street at night,” he told her. “I’m decent in a fight, but if they got the drop on us—if we were both tipsy, out alone, and they sent five or six folks after us between street lights—it would be close. Too close for me to want to risk. So, after dark, we stay in.”
It wasn’t as though she’d been much of a nightlife maven before coming into her fortune anyway; the throbbing bass and sweaty masses inside nightclubs never really appealed to her. But she found that the little reminders of her fugitive status made her want things that she had never really considered before: the ability to go out at night, the freedom to meet with whoever she wanted, to wander around alone if she felt like it. Just as he promised, no matter where she went, Dylan was there with her. If she wanted to go to the market, he strode alongside her, usually holding her hand or with his arm around her waist.
There were times when the only way that Rachel could have a few moments alone—or as alone as she could be—was to go into a restroom. Every now and then, Dylan’s constant surveillance felt stifling; not always, but often enough that whether she needed to use the facilities or not, she told him she did. He gave her space in the apartment they shared, but somehow, just knowing that he was only the length of the hallway away from her made Rachel feel like he was still watching, still listening, that nothing she did was unattended. For a woman who had lived in what she jokingly referred to as “spinster splendor” up until the day he had arrived in her life, it was a difficult transition to make, even though Rachel appreciated the necessity.
Dylan’s phone—which was the fourth phone she had seen him use in their time together so far—rang almost as soon as they were through the door. Rachel kicked off her shoes, turning away from him and sauntering over to the sofa in the living room; she knew better than to even give much thought to what the other side of his conversation might be.
“Yes. Absolutely. Still stable. No signs. Understood.”
Rachel sprawled across the sofa, staring up at the rough, plastered ceiling, contemplating the change her life had undergone. It was nice to live in Rouen. It was nice to be able to shop when she felt like it, to order her days the way she pleased. What wasn’t nice was wondering how much longer they would be together; how much longer Dylan would have to look around constantly, poised to defend her from any attack. She wanted to take some kind of action. No matter how many activities she packed into the day, or how many times they made love to the point where Rachel was exhausted down to her bones, she went to sleep feeling restless.
“Unless someone notices your presence in the city, we’re staying here another month,” Dylan said as he set his phone down, sinking into the cozy, wingback chair next to the
couch.
“Why do we have to leave in a month? And what if someone notices?”
Dylan shrugged. “I’d assume another fire, though they might not have the guts to be that direct again—not in another country. And we have to leave because we have to keep them guessing.”
Rachel frowned, closing her eyes with a sigh. “If they haven’t noticed me being here a month from now, how dangerous could it be to stay here?”
“Love,” Dylan said; she could picture his facial expression in her mind: slightly exasperated, with a flash of sympathy in his eyes. “If we can, we need to move around while they don’t know where you are. If they find you, it’s easier to track you. If you leave before they find you, the trail’s already gone cold.”
Rachel pressed her lips together, irritation warring with a flicker of instinctive fear. She didn’t want to leave Rouen; not only had she come to love the city, but the prospect of another multi-day trip without knowing where the endpoint would be, shifting from plane to train to bus, was more than she thought any reasonable human being could stand.
“We have way more stuff than we did when we got here,” she said, her voice taking on a slightly whining tone that she normally despised hearing. “God.” Rachel opened her eyes, turning her head to look at Dylan. “If he’s so high and mighty and powerful, why hasn’t he figured out how to get me safe yet?”
Dylan shrugged. “It’s a complicated mess. He doesn’t like keeping you on tenterhooks any more than he likes no longer being in control of his company.”
“Are they at least after him, too?” Rachel knew she shouldn’t wish her own troubles onto someone else—particularly someone who had given her so much—but she almost resented the man who put her in the position of having received a foolishly-given fortune. “If he wanted to give me money, why didn’t he just give it to me out of his own damn account?”
Dylan laughed. “I don’t try to plumb the minds of the people paying me,” he said with a shrug. “And yes, they are after him too—so at least you have company in your misery.” He stood quickly, and Rachel felt her heart beat a little bit faster as Dylan stepped towards her, kneeling on the edge of the sofa, leaning in to hover over her face. “Company other than your suspicious bodyguard.” Rachel softly moaned as one of his hands trailed along her body, cupping her breast and then shifting to her waist.
He moved again, turning around to straddle her hips. Rachel reached up to wrap her arms around Dylan’s shoulders as his lips came down upon hers, sealing off any protest she might have made. Rachel opened her mouth as Dylan’s tongue swept along her lips, teasing her. She moaned again as he rocked his hips against her, able to feel the hardening ridge at the crotch of his pants pressing against her. Dylan’s hands moved all over her body, caressing and teasing her everywhere seemingly all at once as he deepened the kiss, his tongue probing her mouth. His fingers moved quickly, unbuttoning her cardigan, peeling the fabric back to expose the camisole underneath. Rachel found herself rising from the couch and then falling back against its cushions again as Dylan quickly stripped off her clothing layer by layer, barely breaking away from her lips to pull the fabric over her head.
Rachel’s hands fumbled as she moved to unbutton his shirt, her dexterity suffering in the face of her rising arousal, the distraction of Dylan’s lips shifting from her lips to her neck, his teeth grazing her sensitive skin. He cupped her breasts, squeezing them carefully, finding her nipples by touch as they hardened against the thin, lacy fabric of her bra and teasing them until they were firm, tingling to his touch. Rachel writhed, feeling her pussy becoming wetter and wetter, her inner muscles tightening convulsively as her arousal intensified. Dylan pulled back; Rachel knew she wasn’t imagining the admiring look in his eyes as he looked down at her, breathing heavier already, his cock already fully hard, straining at the fabric of his jeans.
“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.
