Authors: Jade Allen
Far away, on the other side of the door, she heard a shout;
there was a muffled thud, the sound of boots scraping against the floor,
scuffing noises and grunts. Rachel sat down uneasily, thinking that if nothing
else, Dylan was demonstrating—she hoped—that his assignment to protect her was
genuine.
It could be a set-up,
she thought anxiously.
Lull me
into a false sense of security and then lead me straight to whoever is after
me.
She didn’t know what to believe; Dylan’s refusal to give her any
information—or very little information at all—was difficult to reconcile with
the idea of someone who had her interests at heart.
My interest isn’t in his
heart,
she thought bleakly.
It’s in his wallet. What happens if they
offer him more money?
“You can come out now, Love,” Dylan called. Rachel
hesitated; she realized abruptly that the struggling, fighting sounds had
ceased. She looked around the bathroom again, sucking her bottom lip between
her teeth as she considered her options. None of her toiletries were
particularly heavy, but she at least had the soap dish. She grabbed it,
swallowing against the tight feeling in her throat. It wouldn’t do much at all,
but if Dylan tried to attack her—or if he was merely lulling her with sounds of
struggle, to ambush her with whoever had broken in—it might buy her just enough
of a moment to get away.
I’ll have to grab my keys. I’ll need my purse. My
phone. Or I could just run, and hope that someone will be kind enough to help
me.
She sighed, shaking her head.
Gripping the soap dish tightly in her hand, she opened the
bathroom door, cringing at the faint mechanical squeak of the hinges. Rachel
walked as quickly and as quietly as she could through the hall, her heart
beating as fast as a rabbit’s in her chest. She cocked her hand, preparing to
throw or smash the soap dish against or at whoever might jump out, and took the
final step into the living room.
A man lay sprawled on her floor, head turned to the side,
either unconscious or—as Rachel’s mind reeled at the sight—possibly dead. She
stared in shock, trying to discern some kind of familiarity, some kind of clue
as to who he was. The man was utterly nondescript; even if she could go to the
police, she wasn’t sure she would be able to come up with any one identifying
feature that could lead to his capture—if he wasn’t already dead.
“You’re going to need to get out of here,” Dylan said.
Rachel nearly dropped the soap dish she still held at the sound of his voice.
She turned in that direction; Dylan’s hand closed around her wrist, and he
extracted the ceramic dish from her hand, smiling faintly. “Was this for me or
for him?”
“
What do you mean
I’m going to need to get out of
here? Is he—did you kill him?”
Dylan shrugged.
“They’ve
decided to come after you even though you have a bodyguard. They sent one guy
first—next time they’ll send three. Maybe five, if they think one of us is
particularly capable.”
“You didn’t answer my other question,” Rachel pointed out.
“You didn’t answer mine,” Dylan countered, wagging the soap
dish a few feet away from her face. Rachel felt her cheeks heating up.
“It was a contingency plan,” she said tartly. “Now answer
my question.” Dylan glanced at the man sprawled out on the floor.
“I don’t think he’s dead. Could be, but probably not. All the
more reason for you to grab your things and for us to go for a ride.”
Rachel looked at the man and shuddered. How Dylan could be
so unconcerned about whether the man was alive or dead was beyond her. But,
without a doubt, the man certainly didn’t have her best interests at heart.
“How do I know I can even trust you?” she asked, turning
her gaze away from the possibly dead man to the very much alive Dylan.
Dylan’s gaze flicked around the room briefly before
settling on her. “I don’t see you’ve got much of a choice, to be honest,” he
said, smiling slightly. “Go get yourself some pajamas and your toothbrush like
a good lass.”
Rachel set her jaw, for a moment determined to
argue—feeling almost insulted at being called ‘a good lass’ even as the mild
affection in the endearment sent a thrill through her. “I hate charming, smart,
nonchalant Irishmen,” she muttered to herself as she walked down the hallway
towards her bedroom.
****
“Home sweet home,” Dylan said, ushering her over the
threshold of a sprawling, slightly messy apartment an hour’s drive from her
home. “For now, at least.” He closed and locked the door behind them, and
Rachel looked around, taking stock. It wasn’t dirty exactly; the huge living
room had the look of a place that had seen more than one brawl, and there was a
faint citrusy musk in the slowly circulating air. An old, beat up leather couch
pinned down a nearly threadbare rug, looking as if it had sprouted up in that
location as opposed to being moved there. Spare parts that Rachel couldn’t
identify were scattered along one wall, near an outlet, and there was a laptop
plugged in nearby, resting on a repurposed wooden crate.
“For now?” Rachel asked, turning to look at him.
“Well, I’ll have to move eventually; so it won’t be home
for me permanently. And I should hope that the powers that be can take care of
your safety at some point between now and eternity, so it won’t be your home
permanently either.”
“Why would you have to move eventually?” Rachel asked,
glancing around to find somewhere she could put her backpack down. She had
managed to grab a few outfits, her laptop, a few toiletries and odds and ends
in the time that Dylan had given her before he told her they needed to get out.
Dylan brushed past her and Rachel felt an almost electric jolt crackle along
her nerve endings at the brief contact; he threw himself down onto the couch,
sprawling along its length.
“Hazard of the profession; protect enough people for long
enough, folks tend to hold grudges. Want to get the drop on you when you’re
sleeping.” He peered at her, shrugging. “Can’t have that, can we?”
“So you’re used to protecting people,” Rachel said, letting
her backpack fall lightly to the floor and walking around the behemoth of a
couch. She sat down on the rug, looking around warily.
“Wouldn’t have been hired to protect you if I didn’t have
experience,” Dylan pointed out. Rachel had to acknowledge that if whoever had
given her the money did have her best interests in mind, they would probably
hire someone who at least had some kind of reputation, some kind of history to
demonstrate his ability.
Rachel nearly jumped to her feet when Dylan’s pocket
started loudly playing Muse’s “Supermassive Black Hole.” Dylan slipped one hand
into his pocket indolently, extracting a phone. He tapped the screen and held
the device to his ear. “Yeah,” he said; though his voice was still the same
cool, nonchalant tone he had maintained ever since he had first intercepted
her, Rachel could see the tension come over his body. “Right. Understood. No,
she’s safe. Right. Yes. Got it.” He tapped the screen again, and when he looked
at her, his eyes were full of something Rachel didn’t expect: pity. “You’re
going to be here a few days, Love,” he said, smiling wryly. “And then you’re
going to be the beneficiary of quite a bit more money. Right after that, you
and I will be leaving the country.”
“What? Why?” Rachel stood, staring at Dylan in shock.
“Your apartment building has been the unfortunate victim of
a random, tasteless arson attack.” Dylan pressed his lips together. “Thus far,
you are one of only about a dozen residents unaccounted for. I’d wager good
money that someone’s going to account for you on a list of tragic casualties.”
Dylan closed his eyes and frowned, the first moment that Rachel had seen him
look actually stricken. “Is there anyone who would mourn you? Miss you? Would
anyone in particular have your death investigated?” Rachel sank back down onto
the rug, staring at the loops and whorls of its faux-Persian pattern.
“No,” she said. “I mean—I have friends, but…” she shook her
head. “Jesus.” Rachel took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. Her eyes stung, and
one hot tear rolled down along her cheek, followed by another. She cradled her
forehead in her hands, shaking. “Jesus.” Rachel dimly heard the couch groaning;
she sensed Dylan’s movement in the corner of her eye, blurred by tears that
began to well up more rapidly in her eyes, falling onto the rug.
A few moments later, she glanced up in time to see Dylan
sink down onto the floor in front of her, a bottle of whiskey in one hand along
with a couple of short, squat glasses, and a pack of cigarettes in the other.
“Choose your poison,” he said, smiling slightly. Rachel swallowed, brushing the
lingering tears from her eyes. She glanced at her options and laughed.
“Poison is right,” she said, reaching out for the pack of
cigarettes. “I’ll have both, if you’re in such a hospitable mood.” Dylan
chuckled and shifted on the floor, cracking the seal on the bottle of whiskey.
He poured a shot in each glass and set one down in front of Rachel, putting the
bottle down and reaching nimbly for an ash tray. He produced a lighter from
another pocket and flicked it to life. Rachel’s trembling fingers drew a
cigarette out of the mostly-full pack, and she brought it to her lips, leaning
into the flame.
She had smoked briefly in college; it had been part of her
study routine, an excuse for a break and the timer for the same. She had quit
after her last week of final exams and had never been tempted to pick up the
practice again until that moment. Smoke swirled up and away from the tip, and
Rachel took a long drag, coughing slightly and trying again.
“Bottoms up,” Dylan said, raising his glass. Rachel picked
up her own glass with a trembling hand, raised it to him, and knocked back the
amber liquid, feeling it burn all the way down to her stomach.
Dylan poured another shot and they both downed their liquor
in silence. Rachel took another drag of her cigarette and held the smoke in her
lungs, exhaling in a sigh.
“Well,” she said, glancing up at Dylan’s face, “I think
it’s time for you to tell me what the hell’s going on.” Dylan chuckled and
poured her another shot.
“You’ll want that,” he told her. He pressed his lips
together, contemplating the liquid in his own glass. He rifled in the cigarette
pack and took one out, lighting it in a fluid movement that Rachel couldn’t
help but envy. “Do you happen to recall any of the scholarships you received in
college?” Rachel shrugged. She had applied for so many scholarships that she had
barely paid attention to the details on them after she had submitted whatever
they required. “There was a particular gentleman who funded one of the
scholarships; you would have met him—though I don’t blame you for not
remembering, and neither would he. Apparently he was quite taken with your
determination.”
“What does that have to do with giving me a couple million
dollars
now
?” She had been out of school for more than two years.
“It was a mixture of spite and good feeling, we’ll say. He
had a deal he was set to make with a company he knew little about; when he
discovered more about what they do and how they conduct business, he decided
that he should put the money towards something better.” Dylan shrugged, and
Rachel eyed him, suspecting that she knew just how the businessman in question
had come to know about the other company’s practices. “He remembered you from
the scholarship ceremony and had someone look you up. When he saw that you’d
hit a wall, he decided you were a much better investment than the company in
question.”
“So, is
that
who’s after me?”
Dylan shook his head. “Some members of his own company who
are keen for the deal want the money back. Hostile takeover; his personal funds
aren’t affected, but he was ousted. Can’t say I blame them, but nonetheless,
here we are.” Rachel pressed her lips together, holding Dylan’s gaze for a long
moment. She glanced down at the shot of whiskey in her glass and snorted,
following it with a low chuckle.
“You were right, I
do
want this,” she said, lifting
it to her lips and knocking it back. Her whole life was overturned twice
because a man with more wealth than sense thought she could use the money more
than some company. Rachel noticed idly that the whiskey didn’t seem to burn as
much going down anymore and tried to remember how many shots she had; warmth
spread through her veins, tingling along her skin. She brought the cigarette to
her lips again and took another long drag, ignoring the protest from her lungs.
****
Rachel woke up abruptly, head throbbing, in a dark and
unfamiliar room. After a stubborn moment, memories came back to her in a patchy
trickle; Dylan had gotten her superbly drunk, pouring shot after shot and
letting her smoke all of the cigarettes she wanted until the world was spinning
around her. At one point, he had cracked the living room window to give the
rising smoke somewhere to go, and when he had returned to the floor where
Rachel had decided to stay. She had sprawled against him, laughing and crying
as the full impact of the situation hit her. “For someone as wealthy as I now
am,” she had said, the hilarity and tragedy of it filling her up until she
shook, “I don’t have a goddamned thing.” Dylan’s strong arm had snaked around
her, steadying her as she trembled.
“Look at the silver lining, Love: not many people get such
an easy pass to start over again.”
Her brain felt as though it had been replaced by
tightly-packed cotton, and Rachel tried to remember how she had gone from the
floor of Dylan’s bedroom and into a bed. He had let her cry herself out,
nodding solemnly at her half-coherent review of How We Got Here. She had
eventually stopped talking, too overwhelmed with whiskey and grief to do
anything more than lean against him, trembling slightly, while the room spun.
“You need to get some sleep,” Dylan had told her. “Up you go.”
Rachel realized that while Dylan had kept her glass
constantly topped off, he only had a few ounces himself; he was nearly sober as
he led her to the bedroom. Dylan had left her alone and somehow Rachel had managed
to change into the nightgown she had grabbed out of her dresser, barely
remembering how to tie the sash on the robe that went over it. Dylan had
knocked before coming back in, and Rachel could remember him guiding her
weaving, unsteady steps to the bed, pulling the blankets up around her. He had
left without a word, leaving the door open a crack as he went back into the
living room.
Points to him--he didn’t take advantage of a drunk girl,
Rachel thought bleakly. Her legs were tangled up in the sheets, and she spent
long moments extricating herself from the bed, standing up on feet that didn’t
seem to be quite real underneath her.
She padded out of the bedroom, moving through the short
hall; Rachel could hear the soft sounds of Dylan’s breathing coming from the
couch, steady and slow. She checked, wincing as the movement jarred her tight
skull, and veered towards the kitchen.
Water. Water will make it all better.
Somehow.
She looked around, opening cupboards until she found one
containing glasses, and turned to the sink. It might wake up Dylan; if he was
as good at protecting people as he hinted, he was probably a light sleeper.
Rachel decided that if he woke, he woke, and she wasn’t going to hold herself
responsible for interrupting the sleep of a man who was being paid to make sure
she wasn’t killed in her own drunken stupor. She turned on the tap and filled
the glass, drinking it down before filling it once more.
“Something wrong?” Dylan’s voice carried to her from the
direction of the living room and Rachel shrugged. She turned off the water and
sipped from the glass as she made her way towards him, sinking down onto the
small empty space on the couch near his feet.
“Well, for one thing, I’m not drunk anymore,” she observed.
Dylan chuckled lowly in the semi-darkness. “There’s more
whiskey if you’d like it.”
“I think if I have any more whiskey I’m probably going to
throw up. Not the desired outcome.” Rachel sipped at the water again, willing
the throbbing in her temples and hot needles behind her eyes to recede.
“Did you want to talk?” Dylan asked.
“Not particularly. I just…” Rachel drank the last of the
water and put the glass carefully down on the floor at her feet. “Why weren’t
you surprised that they burned down my apartment building?” The couch creaked
and shifted underneath her and Rachel saw Dylan’s shadowed body sitting up. His
shadowed body emerged into the meager light provided by the lamps outside, and
she saw that at some point after he put her to bed, he’d taken his shirt off.
She swallowed; he was even more muscular than he had originally appeared,
ridges and valleys forming under the skin of his chest and abdomen.
“Not much surprises me anymore,” Dylan said quietly.
“Though I have to admit, the sight of you stepping out of the hall, soap dish
in hand, ready to cold-cock someone…” he chuckled. “And don’t think I missed
the fact that you were going to slug me with keys in your hand at the car.
You’re a lot tougher than you think, Rachel.”
“A lot of good
that
does me,” she said bitterly.
Rachel wished that she could tear her gaze from Dylan’s muscular body, that she
could focus enough to take herself back to bed. The morning was going to be bad
enough without spending the rest of the night plagued with inconvenient mental
images.
“It’ll serve you well,” Dylan told her. “You need
toughness. It’ll make my job easier, at any rate.” He leaned in closer to her.
“I don’t want to talk about any of it,” Rachel said.
“Well, what would you like to do instead?”
Rachel looked at him for a long moment, pondering the
question. She came to a wordless decision and leaned in, closing the distance
between them. She pressed her lips to Dylan’s, wrapping her arms around his
shoulders and pushing her body against his. Dylan’s arms coiled around her as
he returned the kiss for a moment, and Rachel moaned, her nipples hardening at
his touch, her body heating up. She could feel her muscles tightening; she felt
the damp warmth forming along her folds.
Dylan broke away from the kiss abruptly, holding her back
with surprisingly gentle hands. “You shouldn’t,” he said, his voice soft in the
darkness. “You’re not in the right state of mind.”
Rachel shook her head, bringing her lips against his once
more. “I’m not drunk, and you asked what I wanted to do.
This
is what I
want to do.”
Dylan’s arms tightened around her, and Rachel shivered as
his hands came to life, trailing along the curves of her body, sliding over her
through the thin fabric of her clothes. He broke away again, and she realized
she was already breathing more heavily. She felt the blood rushing through her
veins, her heart beating faster, her skin tingling.
“I am
not
going to do this on an old, ratty couch,”
Dylan told her. Rachel started to protest; before she could object, Dylan
lifted her up, standing in a fast, graceful movement. He shifted her in his
arms, carrying her along the short hallway towards the bedroom. Dylan kicked
the door fully open and strode across the floor, letting Rachel fall carefully
onto the bed before he covered her body with his own. His hands trailed along
her body, finding the sash to her robe and tugging at it until it came untied,
peeling the soft fabric aside. He cupped her breasts over the nightgown, and
Rachel moaned, arching up into his touch.
She could feel the hard ridge of his erection pressing
against her thigh as Dylan brought his lips down onto hers, kissing her
hungrily. He teased her nipples through the fabric of her nightgown, rolling
and twisting them, sending sharp jolts of sensation seemingly straight to her
pussy, making her wetter and wetter by the moment. Dylan rocked his hips
against her, tugging the neck of her nightgown down to expose her breasts.
Rachel’s hands floundered over his back and along his chest, fumbling to find
something to take off of him. She suddenly had no greater need than to feel his
skin against hers—to feel him inside of her.
Dylan lifted her up, tugging the robe off and casting it
aside to some unknown part of the room in the darkness, and Rachel’s hands
latched onto the waistband of his jeans, seeking and quickly finding the fly.
She heard fabric ripping, but then Dylan’s hands shifted against her; in a
matter of moments, Rachel was slithering free of the last constraints of her
nightgown, pushing her body against Dylan’s in the darkness. She tugged and
fumbled with the button and zipper on his fly, and hooked her fingers in the
tough denim.
Dylan chuckled, nuzzling against her neck, nipping with
sharp teeth along the column of her throat. “Want some help with that?” he
asked her, his low voice nearly a purr in her ear. Rachel started to shake her
head, but felt Dylan’s hand brush against hers, moving his jeans down over his
hips, leaving nothing between them but the thin cotton of his boxer-briefs. She
muttered a frustrated curse, grabbing at the elastic waistband. Dylan chuckled
again and in a moment, the last barrier was gone. She felt his hot, glistening
skin pressed against hers; his hips shifting down between her thighs.
“How long has it been for you?” he asked her, bringing his
lips up to her ear. Rachel gasped as she felt his teeth dig into the tender
flesh of her earlobe, the swipe of his tongue following it. His hot, hard cock
brushed against her slick folds, teasing—tantalizingly close. “When was the
last time anyone made you scream their name?”
Rachel swallowed against the dryness of her throat, pushing
her hips down, struggling to get better contact. “No one’s ever made me scream
their name,” she managed to say, panting as she wrapped her arms around his
shoulders.
“Pity, that,” Dylan said. He rocked his hips, his cock
rubbing against her heat, the tip barely touching her clit, sending shockwaves
of pleasure through her body. “A beautiful woman like you ought to be screaming
some lucky sod’s name every night of the week.” He shifted his hips, and Rachel
gasped as she felt the hot thickness of his cock pushing up into her slowly.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, pushing her hips
down to meet his thrust. Rachel moaned long and low as Dylan moved deeper and
deeper inside of her, rocking his hips against hers, letting her feel him inch
by inch. Rachel turned her head, seeking his mouth, grabbing at his hair to
pull his face to hers. Dylan groaned against her lips as his hips pressed flush
to hers, and Rachel arched up against his body, biting down on his full lower
lip as the minute movements between them increased the friction against her
clit.
Dylan pulled his hips back slightly, and Rachel sighed with
disappointment as she felt his cock sliding out of her almost completely; the
sound turning into a deep moan as he thrust into her once more. Her inner
muscles rippled and flexed around him, as if her body itself couldn’t stand to
let him leave. She found herself falling into his rhythm as Dylan began to
gradually speed up. He cradled her in his arms, holding her by the shoulders as
he thrust into her harder and faster, his lips moving over her face, kissing
along the column of her throat. Rachel gripped his sweat-slick shoulders,
digging her fingernails in, struggling to hold onto him as she writhed and
twisted, her hips moving in a tidal rhythm she couldn’t have resisted if she
wanted to. He felt so good—thick, hot and full inside of her, pushing deeper
along her inner walls, the tip of his cock barely brushing her g-spot and then
retreating. Any thoughts of anything other than the feeling of his body against
hers, his cock inside of her, dissolved.
“
God
, woman,” Dylan murmured, panting as he lifted
himself up slightly, changing the angle of his thrust and driving up against
her pleasure center. Rachel cried out, her legs tightening around him
convulsively, her head falling back amongst the pillows as every muscle in her
body tensed with reaction. “Any man who couldn’t be bothered to make you scream
is a fool.”
Rachel felt his arm moving from underneath her, shivering
as Dylan’s hand trailed down along her waist to slip between their bodies. He
found her clit by touch and began to stroke her in time with his thrusts,
kissing her hungrily on the lips and along her throat. Rachel found herself
moving with him mindlessly, her pleasure mounting more and more every moment,
until she couldn’t hold back any longer. She moaned his name, louder and
louder, crying out as wave after wave of sensation racked her body. Rachel
didn’t quite scream, but her whole body rippled, muscles flexing and relaxing
in spasms as she moaned out again and again.
She felt Dylan’s cock twitching inside of her, and buried
her face against his neck as she felt his hot release flooding into her, his
body vibrating as he moaned long and low, murmuring her name between gasps for
breath. After a few more moments, his body went slack against hers; Rachel
sagged against the bed, panting as her heart raced, tingling all over in hot
and cold bursts of sensation.
“Not quite a scream,” Dylan said, dragging his lips along
the line of her jaw and stopping at her mouth. He kissed her lazily before
lifting his weight off of her, tumbling onto the bed less than an inch away.
Rachel chuckled, feeling the reassuring weight of his arm coiled around her
waist as she recovered slowly, her breath gradually returning to normal. “But
then, it was a first attempt.”
Rachel curled up against him, feeling the lingering
soreness between her legs, the jelly-like feeling just below her hips.
“Depending on what time it is,” she said, turning her head to peer up at
him in the darkness, “I’m more than happy to let you try again.”
“What does it matter what time it is?” Dylan asked her, one
hand moving up to brush a lock of hair away from her neck where sweat had
plastered it. “Neither of us have anywhere to be tomorrow. We could spend the
next twelve hours figuring out what I have to do to make you scream my name.”
Rachel saw the white flash of his teeth as he smiled. “And then, of course,
we’ll have lots of time in whatever exotic locale we escape to.” Rachel frowned
slightly, remembering that in spite of the pleasure she had just received, her
life was a shambles. “If you’ve got to be an unwilling expat, might as well
enjoy yourself.”