A/N: This is a one-shot kind of thing. I am a big fan of the Piers Nivans/ Ada Wong pairing. I'll get some more stuff written-an actual saga soon. I'm still formulating some ideas. It's a little cliche, I know, but I always theorized that she saved him from the facility. But I in no way intend on piggybacking off of anyone. I highly respect the authors like TheDonutMistress-you should really read her work. She's great! It's A+++!
He kissed her here, she touched him there.
She was such a cold woman sometimes, but she got him into bed like this and her body was warm to the touch, his hands could sink into her like a hot knife through butter. Like arctic polar caps going through a rapid global warming.
It got wetter.
Dragged her fingertips and splayed them along every inch of his skin.
He tensed up under them and pinned her against the bed and kissed her all over. Gave her a gratuitous suck where she liked it the most. He was good with his lips when he wasn't chattering so much. He could feel her fidget and sing to him.
He got her.
He finally got her where he wanted her. She had her hand atop his head, pushing him against her core. A physical form of encouragement.
Her confidence peaked then. He could taste her. It was ambrosial. Maybe she still had him in her clutches after all. The pipe dream of rendering her defenseless was still a nice thought, regardless. In the expanse of his mind were a plethora of things, and in them, he was the one in control. He was King.
Poetic justice.
Every moment he spent without it bit and tore at his exposure. He ripped his face away from her thighs. Flicked his tongue across his top lip.
"Fuck, Ada," he rasped.
He had her sliding up and down the headboard by the time he pulled his hips. Squeezed her thick thighs. He stifled the grunts in his throat—suppressed enough to gauge her, she made much better music than he had. It was a siren's call and he was the unlucky lad to have fallen for it. Another masochistic lamb whisked away into the slaughterhouse. He didn't care anymore.
Regrets were pushed to the farthest amplitude. Cast aside like some horrific pariah. He was the best at everything he did, maybe that's why she came back.
They were slippery by the time he melted.
Their own little slice of heaven was devoured by time.
Devoured by her thighs. He plummeted onto the sheets, covered in perspiration.
It was hot, sticky sex.
She slid off of the mattress.
Gave the floor a once-over.
Their clothes were scattered all over the place.
Her rolled-up panties were closest to the night stand.
She picked it up with the rest of her things. He pulled off the rubber and discarded it.
There was silence.
"We can't keep seeing each other. If we keep meeting up like this, he's going to suspect something." Piers griped.
"Yet here you are. Again."
"Old habits die hard." he reached for a cigarette tucked into the back of his pants' pocket strewn about the sheets. Newport 100s. He lit one up and stuffed it between his lips. Took a long drag.
It was occasion.
"Same time tomorrow night?"
There was an extended pause. As if he compiled all of his thoughts. All the weight of the world rested on his shoulders and everything was riding on this one pivotal moment.
"Yeah."