DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything Resident Evil (ok I totally own plenty of Resident Evil but not the creation of it).
Stage One: Damnation
Infection, Reflection, Subjection -
She would never forget the taste of fear that lingered like vomit in the back of her mouth. It shivered inside of her throat with a cloying glee, trying so desperately to force her body to heave and relieve itself of the panic and oppression and stifled rage that had been her burden for too long inside of that filthy, forsaken, and forgotten quagmire of perilous destruction. She felt the tears press behind her eyelids with a lover's touch, coaxing her to let them fall and purge herself of the poison that throbbed and robbed her of reason and replaced it with horrid regret.
The hollowed out carcass of Raccoon City lay forlornly behind them as the train rocketed off into the rising sun. The day was saved. They were saved. The girl in her motorcycle jacket and the boy in the uniform had ridden into town and swept her to safety. She was an orphan, yes, but she was alive. And when she'd lain on the floor, pulsing with fever and bleeding to death inside with teeming infection? They'd found the cure to save her life.
She'd heard the boy speaking while she lay there boiling and burning to death from her own blood. "Sherry? Sherry hold on. We've got the vaccine. Hold on honey. Hold on sweetheart. This might hurt."
His voice had soothed her. His voice had sent her to a place that was soft and gentle. His voice had been so calm, so gentle. The next few moments had brought the demons in her blood to the surface of her body. They'd tried, they'd really try, to rip themselves from the cage of her body and rip her apart in a burst of blood and infection. She'd bowed and started flopping and screaming and jerking. And the boy had gathered her in to hold her close while she raged. He'd put his hand over her mouth to quiet her and stifle her screams.
She'd smelled him, lying placidly in his arms as the storm of infection had fled and the healing had begun, she'd smelled him. Ivory soap, sweat, and survival; the scent of a savior. He'd been that. The girl with him the same. They'd saved her. She'd been a little girl then. Barely twelve years old. She'd been a "little girl" according to the voices and the faces of the men who'd taken her when they'd come to a stop at the end of the train tracks.
But she wasn't. Not really. She'd stopped being a little girl that day. She'd stopped being a little girl the moment her father had made sure she was a test subject for his madness. She wasn't a little girl as she fought the hands that held her while she listened to the conversation just outside the room where they held her.
The boy, Leon Kennedy, the cop who'd had one day on the job and spent that day saving her life. The boy was there with the men who'd held her. One of the men said, "We've seen your test scores."
And Leon Kennedy answered, "So?"
"We have a job for you, Mr. Kennedy."
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
"No. You have a choice: submit and take the job or we can take the girl and open her up like a lab experiment to find out what answers she holds."
There was silence for a long moment. Sherry listened, breathing hard and fast. Her heart hammered, loud in her ears.
"You fucking bastards. She's a little girl."
I'm not. I'm not a little girl. Leon, say no. I'm not a little girl. I can be brave too.
"We need an answer, Mr. Kennedy. Yes or no?"
The silence grew loud. And finally, Sherry shouted, just once, "Leon! Say no! Don't do this for me!"
One of the men smacked her face, hard. The slap rang loud and meaty in the quiet room. And she heard Leon's answer, through gritted teeth. She could hear the rage in him, smell it, feel it. "It takes a real fucking coward to hit a little girl. Touch her again and I'll cut your god damn hand off."
"Yes or no, Mr. Kennedy?"
"Yes…you fucking bastards."
She didn't see him again. They dragged her away. They took her away and put her in a white room. The room was padded and bright. The room smelled of disinfectant and was silent. So silent. Soundproofed, clearly, and empty.
They poked her full of needles and took her blood. They hooked her to machines to test her brain waves, to take her vitals, to measure her responses. They sent a tutor to teach her and a gave her time to play in a dark, cold gymnasium. She wasn't sure how long she was there.
It was a day. It was a month. It was years.
She was the property of the US Government. She was under the care of Derek Simmons, the national security advisor. He took good care of her. He visited with her and played with her and got her a puppy. He was kind.
He gave her over for experiments and never looked back. He was shrewd like her parents had been. She was no more than a guinea pig to him; a guinea pig treated like a treasured prisoner. Because she was a prisoner there. She had no friends and only one visitor.
She had her first sex dream about Leon Kennedy.
All that shaggy hair, those blue eyes, that mouth…it had taken a sixteen-year-old girl and turned her into a woman at her own hand. She'd pictured his mouth and the taste of his kiss and become obsessed with him. She imagined how he would taste in her mouth; thick, smooth, and meaty.
I'm not a little girl, Leon. Will you watch me come for you?
One day she was outside in the sunshine, for the first time in years, and they told her she was ready. Ready for what? Ready to learn.
They trained her. She was taught how to move, how to fight, how to shoot. She was taught to flee and leap and roll. She was taught to take a punch, drive a kick, roll an enemy and survive. They put her up against men twice her size and watched her rise. She could take a hit and keep going; she was invincible. She could heal a cut in seconds; a bullet wound in minutes. Could she amputate a body part and regrow it? They wouldn't risk it to try.
Claire came to see her. Claire Redfield, the girl in Raccoon who'd saved her life; the girl who was now a beautiful woman. They visited, often and wonderfully, they laughed and loved each other as sisters. They were good friends. Claire was her only friend.
They sent her out on a mission. She gathered BOW samples like a pro. She was good. She was better than good. She had nothing to lose, nothing to risk, and nothing to stop her. She was the perfect soldier.
There was only one thing that fascinated her enough to have her break from the mission.
And he was sitting at the bar.
The bar was beautiful. It was shiny mahogany countertops and leather bar stools. It was The Meridian in Monte Carlo. She knew he was there for work. She knew he was with USSTRATCOM. She'd heard he'd become the best in his field very quickly. The boy in the uniform had become a handsome man with skills similar to hers.
She hadn't seen him in a decade. She was twenty-two and knew he was a decade older. He'd been wet behind the ears and charming and fresh-faced in Raccoon City. Age had given him an edge. He was in Armani and Boss in black and red. He was swirling scotch in a highball glass and focusing the laser blue of his eyes on the mirrored wall behind the bar. The face was exquisite; chiseled jaw and patrician nose and full lipped. The hair was dirty blonde and cut in a way that scooped that perfect jaw on one side and tickled his ear on the other.
The boy had been handsome; the man was harder, rougher, and somehow more beautiful.
He turned that perfect head and met her eyes; the look was brief but powerful. It slapped around her want of him like a game of ping pong. She pursed her lips and smiled. He smirked and lifted a brow….and gestured to the stool next to him.
Her heart hammered.
Sherry crossed the bar in her little white dress. It was Valentino scoop necked and short, flashing toned thighs and highlighting the ice pick hourista black heels that Manolo Blahnik had clearly designed with crystals and satin and sin. They made her legs looks ten feet long. Her platinum blonde hair was all curls and corkscrews around her face that set off the blue of her eyes.
She eased up to the bar and the bar tender, a handsome man in a dark expensive suit and bow tie, moved over to smile at her. Sherry felt eyes on her; various men and varying levels of curiosity. She smiled and said, "Vodka tonic with lime."
The bartender smiled and nodded, moving to prep her drink.
A man slid on to the stool beside her. Sherry tilted her head, studying him. A handsome man who clearly knew it, he leaned forward to grin at her. "You gonna let me buy that drink for you?"
Sherry glanced over his shoulder at the man two stools down. He was listening, clearly, to their exchange. He looked amused. Sherry replied, "Why not?"
The man grinned, excited. She let him buy the drink. He talked about himself; bragging and preening like a proud peacock. Sherry let him jabber on. She waited, watched Leon Kennedy pay for his drink and rise, and sidestepped the still blabbering man without another word.
She tracked him across the bar and into the lobby. She kept back enough to not seem obvious and watched him take the elevator. Her eyes watched the numbers rise floors. He was in the penthouse. Of course, he was.
She hit the button and waited.
On the elevator, she noticed that the penthouse required a card key. She turned on her charms and flirted a copy out of the front desk without much trouble. She boarded the elevator, hit the button for the floor, and waited.
The doors dinged happily and opened to show the narrow hallway that led to the penthouse suite. The hallway was all plush red carpet and expensive mirrors. There was an antique settee off to one side that looked several hundred years old.
Sherry stepped off the elevator. She moved toward the room doors, lifted her hand and knocked, thinking of what she'd say when they opened. Leon, long time no see? Seemed stupid and generic. Sup? No. That was even worse. How you doin? Not unless she was on an episode of Friends. Honestly, she didn't quite know what to say.
The door opened and her time to decide was up. She opened her mouth and was staring into the barrel of a very big Magnum. Her voice failed her.
His didn't.
"You want to tell me why you're following me?"
Sherry was too shocked to answer.
Leon grabbed her hand and jerked. She stumbled into the room in surprise. He threw her against the door after he kicked it shut and pressed the barrel of the gun to her chest.
"I saw you down by the pier first. I gave you a little credit for looking like this. I thought, surely she's not trying to blend in."
And her voice finally came to her, softly, "Why not?"
"Seriously?" He cocked a brow, "Look at you. You look like a high-priced call girl. Next time you're going to play Nancy Drew you may want to dress the part a little more."
"Are you saying I look slutty?" Sherry sounded outraged.
Leon glanced down at her, deliberately slow and lazy. "I got hard just looking at you, sweetheart. You know what you look like."
Oh.
Oh, that was a good feeling. Sherry felt that shift in her body, in her blood, in her gut. She's a little girl, they'd yelled all those years ago. And she'd been a girl, yes, but she'd been a little girl with a big crush. That big crush was currently inches away from her and staring at her breasts in her dress. She felt herself shiver.
He felt it. It brought his eyes up to her face. He cocked his head, smirking a little.
"Like me looking at you?"
Sherry figured she could play this one of two ways:
One – she could shout out who she was. That would stop this in its tracks. He'd hug her and laugh and they'd talk and reminisce and be friendly.
Two – she could let it play out just like it was and see where it took them.
She studied that face. Exquisite. She'd had a crush on him as a little girl. The savior complex had been very real. But she wasn't a little girl anymore. And the crush? It was worse than ever.
And so, she said, "Yes."
That flipped his switch. She saw it register. He liked that answer. He was trying to figure out her game here. He didn't understand that the game was simple: she was here to see if she could touch him. She'd broken from her assignment to do it. She was in trouble if they found out. She didn't care. She wanted to put her hands on Leon Kennedy.
The press of her nipples was evident in the little white dress. She watched his eyes slide over that obvious sign of arousal and felt her panties dampen in anticipation. He rubbed the barrel of the gun, just a little, against one of those turgid nipples and pulled a gasp from her mouth.
Amused, he looked at her mouth and thrilled her. "What are you following me for?"
Sherry lifted her hand and took the barrel of the gun. She pushed it aside and he let her. She said, softly, "I'm not here to hurt you, Agent Kennedy."
And now he shook his head and backed off, watching her with a predator's intelligence. "You expect me to believe you? You've been stalking me all night. I might have let the pier go as coincidence and attraction. You kept looking at me, sure. But that might have been simple human interest. But then you were in the casino where I was playing poker and now here in the hotel. You're following me. Why? What do you want?"
Sherry stayed against the door, watching him. She'd heard about him. She'd heard lots about him. He was the James Bond of the agent world. He was unstoppable, incredible, vivacious and flirtatious and very hard to hold on to. He was also notoriously known for his ability to shift the parameters of his mission to suit his purpose. He didn't follow the rules and was often such a wildcard and a lone ranger that it was infuriating to his handlers.
He was also a known lady killer. It was whispered in various circles that he flirted with anything in a skirt. If he was doing more than flirting, that was carefully kept under wraps. Rumors, of course, spoke of his long-term love affair with Ada Wong but even that couldn't be proved. It was all speculation.
Sherry said, "I'll tell you. But can I move away from this door?"
"Sure." Mirthlessly laughing, Leon waved the gun to signal her forward, "Come on in. Why not? Want a drink?"
"I would love one."
He moved toward the bar in the huge penthouse suite. It was over three thousand square feet of space. It was all windows and glass and expensive hand scraped hardwood. He set the gun on the counter and prepped two drinks. Observant man, he made her a vodka tonic.
He turned back and she was still beside the door.
Lifting a brow, he queried, "You gonna stay there all night?"
"You didn't frisk me for weapons, Agent Kennedy."
She watched his face as that arrowed across the room at him. And his eyes did that slow, slow, slow slide down her body again. As if she could hide anything in that tiny dress she was wearing. As if.
It was the moment he realized that she wanted him. It was all over her face. It was in those perky little nipples. It was in that heavy, heavy breathing she was doing. It was humbling and arousing and raw. It settled in his dick and excited him.
He was a man who loved to play with fire.
And he was betting her fire would burn them both.
He set down the glass on the counter and picked up his gun. Pointing it at her, his voice, husky and low, instructed, "Toss any weapons you have on the floor."
"You trust me not to lie?"
Oh, she liked that look on his face. It was half bemused interest and half hot want. She couldn't begin to describe how it felt to have him look at her like that after all this time. Better…better than the fantasy in the sweaty sheets of a teenage girl.
"No, I don't."
Sherry nodded. "So, what do you want me to do?"
He moved to the plush white armchair that faced toward the door. And he sat there, watching her now, with that gun aimed at her. She could feel the want here; ripe and raw and murderous.
This was a dangerous game she was playing with him. Very dangerous. It could turn bad at any moment. But she wanted to play it. She wanted to play it with him. And she wanted him to say….
"Take off the dress; slowly."
THAT. She wanted him to say that.
Her hands shifted to the back of the dress and pulled the zipper. It echoed with a metallic gasp as she lowered it. The little dress, released from its binding, fell unrestrained to the floor in a whisper of cloth. It caught on the tips of her breasts for a shimmering moment before it fell in a puddle around her feet. Sherry remained in her high heels, sheer thigh highs, a black garter belt, and little red lacy panties. The dress didn't need a brassiere and so she wore none beneath it.
Her high, pale, perky little breasts were pert and excited in the cool air. A simple gold chain dangled between them with a locket. Her belly was flat and taut and the delicate mystery of her naval waited for lips and tongue and teeth. The flare of her hips, the line of her thighs, the suggestion of her mound…tantalized even as they curved in all the right ways.
Sherry asked, softly, "Satisfied?"
His face said he wasn't satisfied. Not even close. His face said he was hungry for her. Her flesh was pale and perfect; smooth and sleek and tempting. The blonde of her hair curled and curved and playfully flirted at the tips of those breasts with their pink little nipples.
He answered, coolly, "No. The panties. Now."
As if she were hiding a weapon there.
But they both knew she was. She was. The weapon there could kill them both. And he'd die craving it.
Impossibly turned on, Sherry lifted her hands and slid her fingers around the little lacy straps of the g-string. He commanded, gruffly, "Slowly."
And the command stole her breath.
She hooked her thumbs in them and peeled them slowly down her legs. As she bent, her breasts swung prettily and told him the story of being real. No implants there, he mused and felt the answer of it beat hard in the blood that rushed, painful and sharp, to his groin.
She rose again now and his eyes watched her; cool and calculating. The shift of his mouth made a lie out of that quiet grace. He wasn't cool, no, he was burning up. He was on fire. This was dangerous. Danger. He should hold her there and call hotel security. He should have her removed.
She was a bad girl; clearly. Why else was she here?
You shouldn't touch the bad girl.
But he looked at her little mound, at the smooth curve of her mound with that little landing strip so perfectly poised above it of springy blonde hair, and the frame of the thigh highs and the garter…and he wanted to fuck her. He wanted to fuck her. Even if she was an assassin sent there to kill him, he wanted to fuck her first and watch her scream.
His love of danger was well known. He was often a man who flirted too hard with the edge of what was right, what was wrong, and what was worth dying for. He was a man who enjoyed seeing how hard, how fast, and how far he could push the edges of his own universe. Blackmailed into fighting, he'd taken the boy without a choice and turned him into the man who blasted a hole in the wall of convention and made his own choices from blood and determination.
He wanted to know what she was here for, yes, but he wanted to taste her.
He was, often times, obsessed with a bad girl.
His voice came again, cucumber cool and low, "Turn around so I can make sure you don't have a weapon behind your back."
Jesus.
She turned, breathing sharp and fast.
He said, "Stop and face the door. Spread your legs and put your hands behind your head."
She was wet. She was already wet. The need for him moved inside of her like a thrilling spill of mindless possession. She followed his every command and craved him.
Her ass was smooth and heart shaped. It was pert and toned beneath the lacy top of the garter belt she wore. He could just imagine how it would look when he brought his hand down on it in a saucy little spanking. Leon shifted in the chair to accommodate the intense need of his erection.
He instructed her again, "Bend down and let your hair fall forward."
She did it. No questions. She didn't even argue. She bent down and all that blonde hair tumbled and framed the swing of her breasts; the perfect portrait of her pert bottom and the beautiful valley of slick want that waited between her thighs. He wanted to put his mouth on her right then.
So, he kept that gun on her and said, "Come here."
Sherry shifted, shivering, and moved across the room toward him. As she moved, she knew how this story could play out. She knew, too, that she'd do whatever he wanted. She was now, and would always be, enraptured with him.
She paused in front of him, looking down into his coolly studying face.
His voice intoned, "Tell me what you're here for."
And she answered, "This. This is what I came here for."
His head tilted, watching her. He tried to find the guile beneath the beautiful face but there was none. She was watching him with an almost hungry innocence. It was making him rock hard and throbbing for her.
"You came here for what?"
Oh. He wanted her to say it. He wanted her to tell him. Once done, there was no going back.
She had never been a woman that looked back. Back got you killed. Back got you chased into the darkness by things that would bleed you, rape you, kill you and leave your corpse for the vultures. Back got you dead.
The only thing worth looking back for was Leon Kennedy.
And he was sitting here in front of her.
Sherry said, softly, "I came here for you."
"You came here to kill me?"
"No." She shook her head and stepped closer. The muzzle of the gun touched her little belly. It was cold. He trailed it over her lower abdomen and across one hip. She made a sound of excitement and his eyes snapped to her face and held. Not cool now, no. they were very hot and very, very needy. "I came here to touch you."
Jesus.
He held her gaze. Who was this girl?
His voice rasped out, "Where?"
And her answer was perfect. Like she was perfect. And damning.
"Everywhere."
The muzzle of the gun trailed across the springy hair of her tempting little mound and lower, lower. He was going to touch her, there, there…THERE between her legs with that enormous Magnum of his. It was dirty, dirty and raw and delicious. She grabbed the barrel of it a centimeter from the promised land.
They held eyes.
His voice commanded, "Touch yourself for me."
Oh god.
Her other hand slid down her belly and pressed against her creamy slit. She was ready for him. He knew it. She knew it. Those little fingers brushed through her dampness and parted her folds to stroke. He watched her touch herself; watched her tease herself.
He said, "Show me what you want."
She pulled the barrel of the gun and he came forward with it. He didn't put the barrel of the gun in her, no, he put his tongue in her. His tongue joined her questing fingers and took her. Her voice gasped as his hands curled up her naked hips and pressed the cold gun against her back. His mouth destroyed her. The best in his field, they said, they were right about that. He was merciless and mercifully brilliant.
She let him claim her and kept one hand on her body to open herself to that hungry assault. Her fingers of her other hand speared into his hair and twisted. Her eyes stayed locked on the sight of him there feasting at the core of her body. The girl was a woman now and the woman? The woman was watching Leon Kennedy part her body and obliterate it.
His fingers found her now; deft and determined. They penetrated, pushing into the tightness of her body with a bone-numbing greed. Her finger slid over her clit; his tongue echoed it. His finger hooked into her body; hers joined it. It was, without a doubt, the most erotic mutual masturbation she'd ever experienced. The gun in his other hand took a tumble to the floor as his other hand slid up her sleek torso and cupped one little breast. He palmed her while he fucked her slow and deep with those curious fingers.
His eyes slid up her body, tongue twirling, fingers swirling, hand curling. That look was all knowledge, all greed, all skill. He knew. He knew she was going to come apart for him.
And then he sucked her little finger into his mouth, his thumb curled with hers over her throbbing clit, and he thrust two fingers into her hard enough to steal her breath. She felt the orgasm spill out of her body like water from a broken cup. He let go of her finger and put his mouth against her clit. He sucked, sucked, sucked…and she was done.
Her mouth whispered, "Oh god…" She came, wet and tight, humping against his face and fingers. Her thighs shook, quivering. Her body quaked, twisting her fingers in that silky hair.
His mouth popped off her aching clit audibly and she bowed, gasping. Her thighs snapped together and trembled even as he unzipped himself. Desperate for it, she shoved at his shoulders.
The laugh Leon let out was humorless and excited and dark. He watched her move, trembling with the release and the taste of her in his mouth like some kind of drug. Jesus. He'd never felt this before. In his business, the one night stand was a staple. It was the thing one did to take the edge off. It was common, often dirty, and done with quickly.
But this?
This woman wasn't a one night stand.
She was the enemy.
Why else was she here?
She climbed on his lap and he couldn't find it in him to give a shit anymore. Her hands shifted him and guided him toward her. She dropped down and impaled herself on him in a move so breathtakingly fast and beautiful that it stole his breath. Wet, wet, tight and trembling, her body absorbed him into her and possessed him. The sheath of her welcomed him, worked him, and rewarded him with the sucking simplicity of feral fucking.
She rode, he rose, and their bodies slapped and slipped together with wet and want and sweat and need. His hands curved over her back and brought her down. Their mouths met; tongue and teeth together in a mesh of madness. The sound of gasping, grunting, and furious grappling filled the silent room.
Her hands jerked the white t-shirt he wore over his head. It bound his arms above his shoulders as she held it there, as she held herself there; trembling atop him. And she held him down now as she moved her body. She put her mouth against the perfection of his chest and bit down, pulling a grunt from him.
That was it. It was time.
Her body moved light lightning now. She fucked him with a determination that robbed him of anything but a desperate moan. Someone was cursing darkly. He realized it was him a moment before the sloppy, sweaty, delicious tangle of their bodies burst together into the storm of orgasm that she was throwing all around them.
Molded together, she raped his release from him with a continuous roll of hips and wet sheath. His body exploded, bursting blood and bits of flesh and bone all over them both…or so it seemed. He gasped it now, harshly, "Come for me."
And the command…the command of it. It was perfect and stole her breath. He pumped hard and needy into her willing body, watching her face as she lost focus, lost reason, and came around him so tight, so very tight, that he answered that greed. His tongue claimed her mouth and she sucked it like he'd sucked her finger, hungry and raw. His dick erupted, spurting sticky, hot, and seemingly endlessly into her milking tightness.
They curled together in the chair, gasping and shaking. His arms were still bound behind his head. Her mouth licked at the line of sweat on his throat. Shaking, shaking, he lifted his head to look at her.
And his voice, raspy and thick, wondered, "Who in the hell are you?"
She shifted her face and something clicked. Leon felt a niggle of recognition. He shifted a little. His hands slid over her bottom and around her sides. He cupped her breasts and weighed them, playing with their sweaty sweetness.
She shivered again and rolled her mouth to him. They kissed, slow and smooth and deep.
Her body moved a little, pulling him deeper into her while she spasmed and tried to take his still pulsing dick with her. He made a sound and cupped her face. A gorgeous face, flawless…and young. His fingers traced her mouth.
She said, "I'm not here to hurt you."
"I'm starting to realize that. But who are you?"
She studied him and her thumb touched his mouth. "Does it matter?"
An odd thing to say. He opened his mouth and she spilled her tongue into it. Making a sound, he kissed her back. She had to do it now, she thought before he found out the truth and freaked out. Before he found out the truth and panicked. She wanted to burn the taste of him into her body.
She drew back now and met his eyes. "We're not strangers, Leon. Not even a little bit."
Again, there was that sense of recognition. He held her gaze. His fingers found the locket…they flicked it open.
And it was Claire's face on one side…and his on the other.
Surprised, he held her fervent gaze. She whispered, "You took the job for me, all those years ago."
She watched his face. She saw the moment the truth of it arrowed into him. He grabbed her face and held it. He tilted it left, right, and watched her eyes.
"Oh my god. Sherry?" He sounded so shocked that it was…something. It was something. She didn't like it.
She slid off his lap.
He watched her move and tried to place the little girl he'd carried in Raccoon City with the woman that wore ice pick heels and a garter belt and fucked like a rodeo rider. Jesus. He watched her heart shaped ass as she bent over to pick her dress up and slip it on.
Holy hell.
Leon zipped himself up and stood, shirtless. His voice was low and surprised, "Sherry?"
"That's the rumor."
"Jesus Christ…how?"
"Well, a decade tends to make a girl grow up, Leon."
Shaking his head, he moved toward her. She zipped up the dress. He grabbed her hands and held them. She didn't look at him so he cupped her face and turned it toward him as well.
They held eyes now, watching each other. She met his with just a little flinching around the eyes.
Sherry Birkin.
He'd followed her closely over the years. He knew she was safe. Claire kept him updated on what was happening with her. He resented, in the beginning, that they'd continued to test on her even after gaining his agreement but they'd been true enough to their word about her care. She was safe. Probably safer in whatever place they'd been keeping her then loose in the world where Umbrella could track her down and eliminate her.
In the wrong hands, Sherry Birkin was the key to viral warfare in a way that was frightening and long reaching. Birkin had sown the seeds of destruction and megalomania in her to nearly catastrophic degree. With what was contained within her blood, the answers to the creation of Birkin's G-Virus were at hand.
He'd had no idea she had grown to be a beautiful woman. He'd known, all those years ago, she'd been a lovely little urchin of a child. But this wasn't a child. This was a woman. And she'd come all this way to…what? Be with him?
Why?
He asked that question now. "Why are you here, Sherry?"
"I'm on a mission."
"A mission?"
"Yes. I'm an agent myself. Hadn't you heard?"
He had. Through back channels. He knew she was being trained. He didn't know she was field ready. She was awfully young.
She was the age he'd been in Raccoon City. Young? Yes. But not too young.
"I heard that somewhere, yeah. But why are you here? With me? Why are you here, Sherry?"
Sherry held his look, "I told you why Leon. I told you. You saved me all those years ago. And yet you never came to see me; not once. Why?"
It was a good question.
"They wouldn't let me."
And that was a good answer.
Sherry nodded and her eyes studied that perfect torso of his. Honed. He was honed and muscled and smooth. His skin was tanned and refined. His stomach corrugated and strong. He was beautiful in a purely masculine way. An Adonis, he was clearly here to tempt her to her own demise.
He didn't let go of her face. "Sherry…why are you here?"
He wasn't going to let that go either it seemed. He didn't like her simple answer of wanting him. He wanted something else; something more. But what?
"Don't you know the answer?"
"No."
"I was twelve, Leon, but I wasn't a baby. You're all I've thought about for a decade. I had to see you again."
He was frozen there, watching her face.
"And when I saw you? I had to have you. That's it. That's all I know."
When he spoke, it was slow and quiet, "Why not just tell me that? Why track me all day? Why do this?"
"Because you would have seen me as the little dirty girl in Raccoon City. Tell me I'm wrong about that."
She wasn't.
She wasn't wrong.
He wasn't sure she was entirely right about it either. But she wasn't wrong. He didn't think he could go back to looking at her like the little girl in Raccoon City anymore. She was burned in his brain.
She'd been a baby in Raccoon City. A baby. Somewhere, Claire was having a heart attack because he was here in this hotel room deep dicking the baby they'd saved in that necropolis. The baby with the heart-shaped ass.
Sherry watched his face and waited. She looked so patient….like she could watch him all day. Leon spoke, quietly now, "Where are you going?"
"Where do you think? I figured you'd want to ask me to leave."
They held gazes for a long, long, long moment.
He moved toward the bar. He picked up the vodka tonic. And he brought it back toward her. "I poured you a drink. You should stay and drink it."
Oh.
Oh god.
She felt the shiver in her blood.
She took the drink and threw it back in a single gulp. It burned and thrilled her. He burned and thrilled her. And the want of it did the same. Her voice came, soft and a little scared, "What do you want, Leon?"
He grabbed her face in his hand, snake quick, and stole her breath. They felt the beat and bleeding need of it between them like fire. It burned them both.
"Take off your clothes and get on the bed. Lay on your back and put your hands above your head."
Oh god. He was so commanding. Her blood boiled.
She could say no.
But she didn't come here to say no.
She'd come here to say yes. And she wanted to keep saying yes.
And she wanted to do everything…everything…everything…that he commanded. She was his, she wanted to be his, she wanted to burn for him...she was finished...she was damned.
And, as he slid over her, she couldn't wait to be damned again.
Post Note: If you think you've read this, you have. It's a repost/rewrite. And will be limited to less than ten chapters this time in line with the original vision of the story. Leon/Sherry. Wesker/Claire/Piers.