A/N: We get smutty here. But not like some of my stuff! Somewhat TASTEFUL smutty (do those two words cancel each other out!?)
Chapter 3: Replication
"What bred and bled and burned was nurtured. And she hungered, seeking only to burn again."
New York, October
They called her the bitch in red.
It was a name that struck different chords with different people. For some, it meant fear. The kind of fear that stole your breath and robbed your brain of any coherent thought save to flee. For others, it spoke of success. For the bitch in red never left a job unfinished.
To Ada Wong, the bitch in red was one more persona. One more face. One more legend left behind. A role she played to perfection. Her real one? There was no real answer to that question without asking others. And she refused to dwell on it.
Her past was as colorful as any. Stained in red, sure, the blood of her enemies and so forth. She'd carved her way from the bowels to the crown of contentment. She didn't think of the girl in the street anymore.
Or so she told herself.
The loft where she lived was one of many. A dozen, if not more, places she stayed when she needed a place to lay her head. This one was a wide open space, industrial in nature, in the trendy meat packing district of Manhattan. It was steel beams and brick with a shiny stainless steel appliance filled kitchen nook that she never touched. There was a bottle of wine and two bottles of water in her fridge and half a container of mostly eaten egg rolls.
Her bed sat up on a dais off to one side with a wall that was no more than a wood sliding door. It was draped in red and black two thousand dollars' worth of pertasi Italian bedding. A white Italian leather sofa sat in what might have been the living area. But it was nothing more than the couch and a desk with her lap top sitting on it.
She plucked her memo cube up from the nightstand beside her bed, rolled it in her palm, and set it back down.
Her bathroom was as steel and glass, mostly made up of her shower and the small vanity and toilet off to one side. No bath. She loved a nice bath. But the loft wasn't really equipped for that kind of thing.
She checked her lipstick and smudged her smoky eye make up expertly. The underwear she was currently wearing was black, lacey, and sexy without being too much.
Her pert and perfect small breasts were lifted, giving them the look of being full and fabulous. She'd learned to maximize on her slight figure a long time ago. The stomach beneath the breasts was taut, lovely, with a suggestion of muscle beneath the pale flesh. Her arms were the same muscled in a sheerly feminine way. Not too much. The goldilocks of muscles.
The legs went on forever. They were her signature. Her long, gorgeous legs got more compliments than anything else. She adjusted the garters attached to the smoke gray thigh highs she was wearing and moved toward her closet to finish dressing.
In fitting with the theme, she chose black. The dress was oriental in style and shiny black silk with red lotus flowers stenciled into the fabric along the neckline and down the thigh high slit to the floor. She had barely settled it onto her lithe form. The neckline was plunging but tasteful. It highlighted the antique choker that she'd chosen with a flashy red ruby as it's focal point.
The heels were scarlet and strappy, showing her perfectly painted toe nails in the same flashy red. She studied herself with a critical eye, approved, and paused when the buzzer sounded from her door man.
She touched the button, "Yes?"
"Ms. Wong – you have a guest."
"Tony, can you describe him for me?"
"Sure. Um…tall, dark hair…big. Not fat. Like…muscled. Not scary big but you know more Ryan Reynolds in Blade then the Scwarzeneggar. I.D. says Redfield."
The benefits of a gay door man. Always a good description.
"Thanks Tony. You can send him up."
"Happy to."
Interesting. They'd planned to meet at the restaurant. Instead he was showing up here. She should have rebuffed him and stuck to the plan but she was curious as to what his intent was.
So she called for him to enter when he knocked.
"Mr. Redfield- we had an agreement."
He was dressed in clothes far too casual for the restaurant they'd been planning to attend. The shirt was collared, a fantastic shade of blue, and the jacket good brown leather. The shirt made his eyes stand out in sharp relief when he took the sunglasses off and tossed them on her kitchen counter. The jeans were old, looked comfy, and were starting to fray at the pockets and legs. The brown boots scuffed and well loved.
He set the paper sack in his hands on the counter.
Really, she mused, he was nothing of her type at all. Where was the class? Where was the polish that she usually enjoyed?
"I forgot something I should have mentioned yesterday."
Ada waited, patiently.
"I hate fancy restaurants."
He moved toward her and slid the jacket off as he did. He tossed it over the back of her white leather couch.
"And if I happen to be hungry?"
His smile was what really did it. It was a little boy smile that took that face up from rugged to handsome. She enjoyed the smile. "I'm planning to feed you."
The blue t-shirt snuggled those big arms of his in the most tantalizing way. There was a graphic of some symbol in red splashed across it. It was familiar but she was having trouble placing it. "What's on your shirt?"
He grinned a little and executed a half shrug, "You grow up in the Stone Age? That's Optimus Prime...from Transformers."
Transformers?
Surely her date for the evening hadn't shown up wearing a Transformers t-shirt.
Ada Wong was many things, some of things were lies, some were skills, some were games. On a given day, she wasn't even really Ada Wong. That was just another ruse...but she was seldom surprised. Surprise came with knowing she was enjoying her time with a man who courted t-shirts with robotic cartoon characters on them.
What was she thinking? What could they possibly have in common?
He shifted to gather things together and his arms bunched. The jeans he wore were old and faded. They snuggled against his ass as he turned and moved through her loft. And they made things low in her body tighten and excite.
Well...they had THAT in common anyway.
The question needed asked here. And she realized she WANTED to ask it. She was going to go ahead with this after all. "You brought the paperwork?"
Amused, Chris gestured with his head, there was a folder lying on the counter. "I have to admit, it's like I'm applying for NASA or something. I've never had a woman want me to bring a clean bill of health with me to a date."
"I told you, I'm not generally casual about my lovers. I don't take chances."
"I can't argue with that. Disease free, Ada. In black and white. As requested."
"Thank you." She liked that he'd been willing to bring proof. It showed he was serious about being her lover. She was enjoying the unpredictability of him. It amused her and intrigued.
"Sure thing, boss. Anything else I should prepare for among those complicated demands of yours?"
"There are benefits to my complicated demands, Mr. Redfield, I assure you."
"I have no doubt. You look fantastic, Ada." He said it so off hand, so bluntly and simply, that she had to smile.
"Thank you. Should I change?"
"You should. As much as I love that dress on you, this meal calls for comfort."
Comfort. She wondered if she owned something that comfortable. It made her smile as she turned and took the steps to her bedroom area. "I'll just be a minute."
"Take your time."
He prepped the kitchen, delighted to find that her pots and pans looked brand new. The stove had that just bought smell that implied it have never even been turned on. Chris assembled his ingredients and set a red sauce on to boil. He diced onions and garlic, pinched out salt and pepper, added carrots and celery. The smell of cooking tomato and parsley filled the air.
In the Redfield house, you learned how to cook or you starved. His parents had been very clear on being self-sufficient. So he could cook and well. He set the bottle of wine he'd brought out to breathe as he prepped the salad makings. He'd had to learn to cook after his parent's death. Someone had to feed Claire and keep them from dying of hunger.
Claire, conversely, was a terrible cook. She burned everything she made. He'd kept them alive after their parents had died. Claire burned water. She was useless. But she could sew and loved folding laundry. So, they'd traded out household duties.
Ada emerged from her bedroom in her version of relaxed. The yoga pants she wore were skin tight and black and the tiny little white shirt with it was a revelation in the greatness of god. She paused, sniffed, and smiled.
"Is that a Bolognese sauce I smell?"
"That's the rumor."
"And here I thought you'd be the corndog and tater tots kind of man."
"Oh I'm that too." He crossed around with a smile. "Sauce should take about an hour to simmer."
"Well it smells fabulous."
"You smell fabulous." He caught her around the waist and drew her to him. She let him, delighted. It was all so very domestic. This was a game she hadn't played before and she was intrigued.
He put his nose to the back of her ear. "What's that perfume you're wearing?"
"No perfume. Just me."
"It's making my mouth water." His mouth tasted her there at the back of her ear. The skin was supple and sweet. He slid his hands under the tiny shirt she wore, skimming them up her back. She felt the press of the wall against her back and sighed with delight.
He lifted her hands above her head and skimmed his fingers down the long and lean line of muscle. Those fingers trailed over her sides and across the smooth plane of her stomach. His mouth nipped gently at her exposed skin, lifting the shirt inches at a time with each nibble and kiss. His hands bracketed her rib cage, thumbs tracing lazy circles on the skin just below the line of her bra.
Her fingers tunneled into his hair as she watched him tease her. The flush of her skin signaled arousal, her breath fell out in excitement pants. His hands skimmed up the outside of her legs now, over the hips, and around to brush the wonderfully perfect beauty of that sculpted ass. With little more then a shift, he lifted her and set her down on the counter.
Ada let him step in between her legs and take her face. He tilted her back to look up at him. She could feel the vibration of him that was a desire to kiss her. She was surprised to find out she was curious how it would be as well. She hadn't kissed a man in years. The last had been Leon in the bowels of that lab in Raccoon City. He'd thought she was dying. So she'd kissed him.
It had been part of the game. Part of the plan. Mostly.
"No second chances huh?"
With a level of regret that surprised her, she smiled. "None."
He didn't kiss her. He tugged her forward instead and his hands roamed up her back again to flip the clasp of her bra with a practiced blind eye. He peeled it off without taking off her shirt which was another point in his favor.
And then his hands expertly palmed her breasts beneath the shirt. She gasped at each tug, each smooth roll, each pluck of his fingers like a maestro on a finely crafted violin. He ducked his head beneath her shirt and added the wonder of his mouth to it and she was lost. She felt the warmth spread from her throat to her head and to her groin.
Her hands went to his the fly of his jeans and the timer for the sauce began to bleat like an annoying slap in the face.
Chris pulled away from her, settling her shirt down on her. "Sauce is ready."
He moved to the stove and moved the sauce off the hot burner to settle. He was tossing the salad when he felt her move up behind him.
"Hungry?"
She grabbed his arm and turned him, pushing him back against the counter. He was grinning down at her. She hadn't intended to take him to bed this soon. Not exactly.
But the timing felt right here.
And she was drawn to him. She rarely put aside her instincts regarding her needs.
"Yes. I'm hungry." Her hands pushed under his t-shirt and pulled it off him in a smooth, fast movement. She used it to bind his hands in place behind his back for just a moment. And her teeth bit fast, hard, and hungry into the meat of his chest. "Fuck the fucking sauce."
Chris laughed, wicked and low. He picked her up under the arm pits and she wrapped her legs around him. "Yeah – fuck the fucking sauce sounds about right."
He carried her out of the kitchen and tossed her back on the bed. She liked the power of his toss. He was effortless with it. Her weight simply didn't matter to him. Strength - another thing she enjoyed about his body.
She bounced and rolled, coming up to pull her shirt off. He followed her down, pulling the snug little pants from her body. He didn't think he'd ever seen anything more beautiful than Ada Wong in tiny lacy black panties. And he'd seen the sunrise over the Mediterranean and witnessed the world from the top of Mount Kilimanjaro. None of it, nothing, was like the sight of her lying there with her arms out stretched to him.
Amusement had her smiling up at him. "What?"
"God damn - you're wonderful."
It was said with such simple truth that she found it might have been the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her.
She started to reach for him again and he slid his hands up her legs, over her hips. It was as if he were sculpting her with his palms.
Curious, she commanded, "Come here."
"Wait. Let me look at you."
The simple denial flattered her endlessly.
This is exactly what she knew he'd be like. This. Not a brute. Not here. No. A lover that was, by turns, smooth and forceful. Just like he was in business.
He pressed his mouth over the beat of her heart and she felt a sliver of panic knife into her. She didn't want that. Not intimacy. His lips shifted and plucked with the same careless pleasure at one breast and her panic slipped away under a tidal wave of desire.
Her skin was pale, nearly translucent, with a tracing of beautiful blue veins beneath the surface. Her nipples peaked and blushed in pretty pink circles. His hands weighed and stroked the delicate spill of her breasts, delighting her. His tongue traced each etch of muscle in her belly and the jut of one perfect hip bone.
The passion of it made her breathless. The tickle of his bearded jaw aroused. He was almost delicate...and it touched and excited.
He leaned up above her, watching her face now as he feathered his fingers over her damp panties. Her eyes blurred, her skin flushed, her lips parted. And Chris breathed, "Beautiful."
Such a powerful man, Ada mused, to make her feel that way with a single word.
They rolled, an endless struggle of lips, tongue, teeth, and hands. She was above, below, on the side. He tasted her, twisted her, tugged at her. On her belly, she shivered as his tongue delved the curve of her spine and his hands stroked her legs while she crested.
He was forceful, in a way she enjoyed, touching her in a way that spoke of possession edged in greed. She liked that. In the bedroom, she liked to occasionally allow her lovers to dominate her. Never to the point that she was without power, because there was a power in submission as well, but enough to show her their need of her. He was incredible.
And she was pleased to have taken him to her bed.
His body enthralled her. He was scarred and strong. The roping muscle of his arms spilled into a dense expanse of chest. He wasn't a boy, not a smooth young thing, so the spill of his chest was softened with enough hair to tantalize her fingers and the questing spill of her tongue. She liked the taste of him, salty and somehow sweet. His nipples were sensitive which pleased her as well.
He let her lave her tongue on his chest as he knelt in the center of her bed. The jeans rode low on his hips, unzipped but clinging, a perfect denim frame to the picture of his body. She teased at the line of hair below his belly button and licked at his hip, drawing his skin between her teeth to sample him.
Chris hissed and speared his fingers into the spill of her hair. She liked that too. The jerk of him felt uncontrollable and excited. She pleased herself by suckling until his skin bloomed with blood and formed a brilliant hickey. Marked.
It thrilled her.
Ada slid up his body and his hands slid down her back to cup the perfection of her ass in that black thong. She nestled in against him, breasts tight to his chest. And he rubbed her there. He rubbed her against his front.
It stole her breath. Her hands clasped his face without prompting and she trembled.
His face shifted, his eyes hooded, and he grinned. Cheshire cat. Devil. It aroused and burned. He breathed, against her mouth, "Like that?"
Ada laughed, richly, darkly. "Don't get cocky, Mr. Redfield. Not yet."
He arched one thick brow and took her hand. His gaze didn't shift. It held. It held hers as he slid her hand down his stomach and into his pants. The move was entirely possessive. It was a little domineering.
She allowed it.
Because she wanted to touch him. And because she liked his aggression here, in the bed, against her body. She liked his dominance enough to embrace the idea of making him her lover without compunction or regret.
Her nails slid over his groin. His breath fell out in a grunt of approval, and her fingers closed around him.
And he was big there too. He was big all over. And that pleased her as well.
She laughed, delighted, and inflamed her greed of him. Her free hand gripped into his hair and held, hard. "I see why you're cocky."
Chris chuckled, managing somehow to look sheepish while still being arrogant.
She played lazily with his body, to both of their pleasure. She wasn't trying to do anything but discover him. The shape and spill and length of him excited her. He was slick and smooth and velvety. She watched his face as she stroked him. He stroked her back, her thighs, her ass - but he held that look while she touched him.
And she loved that. She loved it. He was so forthright. Heart on the sleeve in his feelings played well in the bedroom. The want of her fairly rolled off him. He let her smell, touch, sift and drift through his excitement for her. She coveted that kind of sexual surrender.
A strong man laid bare to her. A forceful but submissive lover when it suited.
She was ready to find out the rest.
As if sensing it, Chris caught her arms and tossed her back on the bed.
Ada bounced, eagerly, and let him slide her panties down her legs. He put one hand on her collarbone as if to hold her down, surprising her with the force of it, and the other slid between her legs. His fingers quested over the slickness of her body, testing. When he found her ready, he stole her breath.
Because he didn't delicately touch her.
No.
He skimmed his thumb up through her dewy folds, stroked the throbbing bud of her excitement, and assaulted her. She gasped, bucking, as he thrust two fingers into her in a rhythm that was merciless and shocking. Her hands flew up and gripped his forearm. One remained there and the other grabbed his face in surprise as he fingered her deep, fast, and fluidly. The heat of her sucked his digits in, slicked, and opened for him. Her body hadn't been quite ready for the invasion but it embraced it, lubricating itself with excitement for each thrust.
The shock of it drove her mouth open on a sharp cry, "Oh god..."
Chris laughed with crude pleasure, watching her face as he touched her.
Ada's thighs opened, inviting his hand to wedge and nestle against the heat of her, and he did so with a possessive shift between her legs. The sound that exited her mouth was a whine of want. His thumb traced her parted lips to feel it.
Ada was surprised that such a crude assault was going to bring her to orgasm. It turned out the flesh craved something different than the soul. His lovemaking was nearly brutal. It wasn't gentle or giving. It was demanding. The man who commanded on the battlefield, did the same in the bedroom.
And his voice did as well as he intoned, low and hard, "Come for me, Ada. I want to see you come for me."
Her body liked the filthy demand of that. Her mouthed opened, her back bowed, and she tightened around his digits with it. Chris' pleasure was evident. She had come on command for him. He was enthralled with her. He knew that. Her body sucked his fingers in to hold them as she gave in, bucking a little with the release of it.
When she was slick and wet and gasping, his hand retreated and his mouth replaced it.
He had his answer: she tasted as good as she looked.
Yes, she thought desperately, he was the right kind of lover after all.
Brutally tender. Harshly greedy. Punishingly perfect.
She'd made the right choice here.
His tongue plunged and pushed her full of pleasure that left her mewling beneath him.
Finally, when she felt like she couldn't take another moment of waiting for him, she pushed his jeans off his body and shoved him to his back. He let her, slick and needy with sweat. Ada straddled him and grabbed his wrists. She rolled his fingers around the headboard and braced him there.
The thrill of that spilled out of his mouth on a sharp, hoarse laugh.
Ada breathed and commanded him now, "Don't touch me. Unless I say so. Say yes."
No hesitance. Acceptance. "Yes."
He expected her to demand a condom. She didn't. And it rocked him in places that made him insane.
She didn't wait. Her hands shifted, her hips lifted, and she impaled herself on him.
She mounted him, her hands questing over his quivering flesh. I want to be inside you, he'd said, and so he was, buried inside her as she took him with her on a furious and fervent ride. She rocked her hips as she moved, a lithe and graceful thing, fluid like a ballerina in her movement above her.
The wet of her nearly blinded him as she sank down and took him.
Ada watched him tighten, felt him echo the roll of her body on him, and he held on. He let her ride and rock and use him.
Yes, a good choice. The right choice.
She was a harsh mistress. She commanded and demanded and denied him the right to touch her. She rose and rode and he worshiped her where he lay beneath her. The wet ride was fragrant, virulent, and auditory. There was music in each slap of skin, each note of completion.
When they were both sweating and desperate, she commanded, "Let go. Take me."
And then he surprised her again. Because he answered the command with a question, "How?"
Her body thrilled and she answered, hoarse, "Hard. Fast."
He did. Just like that.
She shivered. Chris wrapped an arm around her and sat up, pulling her sweaty flesh to his. Without thinking, his mouth turned toward hers. Ada deflected it, shifting her face away. He let the sting of surprised rejection spur him on as he all but threw her onto her back and plowed himself into her.
It wasn't gentle now or sweet; it was almost painfully fast. He smashed his body into her like he was trying to come out the other side. Primal and pure, it stole the breath, sparked the flesh, and fed the beast that raged between them for more.
The orgasm ripped a cry from her throat that he echoed, thrusting twice more as her body seized around him and fell into spasms. Chris gripped her throat, angled her hips, and plowed her belly like he'd plant his seed there and posses her. Brutal indeed.
Ada bowed, bucked, and he punished them both for the want of it. He savagely topped her, supremely took her, and followed her down into the gold edge abyss with a grunt as he pumped her full of his release. It shimmered around them and slipped sweaty and sweet into the skin to release the tension.
Chris collapsed atop her, breathing heavy and hard. "...holy shit…" He panted it, gasping a little.
Ada laughed, the sound muffled by his sweaty shoulder in her face. "A good choice of words...Now I'm ready for the fucking sauce."
He lifted his head and met her gaze. And laughed.
His laughter delighted her. And she had to admit, it was the first time she'd laughed with any man she'd taken to bed. It reinforced what she knew; she'd made the right choice in him as a lover.
And she was excited to see what would happen next.
Neither was willing to notice that they were still sealed together...and making no effort to change it.
POGIBEL, RURAL RUSSIA, OCTOBER
The rapid thunder of tires over gravel filled the cool Moscow night. The first suggestion of snow was on the chilly air, promising a hard fall for the natives and a brutal winter to follow.
Various people scattered the ground in a semi-circle as the all-terrain vehicle rolled to a stop in front of them. Most of them were obscured by cold weather gear. Only the piercing blue eyes of one could be seen in conjunction with the rest of the ensemble.
A few words in fluent Russian were spared between the driver and the armed man awaiting him. A hand raised and waived the driver through the raggedy steel gate before him. Steely eyed, he rolled the vehicle through the check point.
The other side of the gate was a testament to poverty. It was empty, bereft, and devoid of anything but a few old cans of cola and a distant memory of life. There was no reason, on the surface, for a team of armed men to be standing guard on it. No reason that a tower should stand tall and straight and staffed in the distance. No reason that the door of the one decrepit building inside the steel gates should be standing open and waiting.
From within the building a lab coat emerged. Young, she still had a shine in her eyes that spoke of youth and naiveté. She waived eagerly to the driver to bring the vehicle to a slow stop.
A few other lab coats emerged from the building as the back of the truck opened and boxes were exposed to the night. The boxes were unlabeled, unmarked, and as boring as any generic brown cardboard ever was.
There was no reason for anyone to assume what was inside those boxes was capable of destroying the world. None.
Scientist's began carrying the boxes beyond the open grey door of the building. A brief exchange occurred between driver and scientist. Money traded hands and the driver climbed back into his truck and drove back the way he came.
There really was no reason to assume anything out of the ordinary. It was all very common. It was all very droll. Just a delivery to a building. Just a drop off of chemicals to a lab for experimentation.
Just the beginning…of an outbreak.