Chapter 7: Amplification
"Desperate, she fought and fell and bled. She clung and capitulated, costing her everything."
Maine, December
The middle of night found the fire had died. The shadows and the curl of moonlight on the floor and the walls was romantic, timeless, and storybook pretty.
The feel of him between her legs was something else.
In the dark, he wasn't afraid to touch her. The moment the lights had gone, he'd come alive in her arms. He forgot about the scars, forgot the crippling fear, and touched her. His hands and his mouth were no longer gentle, his need was nearly stifling.
He held her down beneath the weight of him, her arms drawn above her head, her legs around his flanks, her back bowing with each thrust of him inside her.
She'd told those nurses he was perfect. She'd defended him. She'd staunchly swore he was beautiful all over. And that he'd kill you with his touch.
He was killing her where she bucked beneath him.
He wouldn't let her up. His hands imprisoned, his hips cupped to her to hold her down for the plunge of him between her legs. Her nightgown was barely more than bunched around her waist. He hadn't taken it from her. He left it on her and slid her panties to the side. It was a coupling that was so painfully wet, so organic, so desperate that Claire could do little more than feel like blood and boil and want.
She'd never had a man be so desperate for her that he couldn't even take her clothes. She turned her head and he filled her mouth with his tongue. Someone moaned, someone gasped, and he just...he didn't stop.
It had been so long for her. She hadn't taken a man to bed since Neil. Her failed groping of Leon had resulted in abstinence on her part while she sorted out her life. She might have thought this would be gentle somehow, or sweet, or needy. It was. It was needy. But it wasn't gentle.
How long had it been for him, she wondered, how long? Knowing how devoted he'd been to his job, she was betting he'd been celibate himself long before he'd been damaged.
The pace increased, filling the quiet dark with the surging sounds of slapping skin and surrender. Claire begged a little, rising to meet each of his desperate thrusts. "Piers...Piers...let me...just let me..."
He let go of her hands.
They moved, catching in his hair to bring his mouth into her for a raping plumb of her tongue. The excitement of her spurred him on. They lunged together now, surging, throbbing. He scrambled to hold her tighter, drawing her up and into him and pushing her against the headboard.
Claire octopus held him, pushing against the beat of his body until he hit the end of her and drove small cries of pleasure and pain from her mouth. Too rough, she thought, and yet not rough enough. Perfect.
She shoved her hands under his sweater and rubbed his chest, spilling her fingers over the scars on him and petting. She grabbed handfuls of his back and jerked him harder into her with each stroke of his body. He grunted, gasped, and gave her everything he had until the rhythm was lost and they were just smashing together in a sweaty, desperate, dying heap.
He let her take the sweater off him and throw it away. He didn't care about her hands on his scars. He didn't care about anything but the feel of her writhing in his arms. He jerked the nightgown down and crushed the feel of her breasts into him. Soft, full, they brushed against his body and drove them both insane.
They rolled and Claire spilled atop him, swirling and rocking. She dropped her body until they clung, forehead to forehead, and her lifting and lowering hips were punctuated with each soft moan and sound of pleasure. Whose? It didn't matter.
It was both of them.
The moonlight shifted, it spilled over them in a silvery wash, and she breathed, "Piers...look at me..."
His eyes opened. They met hers...and held.
And they kept on holding when he surged up one last time, and let her claim him.
There was no regret in the moonlight. No pain.
Just two people lost in the thrill of discovery and the promise of release.
They curled together, gasping, and complete.
She pressed their mouths together and felt the moment he let her in, just a little, just enough.
In the dark, in the warmth of that cabin, his voice cuddled her closer, "Claire...Merry Christmas."
It wasn't a walk in the sun, it was love in the dark, but it was the beginning of something fragile and real.
She couldn't think of a Christmas she'd enjoyed more...in a long, long, long time.
NEW YORK, DECEMBER
The game was something Ada Wong had been enjoying for so long that she'd forgotten, somewhere along the way, to insulate herself against an opponent that would use subterfuge to wound her.
He'd done that somehow...the man in the dark...he'd ducked right, ducked left and kicked her in the heart while she'd been trying to control him.
How?
In his sleep, he shifted toward her. His mouth brushed against her neck and the warmth of him slid over her like a blanket.
She should use his softness and turn the knife back on him. She should hurt him for slipping under her guard to make her care about him.
And he'd done that simply by existing.
The desire for revenge was entirely Ada Wong.
The desire to stifle it and avoid hurting the person responsible wasn't.
It was stupid, foolish, and juevenile. It was feminine and unguarded and overtly human. It was utterly natural that she should come to develop an affection for him. She didn't generally avoid that kind of thing in a lover. She wanted to like the man she was engaging in an affair with, naturally. And intelligence, humor, wit...these things all helped her be satisfied with one once she'd chosen.
But this was getting out of her hands here. She was fond of him. Fond. And that created conflict if she needed to end it. She'd tried, earlier, and failed. Not because of him...because of HER. Because she didn't want to stop sleeping with him. She didn't want to stop seeing him. She didn't want to stop enjoying him.
And he was making her crave him in a way that was distinctly outside her character.
As she lay beside him, reflecting, in the coolness of early dawn, she knew two things:
She wanted to keep him. And it had nothing to do with any game. It was pure want of his laughter, his attention, his time. It was personal now, in a way it hadn't ever been before.
And because of that, she had to let him go.
There'd only been the risk of emotion once in her life before this. Once. It had been allowing herself to kiss Leon Kennedy in the bowels of Raccoon City. Young, a little scared, and impossibly sweet - he'd called to something in her she'd hidden under the surface of ambition. She'd let him in the moment she'd picked him up off the floor of the RPD station instead of letting him lie in his own blood and die.
He'd leapt in front of bullet for her. And the shot through the heart had been hers after all.
She'd fled from him and escaped falling. It had been close. And she'd sworn off emotion since that moment.
And yet here she was, balanced on the edge of a precarious, poisonous position. Because she wanted to keep things casual and she enjoyed a powerful man in her bed. But it wasn't casual. Not anymore.
Why? And which of them had started to break the rules to put them here?
The rules were in place for a reason. This was the reason. Her hand traced over his chest, moving up and down peacefully in sleep now, it memorized the line of his face, the spill of his hair, the edge of his arm. She mapped his skin with her nails, with her eyes, and she pressed her mouth to his because she had to, had to. Just a little. Just that one time.
He was sleeping. He wouldn't know. It harmed nothing to do it.
She could leave now, in the middle of the night, and he'd never know. She should, she thought, she should leave.
Instead, she rolled into him and played with his body to bring him awake. Soft, he was almost delicate in her hands. She knew the moment he came awake. Because the sweet softness of his body turned hard and velvety in her milking grip.
The simple surprise of it drew his eyes open. Lord, she mused, beautifully silver in the dark. Those eyes of his were beautiful. And so full of everything. Didn't he understand how to lie? Didn't he understand how to FAKE? Why did he have to be such a fucking boyscout? Why did the pleasure of her have to perfectly written over every feature on his face?
Why did he have to make this so hard?
Although, to be fair, she was the one currently making him hard.
She breathed, softly, "What do you see when you look at my face?"
His hand lifted, slid against her cheek and pulled her forward. She went, spilling atop him and then around him as he rolled her to her back and leaned above her. She raised a hand and skimmed the shaggy spill of his hair off his brow.
Chris answered, quietly, "What kind of question is that?"
Ada shifted and raised her knee. It put him against her, pressed the naked length of their bodies together. It pleased her to feel the contrast in them. She was smooth and soft. He was hard and hairy. It thrilled and outlined something else she enjoyed about their coupling. He was very dense, overtly male, and the springy spread of his groin and chest delighted her in a sheer feminine way.
So, she mused, "Once you could barely look at me without seeing what the bitch with my face had done to you."
His hands cupped her face, thumbs sweeping the smoothness of her cheeks. "It was your face, Ada. But it wasn't you."
"Wasn't it?" She wondered, watching his eyes in the dark.
Chris shook his head, gently. "No. Whatever else is true, you're not evil, Ada. You're not bad. Not where it matters. Not when it matters."
"Don't do that, Chris. Don't see me with blinders on. I'm, first and foremost, entirely about me. You have to know that about me. I will, almost always, put myself first."
They held gazes. And then she rubbed her groin against his and watched it hood in his eyes.
And the power she'd been missing floated right there in the need of him.
She could push now and take it back...but she wanted to hear his answer.
"There's nothing wrong with being protective of yourself, Ada. Nothing. But you went down into that lab to save Piers. You came onto that beach to save me. You put yourself in harms way more than once to protect Sherry and Jake. How many times did you risk yourself for Leon over the years?"
Ada said nothing, watching his face as he watched hers. His was full of so many things. Hers?
Blank and cool...but her hands stroked his back like a lover.
"I have reasons for everything I do, Chris. Everything. Don't make me a hero...or you'll only be courting disappointment."
"I don't think you're a hero, Ada. I think you're a person who does a lot of lying. To everyone you meet." He dropped his face close to hers. Their lips brushed as he spoke. "To yourself. What do I see when I look at you?"
Her hands smoothed down and slid over his ass, angling him against her body to rub him there. It brought both of their mouths open on a pant of excitement. And he finished, smoothly, "I see a woman used to winning...afraid to lose to her own feelings."
A good answer.
A bad answer.
Because he wore his truth like a weapon that he used to destroy her. She didn't want his truth, any more than she wanted to feel legitimate emotion for him. That wasn't part of this. It couldn't be.
She had rules for a reason.
This was one of them.
But she breathed, "And what am I feeling?"
He whispered back, "...me."
And he was right about that too.
She should leave him. She should leave this. It was time.
And yet she breathed, "I want to feel more of you...take me."
She watched it echo on his face. He shifted enough that he slid inside of her and her mouth spilled open on a gasp. Eager, she thought madly, he was always so eager to please her.
Against her mouth, he whispered his last admission, "Are you afraid to let me all the way inside of you, Ada? Or are you afraid that I'm already there?"
Her voice was hoarse, delighting him, "You're already inside me."
"Am I?" He shifted, slid in and out and stole her breath, "I am. Maybe I am. But what if I want to get in here?"
His hand slid over her chest. It skimmed her breast. And it settled over her heart.
Jesus.
She wanted to protest. She wanted to push away. She wanted to pull him closer.
But her body wanted what he offered more.
She needed the power back. She grabbed his face and hissed, "Enough. Fuck me."
And he did that too. No denying. Obedience.
He was almost perfect..if he'd just stop trying to love her.
They came together smooth and wet, needy and raw. As Claire and her lover found their way in the dark to the beginning of something beautiful, Ada Wong found her way with the other Redfield in the dark to the end of something painfully perfect.
She had rules for a reason.
She had rules to protect herself from this.
She had rules...and she didn't break them for anyone.
He'd broken them. He'd pushed his way inside of her. There were no second chances for that.
They rolled across the bed in a flurry of skin and need. It was fast, like lightning and loss. He spilled her to her belly and mounted her from behind. And he curled against her back while he loved her.
Because that's what it was, she thought madly, he loved her. The bastard. He wore it all over him like that sweater she'd plucked from his body.
Love.
It was against the rules.
He finished wetly, thumbing and working her body while he plunged into the heat of her. His fucking was as painfully perfect as he was. Damn him. He brought her with him, thrusting back against the surge of his possession. They came together with sounds of need; grunts and gasps and moans.
Chris spilled to his side on the bed shaking and spent. He laughed a little, scratching his sweaty chest. He figured, not bad for forty fucking years old. What was it about this woman that made him able to fuck more often then a horny teenage boy?
Ada curled against the headboard for a moment as her body quaked and finished.
And then she rose and dressed in the dark.
She heard him shift as she was putting on her boots.
"Ada? What is it?"
"I have to go."
He shifted, the sheets falling around his chest as he sat up. "Hold on. Wait. What's the matter?"
She shook her head and moved, heading out of the bedroom. She heard him rise and follow her.
"We're done. This is done."
"Ada, hold on. What's going on here?"
He was watching her in the moonlight now from the windows that were his wall. He was so wonderful in just a pair of sweat pants he'd thrown on. She wanted to climb atop his body like a desperate spider, spin a web around him to bind him, and keep him forever. Damn him.
Instead, she shook her head at him. "No second chances, remember?"
She turned toward the door. "It's better this way. For both of us."
"Hold on, damnit, Ada!" He followed her out into the hallway as she hit the button the elevator. "Fuck the fucking rules."
She might have escaped without anything else ruining it. She might have…but he put his hand on her arm to stall her.
She turned into him, turned toward him. He felt her push him hard against the wall and let her. She was a bundle of emotion, a storm, slim and wonderful and intoxicating. She grabbed his face and drew him to her. Overwhelmed, he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her against him.
It was pure greed, pure need, pure want. Her feet dangled as she put her teeth to his throat and suckled like a vampire; her fingers fisted in his hair. He reversed their positions, pressing her against the wall. Her mouth ate along his chest, tongue taking, lips tasting and stealing his breath. He thought his brains might have fallen out his ass somewhere along the way as well. He'd never felt this much emotion from her. Ever.
It was like holding a live wire in his hands. No matter who moved, they were both going to fry.
His hands were already pulling her back toward the apartment.
The elevator pinged and opened.
Ada pulled away, shaking herself. "No. I have to go."
He leaped onto the elevator after her at the last second. She lifted a hand at him. "Don't. I mean it."
He pressed her back against the wall of it, caught her face, and tried to kiss her. She pushed at his chest, shoved. "Stop it."
He back off, just a bit.
And then she grabbed him to pull him back to her.
They spilled hands all over each other like horny beasts. His mouth spilled over her cheek, brushed against hers. He kept trying to kiss her. DAMN HIM. This was why it had to be over.
She pushed him away. "Stop it! Damnit! I said no kissing."
"For fuck's sake, Ada, stop being a coward." Him and his truth, she thought desperately, always the weapon to wound her.
Chris caught her around the waist and picked her up, dangling her feet again. She wrapped her arms around his waist and slid them down to grip his ass. She ground their bodies together and had him stumbling and bumping into the wall. She felt like the top of her head had blown off and taken all her reason with it.
Her hands touched him, memorized him, made him insane for wanting her. He moved backward, slapping random buttons again on the elevator panel to take them back upstairs. Her hands were in his pants now, taunting and making him lose his mind.
He echoed her, pushing his hand into her leggings to seek out of the root of her. She gasped, slapped him away even as she bowed into him. Crude, she thought madly, he was so crude. He was fingering her in an elevator like a randy kid.
There was nothing of Ada Wong left here.
Just a woman desperate for Chris Redfield.
THIS WAS WHY THERE WERE RULES.
They bumped into the corner of the elevator, both of them panting and gasping. They were playing with each other maddeningly. She kept bucking into his hand, he kept humping into hers. It was bad.
BAD.
She pushed away, flushed and shaking. She was losing control.
It was time to be done here.
"No! Just…stop it. No."
"Jesus Christ, Ada. You can't say that to a man who's dick you've got in your hand."
He was right. Dear god! She let him go and pulled away completely. Horrified that he'd put her in this position. Wait. No. That SHE'D put herself in this position. She pushed at him.
"You…you…leave me alone!"
"Wait..what? You keep jumping me!"
"I…shut up!" Oh he was right. That was lowering. It was shaming. It couldn't really be true, could it? She opened her mouth to protest and the doors pinged open.
They were at the lobby level.
She got off the elevator. She tried to regain what little dignity she had left.
"Ada!" He reached out for her as the doors started to close and she met his eyes and hated this feeling…this…regret.
But she said, "Chris…it's better this way. The rules...they exist for a reason."
The pain on his face...she'd never forget it.
He whispered, "Fuck your fucking rules...don't do this, Ada. I mean it."
"Goodbye...Mr. Redfield."
The doors pinged shut.
Ada put a hand to her chest and breathed.
It was better. Better. BETTER. THIS is why she didn't do feelings. THIS.
She had to be in control. Otherwise? Chaos.
She'd been in chaos before she'd come from nothing to become Ada Wong. The girl she'd been once had existed in chaos. She wouldn't go back there. Not for anyone. Not for anything.
Not for Umbrella or The Organization. Not for Neo Umbrella, Spencer, the BSAA or Simmons. Not for Albert Wesker and not for his greatest enemy.
No matter how much part of her wanted...to OWN that enemy.
There was power in denial as well. He would chase her now. He would crave her.
She was back in control.
Her face reflected back from the empty windows of the building...she was back in control.
It was the first time the victory of that rang hollow for her. Ada Wong wasn't often a woman given to failure. The bitch in red never left a mission unfinished.
Only relationships, it seemed.
Because that's what this was...that's what he was...unfinished.
And mired in regret.
She whispered, softly and filled with more feeling than she'd ever shown another living soul, "I'm so sorry, Chris...Merry Christmas."
Staring out over the endless piles of snow, Chris Redfield was colder than the New York skyline...and he couldn't think of one he'd enjoyed less...in a long, long, long time.