Chapter 3: The Devil's Bargain
The soaked fabric of her tank top peeled away from her skin with a soft, wet sound, revealing what I’d only guessed at in the shadowy bar. My breath hitched. She was more than breathtaking. The warm, dusty light from the faulty neon sign outside the window painted her in streaks of red and blue, catching the water still beaded on her collarbone. Her breasts were full, heavy, perfectly shaped, with nipples already drawn tight into dark, tempting peaks. No marble statue in some Upper Plate museum could compare to this living, breathing woman.
“God, Tifa,” I breathed, the words scraping out of me.
She didn’t cover herself. She just watched me, her amber eyes wide, pupils blown black with a mix of desire and something sharper, more vulnerable. I captured her mouth again, swallowing the little gasp she made as my hands finally, finally cupped her. Her skin was impossibly soft, warm and yielding. I thumbed her nipples, feeling them harden further against my calloused palms.
She broke the kiss, her forehead resting against mine, her breath coming in ragged pulls. “Ron…”
“I know,” I murmured, because I did. This wasn’t a transaction. The flowers were wilting on the cracked nightstand. The cheap wine was unopened. This was something else, a line we were both choosing to cross. My other hand slid down the taut plane of her stomach until it reached her sex. I slid two fingers inside her, and her whole body clenched around me, a silent, powerful gasp.
“Fuck,” she whispered, her head falling back.
I moved my hand, a slow, deliberate rhythm, curling my fingers just so, while my thumb found that swollen, perfect nub. Her hips stuttered against my palm. I watched her face, every fluttering eyelash, every bitten lip. This was the map of her, more intimate than any battlefield schematic. I learned what made her breath catch, what made her thighs tremble.
“Come for me, Tifa,” I begged against her throat, my voice rough. “One more time. Just like this. Let me feel it.”
She groaned, a low, helpless sound, and her body went rigid for a second, fighting it. Or fighting herself. Then, with a shuddering sigh, she gave in. Her hips rolled, fucking herself back against my hand with a sudden, desperate intensity. Her inner muscles fluttered and squeezed around my fingers in rapid, rhythmic pulses. A thin sheen of sweat glossed her skin, and she clutched at my shoulders, her nails digging in through my shirt, anchoring herself as the waves rolled through her.
When the tremors subsided, she was boneless, her weight leaning into me. I carefully withdrew my hand, bringing my glistening fingers to my mouth without breaking eye contact. Her taste was musky, sweet, utterly her. Her eyes tracked the movement, dark and unreadable.
“You’re trouble, Ron Wong,” she whispered, but a ghost of a smile touched her lips.
“The worst kind,” I agreed, my voice gravelly. I brushed a damp strand of hair from her cheek, my thumb lingering on the smooth skin there. “I’m glad you had a great time. We should try to get together again next time I’m in town.”
The playful glint in her eyes sharpened into something dangerously amused. Her hand darted out, snagging the thin, lumpy pillow from the head of the bed. She swung it with the precise, controlled force of a martial artist, and it connected with the side of my head with a soft whump.
“Ass,” she said, the word warm and laughing.
I caught the pillow as she went for another swing, tossing it aside. “You liked the flowers, though.”
“I did.” Her admission was quiet, genuine. The smile stayed, and it undid me more completely than any punch could. I took a slow step back, putting a little space between our heated skin.
“My turn,” I said, hooking my thumbs in the waistband of my trousers. Her gaze, previously soft and satiated, immediately focused, tracking my movements with predatory interest. I turned the simple act of undressing into a slow reveal, each movement deliberate. My shirt came off first, peeled over my head and dropped to the stained carpet.
The cool, damp air of the room kissed the map of my history etched across my skin. A puckered furrow from a Wutaiian bayonet scored my ribs. A wider, paler patch from a Shinra incendiary burn stretched across my left shoulder. “I’ve collected a few souvenirs,” I admitted, watching her study them. Her eyes weren’t pitying; they were assessing, understanding the language of violence written there. “But I keep in shape. For my age.”
Her laugh was a soft puff of air. “You’re thirty-two. Don’t fish.”
I undid my belt, the buckle clinking softly in the humid quiet. I pushed my trousers and shorts down in one smooth motion, stepping out of them. The effect was instant. Her breath caught, audibly. All traces of teasing amusement evaporated from her face, replaced by raw, stunned hunger. Her amber eyes went wide, then wider, locked on my cock.
It was fully erect, thick and heavy, the vein-threaded shaft rising from a dark thatch of hair. The head was a swollen, deep purple, glossy with pre-cum and pulsing with every beat of my heart. The neon from the window caught the wetness, making it gleam. She just stared, her lips slightly parted, one hand unconsciously rising to her own throat. The silence stretched, thick with the hum of the sign and the racing of two hearts.
“See something you like?” I finally asked, my voice low.
It broke her trance. She swallowed, her gaze traveling the full, daunting length of me before lifting to meet mine. There was no shyness in it now, only a blazing, calculated want. “You’re going to ruin me,” she said, not as a complaint, but as a simple, accepted fact.
A low chuckle escaped me, rough and strained. "Maybe," I said, my own hunger a tight coil in my belly. I didn't move closer. "But your pussy is safe, Tifa. You said it yourself, back at the bar. I'm not going to fuck you tonight." I let the reminder hang between us, a deliberate boundary in the humid air. "But we can still have plenty of fun."
She bit her lower lip, a flash of white against the red, but her body betrayed the agreement. She was squirming on the bed, a subtle, restless shift of her hips against the stained sheets. Her nipples were still hard peaks against the cotton of her tank top, and her breaths were shallow, quick. Clearly aroused, still desperately horny, and fighting it.
I stayed where I was, letting the tension build. The neon light bled across her skin. "So," I said, my voice dropping to something barely above a whisper. "I'm asking. What do you want?"
What do you want?"
She looked at me, then at the thick length of me, then back at my face. The thumping bass from the Devil’s Hoof next door vibrated through the wall, a relentless, vulgar heartbeat. Her lips parted. The words that came out were barely a shaped breath, so small and fragile they almost disintegrated in the humid air between us.
“I want you.”
It wasn’t a performance. It was a confession, stolen from some hidden part of her that wasn’t for bartering. Hearing it, raw and unfiltered, sent a jolt through me that was sharper than any Mako shock. She pushed herself up from the bed, the springs groaning in protest. Her movements were fluid, purposeful, closing the distance I’d created. The smell of her, clean soap and female sweat and that unique, warm scent that was just Tifa, washed over me.
She didn’t look at my eyes anymore. Her gaze was fixed lower, a mixture of stark appraisal and genuine awe. She reached out, her hands—those powerful, clever hands that could knock a man unconscious or mix a perfect cocktail—hovering for a moment in the neon-stained air. Then her fingers made contact, wrapping slowly, experimentally, around the girth of my cock.
Her touch was electrifying. A full-body shudder rolled through me. Her palms were warm, slightly rough from years of martial arts and bar work, a thrilling contrast to the smooth, heated skin they explored. She stroked once, from root to tip, her grip tentative, learning the shape and heft of me. Her thumbs brushed over the swollen head, smearing the bead of moisture that had gathered there.
She gasped, a sharp, inward hitch of breath. “Oh.”
It was the sound of surprise, of theory meeting overwhelming reality. She felt it in her hands, the immediate, visceral response as I swelled and hardened even further, twitching against her palms, the veins standing in stark relief. Her amber eyes flew up to mine, wide and unguarded. In them, I saw no transaction, no Seventh Heaven professionalism. I saw only her, Tifa, completely present and undeniably captivated.
“It’s… you’re…” She couldn’t find the word. She didn’t need to. Her hands began to move again, with more confidence now, a slow, rhythmic stroking that was both intimate and intensely focused. Her grip tightened just slightly, perfect pressure. She watched her own hands work, mesmerized by the sight, by the feel. A faint, pink blush crept up from her chest, over her throat, to her cheeks.
“See?” I managed, my voice a ragged thing. “Told you we could have fun.”
She gave a breathless little laugh, her thumbs circling the sensitive crown. “This isn’t fun, Ron. This is a revelation.” She leaned in then, her damp hair brushing my stomach, and without breaking eye contact, she touched her tongue to the tip. A slow, deliberate lick, tasting me. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second. “And I want to see how it ends.”
Her mouth opened.
That first, wet slide of her tongue was an electric jolt straight to my spine. To her credit, she was quite good at sucking cock. Her tentative exploration—the soft, curious laps, the testing of pressure with her lips—quickly evolved into a pretty serious blowjob. She took me into the heat of her mouth, her head bobbing with a rhythm that was both practiced and intensely present. One of her hands worked the base of my shaft in time with her motions, while the other traced the scars on my lower abdomen.
A low groan rumbled out of me. My fingers tangled in the dark silk of her still-damp hair, not forcing, just feeling the movement. She hummed around me, and the vibration travelled all the way up into my teeth. Her amber eyes flicked up to mine, a question and a challenge in their depths. I just nodded, my own breathing shallow and ragged.
She does struggle with my size. Her determination was palpable, a martial artist’s focus applied to this new, intimate problem. She took me deeper, her jaw straining, her throat working. She could only fit maybe half my length into her mouth. The stretch of her lips, the shine of saliva, the desperate, focused look in her upturned eyes—it was more erotic than any seamless, perfect performance could ever be.
“That’s it,” I rasped, my hips giving an involuntary, tiny thrust.
Encouraged, she tried to take more. She tried to deep throat me, her head tilting, her body bending to the task. But the head of my cock was simply too large. It bumped against the back of her throat and she gagged, a wet, harsh sound. She pulled back instantly, coughing, a string of spit connecting her lower lip to my shining tip.
“Shit, sorry,” she gasped, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Don’t be.” My voice was rough. “It’s not a failure. It’s just geometry.” I brushed a thumb over her flushed cheek. “And it was fucking incredible.”
She gave a breathless, frustrated laugh. “I want to… I want all of it.”
An idea, born from equal parts lust and a strange, protective tenderness, crystallized. “I have an idea,” I said, my hand guiding her face gently away from my aching flesh. “A different way.”
I climbed back onto the lumpy mattress, settling against the creaking headboard. I patted the space over my hips. “Come here. Straddle me.”
She appeared nervous, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her features. But her body betrayed her. Her nipples were hard pebbles against the thin cotton of her top, and the musk of her own arousal was a potent scent in the close air. She was still clearly very aroused. She crawled onto the bed, her movements all graceful, coiled power. She knelt over me, her thighs framing my hips, her heated core hovering just above my straining cock.
“What… like this?” she asked, her voice small.
I explained it slowly, my hands settling on the smooth skin of her outer thighs. “I’d like you to slide your pussy back and forth across the underside of my cock. No penetration. Just… friction. You control it. You control the pressure.”
Understanding dawned, followed by a wave of visible relief that melted into fresh, eager hunger. She eagerly agreed. “Yes. Okay.”
After some awkward repositioning—a shifted knee, a hissed instruction about angle—we got it to work. She lowered herself, and the thick shaft of my cock settled heavily against her. It split the fat outer lips of her pussy, nestling perfectly into the slick, heated groove between them. Her dripping hole provided plenty of lubrication, making the first slow, experimental slide a glide of pure, desperate sensation.
A shattered moan fell from her lips. Her head dropped back, the line of her throat exquisite in the neon glow. I craned my neck upwards, capturing one of her puffy, pebbled nipples into my mouth through the damp fabric of her tank top. I sucked, licked, nipped gently.
She gasped, her hips stuttering then finding a new, rolling rhythm. Back and forth, back and forth, she slid against my painfully swollen cock. The sensitive head dragged against her clit with every pass. The feeling was insane—the hot, velvet-soft pressure of her, the slide of her wetness, the view of her body moving above me, lost in the feeling. My hands slid up to grip her hips, not to steer, just to feel the muscles working beneath her skin.
“Ron… fuck…” she chanted, her voice breaking on each downward roll of her hips. The sound of our skin meeting, the wet, rhythmic slicks, filled the seedy room, drowning out the distant rattle of the train. Her hands braced on my chest, her fingers digging into the old scar tissue there. Each pass was a sweet, torturous promise, a threshold we’d chosen not to cross, and the denial made every nerve scream.
Her movements became less measured, more frantic. She was chasing it now, chasing her own peak using the hard length of me as her tool. I released her nipple, my breath coming in hot bursts against her damp top. “That’s it,” I growled up at her. “Use me. Take what you need.”
Her eyes opened, glazed and dark, locking onto mine. There was no barter in that look. No transaction. Just Tifa, laid bare, fucking herself against me with a raw, gasping urgency that was the most honest thing I’d seen in years. Her inner muscles fluttered, gripping nothing but air and need, and I knew she was seconds away from falling apart.
Her inner muscles fluttered, gripping nothing but air and need, and I knew she was seconds away from falling apart.
“Ron… please…” The word was a ragged puff of air against my neck, her hips losing their rhythmic roll for a frantic, shuddering grind.
I could only groan in response, my own control fraying as the wet, slick heat of her worked me over. She was drenching my shaft, her release imminent, and the sensation was a brutal, exquisite torture. My hands tightened on her hips, not guiding, just anchoring us both as the world narrowed to this bed, this moment, this woman.
Then her whole body went taut. A silent scream stretched her lips. Tifa bared down on me, pressing her full weight against my heavy cock as she ground faster and faster. It was a wild, desperate rutting, her clit dragging over me with punishing friction. The soaked cotton of her shorts was a maddening barrier, and she tore at them now, a frantic hand shoving the fabric aside to get her bare, swollen flesh directly against me.
“Yes… yes…!” she chanted, the words breaking into helpless gasps.
Her eyes flew open, wide and unseeing, and she pulled me off her breast, pushing me down onto the bed and kissing me desperately. Her mouth was all heat and need, her tongue plunging past my lips as if she could consume the groan that ripped from my throat. Her hands framed my face, holding me there, and I could taste salt and sweat and her—all of her.
She gasps into my mouth as she starts coming undone, pressing herself flat against me as her hips continue to move. The sound was a raw, fractured thing against my lips. Her entire body clenched in a series of violent tremors, her inner walls spasming around nothing, milking the air for a pleasure she could only simulate. She broke the kiss, burying her face in the crook of my neck with a bitten-off cry that was half-sob.
She shudders hard as she starts to come, laying flat against me. The waves seemed endless, each peak wrenching a new, quieter whimper from her throat. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her tight as she rode out her climax. Her skin was slick with sweat, her breaths hot and damp against my neck. I could feel the frantic beat of her heart where our chests met.
I could feel my balls tightening, a deep, gathering ache. I’m close, but not quite there. The pressure was immense, a coiled spring at the base of my spine. Her weight was perfect, her tremors still subsiding into minute shivers that danced across her skin and into mine.
“Don’t stop,” I rasped into her hair, my voice foreign and rough. “Keep moving, Tifa. Just like that.”
She complied with a weak, languid roll of her hips, the motion now lazy and sated but no less effective. She was utterly spent, a gorgeous, heavy warmth atop me, and the slow, sliding contact was pure bliss. Her lips found my neck again, not kissing, just resting there, her breath gradually steadying.
“You feel…” she murmured, the sentence trailing off as she shifted slightly, the movement causing my cock to slide through her wetness at a new, devastating angle.
A raw, guttural sound was torn from me. My hands slid down to cup the perfect, muscular curve of her ass, urging her on. “I know.”
Her response was another slow, grinding rotation, her body moving with a primal instinct that bypassed her exhausted mind. She was riding the aftershocks, and each one sent a fresh jolt of lightning through my system. The head of my cock, slick and purple, nudged insistently against her entrance with every forward rock of her hips.A promise. A threat.
“Ron,” she whispered, and it was a question, an acknowledgement, a plea.
My vision began to narrow, darkening at the edges. The sounds of the slums faded—the distant train, the thumping bass, the drip from the sink. There was only her breath, my heartbeat, and the wet, rhythmic slide between us. My grip on her tightened, fingers pressing into the firm flesh of her backside.
“I’m gonna…” The warning was a strained growl.
Her only answer was to press down harder, taking all of me against her, flattening her clit against my shaft in one final, perfect burst of pressure. It was the catalyst.
Release hit me not with a wave, but a seismic detonation. It roared up from the depths of me, an unstoppable tide that shattered all thought. A hoarse shout tore from my lips, swallowed by the damp skin of her shoulder. My hips arched off the bed, driving up into her as my body locked, pulsating violently. Heat erupted between us, painting her stomach and mine in thick, pearlescent stripes. The sensation seemed to last forever, each pulse a wrenching aftershock of pure, mindless pleasure.
When it finally ended, I collapsed back onto the stained sheets, utterly spent. The room rushed back in—the buzzing sign, the smell of sex and mildew, the chill of evaporating sweat. Tifa’s weight was a warm, welcome anchor, her body soft and pliant against mine. We lay there, tangled and sticky, for a long time, the only sound our slowing breaths.