Chapter 7: Pearly River
Her breathing was slow and deep against my chest, a steady tide in the quiet room. The neon from the skyline painted a shifting blue across her shoulder. She stirred, her fingers tracing a idle circle on my sternum.
“It’s probably a safe day for me,” she murmured, her voice thick with near-sleep. A hesitation. “I think it is.”
I kissed the crown of her head, smelling the perfume of her hair and the faint, muskier scent of us. “You think?”
“I’m glad you came inside,” she said, ignoring the question. She pressed closer. “You’re the first one.” The admission was soft, but it hung in the opulent air, a truth more valuable than any Shinra credit.
I tilted her chin up. In the dim light, her amber eyes were dark pools, stripped of all her usual guarded warmth. I meant it, every syllable. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever come inside, Tifa.”
A slow smile broke across her face, genuine and surprised. She laughed, a low, husky sound. Her hand slid down between her own thighs, and she brought her fingertips back up, glistening. She held them up, a sly, playful look in her eyes. “I’m a little surprised by how much, honestly. It’s… a lot.”
“Compliment?”
“Observation.” She wiped her fingers on the ridiculously expensive sheets, then snuggled back into me with a contented sigh. “These sheets are ruined.”
“Worth it.”
“Shinra’s paying for them anyway.” She was quiet for a long moment. “You’ll stay? The whole night?”
“I asked you to spend the night,” I reminded her.
“I know. I just… confirming.” Her voice was small. “Barret might call. The others might wonder.”
“Let them.” I smoothed her hair. “I want to screw again in the morning.”
She laughed again, this time punching me playfully in the ribs. It was a fighter’s tap, but it still carried a hint of her formidable strength. “Bold. Assuming I’ll let you.”
“Hoping.”
“Maybe.” She settled, her breathing easing back into that deep, rhythmic pattern. “Just sleep now, Ron.”
Sleep came like a thief, stealing the tension from our bodies. The sterile suite transformed in the dark, becoming a fragile capsule suspended above the city’s perpetual grind. I felt the weight of her leg thrown over mine, the heat of her skin a brand against me. For a few hours, there was no AVALANCHE, no Shinra, no ghosts from Wutai. There was just her breath and the distant, comforting hum of the reactor’s heartbeat.
Dawn came as a grey bleed at the edge of the panoramic window, slowly overpowering the neon. I woke to it, the instincts of a soldier pulling me from sleep before the world did. Tifa was still out, her face serene, lashes fanned against her cheeks. The sheet was pooled at her waist, and the sight of her like that—utterly defenseless, beautifully undone—clenched something in my chest.
I moved quietly, the plush carpet swallowing any sound. I kissed her stomach, just below her navel, feeling the hard muscle there. She sighed in her sleep but didn’t wake. I trailed lower, nudging her thighs apart with my shoulders. The scent of her, and of me, was rich and potent in the cool morning air.
I leaned in and licked her, a slow, broad stroke.
The taste was salty and intimate, a mingling of our essences. My own release, slightly bitter, layered over her unique sweetness. I delved deeper, my tongue seeking her core, and she stirred with a soft, needy sound from above. Her hand came down, fingers threading into my hair, not pushing me away but holding me there.
“Ron…” Her voice was a sleep-fogged whisper.
I didn’t stop. I explored her with my mouth, cleaning her, worshipping her, until she was gasping and arching off the mattress, her heels digging into my back. She came quietly, a series of sharp tremors against my tongue, her grip in my hair tightening to the edge of pain.
I crawled back up her body, kissing my way over the curves of her breasts, the line of her collarbone, until I found her mouth. She tasted herself on my lips, and her eyes fluttered open, hazy and sated.
“Good morning,” I said.
“That’s one way to wake up.” She stretched, a feline, luxurious motion that made the muscles in her abdomen dance. Then her eyes focused on the window, on the grey reality of the morning, and the ease slipped from her face. “What time is it?”
“Early. The city’s still asleep.”
The grey light etched the fine lines of tension back around her eyes, the ones she hid from everyone at Seventh Heaven. She blinked them away, focusing on me instead, her thumb brushing my lower lip. A slow, knowing smile replaced the morning’s worry.
“The city’s still asleep,” she repeated, her voice a low, playful murmur. “So what does that mean we should do?”
Her hips shifted under mine, a deliberate, teasing roll. The heat of her, even now, was a gravitational pull. Her amber eyes held mine, a challenge glinting in their depths.
“How do you want me?” she asked, the question hanging between us, loaded and simple.
I kissed her again, deeply, swallowing her soft sigh. My mouth traveled to her ear. “On your stomach,” I whispered, my voice rough. “I want you prone. I promise to be gentle.”
She held my gaze for a heartbeat, then nodded. Without a word, she rolled over, the sheets whispering against her skin. She pulled a pillow beneath her hips, raising herself in silent offering, and glanced back over her shoulder. Her hand patted the space behind her, a wordless motion for me to climb on.
I settled over her, my weight braced on my forearms. My cock pressed against her seam, which was still slick from my mouth and our night together. She was swollen, sensitive. “Okay?” I breathed into the nape of her neck.
“Just… go slow,” she said, her face turned into the pillow. “I’m a little sore.”
I pushed inside with infinite care, a slow, burning stretch that made us both gasp. The fit was breathtakingly tight, her body clasping me with a heated, reluctant give. I buried myself fully, stopping once I was sheathed to the hilt, letting her adjust.
“Alright?”
She nodded, a muffled sound of affirmation lost in the fabric.
I began to move, a shallow, rocking grind. I shifted my angle minutely, searching, until her whole body jolted. A broken cry escaped the pillow. There. I pinned her gently, each slow withdrawal and subsequent push meticulously targeting that deep, resonant spot within her.
Her back arched, her fingers clawing at the sheets. “Stars…” she choked out, the word a shudder. “Right there. Don’t stop.”
I didn’t. I maintained the exact, punishing angle, a relentless, slow screw that unravelled her with terrifying efficiency. Her second climax tore through her in minutes, a raw, shaking convulsion that clamped around me like a vise. She collapsed beneath me, boneless and panting.
I was still relentlessly hard, achingly full. I eased my rhythm but didn’t stop, my movements becoming a deep, languid grind. I kissed the sweat-damped line of her spine, the curve of her shoulder, the sensitive place behind her ear.
“Ron…” Her voice was slurry, wrecked.
“Hmm?”
My continued, patient thrusts were stoking the embers in her again. She began to meet them, a weak, rolling push of her hips back against me. The sounds she made were pure, desperate need.
“I’m close again,” she gasped, her body tensing anew. Her head lifted from the pillow. “Please. I want to feel it. Come inside. I need it.”
The begging shattered my control. My hips stuttered, the deep, grinding rhythm breaking into frantic, driving pulses. I pushed deep as I could and held there as the first wave detonated.
I came. A guttural sound was ripped from my throat. The release was a profound, unending pulse, a flooding heat that seemed to have no end. She cried out beneath me, her own climax triggered anew by the sensation, her inner muscles milking me in rhythmic spasms.
It went on and on, my balls tightening and releasing in a seemingly endless series. She trembled, oversensitive, whispering my name into the sheets. The pulses gradually slowed, fading to a final, spent trickle. I stayed buried in her, completely emptied, our sweat-slicked bodies sealed together.
For a long time, the only sound was our ragged breathing syncing, slowing. The grey dawn had brightened to a pale, polluted yellow. I finally eased out of her, and she winced, a soft hiss escaping her. I rolled beside her, pulling her against my chest. She came willingly, her body pliant.
She came willingly, her body pliant against mine, still trembling with aftershocks. I held her, my hand smoothing over the warm skin of her hip, feeling the rapid flutter of her heartbeat gradually slow. The words were there, a tangible pressure behind my teeth—I love you—a silent, dangerous truth I swallowed back down.
I used every ounce of willpower to keep them locked inside. Instead, I nuzzled her hair. “Tifa?”
“Mmm?”
“What’s your dream?” My voice was low in the quiet room. “Five years from now. Say we win. Shinra’s just a bad memory. What are you doing?”
She was silent for so long I thought she’d fallen asleep. Then she shifted, lifting her head from my chest. Her amber eyes searched my face, soft and unfocused. A small, weary smile touched her lips. She leaned up and pressed a kiss to the center of my chest, right over the thick, ropy scar from the serpent near Fort Tamblin.
“This isn’t too bad,” she murmured, her lips lingering on the damaged skin. “A future, I mean.” She settled back down, her cheek resting over my heartbeat. “A real bar. Not a hideout. Somewhere with windows, maybe even a patio. Somewhere in Edge, where the air doesn’t taste like metal. No secret meetings in the basement. Just… drinks. And music.”
“Sounds peaceful.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” She let out a soft breath. “And you? A retired mercenary. That’s a scary thought.”
“I’ll be your best customer.” I brushed a strand of hair from her temple. “I’m excited to see your new place next week. A real step toward it.”
She hugged me a little tighter, a sudden, fierce contraction of her arms. It was an answer. Then, from the pile of her clothes on the chrome chair, a sharp, tinny trill cut the air.
We both froze.
Her burner phone. That specific, cheap ringtone. It was never good news. Her entire body went rigid against mine, the dream of Edge evaporating like steam. She untangled herself from my arms without a word, moving with a fighter’s abrupt efficiency.
The sheets fell away as she stood, naked and purposeful, and crossed the room. She snatched the phone from her jacket pocket. Her eyes met mine, already shuttering closed, the warm, sated woman replaced by the AVALANCHE operative.
“It’s important,” she said, her voice flat.
She turned and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind her with a soft, definitive click. The lock engaged with a sound like a shot.