Resident Evil 6: together #Piersherry

Chapter 11

It wasn't that Sherry didn't want sex. She fantasized about it. Wished for it. Yearned for it. But never again did she want to find herself lying on some man's sheets feeling used and empty and alone. Besides, her fantasies of sex had been much more satisfying than the act itself. Except for one kiss this afternoon.
Was she truly so sex starved that she'd responded?
Like a plucked string.
Not only did she know it. He knew it, too. He must know it.
Sherry closed her eyes and tried to remember every detail— the pressure of his lips, the probing heat of his tongue, the hardness of his muscles. She felt a flutter in her belly, felt her nipples tighten, and found herself touching her lips as if to bring back the sensation.
But it hadn't really been a kiss, had it? '
It was nothing more than a way to shut you up, girl.
At least he hadn't used a sock or duct tape.
Of course, she didn't like the fact he'd dug into her private past. He knew things about her that she'd never shared with anyone. Whenever her friends asked about her family, she evaded, letting them assume she was from Georgia. She'd worked hard to lose her Texas accent and adopt the more genteel tones of Georgia. She'd struggled to pay her way through college, putting in sleepless nights at the school paper. Then she'd fought her way up the ladder at the Morning News. Along the way, she'd stopped being Sherry Bates—the poor little white-trash girl with no daddy—and had become Sherry Birkin.
Never once had she looked back.
She didn't want to look back, didn't want to remember the poverty, the shame, the isolation. Trying to sleep while Grandpa and Mama fought all night and the police came. Going to school in clothes that her neighbors had given to the Salvation Army. Coming home to find Grandpa passed out on the floor after spending the day with Jack Daniel's. Getting caught stealing books from school because she wanted so much to read. Wondering if what the other kids told her was true—that Grandpa was also her daddy.
Sherry's mama is her sister—and her mama. That's what my mama says.
The rumors hadn't been true. Her mother had assured her of that. But Sherry no longer gave a damn who her father was. She didn't need to steal books to read, nor did she wear castoffs. She bought what she needed with money she'd earned through hard work. She wasn't running from her past, as Mr. Nivans had seemed to imply, taunting her with her former last name. No, she'd worked her way free of it. -
Outside her apartment in the street, a policesiren wailed, making her jump. The sound of it sent chills down her spine. The victim's advocate had told her she might be on edge for a while. Unfortunately, the victim's advocatehad been right.
Feeling strangely vulnerable in the bathtub, Sherry released the drain with her toes, then stood, wrapped herself with a towel, and finished getting ready for bed. Drowsy from the wine, she checked to make sure her door was locked, then she slipped beneath her down comforter. But it was a long time before she fell asleep.
* * *
Piers worked through his aikido routine in the dim light of his basement, sweat running down his face and bare chest. Instincts were his first line of defense. His body was his second. He trained it, kept it in fighting shape, just as he did any other weapon.
Aikido also cleared his head, helped him think. He ought to be sleeping; apart from a catnap this morning, he'd been awake for more than forty-eight hours. But he was too tense for that, his thoughts tangled in long blond hair. He needed to stop thinking about Sherry Birkin. He had a job to do, and it didn't include doing her.
Too damned bad, really.
He shifted his mind to Burien—again.
Zoryo'd had little to add to what he'd already told them, claiming not to have seen Burien in years. But the old man at the hospital had been more helpful than Piers had expected. He'd been able to describe the girls—and the middle-aged woman who'd acted as their guard dog—in some detail. Simms had guessed the girls lived nearby, and the details he'd shared had fit what Piers already knew about Burien's operations: he kept the girls in small groups and dominated them through terror, using a mixture of brutal punishments and small rewards— like candy.
The bastard was clearly using Denver as his home base now, but where was he? He'd been the brains of the operation before, calling the shots from Los Angeles, while Garcia had handled the supply problem in Mexico and Pembroke had overseen transportation. They'd had some cribs in the Denver area but never any major interests, keeping mainly to border states. Although Operation Liberate had brought down both Garcia and Pembroke, Piers had lost control of his emotions and moved early, enabling Burien to escape.
Piers had come close to losing control of the situation today, too. One minute he'd been on top of things, the next he'd been staring down the barrel of a .22. He had to give the woman credit. It had taken a lot of courage for her to pull a weapon on him. He outweighed her by a good eighty pounds and stood almost a foot taller, and still she'd tried to defend herself.
Thatwasn't the only way she'd surprised him. He'd clamped his mouth over hers to silence her, had thrust his tongue between her lips to stifle her scream—and she'd melted. That was the only word for it. Her entire body had softened in his arms, her resistance gone.
And then she'd kissed him back, her response sweetly sensual and so arousing that he'd forgotten the kiss was just a tactical maneuver and had found himself enjoying it. He'd kept kissing her even after it was no longer necessary, savoring the feminine feel of her, inhaling her scent, feeling satisfaction at her little gasp when he'd sucked on her lip.
Damn it, Nivans! Stay on task!
He stopped, crossed the room to his water bottle, and drank deeply. Then he went back to the center of the room and started his routine again.
The trick was finding Burien, getting to him without him knowing anyone was coming. It seemed no matter how close Piers got, the son of a bitch was one step ahead. He was as hard to grab hold of as smoke, but he wasn't a master at disguises or a linguistic genius. He was an arrogant thug with an obvious Russian accent. Wherever he was, he would stick out. He knew this and lived a reclusive life, using his minions to deal with the outside world. Utterly without pity, he controlled his sordid empire through fear.
S-stay away from me! I-I saw you that night! I know you were there!
Piers knew Sherry had been terrified of him, certain he was a killer come to kill again. No doubt that explained her reaction to his kiss. Danger was an aphrodisiac for some women. God knows, it had been for Margaux. She'd loved to fuck after a bust and had liked it rough. There'd never been tenderness between them, nothing sweet, nothing soft. She'd been drawn to him because of his dark past—and because her father, an FBI legend, hadn't approved of him.
The thrill of danger—surely, that's all it had been. Sherry had felt his .357, had thought he meant to use it, and when he'd kissed her, her fear had transformed into lust.
That's fine for her, but what's your excuse?
His next kick found him off balance. He stopped, swore.
Did he need an excuse to enjoy kissing a pretty woman?
Yeah, he did—if it caused him to lose focus. He was here to stop Burien, not to diddle some headline-chasing journalist, no matter how soft and sexy she was.
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I watched that girl die! She begged me to help her, and I couldn't! But I'm going to do my best to help her now.