Chapter 9: Tasha party
The bass thumped through Tasha’s hardwood floors, vibrating up Cherry’s legs and settling uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach. Two weeks. Fourteen days of radio silence, meticulously curated avoidance, and frantic mental gymnastics aimed at scrubbing Devon’s face from between her thighs. It hadn’t worked. The phantom scrape of his beard, the desperate clutch of her hands in his hair, the guttural cry ripped from her throat – it all played on a relentless loop behind her eyelids whenever she dared close them.
Now, crammed into Tasha’s overheated living room, surrounded by laughter, the sticky-sweet scent of spiked punch mingling with weed smoke and expensive perfume, Cherry felt dangerously exposed. Her chosen armor – a sinfully tight black bodysuit dress – felt like a betrayal. The deep V plunged lower than she’d remembered in the boutique’s forgiving light, revealing a swell of cleavage that seemed to pulse with every frantic heartbeat. The fabric clung, leaving nothing to imagination, a stark contrast to the oversized t-shirts she’d been hiding in. She’d wanted to feel powerful, in control. Instead, she felt like prey.
She spotted him almost immediately. Devon leaned against the archway leading to the kitchen, a bottle of beer dangling loosely from his fingers. He wore dark jeans and a simple grey Henley that stretched taut across his shoulders. He wasn’t looking at her. He was talking animatedly to Malik, gesturing with his free hand. But his presence was a physical force, a magnetic pull Cherry fought with every ounce of willpower. She ducked behind a group near the overflowing snack table, grabbing a plastic cup of punch she didn’t want.
Just get through the party. Smile. Wish Tasha happy birthday. Avoid the kitchen archway.
She circulated mechanically, air-kissing cheeks, forcing laughter that sounded brittle even to her own ears. Her eyes kept skittering back towards Devon like compass needles finding north. He hadn’t approached her. He hadn’t even glanced her way. Was he ignoring her too? The thought should have been a relief. It felt like a fresh wound.
"Cherry! Girl, that dress!" Tasha squealed, pulling her into a hug that smelled of vanilla cupcakes and champagne. "You trying to kill somebody tonight? Looking like that?" Tasha’s eyes, bright with celebration and probably her third glass of bubbly, scanned Cherry appreciatively.
Cherry forced a wider smile, adjusting the dress’s neckline subtly upwards. It didn’t budge much. "Just celebrating the birthday queen," she deflected, her voice thankfully steady.
Tasha winked. "Well, celebrate harder! We’re about to start a circle!"
Cherry’s stomach plummeted. No. Not that. The dreaded party game – truth or dare fueled by liquid courage and peer pressure. A guaranteed recipe for disaster. Before she could formulate an escape plan, Tasha was clapping her hands, her voice cutting through the music.
"Circle up, y’all! Circle up! Birthday rules – no wimping out!"
Groans mingled with cheers as people shuffled, dragging cushions and ottomans into a rough ring in the center of the living room. Cherry found herself pushed towards the periphery, desperately scanning for an exit route blocked by bodies. She sank onto a low pouf, pulling her knees up, trying to make herself small, invisible. The bodysuit dress rode up dangerously high on her thighs. She tugged it down, heart hammering.
Then he moved. Deliberately. Devon detached himself from the archway, his gaze finally sweeping the circle. It landed on her, held for a fraction of a second too long – a look that wasn’t casual, wasn’t friendly. It was assessment. Acknowledgement. Possession? She looked away, fixing her eyes on the geometric pattern of the rug beneath her feet.
He didn’t sit near her. He chose a spot directly opposite, folding his long frame onto a leather footstool. The distance felt negligible. He was a dark silhouette against the brighter kitchen light, his eyes impossible to read in the dimmer living room glow, but she felt them. Like twin points of heat on her skin.
The game began. A half-empty wine bottle spun on the rug. Laughter erupted as it pointed at Malik, who chose ‘Dare’ and was promptly ordered to serenade Tasha with an off-key rendition of "Happy Birthday." Cherry tried to breathe, tried to focus on Malik’s terrible falsetto, tried to ignore the man sitting perfectly still across from her. Her palms were slick against the cool plastic cup.
Spin. Laughter. Truth. A mildly embarrassing childhood story.
Spin. More laughter. Dare. Someone had to attempt a handstand.
Spin.
The bottle slowed, wobbled, its neck drifting… drifting… then settling with unnerving precision. Pointing directly at Cherry.
A chorus of "Oooooh!" rose around her. Heat flooded her face, crawling down her neck. She felt every eye in the circle turn towards her. Including his.
"Alright, Cherry!" Tasha crowed, flushed and delighted. "Truth or Dare? Birthday rules!"
Cherry’s mouth was desert-dry. She took a desperate gulp of punch, the sickly sweetness doing nothing to quench her thirst. "Truth," she croaked. Safer. Marginally.
A mischievous grin spread across Tasha’s face. "Okay, okay… hmm…" She tapped her chin dramatically. The room leaned in. Cherry’s pulse roared in her ears. She couldn’t look up. Couldn’t meet Devon’s gaze. She stared at the bottle neck still aimed accusingly at her.
Tasha leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper amplified by the sudden quiet. "What’s the wildest place you’ve ever… you know… gotten busy?"
The room erupted in hoots and catcalls. Cherry froze. The air vanished. The wildest place? Images flashed, unbidden, unwanted: her own living room floor, frantic and messy; the backseat of Marcus’s car senior year; the supply closet at her old job during that disastrous holiday party… None of them felt remotely relevant. Because the only place screaming in her mind, the only place that mattered right now, was her own bed. Two weeks ago. With him. Devon. The wet gleam on his beard. The desperate arch of her back. The sound she’d made.
Her face burned. She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. A strangled sound escaped her throat. She could feel Devon’s stare like a physical weight, intense, waiting. Judging her silence? Remembering?
Before she could force out a lie – the backseat, the supply closet, anything – a deep, calm voice cut through the anticipatory giggles.
"I’ll answer for her."
Silence crashed down. Every head swiveled towards Devon. He hadn’t moved from his stool. He sat relaxed, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, his beer bottle held loosely. His eyes were fixed on Cherry, a challenge glinting in their dark depths.
Cherry’s breath hitched. No. No, no, no.
Devon took a slow sip of his beer, his gaze never leaving hers. The room held its breath. He lowered the bottle. "Truth," he said, his voice low, resonant, carrying effortlessly. "The wildest place?" A pause. Deliberate. Heavy. "Was definitely her bedroom." He tilted his head slightly, a ghost of that humorless smile touching his lips. "Last Tuesday night."
A beat of stunned silence. Then chaos erupted. Shocked gasps. Disbelieving laughter. Someone yelled, "Damn, Dev!" Tasha’s jaw dropped, her eyes darting between Cherry’s crimson face and Devon’s unnervingly composed expression.
Cherry didn’t hear it. The room blurred. The noise became a distant roar. The only thing clear was Devon’s face, the absolute certainty in his eyes, the devastating simplicity of his words. Last Tuesday night. He hadn’t forgotten. He wasn’t pretending. He’d just dragged their secret, her shame, kicking and screaming into the center of Tasha’s birthday party.
Humiliation, scalding and absolute, washed over her. It drowned the panic, the fear, leaving only a desperate, primal need to escape. She surged to her feet, her plastic cup tumbling forgotten, spiking red punch onto Tasha’s rug. She didn’t care. She didn’t look back. She pushed blindly through the startled guests, ignoring Tasha’s confused cry of "Cherry? Wait!", stumbled down the short hallway, and slammed the bathroom door shut behind her, twisting the lock with trembling fingers.
Leaning her forehead against the cool wood, gasping for air, she heard the muffled chaos of the party resume outside. And beneath it, faint but unmistakable, the low rumble of Devon’s voice, still talking. Still there. The truth hanging thick and suffocating in the air she’d fled. Her reflection in the mirror above the sink stared back – wide-eyed, flushed, the plunging neckline of the black dress a mocking testament to her failed attempt at control. He hadn’t let her run. Not this time. He’d pinned her truth to the wall for everyone to see. And now she was trapped, hiding in a bathroom, with nowhere left to go.
The cool wood of the bathroom door pressed against Cherry’s forehead, offering no relief from the inferno raging under her skin. Her reflection in the mirror above the pedestal sink was a stranger: eyes wide and panicked, chest heaving against the constricting black bodysuit, the deep plunge suddenly feeling like a gaping wound exposing her shame. The sharp, clean scent of lemon disinfectant warred with the lingering perfume of panic sweat. Someone pounded on the door, sharp and insistent. "Cherry! Open up, girl! It's Tasha!"
Cherry fumbled with the lock, her fingers slick. The door swung in, revealing Tasha, her birthday tiara askew, face etched with concern that quickly morphed into exasperation. "What in the entire hell was that, Cherry? And what did Dev—"
"He shouldn't have said that!" Cherry burst out, voice cracking. She backed further into the tiny space, bumping against the sink. The cold porcelain shocked her bare thighs. "He had no right! None! I'm going to kill him." The threat sounded hollow, drowned by the thumping bass bleeding through the walls.
"Okay, okay, breathe," Tasha soothed, stepping inside and shutting the door, locking it again. The space shrunk instantly. "Devon was way outta pocket, no question. But baby girl, you look like you 'bout to jump out your own skin." She reached out, her hand warm on Cherry's trembling arm. "Look at me. Breathe. It's just party nonsense. We'll laugh about it tomorrow. Maybe."
"Laugh?" Cherry choked, pulling away. The memory of Devon's calm, devastating voice slicing through the party noise – Last Tuesday night – replayed on a loop. "Everyone knows, Tasha! Everyone! He told them… he told them where…" She couldn't finish. The humiliation was a physical weight, crushing her lungs. Her carefully constructed distance, obliterated in one sentence.
"Girl, please," Tasha waved a dismissive hand, though her eyes remained worried. "Half them drunk as skunks won't remember, the other half just jealous Devon finally climbed out that monk cave for somebody. Especially you lookin' like this tonight. Damn, Cherry! That dress is a deadly weapon." She attempted a playful nudge, trying to shift the mood. "Maybe he just couldn't help himself, seeing you all packed in there like a—"
A heavier knock rattled the door, solid, deliberate. Not a request. A demand. Both women froze. "Tasha." Devon's voice, low and uncompromising, came through the wood. "Step out. Now."
Tasha's eyes widened. "Devon? Hell no! We're talking in here! Go 'way!" She planted her feet, crossing her arms. Cherry felt a fresh wave of terror, her stomach clenching. He'd followed her. Of course he had.
"Tasha," Devon repeated, the single word layered with a quiet authority that brooked no argument. "Leave us. Please." The 'please' was a formality, not a request. It vibrated with finality.
Cherry found her voice, thin and desperate. "No! I don't… I don't want to talk to him, Tasha. Don't go." She reached for her friend's hand, clinging.
Tasha hesitated, looking from the trembling Cherry to the closed door, conflict warring on her face. "Dev, she don't wanna—"
"Now, Tash." The command was steel wrapped in velvet.
With a helpless, frustrated glance at Cherry, Tasha unlocked the door. "Five minutes, Devon," she hissed, squeezing Cherry's hand before slipping out. "You hurt her, I'll cut you." The door clicked shut, sealing Cherry inside the tiny, tiled tomb with him. Devon filled the space, his presence immediate and overwhelming. The sharp tang of his cologne mixed with the lemon cleaner, a dizzying contrast. His gaze pinned her against the sink, dark, intense, seeing everything she was trying to hide.
Cherry pressed back, the cold edge digging into her spine. "Get out," she whispered, the fight draining out of her, replaced by raw, naked fear. "Please, just go."
He didn't move. He simply looked at her – at the panic in her eyes, the flush staining her neck and chest above the tight black bodysuit, the way her breath hitched. "Running didn't work," he stated, his voice disturbingly calm, conversational almost. "Hiding didn't work. Pretending it didn't happen?" He shook his head slowly, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "That definitely isn't working."
"I said forget it," she pleaded, hating the tremor in her voice. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"
"Because you're lying," he said flatly, taking a single step closer. The air crackled. She could smell the faint scent of beer on his breath. "To me. To yourself. To everyone in that room." Another step. The small space forced him uncomfortably close. She could see the variations in his beard, the unwavering intensity in his dark eyes. "You think that dress," his gaze dropped deliberately, lingering on the exposed swell of her breasts, then dragged slowly, agonizingly down the length of her body molded by the black fabric, "is armor? It's a confession, Cherry. Every time you breathe in it."
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Humiliation warred with a traitorous spark of heat low in her belly.
"You think avoiding me for two weeks erased how you tasted?" His voice dropped lower, rougher, a gravelly whisper that vibrated in the cramped silence. The air conditioner unit under the window hummed suddenly, a jarring counterpoint. "Vanilla and salt. Sweet, deep." He leaned in, just an inch, his words brushing against her ear, explicit, undeniable. "You think I forgot how you flooded my mouth? How you clenched around my fingers when you came? How loud you screamed my name into your pillow?" He paused, letting each visceral image land like a blow. "That black lace you got on under this? It's probably soaked right now, just from me saying this. Isn't it, Cherry?"
She gasped, a tiny, shattered sound. Her legs threatened to buckle. He saw it. Knew it. The truth of his words was a brand, searing through her denials. He hadn't forgotten a single, shameful, glorious detail. He was forcing her to remember. Forcing her to feel it again, here, trapped, with nowhere left to run. The air conditioner clicked off, leaving a silence thick enough to choke on, filled only by the frantic, terrified thudding of her own heart against her ribs and the devastating knowledge radiating from the man who refused to let her hide. He stayed close, his gaze holding hers, waiting for the inevitable collapse, the walls she couldn't rebuild crumbling to dust under the weight of his relentless, panty-wetting truths.
The lemon scent choked her. His proximity choked her more. Devon didn’t wait for her crumbling walls; he stepped into the dust, eliminating the last sliver of space between them. His large hands, warm and unyielding, locked onto her waist, fingers pressing possessively through the thin black fabric. Cherry gasped, a sharp intake of air that hitched halfway, trapped by the sudden, overwhelming heat radiating from his palms. She slammed her own hands against his chest, a futile barrier against the solid wall of muscle beneath the soft grey Henley.
"Stop," she breathed, the word barely audible, trembling. Her head swam, the bathroom walls tilting.
"Stop what?" Devon murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rumble vibrating against her palms. His breath warmed her temple. "Stop remembering how you begged?" His grip tightened, pulling her hips flush against his. The hard ridge of his arousal pressed unmistakably against her belly, a brutal confirmation of his words. A desperate moan clawed its way up her throat; she bit her lip hard, tasting copper, forcing it back. Her nails dug into his shirt.
"Stop wanting?" His lips brushed the shell of her ear, sending violent shivers down her spine. "Wanting to taste you again? Right here?" His head dipped lower, his nose tracing the frantic pulse in her neck. "Wanting to peel this off you," his fingers flexed on her waist, "slow. Real slow. Feel you shake." His tongue, hot and shockingly wet, licked a deliberate, searing stripe from the base of her throat to just below her ear. Cherry’s eyes rolled back, vision dissolving into white static. Her knees buckled completely; only his iron grip on her waist held her upright. A ragged gasp tore free, followed by a helpless, keening moan she couldn't contain. Her hands slid limply from his chest.
"Wanting," he growled against her damp skin, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot he’d just licked, "to make you scream my name again. Louder than last time. Louder than the damn music." His hand slid lower, fingers splaying possessively over the curve of her ass, pulling her tighter against his hardness. The friction was electric, unbearable. Her head fell back against the mirror, a dull thud lost in the haze of sensation. The black lace was soaked, a slick, undeniable truth against her skin. His mouth found her neck again, open-mouthed, sucking hard enough to bruise, promising oblivion.
A sharp, rapid knocking shattered the humid silence. "Cherry! Devon! Open this damn door right now!" Tasha’s voice, sharp with anger and worry, pierced through the fog. "I mean it! Five minutes is up! Open it or I swear I’ll kick it in!" The heavy bass from the party thumped rhythmically against the door like a frantic heartbeat. Devon froze, his lips still pressed hotly against Cherry’s throbbing skin. His breath came in harsh gusts against her neck. Cherry remained pinned against him, trembling violently, her body humming with unfinished electricity, her mind a blank slate of shock and residual, terrifying need. His grip didn't loosen. He lifted his head slowly, his dark eyes locking onto hers in the mirror’s reflection – dilated, fierce, and utterly unrepentant. The knocking intensified, insistent, urgent. "NOW!" Tasha yelled. Cherry stared back at him in the glass, trapped between the precipice he’d pushed her to and the furious reality pounding on the other side of the thin wooden door. His thumb stroked a slow, deliberate circle against the small of her back, a silent, possessive claim that promised this wasn't over. Not even close.
The echo of Tasha’s furious pounding vibrated through the thin bathroom door, a frantic counterpoint to the muffled thump of the party’s bass. Devon didn’t flinch. His hands remained locked on Cherry’s waist, burning through the black bodysuit, pinning her between the cold sink and the solid heat of his body. His dark eyes, dilated and fiercely possessive, held her trapped reflection in the mirror. That slow, deliberate stroke of his thumb against the small of her back was a brand. A promise shattering her last pretense of control. The phantom taste of salt and vanilla flooded her mouth, a memory dragging her back to the edge.
"Devon! Cherry! Open this damn door NOW!" Tasha’s shout, raw with fury and fear, sliced through the humid air thick with lemon cleaner, spilled champagne, and their own desperate pheromones. Reality crashed back, sharp and cold. The hard ridge of his arousal pressed against her belly. The slick heat between her own thighs, undeniable evidence of how completely her body betrayed her.
"Let me GO!" Cherry gasped, the words ragged with terror and a fury that ignited like dry tinder. She shoved against his chest with all her strength, a wild, trapped-animal surge. Her palms slid uselessly against the soft cotton of his Henley. He felt immovable. Unbreakable. The look in his eyes – satisfied, knowing – was the final spark.
His grip shifted, one hand sliding up to cup the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair. He pulled her face close, his breath hot on her lips. "Still lying?" he murmured, the challenge low and intimate even over Tasha’s renewed assault on the door. "Say it didn't happen. Say you don't want this. Say it, Cherry." The dare vibrated in the tiny space. He knew she couldn’t. He’d felt her tremble, heard her moan, seen the truth in the frantic pulse at her throat.
The shame – of the party, of his words, of her own pulsing need – detonated. Pure, white-hot fury obliterated thought. She didn't plan it. Her body moved. Her right hand, no longer pushing, whipped up with shocking force.
The crack was obscenely loud in the tiled room, a flat, sharp report that momentarily drowned out Tasha’s shouts and the bass. Her palm connected with the hard plane of his cheekbone with stunning impact. The shock of contact reverberated up her arm, jolting her shoulder.
Devon’s head snapped sideways with the force. The hand in her hair tightened, reflexively, a grip that could hurt. He froze. Utterly still. The only sound was Cherry’s own ragged panting and the frantic drumming on the door. Slowly, with terrifying deliberation, he turned his face back to her. A stark, livid red mark bloomed across his cheekbone, stark against his skin. His expression was unreadable for a terrifying heartbeat. Stone.
Then, the corner of his mouth lifted. Not a smile. A baring of teeth. A hunter’s grimace. His eyes, dark as basalt, locked onto hers. He didn’t touch the mark. He leaned in, bringing his stinging cheek inches from her face, his voice a gravelly scrape. "That all you got?"
The raw challenge, the sheer, arrogant refusal to yield, stole her breath. The fury curdled into something colder, sharper. Her hand stung. She tasted blood where she’d bitten her lip. The bodysuit felt like a suffocating second skin. Tasha screamed their names, the door rattling violently in its frame. Devon’s gaze dropped to her mouth, to the bead of crimson welling on her lower lip. His thumb, rough and shockingly gentle, brushed it away, the touch igniting fresh fire along her nerves. He held her trapped in his stillness, her slap hanging in the charged air between them like a declaration of war neither knew how to end. The mark on his face pulsed, a vivid testament to the chaos she’d unleashed, a brand just as deep as the memory of his mouth between her thighs. His thumb lingered, a paradox of violence and tenderness, as the doorknob rattled with the sound of a key.