Chapter 12: The knock
The sharp rap on the bathroom door cut through the humid air like a gunshot. Knock-knock-knock! "Cherry? You okay in there?" Maya's voice, laced with faux concern and undeniable nosiness, sliced through the thick haze of arousal and shock. "Been ages! You need help cleaning up?"
Cherry flinched violently, the sound jolting her back into her own skin. Devon’s mouth was still a searing brand against her nipple, his grip on her wrists unyielding. The reality of where they were – locked in Tyrell’s guest bathroom, her jumpsuit peeled down to her waist, breasts exposed and slick with oil and saliva – crashed over her. Humiliation, sharper than before, burned through the lingering pleasure.
"No!" The word ripped from her throat, raw and panicked. She shoved against Devon’s chest with surprising force, fueled by adrenaline and sudden, overwhelming shame. "Get off!"
Devon stumbled back half a step, more from surprise than the push itself. His lips were wet, glistening, his eyes dilated black pools reflecting the harsh bathroom light. He looked momentarily stunned, then furious. A low growl vibrated in his chest as Cherry frantically yanked the soaked, slippery bodice of her jumpsuit back up over her breasts. The cold, damp silk clung awkwardly, plastered against her flushed skin, offering scant coverage. Her hands trembled violently.
Knock-knock-knock! "Cherry? Seriously? Open up!" Maya’s voice was louder now, insistent. "Devon? What the hell are you doing?"
Before Cherry could fumble with the lock, Devon moved. Fast. Not towards the door, but towards her. His hand shot out, not rough, but terrifyingly decisive. His fingers closed around her throat, not squeezing, but pressing firmly against the pulse hammering wildly beneath her skin. It wasn't choking; it was possession. A silent command to stop. To be still. His thumb brushed the frantic flutter beneath her jaw. His eyes held hers, dark and dangerous, silencing her before she could scream.
"Shh," he breathed, the sound barely audible over Maya’s renewed knocking. His gaze dropped pointedly to where her hands clutched the bunched fabric at her chest. Slowly, deliberately, keeping his grip on her throat, he used his other hand to peel the damp jumpsuit back down her shoulders. Past her breasts. Exposing her again. His eyes raked over her, the fury replaced by a predatory satisfaction. She was pinned, half-naked, under his hand and his gaze.
He leaned close, his lips brushing her ear as Maya yelled, "I'm getting Tyrell!" His voice, when it came, was a low, gravelly rumble meant only for her. "Tell her." His fingers tightened infinitesimally on her throat, a reminder. "Tell her to go away."
Cherry swallowed hard, the movement restricted by his hand. The cold tile pressed against her back. The scent of spilled champagne, her own vanilla-cherry blossom oil, and Devon’s cedar sweat filled her nostrils. Shame warred with a terrifying thrill at his control. She forced her voice out, aiming for the door. "Maya!" It cracked. She cleared her throat, feeling Devon’s thumb press lightly. "I'm... I'm fine! Just... cleaning up! Go back to the party!"
Silence from the other side. Then Maya’s voice, thick with disbelief and suspicion. "Cleaning up? For ten minutes? With him? Cherry—"
"We're busy," Devon called out, his voice loud, clear, and utterly devoid of apology. He didn't take his eyes off Cherry’s face. "Go away, Maya."
Another beat of silence. Then muffled footsteps retreating, followed by Maya’s exasperated shout fading down the hall. "Fine! Whatever! Don't come crying to me!"
The moment Maya’s footsteps faded, the atmosphere in the tiny bathroom shifted again. The predatory intensity in Devon’s eyes didn't lessen, but the focus sharpened solely on Cherry. The muffled thump of the party bass felt miles away. His hand remained on her throat, a warm, heavy pressure anchoring her to the spot, to him. His gaze dropped back to her exposed breasts, glistening with oil and the faint sheen of his saliva.
"Busy," he repeated softly, the word curling in the steam-filled air. He released her throat abruptly, his hand sliding down her slick arm. "You heard her. We're busy." He reached past her, his body crowding hers against the door, and turned on the faucet at the small sink. Water gushed, steaming hot. He grabbed a handful of paper towels, soaked them under the stream, wringing them out slightly.
He turned back to her. Without a word, he pressed the hot, wet towels against her chest, right over the soaked silk clinging to her sternum. The heat was startling after the lingering chill of the champagne. He scrubbed, not gently, the rough paper abrading her oiled skin through the thin fabric. The scent of cheap soap mixed with champagne and vanilla.
"Devon," Cherry breathed, her voice shaky. She tried to push his hand away, but he ignored her, his movements methodical, almost clinical now. He focused on the stain, rubbing hard at the burgundy silk turned translucent and dark. "Stop it."
He didn't look up. "Told you I'd clean it." He peeled the wet towel away, revealing the damp, flushed skin beneath. He tossed the towel into the sink and grabbed another, soaking it again. This time, he pushed the soaked silk aside roughly, exposing the skin beneath the neckline. He pressed the hot towel directly onto her oiled cleavage, scrubbing at the sticky residue left by the champagne. The friction was intense, bordering on painful, heating her skin further. Cherry gasped, arching instinctively away from the abrasion, but the door held her firm.
His knuckles brushed the sensitive underside of her breast. He paused. His eyes lifted from his task, meeting hers. The clinical detachment was gone, replaced by that familiar, smoldering intensity. He held her gaze as his hand, still clutching the hot towel, slid lower. Down over the curve of her breast. The rough wet paper rasped against her nipple, already sensitized from his mouth. A sharp intake of breath hissed through her teeth. Pleasure-pain lanced through her, sharp and undeniable.
He watched her reaction, a flicker of satisfaction in his dark eyes. He dropped the towel. His hand, now bare and hot, replaced it, palming her breast fully, his thumb finding her stiff nipple through the damp silk. He rubbed it slowly, deliberately, his gaze locked on hers. "Still sticky," he murmured, his voice thick.
Cherry’s legs trembled. The anger was a distant ember, drowned by the resurgence of raw, physical need his touch ignited. She hated him. Hated his control, his possessiveness, the way he’d humiliated her. But her body arched into his hand, seeking the friction, the heat. A low moan escaped her, unbidden.
He leaned in, his breath hot on her ear. "See?" His thumb circled her nipple, sending shivers down her spine. "Told you we weren't done." His other hand slid down her oiled side, fingers digging into the curve of her hip beneath the jumpsuit. He pulled her flush against him. She felt the hard ridge of his erection pressing insistently against her lower belly through his jeans. The message was unmistakable. The "cleaning" was far from over. The locked door, the muffled party, the scent of their collision – it all narrowed down to the searing point of contact between his body and hers, and the terrifying, undeniable pull drawing her deeper into whatever storm he was brewing.
The vibration against her hipbone startled her. Devon froze, his hand still cupping her breast, his thumb paused mid-circle on her nipple. The muffled thump of the bass was suddenly punctuated by a distinct, insistent buzzing. Cherry’s phone, tucked precariously in the side seam of her jumpsuit, was ringing.
Devon’s eyes narrowed, the predatory focus momentarily fractured by annoyance. He didn’t move his hand from her breast, but his grip tightened possessively. "Ignore it," he growled, dipping his head to scrape his teeth along the sensitive cord of her neck.
The buzzing stopped. Silence reclaimed the humid bathroom for a fractured second. Then, instantly, it started again. Louder. More insistent. Maya’s name flashed on the screen visible through the damp, clinging fabric.
Cherry tried to twist away, reaching for the phone. "It’s Maya—"
Devon caught her wrist, pinning it back against the door beside her head. "I said ignore it." His voice was low, dangerous. He pressed his hips harder against hers, grinding his erection against her belly, a deliberate reminder of his priority. The friction sent another jolt of heat through her.
The phone stopped buzzing. A beat. Then a sharp, loud ping. A text notification. Then another. And another. Rapid-fire.
Devon let out a harsh breath, frustration etching lines around his mouth. He released her wrist with a shove and stepped back, running a hand over his face. The sudden absence of his heat and weight left Cherry feeling unmoored, cold despite the steam. She fumbled for her phone, her fingers slick with oil and condensation.
The screen lit up with Maya’s furious texts:
> MAYA: ANSWER YOUR PHONE BITCH
> MAYA: Tyrell’s neighbor called the cops about the noise. Party’s getting shut down.
> MAYA: Cops rolling up NOW. GET OUT.
> MAYA: I’m leaving with Amir. NOW. You find your own ride or ride Devil’s dick home idgaf.
> MAYA: SERIOUSLY CHERRY MOVE YOUR ASS
Cold dread washed over Cherry, instantly dousing the lingering embers of arousal. "Cops," she breathed, her voice tight with panic. She shoved her phone towards Devon. "Maya says cops are here. Party’s getting shut down. She’s leaving."
Devon scanned the texts, his expression hardening. The predatory heat vanished, replaced by swift, cold calculation. He glanced at the locked door, then back at her, his gaze sweeping over her disheveled state – the jumpsuit still pulled down, breasts exposed, skin flushed and glistening. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
"Fuck," he muttered. He moved swiftly. He grabbed her shoulders, turning her roughly away from the door. "Fix yourself. Fast." His hands were suddenly practical, yanking the soaked bodice of her jumpsuit back up over her shoulders, pulling the straps into place with none of the earlier deliberate slowness. It was efficient, almost rough. He smoothed the damp silk down over her chest as best he could, though it clung transparently in patches. He snatched another wad of paper towels, dampened them, and roughly wiped the worst of the champagne and oil sheen from her collarbones and chest. "Can’t walk out like that."
He unlocked the door and cracked it open a sliver, peering out into the hallway. The music was noticeably lower, replaced by a rising tide of anxious voices and the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps and authoritative shouts from the front of the house. The vibe had shifted from celebration to evacuation.
"Clear," Devon hissed. He grabbed her hand, his grip firm and impersonal now. "Stay close. Don’t look at anyone." He pulled her out of the bathroom and into the chaotic hallway. People were streaming towards the back door, pushing past each other, faces tense. Devon cut through the flow with ruthless efficiency, using his body to shield Cherry, keeping her tucked behind him. She kept her head down, acutely aware of her damp, disheveled clothes, the lingering scent of sex and champagne clinging to her skin, the phantom feel of his mouth and hands. Whispers followed them – "Damn, what happened to her?" "Devon looks pissed…" – but Devon ignored them all, his focus solely on navigating the exodus.
They burst out the back door into the cool night air. The alley behind Tyrell’s townhouse was chaos – people scattering in all directions, car doors slamming, engines revving. Flashing red and blue lights painted the brick walls at the alley’s entrance. Devon didn’t hesitate. He pulled her towards a sleek, black Audi parked haphazardly half on the curb. He yanked open the passenger door. "Get in."
Cherry scrambled in, the cold leather seat a shock against her thighs. Devon slammed the door, rounded the hood, and slid into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life. He threw the car into reverse, tires squealing as he backed out of the tight spot, narrowly missing a fleeing group. Then he slammed it into drive and punched the gas, weaving expertly through the panicked crowd and out of the alley, leaving the flashing lights and chaos behind.
Silence descended inside the car, thick and heavy, broken only by the powerful purr of the engine and Cherry’s own ragged breathing. She stared straight ahead, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, suddenly freezing in the air-conditioned interior. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a hollow ache and the full weight of what had just happened – the humiliation at the party, the terrifying intensity in the bathroom, the frantic escape. She could still feel the ghost pressure of his hand on her throat, the heat of his mouth.
Devon drove with fierce concentration, his jaw clenched, knuckles white on the steering wheel. The city lights streaked past the windows. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t speak. The tension in the car was a living thing, vibrating with everything unsaid, everything done.
After several tense blocks, Cherry finally found her voice, small and shaky. "Where are we going?"
Devon didn’t answer immediately. He took a sharp turn, the tires protesting. Then, his voice was flat, devoid of inflection. "Your place." It wasn't a question. It was a statement. A destination. The implication hung heavy in the air: Whatever had started in Tyrell’s bathroom wasn’t finished. The night, the confrontation, the terrifying pull between them – it was all just relocating. The dim, vanilla-scented sanctuary of her apartment awaited, but it felt like the next arena, not a refuge. The ride was far from over.