Chapter 2: Next day
The phone screen went black. Silence crashed down like a physical weight, thick and suffocating in the warm, vanilla-scented air of Cherry’s bedroom. Her hand, still tucked inside her sleep shorts, felt suddenly alien. Sticky. Exposed. Mortification flooded her, hot and prickly, washing over the fading thrum of release that had just moments ago consumed her. She yanked her hand out as if burned, scrambling to pull the hem of her t-shirt down, covering herself like a shield.
"Shit," she breathed, the word barely audible, shaky. She pressed her palms against her burning cheeks. What had she done? Let him see her like that? Let him command her like that? The memory of his deep voice, purring instructions, the undeniable hunger in his eyes through the screen… it replayed in vivid, excruciating detail. The heat returned, a confusing mix of residual arousal and scalding embarrassment. She’d whimpered. She’d told him how wet she was. She’d done what he asked, right there on the couch, while he watched.
She shoved herself off the couch, pacing the small living room, her bare feet slapping against the cool wood floor. Every shadow felt like judgment. The worn velvet couch, her sanctuary? Now it felt like a crime scene. She grabbed a throw pillow, hugging it fiercely to her chest, trying to smother the frantic beating of her heart. He knows. He knew exactly how far under her skin he’d gotten. He’d orchestrated it. Patiently. Deliberately. And she’d cracked wide open.
Sleep was impossible. The few fitful hours she managed were punctuated by fragmented dreams – Devon’s low chuckle echoing, the phantom sensation of his gaze, the slick slide of her own fingers against overheated skin. She woke tangled in sweaty sheets, the memory of the previous night slamming into her with the force of a physical blow. Saturday morning sunlight streamed through the blinds, feeling accusatory. Bright. Too cheerful for the wreck she felt like inside.
Breakfast with Maya. Right. She clung to the plan like a life raft. Maya, her best friend since college, was sharp, unfiltered, and terrifyingly perceptive. Cherry needed grounding. Needed to purge some of this… frenzy… before she faced Devon again later. Because later… there was the hike. The hike she’d stupidly agreed to before the FaceTime apocalypse. She hadn’t even cancelled. Cancelling felt like admitting defeat, acknowledging the sheer power he’d just exerted over her.
The air in the bustling cafe "Beans & Things" was thick with the comforting scents of roasted coffee, sizzling bacon, and maple syrup. Chatter and the clatter of dishes created a warm background hum. Cherry sat across from Maya in a corner booth, nervously shredding a paper napkin. Maya, vibrant in a colorful headwrap and bold earrings, sipped her latte, her sharp eyes missing nothing.
"You look like hell warmed over, Cherry Blossom," Maya stated bluntly, setting her mug down. "And not the good kind of ‘up all night’ hell. More like the ‘haunted by the ghost of bad decisions’ kind. Spill."
Cherry stirred her lukewarm tea, avoiding Maya’s gaze. "It's nothing. Rough night. Didn't sleep much."
"Bullshit." Maya leaned forward, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "This is Devon-shaped exhaustion, isn't it? Did something happen after book club last night? Beyond the usual 'he looked at me and I almost combusted' thing?"
Cherry felt the heat creep back up her neck. How could she possibly articulate what happened? The words stuck in her throat – thick, embarrassing, raw. "He... called. Last night."
Maya raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "And? Did he finally make a move? Please tell me he made a move. That man has been orbiting you with enough heat to power a small city for months."
Cherry swallowed hard. "Not... not exactly a move." She picked at the edge of her avocado toast. "It was... intense. He... he pushed. A lot. Psychologically. Like... seeing right through me." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He made me... touch myself. On FaceTime."
Maya’s eyes widened comically for a split second, then narrowed into focused intensity. "He what? Girl, details! Was it hot? Scary? Both?"
"Both!" Cherry hissed, leaning in, the shreds of napkin piling up on the table. "Completely terrifying. And... God, Maya, it felt so good. But I feel so... exposed? Stupid? Like he played me perfectly. Like he knew exactly which buttons to press." She sighed, the frustration bubbling over. "I’m so pent up, Maya. Like, physically aching all the time around him. And scared. So scared of letting anyone close again, after Keith... after everything. It’s this awful knot of wanting and running away. And Devon... he just sees it. He doesn’t push physically, not really, but mentally? It’s like he’s dismantling me piece by piece. And last night, I just... melted."
Maya nodded slowly, her expression softening from gossipy intrigue to genuine understanding. "Okay. Deep breath. First, Devon Miller wanting you bad enough to orchestrate phone sex? That’s not nothing. That man is fine as hell and clearly obsessed. Second, the fear? Valid as fuck after Captain Dickhead. But Cherry, honey, Devon ain't Keith. Not even close. Keith was a critic. Devon? He’s a worshipper. He watches you like you’re the damn sun." She reached across the table, covering Cherry’s fidgeting hand with her own. "The frustration? Girl, that’s just your body screaming at you to let go. To trust. Maybe it’s time to stop fighting yourself so damn hard. See what happens if you just... lean into it?"
Stop. The word echoed Devon's question, sending a fresh jolt through Cherry. She pulled her hand back, wrapping both around her mug. "Lean into what? Getting completely unraveled by him? Letting him see everything? It’s terrifying."
"Maybe 'unraveled' is just another word for 'set free'," Maya countered gently. "Just think about it. Now, eat your toast before it gets sadder than you look."
They talked a little longer about safer topics – work, Maya’s disastrous date, the new exhibit at the gallery – but the undercurrent remained. Cherry’s mind kept snagging on the memory of Devon’s voice, the command, the sheer loss of control she’d experienced – and the undeniable, terrifying thrill of it. By the time Maya glanced at her phone, Cherry’s own anxiety was spiking again.
"Heads up, Blossom," Maya said, nodding towards the cafe window. "Your personal Mount Everest just pulled up."
Cherry’s head snapped around. Devon’s charcoal SUV slid smoothly to the curb outside. Her stomach plummeted. He was early. She watched as his tall, broad frame unfolded from the driver’s seat. Dark jeans, a simple black t-shirt stretched across his solid chest, aviator sunglasses hiding his eyes. He looked effortlessly powerful, calm. The complete opposite of the jittery mess she felt like.
"Okay, deep breaths," Maya murmured, squeezing Cherry’s arm. "You got this. Just... try not to trip over your own tongue."
Cherry forced a weak smile, gathering her bag. The walk to the door felt like crossing a minefield. She pushed it open, the little bell jingling mockingly. The warm morning air hit her face, but it did nothing against the sudden chill of nerves. Devon turned, removing his sunglasses. His dark eyes found hers immediately, sweeping over her with an intensity that felt like a physical caress. He took in her wide eyes, the slight flush on her cheeks, the way she clutched her bag strap like a lifeline.
"Morning," he rumbled, his voice smooth, deep, and utterly normal. As if last night hadn’t happened. As if he hadn’t watched her come undone on a screen.
"Morning," Cherry managed, her voice coming out slightly strangled. She avoided his gaze, focusing instead on a loose thread on her tote bag. Act normal. Just act normal.
Maya followed her out, offering Devon a bright, knowing smile. "Hey Devon! Good luck hiking with this one. Try not to let her overthink herself off a cliff." She gave Cherry a quick hug and a whispered "Call me later!" before heading towards her own car.
Silence descended. Heavy. Laden with everything unsaid. Devon gestured towards the passenger door, opening it for her. "Ready?"
She nodded mutely, sliding into the cool leather seat. The familiar scent of sandalwood and clean cotton filled the car – his scent. It wrapped around her, instantly triggering a cascade of memories: his low voice, his watchful eyes, the phantom sensation of his gaze on her skin. The air crackled. She fastened her seatbelt with slightly trembling fingers, staring straight ahead as he got in beside her, the SUV dipping slightly under his weight. His large hands settled on the steering wheel, competent and steady.
He started the engine, the low growl vibrating through the seats. As he pulled away from the curb, his hand brushed lightly against her thigh as he shifted gears.
A jolt. Electric. Immediate. Her breath hitched, her leg muscles tensing involuntarily. She felt him glance at her, a quick, assessing look she felt rather than saw. He didn’t comment. Didn’t acknowledge the touch beyond what might be considered accidental. He just drove, the silence stretching tight between them, thick with the unbearable weight of last night and the frustrating, undeniable current humming just beneath the surface of this perfectly ordinary Saturday morning. Cherry clenched her hands in her lap, focusing on the passing storefronts, willing her traitorous body not to react, pretending with every fiber of her being that yesterday night didn’t happen, praying he wouldn't remind her. The miles unspooled, the tension coiling tighter with every silent rotation of the tires.
The miles unspooled, the tension coiling tighter with every silent rotation of the tires. Cherry stared fixedly out the passenger window, watching suburban streets blur into wooded parkway. The scent of sandalwood, faint but undeniable, was a constant reminder of his presence inches away. Her black leggings felt suddenly too tight, the fabric clinging, emphasizing her curves in a way she usually owned but now felt hyper-aware of under his potential gaze.
"Traffic wasn't bad at all," Devon remarked casually, his deep voice shattering the quiet. He smoothly shifted gears, his large hand brushing the side of her thigh again – fleeting, dismissible. He didn't look at her. "Guess it cleared up faster than you thought." The reference to her flimsy text lie was subtle, laced with quiet amusement.
Cherry’s breath hitched. "Yeah," she managed, forcing a lightness she didn't feel. "Guess so. Lucky us." She adjusted the strap of her backpack sitting at her feet, filled with water bottles, trail mix, and the small, discreet baggie of weed Maya had insisted would 'take the edge off'. The worn velvet seat fabric suddenly seemed incredibly interesting. "Maya says this trail has a great viewpoint at the top. Wildflowers, apparently. She knows all the good spots."
"Sounds perfect," Devon replied, his tone warm. He reached to adjust the vent, his forearm momentarily brushing against her sweater-covered arm. Another jolt. Another deliberate non-acknowledgment. His calm was infuriating. "Wildflowers are nice. Better company than traffic reports." He glanced at her then, just a quick sweep. "Leggings are a good call. Practical."
Practical. Right. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks, knowing exactly how the soft fabric hugged her hips and backside. Was he commenting on the practicality or the view? She pulled her sweater tighter around herself. "Comfortable," she clarified, her voice a touch too high. "For climbing." She fumbled in her backpack for a water bottle, needing an action, a distraction. "Thirsty already. Dry mouth."
He chuckled, a low rumble she felt in her own chest. "Nerves?" he asked innocently, taking the exit for the state park. "Or just anticipating the climb?" He placed his hand back on the gearshift, knuckles grazing her knee this time. Lingering a fraction longer.
"Just hydrated," Cherry countered, taking a long sip of cool water, avoiding his eyes. The casual touches were a minefield. Each one a tiny detonation, reminding her viscerally of his voice last night, the phantom sensation of his gaze, the heat pooling low in her belly. She focused on the green canopy thickening outside. "It's beautiful out here already."
"It is," Devon agreed, his voice softening. He navigated the winding park road with ease. "Peaceful." He slowed for a sharp curve, his hand settling briefly on the back of her seatrest as if bracing, his fingers grazing the nape of her neck where her locs were gathered. A full-body shiver racked her, impossible to hide. He withdrew his hand slowly. "Sorry. Sharp turn."
The parking lot was mercifully uncrowded. Cherry practically bolted from the SUV the moment it stopped, sucking in the fresh, pine-scented air. Freedom. Space. She slung her backpack on, adjusting the straps over her fitted t-shirt and sweater. Devon retrieved his own pack, his gaze sweeping over her again as she stood beside the car, taking in the snug lines of her leggings, the curve of her hip emphasized by the backpack's waist strap. He didn't comment, just smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his lips. "Ready?"
The trail started gently, winding through dappled sunlight and ferns. Cherry set a brisk pace, partly to put distance between them, partly to burn off the frantic energy buzzing under her skin. She could feel him behind her, a solid, warm presence, his longer strides easily keeping pace. Her awareness of him was acute: the crunch of his boots on the path, the soft sound of his breathing, the weight of his gaze resting squarely on her backside as the trail began to incline.
The path narrowed, twisting upwards between mossy boulders. Cherry scrambled up a short, rocky section, her leggings stretching taut. A large, warm hand settled firmly on the small of her back, steadying her ascent. "Got you," Devon murmured, his breath warm near her ear. The touch wasn't fleeting. It was possessive. Anchoring. Heat flared where his palm pressed, radiating outwards. He didn't remove his hand immediately, letting her feel the solid strength of it.
"Thanks," she breathed, pulling away the moment her feet found level ground. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She didn't look back, just kept walking, faster now. The physical exertion was welcome, the burn in her thighs a distraction from the deeper, more confusing ache within. Sweat prickled at her temples. She could almost feel his satisfied silence behind her.
They reached a flatter section by a burbling stream. Sunlight streamed through the trees, dappling the clear water. "Break?" Devon suggested, his voice calm, unruffled by the climb. He gestured to a large, flat rock near the water's edge. "Good spot. Hydrate."
Cherry nodded, grateful for the pause. She shrugged off her backpack, the movement making her sweater ride up slightly, revealing a sliver of skin above her leggings. She felt his gaze land there, hot and intent, before she quickly tugged the sweater down. Sitting on the sun-warmed rock, she pulled out two water bottles, handing one to Devon. Their fingers brushed. Another spark. Another shared breath.
Devon sat beside her, not too close, but close enough that his leg rested against hers. Solid. Warm. Unapologetic. He took a long drink, watching the water ripple over stones. The silence stretched, comfortable for him, agonizingly loaded for her. "Nice spot," he finally said. "Quiet." He turned his head, his dark eyes meeting hers directly for the first time since the cafe. The intensity was back, the knowing look that saw right through her pretense. He held her gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary, then tilted his head towards her backpack. "So. Maya’s recommended stress relief. Feel like trying it?" A small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. "See if it helps with the... traffic?"
Cherry’s fingers tightened around the water bottle. "The… stress relief?" Her voice sounded thin, scratchy. She glanced at the backpack, then back at Devon’s unwavering gaze. Those dark eyes saw everything: the lie about traffic, the tremor in her hands, the way she’d jumped at his touch on the trail. Maya’s words echoed: Take the edge off.
"Yeah," Devon said, his voice a low hum that vibrated in the quiet forest air. He leaned back slightly, resting his weight on his palms against the sun-warmed rock. "You look wound tighter than a guitar string about to snap. Maya’s usually right about these things." A slow, easy smile touched his lips, not mocking, just… knowing. "Unless you’d rather climb this mountain vibrating like a tuning fork."
Cherry hesitated, the memory of last night’s FaceTime flooding back – the loss of control, the terrifying intimacy. But the constant thrum of awareness around him, the fear and the wanting tangled into one exhausting knot… maybe Maya was right. "I’m… not really a smoker," she admitted, pulling the small, crumpled baggie from her pack’s side pocket. "More of an edible girl. Less… lung assault." She held it out, the dried green buds catching the dappled sunlight. "Maya insisted. Said it was ‘gentle’." She snorted softly, a shaky sound. "Nothing about this week feels gentle."
Devon chuckled, a deep, warm sound like stones tumbling in water. He took the bag, his fingers brushing hers deliberately. A spark. He didn’t flinch. "Edibles sneak up on you," he said, pulling out rolling papers with practiced ease. "This? You feel it quicker. Lets you ease in, adjust." He began deftly crumbling the weed, his large hands surprisingly graceful. "Trust me?" He didn’t look up, focused on the task, but the question hung heavy.
Trust. The word echoed. She watched his capable fingers work, the focus in his profile. After last night, that word felt like stepping onto ice. "Just… go slow? Please?" Her whisper was barely audible over the stream’s gurgle.
"Always do, Cherry," he murmured, finishing the roll with a quick twist. He held it up, a neat, compact cylinder. "Slow and steady." He lit it, took a careful drag, held it, then passed it to her, smoke curling into the clear air. The scent, earthy and pungent, mixed with pine and damp soil. "Small puff. Hold it. Let it out easy."
Cherry took it, her fingers trembling slightly. She mimicked him, inhaling tentatively. The smoke hit her throat, harsh and hot, triggering a short cough. Devon watched, steady, patient. "Again," he encouraged softly. "Smaller." The second puff was smoother. Warmth bloomed low in her chest, spreading outward, softening the sharp edges of her nerves almost immediately. It felt like sinking into a warm bath. "Oh," she breathed, surprise coloring her voice. "Okay. That’s… okay."
They passed the joint back and forth in comfortable silence, the stream’s song becoming richer, the sunlight sharper on the water. Laughter bubbled up in Cherry over nothing – the way a squirrel chittered, the absurdity of being high in the woods with Devon Miller. She took another drag, deeper this time, the initial harshness gone, replaced by a smooth, expanding warmth. Devon’s low chuckle joined hers, a resonant sound that vibrated pleasantly in her own chest. "Told you," he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Ease in."
They smoked more. Much more. The joint disappeared faster than Cherry intended. The world took on a soft, liquid quality. Colors seemed brighter – the vibrant green moss, the deep brown of tree bark, the shocking blue sky peeking through the canopy. Sounds layered: the stream’s rush, the rustle of leaves, the distant cry of a hawk, Devon’s deep, slow breathing beside her. Time stretched and warped. Every sensation was amplified, tinged with a hazy wonder. Her limbs felt loose, heavy, deliciously detached from the coiled tension she’d carried for days. Devon seemed larger beside her, a warm, solid mountain radiating calm. His presence wasn’t threatening anymore; it was grounding. Necessary. "Wow," she sighed, leaning back on her elbows, gazing up at the shifting leaves. "Maya undersold it. This is… floating."
Devon finished the last ember, stubbing it out carefully on the rock. "Feeling better?" His voice was a deep rumble that seemed to travel through the stone into her bones.
"Mmhmm," Cherry hummed, a lazy smile spreading across her face. The constant buzz of anxiety was gone, replaced by a pleasant, syrupy warmth. The fear felt distant, manageable. Even the memory of last night was fuzzier, less sharp. "Lighter. Like I shed my backpack full of rocks." She giggled, the sound light and free. "Floating rocks."
"Good," Devon said, standing up with surprising fluidity for such a big man. He offered her his hand. "Floating’s nice. But the viewpoint’s still up there. Ready to drift upwards?"
Cherry took his hand without hesitation this time, his large palm enveloping hers, warm and secure. He pulled her up easily. She swayed slightly, the world tilting for a dizzy second before settling. "Lead the way, mountain man," she murmured, her words slightly slurred but happy. The forest path stretched before them, dappled with sunlight that now seemed to pulse gently.
The hike resumed, but transformed. Cherry moved slower, her steps deliberate but unsteady, like navigating a shifting deck. The trail seemed steeper, the roots and rocks more pronounced, more eager to trip her. Every leaf, every insect, demanded her attention, pulling her focus. Devon stayed close, his presence a warm anchor at her periphery. The pleasant floating sensation deepened into a heavier, more immersive high. Sounds blurred into a pleasant hum, colors bled at the edges. She felt disconnected from her own body, yet hyper-aware of every sensation: the rough bark of a tree she brushed against, the cool air on her sweat-dampened neck, the powerful, reassuring shape of Devon walking just ahead, occasionally glancing back with a look she couldn’t quite decipher in her altered state – protective, watchful, maybe… amused? Her foot snagged on a gnarled root she swore wasn't there a second ago.
Time seemed to hiccup. One moment she was stepping forward, the next the world pitched violently. The ground rushed up – hard-packed earth, sharp pebbles – alarm slicing through the pleasant haze. She cried out, a short, sharp sound of pure surprise, bracing for impact.
It never came. Strong arms encircled her, yanking her backwards hard against a solid wall of muscle and heat. Devon. He caught her mid-fall, pulling her upright and close, her back pressed flush against his broad chest. The momentum spun her slightly within his grasp until she faced him, her hands instinctively flying up to brace against him. They landed flat on the hard plane of his chest, feeling the powerful thud of his heartbeat beneath her palms, rapid and strong. His arms remained locked around her waist, holding her suspended, her feet barely touching the ground. His scent – sandalwood, clean sweat, and the faint, sweet residue of smoke – enveloped her, intensified by the sudden closeness. His face was inches from hers, his dark eyes wide, pupils dilated in the forest shade, intense and focused solely on her. Breath ragged, hers catching in her throat, his warm against her forehead. The world tilted, but not because of the fall – because of him. The high, the shock, the sheer physical reality of him holding her, saving her… it crashed together, a dizzying wave that left her clinging to him, suspended in the sudden, electric quiet of the woods, their rapid breaths the only sound.