Chapter 3: The crack
The world stopped. Suspended between the hard plane of Devon’s chest and the empty air where the ground should have been, Cherry gasped. Her palms pressed flat against the solid warmth beneath his t-shirt, feeling the frantic drumbeat of his heart hammering against her fingertips. His arms, iron bands locked around her waist, held her effortlessly aloft. His breath, warm and rapid, fanned her forehead. The scent of him – sweat, pine resin, sandalwood, and the sweet, earthy ghost of weed – filled her senses, thick and dizzying. The forest spun gently, a kaleidoscope of green and dappled gold, the high amplifying every sensation into something liquid and overwhelming.
Her own breath hitched, ragged. Shocked eyes met his. Inches away, his dark gaze was intense, pupils blown wide, searching hers. Not just assessing her physical state. Reading the frantic pulse in her throat, the dilated pupils mirroring his, the sheer, breathless shock tangled with something else… something that had been simmering since he’d watched her unravel last night, since he’d casually brushed her thigh in the car, since his hand had lingered possessively on her back. The fear of falling morphed, instantly, into a different kind of vertigo. The complex knot of want and terror Maya had named, loosened by the weed and tightened by proximity, suddenly pulled taut.
One heartbeat. Two. The quiet of the woods pressed in, broken only by their synchronized panting and the distant chuckle of the stream.
Then, without thought, driven by the high, the adrenaline, the unbearable weight of everything unsaid, Cherry surged forward.
Her mouth found his.
It wasn't gentle. It was clumsy, fueled by the momentum of her near-fall and the frantic energy thrumming through her. Lips pressed hard against his, a desperate, seeking pressure. Heat flared, instantaneous and shocking. The contact was electric, grounding the dizzy spin of the world into this single, burning point.
Devon froze for a microsecond. Utter stillness. Then a low groan vibrated from his chest into hers, a sound of pure, visceral reaction. His arms tightened, crushing her against him, lifting her higher until her toes barely scraped the forest floor. He took control of the kiss instantly, his mouth opening hers with a demanding pressure that stole her breath. It wasn't soft exploration; it was claiming.
He tasted of smoke and mint gum and something uniquely, powerfully him. His lips were firm, demanding, moving against hers with a hunger that mirrored the ache deep inside her. The high intensified the sensation, turning the slide of his tongue against hers into a slow, molten burn. Every nerve ending sparked. The careful distance he’d maintained shattered.
He broke the kiss just long enough to whirl her, her back slamming against the rough bark of a massive oak. The impact knocked a gasp from her lungs. He pressed into her, pinning her there with the hard length of his body. One large hand cradled the back of her head, protecting it from the bark, his fingers tangling in the roots of her locs. The other slid down, tracing the curve of her waist, over the swell of her hip, coming to rest possessively high on her thigh, just below the hem of her shorts. The rasp of calloused skin against the sensitive skin of her outer thigh sent a jolt straight to her core.
His mouth crashed back onto hers, deeper this time, hotter. The kiss was all-consuming, a devouring intensity that left no room for thought, only sensation. His hand on her thigh shifted, sliding around to cup the curve of her ass through the thin leggings, pulling her hips flush against his. She gasped into his mouth as she felt the hard ridge of his arousal pressing insistently against her belly. The reality of it – his size, his need, the sheer physical evidence of his desire – sent a fresh wave of heat flooding through her, dampening her underwear instantly.
Her hands, trapped momentarily between their bodies, finally moved. They slid up the solid plane of his chest, over the powerful curve of his shoulders, fingers digging into the flexed muscle there, anchoring herself. A low, ragged moan escaped her throat, muffled against his lips. It wasn't a conscious sound; it was pure, unfiltered reaction to the press of his body, the demanding sweep of his tongue, the possessive grip of his hands. The sound seemed to ignite him further. His hand on her ass squeezed, kneading the firm muscle, his hips rocking forward once, deliberately, grinding that hard ridge against her softness. Another, louder moan tore from her, vibrating against his mouth. She arched into him, seeking more pressure, more friction, the primal need eclipsing fear, eclipsing thought.
He tore his mouth from hers, trailing searing kisses down the sensitive column of her neck. His teeth scraped lightly over her pulse point, making her cry out, her head falling back against the bark, baring more skin to his assault. "Devon," she gasped, the name a plea, a question, a surrender.
He hummed against her skin, the vibration resonating deep within her. His hand slid upwards from her thigh, under the hem of her t-shirt. Warm, rough fingers skated over the smooth skin of her stomach, leaving trails of fire. She trembled violently, her breath coming in sharp, shallow pants. He didn't rush. His palm flattened, spanning her ribs, his thumb brushing the sensitive underside of her breast through her sports bra. She whimpered, the sound high and desperate. The thin fabric felt suddenly suffocating.
His lips found her ear, his breath hot and damp. "Tell me," he murmured, his voice a rough, dark rasp that scraped along her nerves. "Tell me what you want, Cherry." He pressed his thumb down more firmly, circling the tight peak of her nipple straining against the bra. "These little sounds you make…" He nipped her earlobe. "I need to hear you say it."
His hand under her shirt inched higher, fingers tracing the lower curve of her breast. The anticipation was exquisite torture. The high made every touch hyper-real, every whispered word a physical caress. She felt exposed, pinned, desired beyond reason. The fear was still there, a faint echo beneath the roar of sensation – Keith’s critical voice, the fear of being vulnerable, of being seen. But the wanting… the wanting was a flood tide, washing everything else away. Devon’s demanding presence, the intense focus of his desire solely on her, shattered the old fear like glass.
"Touch me," she breathed, the words ragged, barely audible. "Please. Devon… touch me." It was permission. An invitation. A release.
He made a sound like a growl deep in his chest, a rumble of pure masculine satisfaction. His hand finally slid fully under the cup of her sports bra, his warm, calloused palm claiming the swell of her bare breast. His thumb rasped over her taut nipple. A strangled cry burst from her lips, sharp and involuntary, echoing faintly in the green stillness. Her hips bucked against the hard press of his, seeking friction where she ached most. The rough bark scraped her shoulders, the cool moss beneath her feet was damp, the dappled sunlight was blindingly bright. Sensation overload. Devon’s mouth returned to hers, swallowing her cries, his kiss now a bruising, consuming force as his hand moved on her breast, learning her shape, her sensitivity, pulling another helpless moan from deep within her throat. The world narrowed to the pressure of his body, the relentless skill of his hands and mouth, and the desperate, rising spiral of need tightening inside her.