Chapter 4: Interruption
The rasp of Devon’s calloused thumb circling her nipple sent a bolt of pure lightning straight down Cherry’s spine. Her cry, sharp and involuntary, echoed faintly against the ancient oak bark pressed against her shoulders. His mouth swallowed the sound, his kiss deepening into something bruising, possessive, as his hand molded her bare breast beneath the thin sports bra. The high amplified everything – the rough scrape of bark, the damp coolness of moss beneath her sneakers, the blinding dapple of sunlight, the overwhelming pressure of Devon’s body pinning hers, the relentless, skilled assault of his hands and mouth. Need coiled tighter, a desperate spiral threatening to unravel her completely. His hips rocked against hers, the hard ridge of his arousal a stark, undeniable promise against her belly. Her own hips arched instinctively, seeking friction, seeking release from the aching pressure building low inside her.
"Devon," she gasped against his lips, the name dissolving into another helpless moan as his thumb pressed harder on her sensitized peak.
He growled low in response, a primal sound of satisfaction vibrating through his chest into hers. His free hand slid lower, fingers tracing the waistband of her leggings, dipping beneath the elastic, seeking the heat gathering there—
Snap.
The sound was sharp, brittle. Close.
Cherry froze. Every muscle locked. Devon’s hand stilled instantly against her hip bone. His mouth lifted from hers a fraction. His dark eyes, heavy-lidded with desire, snapped towards the sound, scanning the dense undergrowth beyond the massive oak.
Silence. Then, the distinct murmur of voices, faint but unmistakable, carried on the breeze filtering through the trees. Hikers. Approaching.
Panic, cold and sudden, slammed into Cherry’s chest, obliterating the molten heat of seconds before. It was like plunging into icy water. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden stillness. People. Close. The reality of where they were, what they were doing, crashed over her. Pinned against a tree in broad daylight, half-undressed, Devon’s hand under her shirt, his erection pressing against her… Anyone could see.
"Stop!" The word burst from her lips, harsh and breathless. She shoved against Devon’s chest with surprising force, fueled by pure adrenaline.
He stumbled back half a step, surprise flashing across his face, quickly replaced by confusion. "Cherry? What—?"
"People!" she hissed, her voice trembling. She scrambled away from the tree trunk, her movements jerky, frantic. Her hands flew to her clothes, yanking the hem of her t-shirt down over the waistband of her leggings where his hand had been. She tugged at the sports bra strap beneath her shirt, her fingers fumbling. Every brush of fabric against her sensitized skin felt like an electric shock. Her face burned. Oh god, oh god. The high, which had amplified the pleasure moments ago, now amplified the panic tenfold. The world tilted slightly, the green canopy swimming. She felt exposed, raw, utterly frazzled. The intensity of what had just happened – Devon’s hands, his mouth, the sheer want that had consumed her – hit her like a physical blow. Shock vibrated through her, cold and sharp.
Devon watched her, his brow furrowed, his own breathing still rapid. He ran a hand through his dark hair, the gesture tense. "Cherry, it's okay," he started, his voice low, trying to regain control. "They're probably just passing—"
"No!" she cut him off, sharper than she intended. She couldn't meet his eyes. The confusion in his gaze felt like an accusation. "We… we need to go. Now. Hike. We were hiking." The words tumbled out, disjointed, nonsensical. She adjusted her backpack strap with trembling hands, needing something, anything, to do. "Come on." She started walking stiffly down the trail, away from the oak, away from the voices, away from the devastating intimacy of moments ago. Her legs felt shaky, uncoordinated. The pleasant buzz of the weed was now a frantic hum under her skin, amplifying every rustle of leaves, every distant birdcall into potential threat.
Devon stood rooted for a moment, watching her retreating back. A muscle jumped in his jaw. He adjusted himself with a grimace, the evidence of his arousal still apparent beneath his jeans. He took a deep breath, the scent of pine and damp earth filling his lungs, trying to clear the lingering haze of desire and sudden confusion. Then, with a muttered curse under his breath, he shouldered his pack and followed her.
The trail stretched ahead, winding through sun-dappled woods. Cherry walked fast, almost stumbling on roots, her gaze fixed straight ahead. She could feel Devon behind her, a solid, silent presence radiating a mix of frustration and bewildered concern. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension, thick and awkward. Every nerve ending still sang from his touch, but the memory was now tangled with the icy grip of panic. Her mind raced, replaying the frantic push, the shock on his face, the sheer vulnerability of being caught. She felt stupid. Reckless. What was I thinking?
The silence stretched, broken only by the crunch of their footsteps on the path and Cherry’s own ragged breathing. She desperately wanted to say something, anything, to break the awful tension. An apology? An explanation? But the words clogged her throat. How could she explain the sudden terror that had eclipsed everything? The fear of being seen, judged? The ghost of Keith’s critical voice whispering too much, too fast, too exposed?
Devon caught up, falling into step beside her. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t speak. Just walked, his gaze fixed forward, his profile unreadable. The easy camaraderie of earlier was gone, replaced by a charged, uncomfortable silence. The forest, moments ago a sanctuary of shared heat, now felt vast and isolating.
Cherry risked a sideways glance. His jaw was set, his shoulders tense beneath his t-shirt. The memory of those shoulders under her hands, solid and powerful, flashed unbidden. A fresh wave of heat, entirely unwanted, washed over her face. She looked away quickly, focusing on a patch of bright orange mushrooms sprouting from a rotting log. Still high. Still shocked. The mantra echoed in her head, a feeble explanation for the chaos inside her. The trail curved, revealing a steep incline ahead. She gripped her water bottle tightly, the plastic cool against her sweating palm, and forced her trembling legs to carry her forward, away from the oak tree, away from the precipice they’d almost tumbled over, deeper into the woods where the only sound was the frantic pounding of her own heart and the heavy silence walking beside her.
She gripped her water bottle tightly, the plastic cool against her sweating palm, and forced her trembling legs to carry her forward, away from the oak tree, away from the precipice they’d almost tumbled over, deeper into the woods where the only sound was the frantic pounding of her own heart and the heavy silence walking beside her. Every root seemed determined to trip her, every rustle in the ferns sounded like approaching hikers. Devon’s presence beside her was a solid wall of unspoken questions, radiating a heat that had nothing to do with the sun filtering through the leaves. She couldn't look at him. Couldn't process the feel of his hands still imprinted on her skin, the demanding pressure of his mouth, the terrifying intensity of that moment before the snap. The high, instead of fading, made everything too sharp, too loud, the awkward silence between them a physical weight pressing down.
"Should've… uh… stayed on the main trail," Devon finally offered, his voice rough, cutting through the thick quiet like a dull knife. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, his strides long and measured, deliberately matching her jerky pace.
Cherry flinched at the sound. "Yeah," she managed, the word barely a whisper scraping her throat. "Stupid… getting lost." She took a desperate gulp of water, the cool liquid doing nothing to douse the internal firestorm of embarrassment and residual, unwanted arousal. Her shorts felt damp between her legs, a humiliating reminder. She adjusted her backpack straps, pulling them tight like armor. "Sorry. About… back there. Panicked." The apology felt inadequate, pathetic.
He glanced at her then, a quick, sidelong look she caught in her periphery. "S'okay," he murmured, but the tightness around his eyes didn't relax. "Heard the snap. Freaked me out too." A beat. "Didn't expect you to…" He trailed off, leaving the shove me away like I was assaulting you hanging, unspoken but heavy in the air.
Cherry’s face flamed anew. "I know. Just… people. Didn't think. Sorry." She sounded like a broken record. Her mind raced, scrabbling for something, anything, to erase the image of his confused, slightly hurt expression when she'd pushed him. "The weed," she blurted out, grasping. "Makes everything… louder. The panic, I mean." It was partly true. Mostly a shield.
Devon made a noncommittal sound, a low hum deep in his chest that vibrated with skepticism. "Right." He kicked a loose stone off the path, sending it skittering into the undergrowth. "Loud." The word landed flat. He didn't buy it. He knew the difference between weed-jitters and primal fear. The silence descended again, denser than before, thick with everything they weren't saying. His nearness was a constant, electric reminder of the heat they'd generated, now replaced by this icy chasm.
The trail opened suddenly into a small, mossy clearing bisected by the same chattering stream they’d followed earlier. Sunlight pooled warmly on a massive, smooth-barked log lying parallel to the water. It was undeniably picturesque. Undeniably a place to stop. Cherry’s legs trembled with exhaustion, the adrenaline crash hitting hard. She slowed, hesitated, her gaze darting between the inviting log and Devon’s rigid back as he walked a few paces past it.
"Should we…?" she started, gesturing weakly towards the log. "Rest? For a minute?" Her voice sounded small, tentative. She needed to stop moving. Needed to not feel like she was running.
Devon stopped. He didn't turn immediately, his shoulders tense beneath the worn cotton of his t-shirt. He scanned the clearing, the trees, the water – anywhere but her. Finally, he nodded once, sharp. "Sure. Feet are killing me." He walked back, his movements deliberate, avoiding her eyes. He dropped his pack onto the moss with a soft thud, then lowered himself onto one end of the wide log, leaving a conspicuous expanse of smooth wood between them. He stretched his long legs out, crossing his ankles, and stared fixedly at the rushing water, his profile unreadable.
Cherry swallowed, her throat tight. She approached slowly, her sneakers sinking into the soft moss. The scent of damp earth and decaying leaves filled her nostrils, a stark contrast to the jasmine and sweat memory still clinging to her senses. She perched carefully on the far end of the log, the cool bark slightly damp through her leggings. She kept her backpack on, a barrier. The distance between them felt like miles. She fumbled with her water bottle again, the crinkling plastic absurdly loud in the quiet glade.
They sat. The stream gurgled. A bird called, high and sharp, somewhere in the canopy. Sunlight dappled Devon's folded arms, highlighting the tension coiled in his biceps, the same arms that had lifted her, pinned her, held her. Cherry picked at a loose thread on her shorts, her mind a whirlwind of fragmented thoughts – the scrape of bark, the press of his hips, the cold terror of the snap, the confusion in his eyes, the dampness between her legs. The high was fading, leaving behind a raw, shaky vulnerability. She opened her mouth. Closed it. What could she possibly say? I wanted you to keep going? I’m terrified of wanting that? I’m scared of you seeing me?
Devon shifted slightly, the log groaning under his weight. He uncrossed and recrossed his ankles. Cleared his throat. Stared harder at the water. The silence wasn't peaceful. It was thick, charged, awkward as hell. The space between them on the sun-warmed log might as well have been an uncrossable canyon filled with everything left unsaid beneath the oak tree. Cherry dug her fingernails into the plastic bottle, the only sound now the frantic pulse thrumming in her own ears and the indifferent rush of the stream.
Cherry dug her fingernails into the plastic bottle, the only sound now the frantic pulse thrumming in her own ears and the indifferent rush of the stream. Sunlight warmed her knees, a stark contrast to the chill spreading through her chest. The moss smelled like wet earth and decay, nothing like the pine and sweat clinging to Devon’s skin just minutes ago.
He shifted on the log again, the wood groaning. "So." His voice was low, rough like stones scraping together. Not looking at her. "That."
"Yeah." She couldn’t manage more. That. The kiss that felt like falling. The hands that burned. The snap. The shove.
Silence swallowed them whole. A dragonfly darted over the stream, iridescent wings catching the light. Useless beauty. Cherry focused on its path, anything but the man radiating tension two feet away. She traced the condensation on her bottle with a shaky finger. Stupid. Reckless. Freak.
He uncrossed his legs slowly, deliberately. Planted his feet wide on the moss. Leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. He stared at the water, but his posture vibrated with coiled energy. "Cherry." Her name wasn't gentle. It was a demand.
Her head snapped up. "What?" Too sharp. Defensive.
He finally turned his head. His dark eyes weren't confused anymore. They were intense, probing. Searching her face like he was reading a map he couldn’t quite decipher. "Back there." A jerk of his chin towards the trail. "That wasn't just about people."
Her breath hitched. She looked down, picking at the loose thread on her shorts again. "I told you. The weed. The noise... I panicked."
"Bullshit." The word was quiet, flat, final. Not angry. Certain. "The weed makes things fuzzy. Louder, yeah. But it doesn’t make you shove someone like they’re attacking you." He paused, the stream filling the void. "Did I scare you?"
The question hung, sharp and heavy. Her throat tightened. Yes. No. Not like that. "No. It wasn't... you." The lie tasted bitter.
"Then what?" He didn’t move, just held her in that unwavering gaze. "One second you’re…" His jaw clenched. The memory of her moan, her arching body, hung between them. "...and the next you look like I pulled a knife." He leaned forward a fraction, the distance feeling suddenly dangerous. "Talk to me. What happened?"
The raw concern beneath the frustration undid her. Tears pricked, hot and unwelcome. She swiped angrily at her eyes. "I don’t know! Okay? Just… dropped me right out of it. Like cold water." She gestured vaguely, helplessly. "The thought of someone seeing… seeing me like that. It just… happened." Her voice cracked on the last word. Shame washed over her, colder than any stream.
"Like what?" His voice softened almost imperceptibly. "Like you wanted me?"
The bluntness stole her breath. She flinched. "Like I was… exposed. Out of control." The words stumbled out, raw and inadequate. "Like I was doing something wrong." Keith’s voice, sharp: "Tacky, Cherry. Desperate." She squeezed her eyes shut.
Devon was silent for a long moment. The stream babbled. The dragonfly was gone. When he spoke again, his voice was low, thoughtful, carrying an edge she hadn't heard before. "Wrong?" He let the word sit. "Wrong how? Because you wanted it?" He pushed himself off the log, standing. He didn’t loom, but his height, the sheer physicality of him blocking the sun, made her feel small. "Because I wanted you?"
He took a single step towards her end of the log. Not threatening. Deliberate. His shadow fell over her. "Look at me." It wasn’t a request this time.
Her head lifted slowly. She met his eyes, dark and unreadable. The fading high left her stripped bare, every nerve ending raw. His gaze held hers, relentless. "Did it feel wrong when my mouth was on you? When you were arching into me?" His voice was a low rasp, stripping away pretense. "Or did it just feel real? Scary as hell, maybe. But real."
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t look away. The truth screamed inside her. Real. It felt terrifyingly, overwhelmingly real.
He took another step. Now he was directly in front of her, close enough for her to see the faint stubble along his jaw, the intensity burning in his eyes. He didn’t touch her. The space between them crackled. "That panic back there," he said, his voice dropping even lower, almost intimate, "wasn't about hikers. It was about this." He gestured between them. "About letting go. About letting someone see you." He leaned down, just slightly, bringing his face level with hers. His scent – pine, sweat, the lingering ghost of weed – enveloped her. "Scares the shit out of you, doesn't it?"
Her lips parted. No sound came out. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She wanted to run. To disappear. To pull him closer. The contradiction tore at her.
"Talk to me, Cherry," he murmured, his breath warm on her cheek. "Right now. Before you think too hard and disappear again." His gaze locked onto hers, refusing to let her hide. "Tell me what you’re running from."