Chapter 7: Can’t take it anymore
The sharp clatter of the sponge hitting the stainless steel sink basin was drowned out by the roar in Cherry’s ears. Devon’s face pressed hard, insistently, into the soft, yielding swell of her breast beneath the thin cashmere. The friction was brutal, overwhelming. His hot breath seared through the fabric. His hands kneaded her flesh, possessive and demanding. A violent shudder wracked her body, born not of fear alone, but of something deeper, hotter, and infinitely more terrifying.
It felt good.
The treacherous spark ignited by his earlier touch, fanned by the weed’s stubborn buzz and the sheer, shocking intimacy of his invasion, exploded into a wildfire. Shame warred violently with a liquid, desperate pull low in her belly. Keith’s ghostly accusation – frigid – collided with the undeniable, electric response lighting up her nerves where his thumb circled her nipple. A choked sound escaped her, half-sob, half something else entirely.
Devon growled against her, the vibration rumbling through her core. He felt it. Heard it. "Yeah," he rasped, his voice muffled by her flesh, thick with satisfaction. "That's it. Let go."
Her hands, braced against the cold sink edge a moment ago, moved without conscious thought. Driven by that confusing, primal surge, tangled in the haze of sensation and the ghost of judgment, her fingers plunged into the thick waves of his hair. Not pushing away. Pulling. Pulling his face harder, deeper, into the aching softness he was claiming. Her head fell back against the upper cabinet with a soft thud, a moan ripped from her throat – low, guttural, and utterly feminine.
He froze for a split second, surprised by the force of her pull. Then a dark laugh vibrated against her. "Fuck yes," he breathed, his voice raw. He lifted his face just enough to look up at her, his eyes burning with undisguised hunger, fixed on the damp patch his mouth had left on the cashmere over her nipple. The sheer, raw need in his gaze was a lightning bolt straight to her core.
He didn't hesitate. His hands left her breasts, sliding down her sides with deliberate slowness, savoring the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips. He gripped the hem of her oversized sweater. "Up," he commanded, his voice rough. It wasn't a request. It was the cracking of a whip.
Cherry’s breath hitched. The cold dread tried to resurface, but it drowned beneath the roaring tide of sensation he’d unleashed. Her trembling hands released his hair, fumbling for a moment before obeying. She lifted her arms, the motion exposing the soft skin of her belly. The cool kitchen air hit her skin as he peeled the sweater up and over her head in one swift motion, tossing it carelessly onto the counter beside the forgotten soup mugs. The simple black cotton bra beneath felt suddenly flimsy, utterly inadequate against the heat in his eyes.
He didn't pause to look. His calloused fingers found the front clasp. A flick, a snap, and it gave way. The cups fell open, releasing her heavy, full breasts, the large, dark brown areolas taut and exposed in the harsh fluorescent light. Devon let out a low, reverent groan. "Christ, Cherry," he breathed, his gaze devouring her. "Look at you."
Before she could register the exposure, the vulnerability, his hands were back. Rough palms cupped their full weight, fingers splaying wide, claiming every inch. His thumbs swept roughly over her nipples, drawing another sharp cry from her. He dipped his head, his mouth closing hot and wet over one taut peak. The sensation was electric, shocking, devastating. He sucked, hard, his tongue swirling possessively, teeth grazing with just enough pressure to make her gasp and arch off the sink, her hands flying back to clutch his head.
"Devon!" His name was a ragged plea, lost in the wet, sucking sounds.
He switched breasts, giving the same fierce, demanding attention to the other. The pull was deep, insistent, sending waves of pure sensation radiating outwards, coiling tighter and tighter low in her belly. Her moans came faster now, higher, softer whimpers escaping with each breath. She tangled her fingers tighter in his hair, not directing anymore, just clinging, lost in the overwhelming tide.
He lifted his head, his lips glistening. His eyes, dark and predatory, locked onto hers. "Love those sounds," he rasped, his voice gravelly with desire. "Don't hold back. Let me hear you. Every fucking moan." His hands slid down her sides, over the curve of her hips, finding the waistband of her soft leggings. He hooked his thumbs in. "These gotta go."
He didn't ask. He pulled, yanking the leggings and the thin cotton panties beneath down her hips in one rough motion. They pooled around her ankles. The cool air hit her bare skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating from Devon as he dropped to his knees before her. Cherry stared down, stunned, her breath catching in her throat. He was framed by the cabinets, the harsh light catching the angles of his face, his gaze fixed unwaveringly between her legs.
"Devon..." she breathed, a tremor of uncertainty breaking through the haze.
"Shut up," he commanded softly, his hands gripping her bare hips, holding her firmly against the sink. "Just feel." His breath ghosted over her inner thighs, hot and intimate. "Wanna taste this sweet pussy." His thumbs parted her, exposing her fully to the light, to his gaze. "Been thinkin' about it all fuckin' day. Since the trail. That fat little pussy beggin' for my mouth."
The crude words, echoing his earlier violation, should have sent ice through her veins. Instead, coupled with the intense vulnerability and the searing heat of his stare, they sent another shocking pulse of desire straight to her core. She trembled violently.
Then his mouth was on her.
Hot. Wet. Insistent. His tongue swept a broad, flat stroke from the lowest part of her slit up to her aching clit. Cherry cried out, her hips jerking forward involuntarily, her hands flying to the counter edge for support, her head slamming back against the cabinet again. Stars burst behind her eyelids.
He didn't tease. He dove in. His tongue delved deep, probing, exploring her slick heat with a focused intensity that stole her breath. He circled her clit, firm and rhythmic, then sucked it gently between his lips, applying just the right pressure. Pleasure, sharp and undeniable, lanced through her, erasing thought, erasing fear, leaving only sensation. Her moans became continuous, a soft, high-pitched keening she barely recognized as her own. She writhed against the sink, her thighs trembling, trying to press closer, to get more.
"Fuck, yes," Devon growled against her, the vibration sending fresh shocks through her. "Just like that. Take it. Take what you need." He slid one hand from her hip, slipping a finger inside her, curling it upwards as his tongue continued its relentless assault on her clit. The dual sensation was overwhelming. She gasped, her body bowing. "Use me," he commanded, his voice thick. "Grind that fat pussy on my face. Don't fuckin' hold back."
His words shattered the last shred of inhibition fueled by desperate need. With a broken sob that was pure surrender, Cherry pushed her hips forward, grinding herself against his mouth. She felt the rough texture of his beard, the relentless pressure of his tongue, the deep curl of his finger. Her hands, slick with sweat, clutched at his hair again, not pulling, but pressing, holding his face exactly where she needed it. "Oh god... oh god, Devon..." she moaned, the sounds pouring out of her, high and breathless. "There... right there..."
He increased the pressure, sucking harder, his finger pumping steadily. The coil inside her wound impossibly tight, a screaming tension centered where his mouth worked magic. She saw flashes behind her closed eyes – the firelight, the oak tree, Maya's scarf, Keith's sneer – all obliterated by pure, blinding sensation. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her body tensed like a drawn bowstring. The pressure built, cresting, unbearable...
Devon suddenly pulled back. His mouth left her with a wet, obscene sound. His finger slid out. Cherry gasped, bereft, confused, teetering on the edge. Her eyes flew open, blurry with tears of frustration and overwhelming need. He looked up at her, his chin glistening, his breathing harsh. His eyes weren't soft. They were fierce, possessive.
"Good girl," he rasped, the words landing like a blow and a caress. He surged to his feet, his body towering over her again, crowding her back against the sink. The rigid outline of his erection pressed hard against her bare belly. He grabbed a fistful of her long locs near the scalp, not painfully, but with absolute control. He used the grip to tilt her head back, forcing her to meet his intense gaze. His other hand slid down, fingers slick from her, tracing the wet heat between her legs. "Want this dick now?" he demanded, his voice raw, his thumb circling her clit with agonizing precision, keeping her poised on that knife-edge. "Want me to fill up that greedy little hole?"
Cherry couldn't speak. Her body screamed yes. Her mind was a white noise of need and shame and the terrifying memory of his earlier violence. Her hips arched involuntarily towards that teasing thumb. A desperate whimper escaped her.
He grinned, a predator with his prize. His grip tightened in her hair. "Up," he commanded again, his voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. "Legs around me. Now." He released her hair only to grab her hips, lifting her effortlessly off her feet, her leggings still tangled around her ankles. Her back pressed against the cold cabinet doors. Her world narrowed to his burning eyes, the insistent pressure between her legs, and the terrifying, exhilarating knowledge of what came next. The distant hum of the refrigerator was the only sound besides their ragged breathing. He shifted, aligning himself. The blunt, hot pressure pressed against her entrance. Her breath stopped.
The blunt pressure against her slick entrance vanished as Devon abruptly set her down. Her bare feet hit the cold linoleum, the shock a brief jolt against the electric hum still coursing through her. He stepped back, his breathing harsh, eyes fixed on her exposed body with a feral intensity that made her skin prickle. Before she could process the withdrawal, his hands flew to his belt buckle.
The metallic rasp echoed in the silent kitchen. Button popped. Zipper ripped down. He shoved his jeans and boxers over his hips in one rough motion. They pooled around his ankles, forgotten.
Cherry’s gaze snapped downward. Her breath hitched, a sharp gasp escaping. Oh god. He was thick, rigid, the flushed head glistening, veins prominent along the shaft. It looked impossibly huge, intimidating. The memory of Keith’s impatient complaints about her tightness collided with the sheer physical reality before her. A wave of pure, animal panic surged. Too much. Her body recoiled instinctively. She tried to twist away, scrambling back against the cabinets, her legs tangling in the leggings still around her ankles.
"Whoa, whoa, easy," Devon murmured, his voice low but threaded with steel. He didn’t grab her roughly. Instead, he stepped forward, deftly kicking his discarded clothes aside. His hands landed firmly on her hips, stopping her retreat. His thumbs pressed into the soft flesh just above her hip bones, an anchor point. "Look at me, Cherry." His voice was calm, commanding, brooking no argument.
She forced her eyes up from the intimidating sight to meet his. The hunger was still there, blazing, but overlaid now with a chilling certainty. An alpha dominance, quiet and absolute. "You want this," he stated, not asked. His grip on her hips tightened possessively. "That sweet, greedy pussy just soaked my face. You begged for it with every sound you made." He held her gaze, unwavering. "This is what comes next. What you need next."
Her pulse hammered in her throat. The kitchen felt suddenly claustrophobic, the fluorescent light too harsh, illuminating her vulnerability. She trembled, caught between the fading echoes of intense pleasure and the cold spike of fear. His size. His control. The sheer inevitability in his eyes. "Devon, I—"
He didn’t let her finish. In one smooth, powerful motion, his hands slid from her hips. One arm wrapped firmly around her waist, scooping under her soft stomach, fingers splayed possessively across the curve of her lower belly. The other hand gripped her upper arm. He lifted her effortlessly, her feet leaving the floor, the leggings finally slipping off.
Her world tilted. He pivoted, carrying her the few steps from the harsh kitchen glare back into the dim, firelit warmth of the living room. The scent of vanilla candles and woodsmoke washed over her, a jarring contrast to the raw tension. He didn’t pause. With a grunt of effort that vibrated through her, he shifted his grip.
He flipped her.
Not violently, but decisively. Her perspective whirled – ceiling, firelight, the worn fabric of the couch rushing up. He guided her descent, bending her upper body forward. Her palms slammed onto the plush cushions of the couch, the soft fabric bunching under her hands. He guided her knees apart, planting them firmly on the edge of the seat cushion. Her soft, full ass was now high in the air, presented to him, the firelight dancing over the curves of her bare back and the swell of her hips. The cool air kissed her exposed skin, heightening her vulnerability. He kept a heavy hand planted low on her back, just above the dimples at the base of her spine, pressing down firmly, pinning her in place over the armrest. His other hand traced a slow, deliberate path down the valley of her spine, over the roundness of her ass, coming to rest possessively on her hip. His breath, hot and ragged, ghosted over the small of her back. The weight of his impending possession hung thick in the firelit air.
The weight of his impending possession hung thick in the firelit air. Devon’s grip on her hip tightened, a silent command. His other hand, rough and possessive, slid down the curve of her ass, fingers spreading wide. Cherry braced, muscles coiling like springs, the exposed skin of her back prickling under his gaze and the fire’s heat. Her breath strangled in her throat, a trapped bird.
Then it happened. A single, brutal thrust.
He sheathed himself inside her to the hilt in one smooth, powerful movement. The sudden, shocking fullness stole her breath. A raw, involuntary gasp ripped from her lungs – sharp, pained, echoing in the suddenly silent room save for the crackling fire. It was too much, too fast, too deep. Panic surged, cold and primal. Get out. Get away. Her body reacted before her mind could fully process, muscles clenching instinctively tight against the invasion. She tried to scramble forward, away from the overwhelming pressure, her palms slipping on the velvet couch cushion, legs instinctively trying to fold closed. "W-wait—" she choked out, the word thin and desperate.
"Shh, just breathe," Devon commanded, his voice a low, guttural rasp against the back of her neck. He didn’t withdraw. He held her pinned firmly over the armrest, one hand still anchoring her hip, the other sliding up to fist tightly in the thick locs cascading down her back. The grip in her hair wasn’t cruel, but absolute, controlling the angle. "Relax into it, baby. Feel me. All of me." His hips ground forward minutely, ensuring she felt every inch. "So fuckin' tight... like a fist."
The initial sear of intrusion began to shift. It was a strange alchemy. The overwhelming stretch, the deep pressure where he filled her, began to morph. The tight clench of her muscles wasn’t just resistance anymore; it was friction. Deep, rippling friction against hypersensitive nerves awakened by his mouth just minutes before. A treacherous spark ignited low in her belly, flickering against the cold dread. She whimpered, the sound different this time – less panic, more confused sensation.
He started to move. Slow, deliberate pulls almost to the tip, then forceful drives back deep. Each retreat created a shocking vacuum, each return a jolting fullness. The rhythm was insistent, undeniable. That treacherous spark flared hotter, spreading liquid heat through her core. Her body, still tense, betrayed her. A low moan vibrated in her chest, escaping as a soft, breathy sigh against the couch cushion. Devon growled, the sound vibrating against her skin. "That’s it. Let me hear you. Sound so fuckin' sexy."
He snapped his hips harder, the force driving her forward an inch on the cushion. The grip in her locs tightened, holding her steady. The sharp slap of skin on skin joined the fire’s crackle. The deep friction ignited into something else entirely – a coil tightening low in her belly, a demanding pulse echoing the rhythm he set. Her earlier attempt to flee dissolved. Instead, her body sought more. Tentatively, hesitantly, as if discovering its own will, her hips pushed back against the downward thrust. Meeting him.
Devon froze for a fraction of a second, surprised. Then a dark, triumphant laugh rumbled from him. "Oh yeah? You want it like that, Cherry?" He released her hair momentarily, letting his hands grip her wide hips firmly, fingers digging into the soft flesh. "Show me. Show me how bad you want this dick."
Emboldened by the intense, building pressure spiraling inside her, driven by a need that drowned out thought and shame, Cherry obeyed. She threw her hips back hard against him, meeting his next thrust with a force that made him grunt. The impact sent a fresh shockwave of pleasure radiating through her. She did it again. And again. Finding his rhythm, amplifying it. Her soft, feminine moans transformed. They became louder, deeper, guttural cries that spilled out unrestrained with each powerful backward surge of her hips. "Ohgodohgodohgod," she chanted into the velvet, her voice thick, almost sobbing with sensation.
"Fuck yes!" Devon snarled, his control slipping into raw abandon. He matched her ferocity, driving into her welcoming heat with punishing force, spurred on by the lewd sound of their joining and her unrestrained vocalizations. His hands on her hips guided her, encouraged the frantic rocking, the desperate meeting of flesh. "Throw that fat ass back! Harder! Take it!" The firelight danced wildly over her arched back, the sweat-slicked curves of her ass slamming rhythmically against him, her locs swinging wildly with each forceful motion. Her moans built, crescendoing into near-screams with each deep plunge, pure, unadulterated need tearing from her throat as her body moved with a primal, demanding hunger she’d never known she possessed.
Her moans built, crescendoing into near-screams with each deep plunge, pure, unadulterated need tearing from her throat as her body moved with a primal, demanding hunger she’d never known she possessed. Devon’s answering growls were feral, punctuated by the sharp, rhythmic slap of skin against skin and the low creak of the old couch protesting under their combined weight. The firelight threw their frantic, tangled shadows against the wall adorned with her eclectic art – a chaotic dance mirroring the desperate union on the worn velvet.
"Fuck, Cherry... yes! Just like that!" he snarled, his voice shredded, hands gripping her wide hips like anchors as he drove impossibly deeper, the force lifting her slightly off the cushion with every powerful thrust. His fingers dug into the soft flesh, surely leaving bruises she’d find later, claiming her with every bruising impact. "Take it all! Gonna fill this greedy cunt up!"
Her vision blurred, reduced to flashes of firelight and the intense pressure coiling, coiling, coiling low in her belly, a scream building pressure behind her clenched teeth. The stretch was still immense, bordering on pain, yet the friction ignited a wildfire, overwhelming every shred of thought, every echo of Keith’s voice. Only sensation remained. Raw. Consuming. The demanding pulse between her legs dictated her movements now, her hips pistoning back to meet him with frantic abandon, driving him deeper still.
Then it detonated. A shockwave ripped through her, violent and all-consuming, stealing her breath, her scream finally tearing free, raw and ragged, echoing off the walls as her body locked, convulsing around him. "Oh GOD! DEVON!" It wasn't just release; it was surrender, an annihilation of self in the blinding white heat.
Her cry triggered his own. With a final, guttural roar that seemed to shake the room, he slammed into her one last time, burying himself to the hilt, his body jerking violently against her back as he emptied himself deep inside her with a shudder that vibrated through her bones. He collapsed forward, his broad chest slick with sweat plastered against her arched back, his breath searing her neck in ragged gasps, his weight pinning her to the damp couch cushions. The only sounds were their harsh, desperate breathing, the crackle of the dying fire, and the faint, wet sound of him still pulsing within her.
He didn't move for a long moment, utterly spent, his face buried in the sweaty tangle of her locs near her shoulder. His breath gradually slowed, the tension leaching from his powerful frame. "Fuck," he finally rasped, the word thick and muffled against her skin. "Jesus Christ, Cherry." His hand, still resting possessively on her hip, gave a weak, appreciative squeeze. "You wrecked me."
Cherry couldn't speak. Her limbs felt like lead, trembling with aftershocks. The intensity lingered, a low hum beneath the crushing weight of exhaustion. Her mind was a void, blissfully blank, the earlier panic and shame buried deep under layers of sensory overload and bone-deep fatigue. He shifted slightly, pulling out with a soft, wet sound that made her flinch minutely. The sudden absence felt strangely vast. He grunted, pushing himself up off her, leaving her feeling exposed and oddly hollow on the damp couch.
"Come on," he murmured, his voice rough but lacking its earlier edge. He scooped her up effortlessly, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back, cradling her against his chest. She was too drained to resist, her head lolling against his shoulder, her eyes already heavy. The walk to her bedroom was a blur of dim hallway light and the lingering scent of sex mixed with vanilla. He lowered her onto the cool cotton sheets, the contrast sharp against her heated skin. He climbed in beside her, pulling the duvet over them both. His arm snaked around her waist, pulling her back snug against his solid warmth, his breath already deepening into sleep against the back of her neck. Oblivion claimed her almost instantly, a black, dreamless void.
The first sensation was the ache. A deep, pervasive soreness radiating from her hips, her lower back, the intimate places he’d possessed so thoroughly the night before. Cherry blinked open gummy eyes, disoriented. Weak morning light filtered through the gaps in her heavy curtains. Devon’s solid warmth pressed against her back, his arm still a heavy weight across her waist, his breathing slow and even against her neck. The scent of him – sweat, sex, and something uniquely him – was thick in the air, mixed with the faint, now cloying, vanilla from the living room.
Slowly, carefully, she extricated herself from his embrace, wincing as muscles protested. She needed space. Air. The memory of the previous night flooded back, vivid and visceral: the kitchen counter, his face between her legs, the overwhelming fullness, the raw sounds torn from her throat, the sheer, obliterating intensity of her release. A confusing cocktail of emotions surged – a hot flush of remembered pleasure warring violently with a cold, creeping shame. He knows, she thought, panic tightening her chest. He knows how much I wanted it, how I gave in completely. How I let him... inside. The vulnerability felt terrifying.
Padding silently to the bathroom, her body felt alien, marked. After splashing cold water on her face, she avoided her reflection. Needing normalcy, needing action, she headed for the kitchen. The familiar routine of brewing coffee grounded her slightly. The scent of fresh grounds replaced the night's musk. She moved efficiently, gathering eggs, bread, the sizzle of butter in the pan a comforting sound. She could handle this. Make breakfast. Be normal. Pretend last night was just... good sex between two consenting adults. Ignore the nagging voice whispering about boundaries crossed, control surrendered.
As she whisked eggs, her gaze drifted through the open bedroom door. Devon slept on, a dark shape under the duvet. His phone, discarded on her nightstand, lit up with a silent notification. A name flashed briefly on the screen: Maya. Curiosity, sharp and unwelcome, pricked at her. She told herself to look away, to focus on the eggs. But the image of Maya picking up her scarf, the casual intimacy it implied… She moved silently back to the doorway.
The screen had dimmed, but hadn’t locked. Another message notification appeared, the preview text stark against the dark background:
> Maya: …that dick last night was insane. Round 2 tonight? 😈
Cherry’s breath hitched. Her chest tightened instantly, a physical constriction that made her clutch the doorframe. Five months. Five months of dates, laughter, hikes, her hesitant boundaries. She’d thought… what? That taking that step meant something? That maybe, just maybe, there was potential for something real unfolding? But it was just dick. Just another conquest. The sour taste of betrayal mixed with the sharp sting of her own naivety. She had no right to feel this gut-punched, this foolish. They weren’t official. She knew that. But the crushing weight of disappointment was real.
She turned abruptly, her movements jerky now, the comforting smell of breakfast turning nauseating. She poured the eggs into the pan, the sizzle suddenly aggressive. By the time Devon shuffled into the kitchen, drawn by the smell of coffee and bacon, she was plating the food with stiff, precise movements, her back rigid. She set his plate down on the small table with a quiet clink, avoiding his eyes.
"Morning," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep, running a hand through his messy hair. He reached for the coffee she’d already poured for him. "Smells amazing. You didn't have to—"
"We need to talk." Cherry cut him off, her voice flat, devoid of its usual warmth. She stood across the small table from him, arms crossed tightly over her chest, a defensive posture she couldn't relax. She finally met his gaze, her own eyes carefully blank.
He paused, the coffee mug halfway to his lips, his sleepy expression morphing into confusion. He lowered the mug slowly. "Talk? Okay… About what? Last night?" A tentative, hopeful smile touched his lips. "Cause that was—"
"I don’t want to do that again," she stated, the words clipped, final. "The sex. I think… I think it’s better if we just go back to being friends." She forced herself to hold his gaze, though everything in her screamed to look away. The silence that followed was thick, charged with the sudden, unexpected detonation.
Devon stared at her, the confusion deepening into pure bewilderment. He set the mug down carefully. "Friends? Cherry… what the hell? Last night was…" He trailed off, searching her face, his brow furrowed. "Where is this coming from? Did I… did I do something wrong?" He sounded genuinely baffled, maybe even a little hurt. "Talk to me. What happened?"
Her jaw tightened. She couldn't tell him. Couldn't admit she'd looked at his phone, seen the damning evidence of his casual hookup mere hours after being inside her. The shame of the snooping warred with the hurt. "Nothing happened," she lied, her voice tight. "I just… I realized I’m not ready. For that. With anyone. It was a mistake. Let’s just go back." She turned towards the counter, busying herself with wiping a spot that didn’t exist, desperate to escape his scrutiny.
Devon was quiet for a long moment. She could feel his eyes on her stiff back. The silence stretched, suffocating. Then, a shift. She heard the soft rustle of fabric, the scrape of his chair. He was moving, but not towards her. Back towards the bedroom?
Her heart hammered. Had he bought it? Relief warred with a deeper ache.
Then his voice cut through the quiet, cold and dangerously calm. "You looked at my phone."
Cherry froze, the damp cloth clenched in her fist. She didn't turn around. Couldn't.
"That's it, isn't it?" he pressed, his voice hardening, losing the sleepy confusion. "You saw Maya's text." He wasn't asking. He was stating. Accusing.
She remained statue-still, staring at the gleaming countertop, the scent of bacon turning acrid.
The sharp intake of breath behind her was audible. "Goddammit, Cherry!" His voice rose, sharp with anger now, cutting through the fragile morning quiet. "You go through my phone and then just drop this 'let's be friends' bomb? That's your play?" The accusation hung heavy, a challenge thrown down. He wasn't confused anymore. He was furious. "You don't get to do that. We are not done talking about this."