Inevitable Detour (Inevitability Book 1)(44)

“Damn, Farren”—wind whirs through the open top, blowing my hair everywhere—“this thing is fast.”

He chuckles, nods. But at 150 mph, he urges me to “ease up a little, baby.”

My cheeks warm, and it’s not from the blazing sun beating down on us. No, I’m heated by the recollection of how Farren uttered those same words to me an hour ago, before we left the warehouse, and after he’d loaded our luggage and his cache of weapons into the Ferrari. His hand trailed up my skirt when he was back in the car. I was seated in the driver’s seat, and within minutes, I was grinding down hard on his fingers.

Now, just like then, I don’t listen.

I don’t ease up, and when we hit a patch of gravel, the wheel jerks in my hand. I lose control—again, just like earlier. But instead of coming hard, like I did clenched around Farren’s fingers, my whole body now tenses in a different way.

“Essa,” Farren warns.

Finally, I ease up on the gas and hit the brakes. The car fishtails but remains on the road. When we come to a full stop, I let out a held-in breath. “Oh my God, that was awesome.”

Farren twists in his seat, placing his hand at the back of my head. He twines his fingers in my hair and closes the gap between us. His lips crash to mine, hungry and greedy. We can’t get enough of each other these days. I lose myself in Farren as he urges my mouth open. He touches his tongue to mine. He tastes delicious, even as he consumes me.

The ache between my legs that never really completely goes away when I’m with him—no matter how many orgasms he gives me—pulses now. I drop my knees apart, and since I have on a dress and the panties I put on this morning were lost somewhere in the car during our earlier encounter, Farren’s fingers are on my clit immediately.

“That feels so good,” I murmur as he works his magic.

We’re in the middle of the road, but there’s not a soul in sight. It’s all brown desert landscape everywhere you look. And when I lean my head back, the only thing above us is a clear and vibrant blue sky.

Farren’s lips touch my neck, and he kisses up to my ear. “Come for me, sweetheart,” he urges. “Come all over my hand, just like you did before.” He twists his fingers inside of me, hitting just the right spot, and he gets what he wants.

While I am pulsing, hard, he whispers in my ear, “I can’t wait to f*ck you, Essa.”

I buck against the seat, my orgasm prolonged by his words. And then I’m over-the-top, time-stops coming when he huskily adds, “Show me how much your * wants my cock.”

I explode, implode. Time stops. When I recover enough to once again move, my hand goes to Farren. I unzip his jeans, lower his boxers, and grasp his swollen length. He’s more than ready, so I jack him how I know he likes—hard and fast.

“Shit, Essa,” he groans. He raises his hips, lowers his pants and boxers a bit more. “Keep doing it just like that, baby.”

When I sense he’s close, I lower my head and take him in my mouth. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about myself, it’s that I love the taste of Farren. He knows I’m into it, so he releases in my mouth. And after I’ve swallowed and pulled back slightly, he taps his dick to my lips. “Lick the last of it,” he commands.

I like demanding Farren; it suits his alpha-style. There’s a tiny drop of fluid at the tip, and I make short work of it, licking and cleaning him off with long strokes of my tongue.

I can’t believe this is me—the girl who thought she hated all things sex. But everything Farren has shown me, or had me do, I’ve enjoyed. The dirty stuff, the sweet and loving things—it is all perfection as far as I’m concerned. But truthfully, when it comes right down to it, it’s the man I do these things with—and who does them to me—that makes everything so good.

I think Farren knows this, as well. He hesitates to f*ck me, because he knows how much everything means to me. He knows how I feel about him. And he knows he’ll have me completely when he makes us one.

And he’s right—once I am with him in that most intimate way, I will forever be his.



We find a place to stay for the night. It’s in the middle of nowhere, somewhere west of Santa Rosa. The tiny motel is adobe stucco. I like it, it’s cute.

Farren, who took over driving duties after my near spinout in the desert, pulls into a tiny gravel-and-sand parking lot. Dusk has descended and a blue neon cactus sign, suspended on a pole, flickers to life. The letters under the cactus spell out “Blue Cactus Inn.”

“This place is so quaint,” I muse. “It feels kind of special.”

Farren parks the Ferrari outside the motel office, and when he cuts the ignition, he turns to me and says, “I’m glad you like it.” He opens the driver’s-side door. “I’m going to run in and get us a room, okay?”

There’s a small store with a café attached across from the motel—the only other establishments in sight. Pointing to the tiny wooden structure, I say, “Do you want me to grab us something to drink?”

“Sure,” he replies, “that’d be great.”

I’m sure Farren is expecting me to buy soft drinks, but when I step into the store, I decide this night calls for a bottle of tequila. I grab some salt and a few limes, too.

“Having a party tonight, young lady?” the grizzled old man behind the counter asks when I place everything on the counter.