Inevitable Detour (14 page)

I
wake at 2:22 on the nose. The LED numbers on the bedside alarm clock glow in the darkness, bathing everything in an eerie, red sheen. I roll over in the lumpy motel bed and breathe in deeply. A vague scent of air sanitizer and stale smoke fill my nose, reminding me that once upon a time there was no such thing as nonsmoking buildings.

Unable to find sleep again, loneliness creeps in. If I were back at school, I’d feel no need to call my parents—we generally only speak once or twice a month—but here on the road, and with Haven missing, I long to hear a familiar voice. However, I know calling my parents, even from the burner phone, could put me (and Farren) in jeopardy. Surely, the men who kidnapped Haven have noted I’m no longer in Pennsylvania. They probably suspect I’m traveling with Farren, which means my parents’ phones, landline and cells, could very well be bugged.

Dismissing any further notions of contacting Mom or Dad, I burrow under the scratchy motel blanket. I’m chilled, though, from the inside out. Nothing can warm me. I toss and turn, wondering if Farren is restless, as well. He hides his worry well, but I know his concern for Haven’s well-being has ratcheted up a notch after finding her car abandoned in that hell hole-like abyss.

Slipping out from under the covers, I head to the tiny motel bathroom. When I flip the switch for the light, fluorescent illumination floods the tiny room. Wincing at the blinding light, I mutter, “Jeez, that’s bright,” and wait for my eyes to adjust.

After I relieve my bladder, I wash my face and brush my teeth. I then comb my fingers through my sleep-messy hair. “Where are you going?” I ask my reflection.

I can’t help but smile. I’m going to the one place I know I’ll find comfort, warmth, and peace. I’m going to Farren’s room.

Five minutes after my decision is made, I am outside, my knuckles poised at the door to Farren’s motel room. I hesitate, chastising myself for not slipping on something a little more demure. As it is, I’m in nothing but a skimpy lime-green T-shirt and matching boy shorts. Shoes would have been a good idea, too. Who knows what kind of bugs are scurrying around out here? Just as that particular thought crosses my mind, some squiggly thing brushes by my foot. I jump back a step and start to pound on Farren’s door.

“Farren,” I whisper loudly, “are you awake? It’s me.”

I knock more insistently. If he is asleep, he won’t be for long.

When, predictably, the door swings open, I am graced by the presence of one damn fine-looking man. I forget about bugs; I forget about my skimpy outfit. All I can do is mouth, “Wow,” while I peruse Farren from head to toe.

He’s sporting just the right amount of sexy scruff, darkening his strong jaw. The top half of his body is bare, his shoulders appearing wider and stronger than when he’s clothed. Perhaps it’s due to all the muscles. Damn, he’s cut. My eyes travel down Farren’s smooth chest to his washboard abs, and then to the fine trail of dark hair that disappears just under the band of dark boxer briefs. Black boxers, I take note. I had a feeling.

“Essa?” Farren rasps in a sleep-thick but utterly sexy voice. He crosses his arms, muscles bunching, and leans against the frame of the door.

His green eyes meet mine. And, oh, that look. I know that look; I probably have it, too. I have two choices here: jump the man or make a joke and dispel the almost-combustible sexual tension between us.

I choose to joke.

Gesturing to strands of dark hair that are sticking up at odd angles on his head, I say, “Disheveled much?”

To which he rapidly responds, “Naked much?”

His gaze rakes over my barely clothed body.

“I’m dressed,” I protest, my voice raising an octave.

He reaches out and lifts the hem of my tee, exposing the waistband of my lime-green boy shorts. “Barely,” he scoffs. “You’re basically standing outside in your underwear.”

I smack his hand away, albeit in a playful manner, and retort, “These are shorts.” He quirks an eyebrow, and I amend, “Well, kind of.”

Suppressing a grin, he moves aside and says, “Essa, get in here.”

I walk into his room, turn back to him. And then we both bust out laughing.
This
is why I came to Farren’s room. He has a way of making everything better. The strong foundation we’ve been building may be constructed on the back of a tragedy, but it’s not without moments of levity…like now.

I’m still smiling when Farren steps around me. He stretches across the bed to turn on a lamp. And that’s when my smile falters. With his bare back facing me, and the glow from the just-turned-on lamp brightening the darkness, I’m afforded a perfect view of a long, jagged scar extending across the smooth skin on Farren’s lower back.

Before I can stop myself, I reach out and run my fingers along several inches of puckered, silvery-white edges.

Farren spins around, and I pull my hand back swiftly. “I…I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

He steps toward me, narrowing the space between us in seconds. He lifts my left hand and snakes it around his side. Placing my fingers right back on the scar, he says softly, “You never have to apologize for touching me, Essa.”

Once again, I trail my fingers along the puckered skin of the scar, whispering, “What happened?”

“Knife fight.”

“You lost?”

“If I’d lost, I would be dead.”

“Is the other guy…?”

“Dead?” Farren finishes my unfinished question. I nod, and he responds, “Yes, I killed him.”

When my hand falls away from his back and I fail to respond, he asks, “Does that bother you?”

I shake my head. “No.”

It’s the truth, it doesn’t bother me. Farren was obviously fighting for his life. And I’m glad he came out the winner. Again, though, I am reminded of how different our lives are. Farren is a warrior. He’s seen and done things I can’t even begin to fathom. But I like his worldliness. Just like I know he likes my innocence. We balance each other in that way, like two sides to a coin.

When I glance up at him, Farren is watching me. “What are you thinking?” he asks.

“Nothing, really.”

His arms slide around me, while my own hands find purchase on his bare shoulders.

“Nothing, really, huh?” he says, smiling a small smile. He lowers his lips to mine and says, “Why do I not believe you?”

I want to tell him what I’m thinking—like how much I’m starting to like him,
really
like him. I want to tell him that I believe we could be right for one another and how we should give this thing a chance. But how do I say these things? What if it’s too much?

I don’t say a word regarding my thoughts. Instead, I press my lips to his, and murmur against his mouth, “Should I go back to my room?”

His lips move with mine. He kisses me softly, tenderly.

“Do you want to go back?” he questions when he breaks our kiss.

I shake my head as he walks me backward to the bed. “Okay, then,” he remarks, smirking. “Glad that’s settled.”

“Are we going to do more than kiss?” I bravely inquire.

He raises an eyebrow and stops just when the edge of the bed is pressing against the back of my knees. “Do you want to do more than kiss?’

“Yes,” I reply.

And that’s the point where I watch him give in.
I’m done fighting this
, his expression says. Farren is then all over me…hands, lips…caressing, kissing. Lowering me gently to the bed, he covers me with his hard body.

I squirm beneath him, purposely creating friction between his bare chest and my almost-bared breasts. “More, more, more,” I chant between kisses.

But I don’t get more yet. He stops, flattening his palms on the bed so he can prop himself up over me. With his arms caged around me, his emerald eyes find me. His intensity demands I don’t dare stray from his gaze.

“I plan to take things slowly with you,” he says quietly as he lifts the hem of my T-shirt just an inch.

“Okay.” I nod.

Studying me, his knuckles graze my abdomen, and he asks, “Has anyone ever given you an orgasm, Essa?”

“Um…”

Flattening his warm palm on my skin, he says seductively, “Besides you giving one to yourself, of course.”

I breathe out a raspy, “Besides myself, no.”

His fingers—so gentle, yet so firm—trail up under my tee. When he reaches my breasts, he circles my nipples lightly. Slowly, he cups the weight of one breast, then the other. “Would you like someone to give you one?” he inquires. His breathing quickens along with mine. “Do you want
me
to make you come, Essa?”

“God, yes,” I whisper.

My heart pounds with anticipation, and my body quivers with lust. Farren lowers his mouth to mine and kisses me again, sweetly and gently. “Relax,” he whispers.

He plies at my nipples, making them erect and ultrasensitive to his touch. “Don’t stop,” I breathe out.

“I don’t plan to,” he assures me.

And upon hearing that, I am grasping at the hem of my tee, lifting and maneuvering to slip out of the lime-green cotton. The only thing on my mind is getting my clothes off as quickly as possible.

H
aste, though, is not what Farren has in mind. He stills my hands with my shirt halfway off. I whimper in protest, and he covers my body with his.

Softly, against my lips, he says, “Slow down a little, Essa. There’s no rush. I want you to enjoy everything I’m going to do to you tonight.”

His mouth is so warm on mine—so good—and I want to know what’s coming. “And just what are you planning to do to me?” I ask.

He pulls back so he can look down at me. His emerald eyes sear my already-scorched soul. Doesn’t he know I am putty in his hands? I suppose he does and that’s why he’s keeping things under control.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he tells me with a smug grin.

And then there’s no more talking. We communicate with movements, little nudges, glances, and nods. When he gestures that I should lift my back up off the bed, I do so. He gently slips my tee over my head. I lay back, and his hand slides under my ass, nudging me. I compliantly arch my hips, and he tugs my boy shorts down my legs. When I am left naked before him, he sits up and rocks back on his heels. His eyes move over me, taking me in inch by inch. A delicious shiver moves up my spine. And when I take note of his impressive arousal, barely covered by his boxer briefs, needs stronger than I’ve ever before experienced ignite in me.

I’m not secure with my body, though, so when his eyes continue to soak me in, I feel compelled to say, “I’m not model perfect, Farren.”

Suddenly feeling shy, I place one hand over my heavy breasts and the other hand over my bare pubic area. Are my boobs too big? Should I not have waxed down
there
? Apart from those nagging thoughts, I begin to wish I had a third hand to cover my not-completely flat tummy.

Farren, though, seems not one bit bothered by any of those things. In fact, he tells me, “I like everything about your body, Essa.”

The look in his eyes backs up his words. His gaze is appreciative, delivered in a distinctly male way—the kind that has the ability to make you feel downright beautiful. And I do feel beautiful. Right now, I feel like I’m the prettiest girl on the planet.

So when Farren nudges my hand away from my breasts, and then moves the hand covering my sex, I don’t resist. He takes another sweeping survey of my uncovered body. This time, it’s like he’s contemplating what to do first to me.

I shiver in anticipation, and he leans down and slowly kisses a heated path from my collarbone to my breasts. “Feel good?” he murmurs.

“Very,” I reply.

He nuzzles and lifts a breast to his mouth, his lips covering the nipple. He sucks and licks and drives me flat-out crazy. He then moves to my other breast and does the same thing. After a few minutes of this, I am instinctually lifting my hips, seeking release. My movement doesn’t go unnoticed by Farren. His fingers part my folds and glide along my slick core. With his mouth latched on to one breast, and his fingers working me like a finely tuned instrument, my climax builds and builds.

He winds me up till I’m ready to spring, and when he releases my nipple from his mouth and presses a path of wet kisses down to my core, I am at the peak, chanting, “Oh my God, oh my God.”

“Not God, Essa,” Farren says softly, his hot breaths caressing my pubic bone.

No, not God
. “Farren,” I correct.

He lowers his head and touches my clit with his tongue, and I explode. “Oh, Farren, Farren,” I moan, writhing and arching.

I go slack, but Farren is not anywhere close to being finished with me. He moves his fingers in and out of me, hitting my sweet spot in just the right way. At the same time, he sucks on my nub, licking and lapping. I’m overwhelmed, and sweet pressure quickly builds again. I suck in a breath, and when Farren presses his tongue to the underside of my clit, waves of pleasure wash over me. I finally understand what all the fuss is about.

Two orgasms in succession, and I find all sense of propriety is lost. I grind my sex right up into Farren’s face. But he doesn’t seem to mind. He hoists my ass up higher and shoves his tongue deep inside of me.

“Gah—oh, fuck, Farren.” Another intense orgasm renders me incoherent.