I loose my hands to his crotch, laying them onto his still-sheathed member. His manhood is barely contained by his black briefs, and it only grows harder as I run my hands along its incredible length. Harrison moans as I stroke him, sucking on first one nipple and then the next, send me spiraling out of my mind with every flick of his tongue.
A little cry escapes my lips as Harrison picks me up in his arms. I wrap my long legs around his waist and hold on tight as he carries me across the living room, away from the muted TV whose screen still shows shot after shot of yesterday’s wreck. A single fleeting glimpse of those images sends a wave of sadness through me. My sorrow couples with my need for Harrison, spurring me into a whole new realm of lust. I bring my mouth hungrily to Harrison’s, taking his full bottom lip between my teeth. His arms tighten around me as we pivot toward the kitchen, making fast tracks toward the tall central island.
He sets me firmly down onto the cool counter and tugs my panties down my legs. It feels so deliciously wrong to be naked here, where we enjoy our morning coffee together. But the illicit feel of it only makes it that much hotter. I let my knees fall open as Harrison steps out of his briefs, exposing his hard cock. I want to feel that thick, throbbing length all the way through me, as far as I can take him.
Locking my eyes with Harrison’s, I slip down off the counter. I turn my body away, leaning my elbows on the island and arching my back. Harrison takes a deep, calming breath. I can practically feel the heat radiating off of him. He takes a step toward me, running his fingers gently down the curve of my spine. I moan, writhing like a contented house cat beneath his touch. Harrison takes a step toward me, and I can feel his rock hard desire glance against my ass, my soft inner thighs. I steady myself against the counter as I feel the tip of him against my wet, trembling sex. Glancing back over my shoulder, I meet Harrison’s impassioned gaze.
“Take me right here,” I whisper, lifting my ass just a bit higher in the air.
“Gladly,” Harrison growls. He grabs me by the hips and, with slow, graceful force, presses himself into me.
My head falls back between my shoulders as I feel his stiffness parting me, driving up into my most hidden depths. Harrison rocks his hips against me, gently at first but then harder, faster, deeper with every pass. I meet his every thrust, pushing myself onto him, taking as much of him as I possibly can. We move together, egging each other on, each driving the other with incredible speed and intensity toward the tipping point.
Harrison’s stiff member rubs against my clit with every pass. My mouth falls open as I’m suddenly transported. Feeling him so deep inside, and so firmly against that raw bundle of nerves...it’s too much. I feel his fingers tighten around my hips, and I know he’s right there with me.
“Baby,” I gasp, “I’m so, so...”
But I can’t utter another word. I feel Harrison explode inside of me, just as bliss crashes down around me, flooding me with sensation. We hang suspended in that moment together, entirely in the present, utterly as one. The sadness that’s settled over me since the moment of the London wreck suddenly makes sense. If I had my way, I’d spend my every moment just like this. Together with Harrison, neither living in the past nor thinking about the future. Simply enjoying each other in the present moment, being fully alive. Anything short of being with him just isn’t living at all. If I didn’t know it before, now I’m certain that I could never live with myself if I let this man slip between my fingers.
Harrison slumps down against me, his strong arms propping him up. I spin around to face him, elated but unsmiling. I take his gorgeous face in my hands, trying to memorize his high cheekbones, his aquiline nose, the smattering of freckles on his cheeks, that perpetually scruffy jaw of his. He stands, pulling me up with him. For a long moment, it’s all we can do to drink in the sight of each other in the low light of the kitchen.
“I don’t want to waste another minute not being with you,” I tell him, resting my head on his chest.
“Let’s not, then,” he says, kissing the top of my head, “If I do say so myself, we’re off to a pretty good start.”
Chapter Eight
Back To America
We sleep soundly that night, wrapped up in each other’s arms. And good thing too—we have to be up first thing in the morning to make tracks for the next Grand Prix city. We’re closing in on the end of the season, a fact which catches me off guard every time it occurs to me.
So much has happened over the course of these past few months that many times I forgot we were even in the midst of a tour. But now that we’re so close to the end, that old excitement begins to tug at my every cell. That feeling is tempered with nerves this time around, of course. Not to mention sadness and apprehension. But still, a championship race is a championship race. There’s no way I can keep from getting a little riled up. And I’m particularly thrilled about the locations of the last two races: Detroit and Dallas. I’ll finally be back in my home country.
For the long jet ride back to the states, I’ve convinced Enzo, Bex, and Charlie to ride along with me, Harrison, and some of the other McClain folks. Enzo doesn’t take much convincing—we’re suddenly on much better terms. It helps, as well, that Shelby will be with us. I’m still not entirely sure what my brother sees in her, but I’m more than willing to exploit it if it means we all get to spend a little time together before the next race. Enzo goes for the bait, hook, line, and sinker, and we’re all off together.
“You all must be excited to be getting back on your own turf,” offers Sara, McClain’s redheaded social media expert, breaking the silence in the cabin.
“That’s for sure,” Bex smiles, “I can’t tell you how happy I’ll be to get my hands on some drip coffee and a People Magazine.”
“I personally just can’t wait until this season is finally over,” says Cora, taking us all by surprise.
“It’s never been an easy sport,” Andy reminds his wife.
“Yes, well,” she says, “Excuse me if I begin to prefer croquet after this mess is done with.”
That single sentiment sets us all into an uncomfortable silence as we sail over the Atlantic. The events of this year have made all of us consider our dedication to the sport—a fact that is sure to set more than a few of us at odds. I catch Bex and Charlie trade a quiet glance of agreement at Cora’s dismissal of the F1 universe. I’d be disappointed but not surprised if those two bailed on the sport and found a peaceful life together somewhere far less tumultuous. But for me, a move like that has never been an option.
When we touch down in the harshly beautiful city of Detroit, I’m bouncing up and down in my seat, full of anticipation and eagerness to get back on American soil. Italy may be where my family is from, but I was born right here in the United States. And this will always be my heart’s true home. I wonder what the chances are of getting Harrison to switch over to IndyCar racing from Formula One? I chuckle quietly to myself just thinking about it as our jet gets ready to land, gliding down out of the clouds once more.
“Home sweet home, right Siena?” Bex asks, lacing her fingers with mine as we step out onto the runway.
“As close as we’ve been in a while, anyway,” I smile.
We move as a pack across the tarmac, McClain and Ferrelli teammates all mixed in together. It would make me happy, our coming together, if Harrison and Enzo didn’t still insist on keeping to extreme ends of the group. Even with the tragedy that unfolded in London, there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do to get them to like each other. I know that patience is supposed to be a virtue, but I’m no saint. All I want is for the two most important guys in my life to get along.
“Oh, Christ,” Harrison mutters.
As we walk into the terminal, a cloud of media types descend upon us once again. We try to close ranks and move through them, but they surround us, trapping us in their midst. Their volleys of questions and flashing cameras engulf us once again. But after a moment, certain words start to stand out in their shouted inquiries
. I prick up my ears and catch a few names in particular as they sail through the air.
“What do the fates of Alexi Rostov and Sven Landers mean for McClain and Ferrelli?”
“Do you feel responsible for what happened to Rostov and Landers, as it was your cars that stalled?”
“Are McClain and Ferrelli teaming up against the rest of the Formula One teams?”
“Were your technical malfunctions part of a ruse gone wrong?”
Panic sends my blood racing through my veins. What do they mean, Rostov and Landers‘ fates? What’s happened to them? When we got on the jet, there were still in the ICU back in London. The lot of us elbow our way through the crowd of press and find our way out into the parking lot. Like clockwork, a caravan of private cars arrive to whisk us away to the next hotel.
I jump into the backseat of the nearest town car with Harrison on my heels and clutch his hand the whole ride through. We rush through check in and race up to our block of rooms, the whole group of us. No sooner do we find a European news station then our fears are finally met, head on. There, on the screen, are portraits of Alexi and Sven. And the newscaster’s words cut like a knife through each and every one of us.
“Alexi Rostov and Sven Landers have been removed from the intensive care unit and continue to recuperate from their many lifesaving surgeries. An expert team of doctors was able to bring these men back from the brink of death, but just barely. It is my sorry duty to inform the viewing public that neither of these fine drivers will be returning to the Formula One World Championship currently underway. It is more than likely that neither will ever race again.”
Harrison’s hand finds mine and squeezes hard. His and Enzo’s disbelieving eyes are fixed on the screen. I can see the guilt welling up behind their eyes, the despair. I know what they’re thinking—that they were the ones being targeted in the London Grand Prix. Their cars were the ones that were tampered with, after all. Rostov and Landers should never have been involved.
“Both Landers and Rostov have sustained significant burns, covering thirty and twenty percent of their bodies respectively,” the stern newscaster continues, “In addition to several broken bones, the men are both suffering from nerve damage. Though brain function seems to be returning gradually, neither of the drivers has regained full consciousness. Doctors are reporting that paralysis is very likely. This is a very sad turn of events for these talented young racers. Both men are still early in their careers, and lead drivers for their home countries. It is possible, of course, that their prognoses will improve in the coming days, but fans are urged not to get their hopes up for any speedy recoveries. Police and Race Officials are still searching tirelessly for any evidence of foul play, but no hard proof has turned up as of yet.”
“How the hell is that possible?” Enzo explodes, pacing up and down the room, “Someone rigged our cars right under the race officials’ noses. How has no evidence made its way to the surface yet?”
“Whoever messed with you guys is probably a pro,” Shelby says, taking hold of Enzo’s arm, “He probably covered his tracks.”
“Can you all give us a minute?” I ask our gathered friends. Andy, Cora, Sara, Bex, and Charlie nod solemnly and take their leave. Shelby starts to go as well, but Enzo holds her back. I stifle a sigh and bite my tongue. If this woman is a source of comfort to my brother, far be it from me to be a hypocrite. Enzo and I will just have to learn to get along despite our mutual dislike for the other’s choice in significant others. We owe each other that much.
“Those poor bastards,” Harrison mutters, his eyes still fixed to the TV screen. “It’s not fair. They didn’t do anything wrong.”
“And you did?” I ask, exasperated. “This has gone way too far, you guys. It was one thing when someone was trying to stir up some kind of rivalry between the two of you, but this is serious. Rostov and Landers are lucky to still be alive, you two could have been seriously hurt in the Moscow wreck. It seems like everyone who starts doing well in the standings ends up in danger of being sabotaged.”
“I guess that means Marques is next, eh?” Enzo laughs shortly, “He’s been creeping up through the ranks while we’ve all been...distracted. Maybe we should be warning him.”
“As much as I want to look out for my fellow racers,” Harrison says slowly, “I’m having a difficult time giving half a proper shit about Rafael Marques.”
“I hate the guy too,” Enzo says, “But someone’s picking off all the racers who are doing well. Don’t you think we at least owe it to the rest of the guys to say something to Marques?”
“I could do it,” I offer.
“Hell no,” Enzo and Harrison say in unison.
“It wouldn’t be right for either of you to say something,” I go on, “But I could pay him a visit before preliminaries in a few days. Make sure he’s on his toes. It’s the least we could do. And I mean the very least. I don’t trust either of you to talk to him without giving him a black eye, anyway.”
“You’re probably right there,” Harrison grumbles.
“Let me do this,” I insist, “Hopefully, the police will have come up with some evidence by this weekend, and we can run the Detroit Grand Prix with as much peace of mind as we can get.”
Harrison and Enzo begrudgingly accept my idea. It’s settled, then. I’m to be our emissary to the abominable Rafael Marques.
Lucky me.
Chapter Nine
Snake in Racer's Clothing
I stall for the entire week leading up to the penultimate Grand Prix. Though I know it’s my task to warn Marques to take precautions against whoever’s been messing with the F1 hot shots, I’m reluctant to be alone with that man. There’s something about him that I’ve never trusted, something that’s always seemed too reckless and forceful for my liking. I’ll get around to talking to him, for sure. He’s a driver, after all, and we have to look out for each other in this crazy sport. I just happen to keep finding things to occupy my mind that are conveniently higher up on my list of priorities than speaking with that repugnant man.
The most important thing to keep track of this week is the reconstruction of Harrison’s and Enzo’s cars. Both cars had to be completely taken apart after the fiasco in London. Race officials, along with the police, tried to pinpoint what exactly happened to the cars. But no dice. There were no prints, no clues, nothing to go off of. Whoever messed with those two formula cars knew exactly what they were doing. This fact only makes everyone all the more uneasy. No one knows F1 cars the way F1 professionals do. That means chances are good that someone within the sport has been terrorizing top drivers. And the thought of an inside job is too reprehensible to dwell on for long.
Harrison and Enzo practically live in their cars for the entire week leading up to the Detroit Grand Prix. They don’t want to take any chances this time around. Hell, neither of them can afford to fall any further in the rankings. Right now, the margins are so slim between Harrison, Enzo, and Marques’ points that any one of them could walk away with the championship.
With my boys so invested in their training, I’m left to my own devices for most of the week. I know that having time off from my work life and my relationship is supposed to be freeing or something, but I find myself losing my mind when it’s not occupied with a PR crisis or Harrison Davies. The sad truth of the London wreck is that Landers and Rostov’s accident has taken the publicity heat off me and Harrison for a spell. I hate to think of it that way, but it’s true. No one has much time to care who I’m sleeping with and why when two of the sport’s darlings are still unconscious in the hospital.
On the Thursday before the Grand Prix, I find myself pacing my hotel room once more, frantic and full of energy. There are so many things going on in my life right now that I have no control over. The Detroit Grand Prix, the media fiasco that could rev up again any second, my father’s failing health, the still-simmering hatred between Harrison and Enzo...I just wish that I could do anything to get control of my situation. I feel helple
ss and frustrated, stuck here on my own. I just want to be of use to somebody.
I jump a foot in the air as someone knocks tentatively at my door. With Enzo and Harrison wrapped up training, who could possibly want to see me?
“Come in,” I call, crossing my arms across my chest.
The door swings slowly open, and a blonde-haired pixie peeks into the room.
“Bex!” I cry, holding my arms open to my best friend, “God, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“You know I’ve been right here for the past few weeks?” she laughs, crossing the room and wrapping me up in a hug.
“I know. I’m sorry I’ve been so preoccupied,” I say, “Between that article, and my dad, and the wreck of course...”
“You never have to apologize to me,” Bex smiles, “That’s what friends are for, right?”
“Right,” I sigh.
“Besides, I haven’t exactly been so available myself,” she says, “Charlie and I have been spending every waking minute together.”
“You’re not sick of him, are you?” I ask.
“On the contrary,” she laughs, “I, uh...I’m really coming to care about him, Siena.”
“That’s wonderful!” I exclaim, “God, at least one of us gets to have a normal relationship.” I backpedal as her smile falls a hair. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make everything all about me, again.”
“No, it’s OK. You’ve got a lot going on right now,” Bex says, “I was just, um, going to ask for a little advice. A little romantic advice, I guess.”
“Fire away,” I tell her, sitting down on my bed.
“OK,” she says, sitting cross-legged beside me, “Well, I know it’s only been a couple of months, but me and Charlie have really been hitting it off.”
“I can tell,” I say.
“Right. And...I guess...The season is going to be over in a few weeks, and I’m just not really sure if I should be worried or not.”
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