FASTER HARDER
Take Me... #1
by Colleen Masters
A Hearts Collective Production
Copyright © 2013 Hearts Collective
All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.
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Thank you all for reading, Faster Harder is the first in a series of books I've been so excited about writing for a long, long time - stay tuned for Book #2 Faster Deeper due out in November!!
Faster Harder (Take Me... #1)
Faster Deeper (Take Me... #2)
Faster Longer (Take Me... #3)
Other Books by Hearts Collective:
Damaged But Not Broken (New Adult Rockers) by W.H. Vega
Falling Harder (New Adult Romance) by W.H. Vega
Broken Strings by Brynn O'Connor
Special Thanks to L.J. Anderson
for the beautiful professional cover art.
Mayhem Cover Creations
www.mayhemcovercreations.com
Contents
One - In a Barcelona Bathroom
Two - House Music
Three - Qualifying
Four - Flaming Wreckage
Five - Sleeping With The Enemy
Six - Sex Hair
Seven - Pole Position
Eight - Race Day
Nine - Just The Beginning
Ten - Together Again
Eleven - So Good
Twelve - Toronto Grand Prix
Thirteen - Budapest Beat
Fourteen - A Night Together
Fifteen - Red Handed
Sixteen - Consequences
Seventeen - A Raw Victory
Chapter One
In a Barcelona Bathroom
With my back pressed firmly against the plush bathroom wall, I cock an eyebrow at my tattooed companion.
“I’m guessing this is a pretty regular thing for you?” I ask.
His devilish grin stretches wider in response as he slides the bathroom door’s lock into place. Thank god for single stalls that are big enough for double capacity. I have a feeling that I won’t want anyone walking in on us and catching an eyeful of what we’re about to get up to.
“You seem pretty comfortable yourself, Siena,” my mystery man says in a sexy British accent, planting his hands on the wall just above my shoulders. He’s got me boxed in now, and the proximity of his firm, sculpted body to mine is making my temperature soar.
“Blame it on the tequila,” I laugh, tilting my head to the side.
His eyes drink in the sight of me, but still he keeps a few inches of space between us. I wish he would press himself up against me, pin me in place with those powerful hips. But I get the feeling that this man isn’t used to having to make the first move. It’s no wonder, either. With those sharp, impeccably balanced features and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of, he probably doesn’t have to work very hard to get most women crawling after him on their hands and knees.
Thing is, I’m not like most women. Or rather, not like most women this guy would go for. That much is clear.
“Aren’t you going to kiss me, Harrison?” I challenge him, forcing my eyes to stay locked evenly with his. The elegant bathroom stall is spinning rather dizzily around me. If I’d had one more drink back at the bar, I’d be asking for a ride home, rather than a kiss. But I know how to handle myself when it comes to booze. I’m perched on the line between tipsy and drunk, uninhibited and ready for the night to take a sexy turn.
My companion brushes a loose chestnut curl away from my forehead and cups my cheek in his firm hand. He’s teasing me, trying to draw me out...and it’s working. I can feel every fiber of my being calling out for his touch.
“You’re terrible,” I grin, running my fingers down along the hard panes of his chest, the rippled expanse of his abs.
“We’ll see about that,” he says, and presses his ripped body hard against mine.
His full lips find mine, and the taste of him is more intoxicating than any alcohol I’ve consumed tonight. I press my mouth against his, opening myself to him with abandon. He looses a hand, trailing his fingers along my bare thigh. A ripple of anticipation courses through my every nerve, and I bring my teeth down lightly on his lower lip. He sucks in a breath and grabs my wrists, drawing them up over my head. We lock eyes mischievously for the briefest of moments before letting our lips lock again.
This is not exactly how I’d expected my night on the town to unfold. But I’m certainly not complaining...
***
I landed in Barcelona fewer than twelve hours ago with the rest of Team Ferrelli, the Formula One racing team that has been synonymous with “family” since the minute I was born. We’re here for the Barcelona Grand Prix, the first of many races of the 2013 tournament season.
And while we’ve certainly got plenty of work to do over the course of this weekend, the boss cut me some slack tonight so that I could see this gorgeous city—I guess it doesn’t hurt that the boss happens to be my father.
Alfonso Lazio, my dear old dad, is an F1 racing legend and majority shareholder of Team Ferrelli. He’s one of the most famous racers to have ever come out of Italy, as he’ll be the first to tell you. Our family is a true racing dynasty—around the track, the name Lazio carries some weight. But after my father, I’m still not the most well-known of our clan, not by a long shot. My older brother Lorenzo, friends and family call him Enzo, is the real celebrity of our brood. Dad’s been grooming him since before he could walk to be the next World Champion in our family line. And the way things have been going lately, that might just be the case.
Enzo’s been working his way up through the Ferrelli ranks ever since he was a teenager. Though our dad is famous in his own right, Enzo still had to work hard to get where he is today. You don’t get to be a champion by name dropping if you can’t back your bragging up. Last year, Enzo finished 4th overall, an incredible feat for such a young racer. But this year, he’s got his eyes on the big number one.
I visited Enzo’s hotel suite before heading out earlier this evening, and sure enough, he was hard at work scrutinizing the Barcelona track.
“Sure you don’t want to come with me, Enzo?” I ask, bouncing on the edge of his cushy king bed. “There’s this amazing open air nightclub I want to check out.”
“By yourself?” Enzo asks, his attention finally wrestled away from the track layout.
“Yeah right,” I say, rolling my eyes, “As if dad would ever let me wander off without a chaperone. Charlie’s going to take me.”
Charlie Spano, son of the Ferrelli team manager Gus, has been tagging along after me since we were kids. We grew up around the race track together, as Gus was my dad’s manager before Enzo’s. We’re both twenty-five, Charlie and I, and it’s a pretty common assumption among the team that we’ll eventually pair off and settle down. I love Charlie like a brother and always will, but there’s no way in hell we’re ever going to be a couple. Unfortunately, Charlie hasn’t seemed to figure that out just yet.
“He’ll keep a good eye on you,” Enzo says, turning back to his studies.
“Keep me from meeting anyone interesting, you mean?” I say.
“Exactly,” Enzo smiles.
“You realize that’s a total double standard, right?” I demand, “I’ve lost track of how many F1 groupies you’ve hooked up with over the years, but I can’t even go dancing with the locals without a watch dog?”
“What can I say?” Enzo sighs, “That’s life, Siena. I don’t make the rules.”
“No
, that’s Dad’s domain,” I mutter.
Enzo’s dark brows furrow over his rich brown eyes. He hates it when I get annoyed with Dad’s way of running things. My brother and I are practically identical in so many ways. We both inherited my dad’s smooth olive skin, glossy brown hair, and sharp features. From my mother, we got our svelte statures and our whip-like wits. But one thing we’ve never shared is how we feel about our little family. That’s probably because our places within it have always been so different.
My brother has always been Dad’s golden boy, his pride and joy. That’s not to say that he and my mom don’t love me just as much, it’s just a different kind of love. They’ve always protected me, made sure I had every advantage, prepped me so that I could land a man one day and put everyone’s mind at ease.
I’ve always been the pretty daughter that looks nice and polished during my dad’s and brother’s photo ops. It’s nice to be cherished, but sometimes it feels like their expectations for me are insultingly low. I’m sure that deep down my dad respects my ability to lead my own life...but even I have to admit that I question his esteem every now and again.
“Have a good time tonight,” Enzo says, “You know I never party the night before a qualifier.”
“Wouldn’t want the Ferrelli crown prince to get bruised,” I wink.
“Oh, shut up,” Enzo says, shooing me out of his suite.
I skip out of his room and shut the door behind me. As I head toward my own room to get ready for my night on the town, I run smack into a solid wall of muscle. I take a step back and lock eyes with my dad. He and Charlie stand before me in the hotel hallway, my own personal security detail.
“There you are,” my dad says in his thick Italian accent, laying a heavy hand on my slender shoulder, “You had Charlie all worried.”
“I wasn’t worried,” Charlie mutters, “Just—”
“You two take it easy tonight,” Dad barrels on, “We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow. Siena, Bella, we can’t have you looking hung over for the press.”
“I know dad,” I tell him, “Have to look camera ready, as ever.”
“We didn’t make you Enzo’s PR manager for nothing.”
I stifle a sigh—the man has a point. It is my job to keep myself together and sculpt the press that Enzo gets during tournaments. That’s my way of contributing to the team’s success, and I’m damned proud of the work I do.
“Don’t worry, Signore Lazio,” Charlie says, sidling up next to me. “We’ll be good.”
“You’d better,” my dad says, eyeing the pair of us suspiciously.
I have to fight to keep my eyes from rolling all the way back in my head. The last thing my dad needs to worry about is Charlie and I getting down and dirty.
In the quarter century that we’ve known each other, the friskiest we’ve ever gotten was during one very uneventful round of seven minutes in heaven, back when we were twelve. It’s not an experience I’m looking to repeat anytime soon.
I set off toward my room and notice that Charlie has yet to leave my side.
“I was just going to get ready,” I tell him, sliding my key card into the door.
“I’ll keep you company,” he says cheerfully, following me into my suite.
Of course, I think to myself, tossing my purse onto the lush queen bed. My room leaves nothing to be desired, that’s for sure. One of the perks of traveling around the world with an elite team like Ferrelli is that one never pines for the finer things.
“You can make yourself comfortable over there,” I tell Charlie, nodding toward the sitting room, “I’m sure they’ve got all the channels of porn you could ever want.”
“What do I need porn for?” Charlie says cavalierly. “That’s for guys who can’t get any in real life.”
I shrug and go to fetch my makeup. Charlie makes a decent point for himself. By no means is my constant companion unattractive. He’s got the slick, preppy, Ivy League thing down to a science. I’ve lost track of how many women have come scrambling to me after his number...Or how many evil eyes I’ve gotten from jealous admirers after being seen out and about with him.
Charlie and I were both born in Italy, but grew up in the United States. Our dads, Alfonso and Gus, have been best friends for decades. Charlie and I spent our school years in adjacent boy's and girl's private schools, our summers and vacations as neighbors in Italy, and our college years back in the states—him at Columbia, me at NYU.
I know that he’s a catch by anyone’s standards...I only wish that I was even slightly attracted to him physically. I suppose that if I don’t actually fall in love with anyone by the time I’m sixty, I’ll give Charlie another look. But until then, I’m keeping myself open to the possibility of finding someone that I’m actually crazy about.
Hey, a girl can dream. I haven’t exactly had the best of luck where love is concerned. Maybe it’s because the men of my family are so crazy macho, but I always find myself gravitating to the more beta male soft-spoken types. Not that there’s anything wrong with that...it just hasn’t left me all that satisfied. Sometimes I worry that I’ll never be able to figure out what I really want in a guy.
“Never say never,” I mutter to myself, grabbing my favorite slinky sapphire dress from the hotel closet.
I slip into the bathroom with my dolling-up supplies, check the lock twice, and finally get down to business. It’s such a relief to shuck off my prim travel outfit. I’m all for looking professional when I’m on the clock for Team Ferrelli, but there’s only so much a girl can do with a pencil skirt and button-down. Tonight, I can finally let my hair down—literally.
Off come the skirt and top I’ve been locked into all day, down comes the pristine bun that’s been keeping my locks in check. I let my eyes settle on my own reflection in the mirrored walls of the bathroom. There’s nowhere to hide in a room like this, but I don’t much mind.
Standing in my simple baby blue cotton panties and bra, I’m perfectly comfortable with what I see. I’ve never been stick skinny in my entire life, but my body is strong. My hips, breasts, and ass are full and firm, my legs toned from years of running for pleasure and competition.
My chocolate brown hair falls down my back in loose curls, brushing against my sharp shoulder blades. I know that I’m blessed to have escaped adolescence without any major body insecurities, and for that I’m grateful. But as many times as I hear people telling me how pretty I am, it never makes much a difference to me. This is the skin I’ve always lived in, after all. And I’m all about making sure that I have more to offer the world than a pretty face.
I slip into my blue shimmery dress, luxuriating in the feel of the fine fabric against my skin. This is by far my favorite item of clothing, and probably my nicest too. My family’s always been well-off, but we’re not very flashy. My parents are practical people, pragmatic until the end. Even Enzo’s public persona is conservative, and F1 racers are not exactly known for their professionalism. All my life, I’ve had an image to uphold, and I’ve played my part very well. But still...it’s nice to slip into a gorgeous dress and shake it out on the dance floor every once in a while.
Once my hair is arranged into an intentionally messy up-do and my eyes are sufficiently smoky, I step back out into the suite to fetch my escort for the evening. Charlie’s jaw all but unhinges as I slip into the sitting room.
“How am I supposed to beat back the ruffians when you go out looking like that?” he demands.
“Who says it’s your job to beat them back?” I smile, “Now let’s go.”
Chapter Two
House Music
We arrive at the club in a flurry of excitement and anticipation. Walking through the vibrant streets of Barcelona, it’s impossible not to succumb to the city’s infectious charm. Meandering through the surreal winding paths, arriving at the pulsing open-air club, I have the irrepressible feeling that tonight is going to be special. Significant. Possibly sexy.
Throbbing house music beckons us into th
e club, beating through our bodies the minute we step over the threshold. This place is packed with gorgeous, supple bodies, writhing and twirling in the half light. I eye Charlie, amused by his baffled expression.
“Not exactly like your usual haunts, huh Chuck?” I ask.
“Not by a long shot,” he replies, staring as a woman wearing pasties and a thong wanders past. “You sure you don’t want to go somewhere more...subdued?”
“Hell no,” I tell him, weaving through the stunning crowd, “This is exactly where I want to be tonight.”
“Suit yourself,” Charlie answers, holding my elbow as I settle into a plush booth. For some reason, the gesture really irritates me. I know that my friend is here as something of a guardian, but he takes his job a little too seriously for my liking.
“Why don’t you grab us a couple of drinks?” I suggest.
“Sure. White wine?”
“How about a margarita?” I say.
“Siena,” Charlie says sternly, “You heard what your dad said. We have to take it easy tonight. We’ve got—”
“Whatever,” I cut him off, “Wine’s good.”
Charlie makes his way across the crowded club, disappearing into the sea of attractive bodies. My eyes wander across the dance floor. Dozens of Spanish beauties spin and weave beneath the starry sky. Beyond them, Barcelona sprawls out in all its glory, igniting my imagination with possibilities. How can I be expected to sit quietly and sip my Pinot Blanc while the whole world spins madly on all around me?
A jolt of surprise surges through me as my wandering eyes meet another’s. Far off across the dance floor, a man I’ve never seen before in my life has his eyes locked onto me. The intense intimacy of his gaze takes me totally off-guard. Those are bedroom eyes if I’ve ever seen them. And the face that houses them doesn’t make it any easier for me to keep myself composed.
My admirer’s features look like they’ve been carved out of stone. His razor sharp jaw line, full lips, and aquiline nose are the picture of perfection. But it’s his eyes that really snag me. They’re the perfect sky blue, crystal clear and deep as the sea that stretches beyond Barcelona’s shores. But it’s the intent, straightforward nature of those gorgeous orbs that piques my interest. This is clearly a man who’s well practiced in getting the things he sets his sights on. And right now, it would seem that his sights are set on me.
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