Faster Longer (Take Me...#3) (New Adult Bad Boy Racer Novel) (8 page)

“Is that right?” he grins, “Why didn’t you say so?”

I groan as Harrison’s hands slide beneath my bra. My hands
fly to unclasp the garment as he cups my breasts in his hands. I let the fabric
fall away, closing my eyes in bliss as Harrison runs his thumbs over the hard
peaks of my nipples. I plant my hands on his shoulders and press myself up,
raising my chest to his mouth. His eyes flick up to mine as he brings his lips
to my erect nipple and closes his mouth around it.

“Oh my god...” I moan, as he bites down with just the right
amount of force. The shocking spark of sensations runs straight through me,
down to where I grow wetter for him with every passing second.

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.”

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.