Read Faster Longer (Take Me...#3) (New Adult Bad Boy Racer Novel) Online
Authors: Colleen Masters
Faster Longer (Take Me...#3) (New Adult Bad Boy Racer Novel)
FASTER LONGER
Take Me... #3
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.
Forward
Thank you all for
reading, I swear I have the best fans!!
Faster Longer
is
the third book in the Take Me... series. Enjoy!!
Faster Harder
(Take Me... #1)
Faster Deeper
(Take Me... #2)
Faster Longer
(Take Me... #3)
Faster Hotter
(Take Me... #4)
Other Books by Hearts
Collective:
Faster Harder
(Take Me...#1) by Colleen Masters
Faster Deeper
(Take Me...#2) by Colleen Masters
Damaged But Not
Broken
(New Adult Rockers) by W.H. Vega
Wounded But Not
Scarred
(New Adult Rockers 2) by W.H. Vega
Falling Harder
(New Adult Romance) by W.H. Vega
Broken Strings
by Brynn O'Connor
Fuel To The Fire
by
Brynn O'Connor
Special Thanks to
L.J. Anderson at Mayhem Cover Creations
For the incredible
cover art!!
www.mayhemcovercreations.com
Chapter Three - An Olive Branch
Chapter Eight - Back To America
Chapter Nine - Snake in Racer's Clothing
Chapter Twelve - Absence and Longing
Chapter Thirteen - Unwinding Gratitude
Chapter Fourteen - Figuring it Out
Chapter Fifteen - Hits Keep Coming
Chapter Sixteen - Black Listed
Harrison
Davies’ home in London, the weekend of the Luxembourg Grand Prix...
The air is heavy with aromatic steam, rising off the bath
like a thick cloud in the flickering candlelight. I pad across the cool tile
floor, moving across the cavernous room to the stately marble bathtub. Harrison
sits on the edge of the inlaid tub, trailing his fingers through the hot water.
Not a stitch of clothing obscures his perfectly balanced, deliciously built
body. His tattoos stand out against his tan skin in the dim light, scrawled as
they are across his firm chest, broad shoulders, and sculpted arms. I let my
eyes wander down along the hard panes of his chest, the rippling expanse of
defined abs, the perfect muscular v of his hips...and of course, that gorgeous
length between his legs that I’ve come to know so well.
“Siena Lazio,” he says, swinging his bright blue eyes my
way, “Are you checking me out over there?”
“Shamelessly,” I smile.
“You still like what you see?” he asks, opening his arms
wide.
“More than ever,” I tell him.
“Come on over here, would you? The water’s great,” he says,
standing up.
I always forget how staggeringly tall my man really is. I’m
a statuesque lady myself, and Harrison still has nearly a foot on me. He turns
and steps into the huge marble bath, sinking down into the steaming water. I
would not have pegged Harrison Davies for the candles and bath salts type when
we first met, but he continues to surprise me every day. My man can go from
devil-may-care bad boy to sensual lover as quickly as his F1 car goes from zero
to two hundred miles per hour. I can only imagine what other secret elements
there are to Harrison, sides of him that no one but me will ever know.
I shrug off my white silk robe, letting the soft garment
pool at my feet. Harrison’s gaze rakes along the length of me, leaving a warm
glow in its wake. I never feel more beautiful than when Harrison’s eyes are on
me. Whether I’m stark naked, draped in PJs, or rocking a slinky evening gown,
he still looks at me like I’m absolutely perfect. I never thought I’d be lucky
enough to find a man who looks at me that way—like there’s not a part of me,
inside or out, that he would ever change. And yet here he is.
“How the hell did I manage before I met you?” Harrison asks,
his voice low and husky.
“Funny, I was just wondering the same thing,” I say, moving
toward the tub. I sit down on the edge of the wide, deep basin and swing my
legs around. A little shudder of pleasure rolls through me as I lower myself
little by little into the water. It’s the perfect temperature, and scented with
sandalwood. And of course, it doesn’t hurt that my gorgeous lover is already
there waiting for me.
“You really have this romantic evening thing down to a
science, don’t you?” I ask, sidling up to Harrison.
“This is actually pretty uncharacteristic,” me laughs,
pulling me toward him, “I usually prefer a few too many cocktails and a good
game of pool to aromatherapy and bubble baths. But for you, my dear, I’m happy
to make an exception.”
“Does that make me exceptional?” I ask, placing myself
between his legs. I press my back up against his firm chest and let my head
lean back onto his shoulder. Harrison wraps his strong arms around me, pulling
me close.
“You are beyond exceptional, Siena Lazio,” he whispers,
“You’re more than I could have ever dreamed to hope for.”
“You’re not too shabby yourself,” I grin, turning to plant a
kiss on his tattooed pec.
We lapse into silence as Harrison runs his hands down my
lean arms, sending up a spray of goose bumps wherever he touches. His hands
move all along my body, over my hourglass waist, my hips, my smooth legs. I
close my eyes and breathe deeply, luxuriating in the feel of his hands on my
skin. As hard as I can, I try to commit this moment to memory. I don’t think
I’ve ever been happier in my life.
“We could stay like this,” Harrison says quietly, bringing his
lips to my throat. “I could quit racing. You could quit PR. I’ve got more than
enough money to last us until enough time has passed for me to write my
memoir.”
“You know that’s impossible,” I tell him, bringing my hands
up to tangle in his blonde hair, “You could never stop racing. Not if you
tried. It’s one of the reasons I love you, that dedication. And there’s no way
in hell I’m going to let you domesticate me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, nipping at my ear.
With a little gasp, I let my hands fall to his muscular
thighs. I can feel him swelling against me, and I can’t resist. I spin around
to face him, wrapping my legs around his waist. My fingers glance against his
hardening desire, stroking him stiffer by the second. He lets a low moan escape
his throat as I wrap my fingers around him, working my hands up and down along
his sensitive flesh.
“I don’t want to talk career strategy with you, Harrison,” I
say, keeping my eyes trained on his handsome face.
“What would you prefer to do?” he growls, eyes bright.
In reply, I inch ever closer to him in the water, grasping
his rigid length in my hands. I align myself perfectly against him and pull
myself forward, drawing his hard cock into me inch by inch until he’s filled me
up entirely. I tighten my legs around the small of his back, letting my breasts
balloon against his hard chest.
“Oh...” he groans, “I think I prefer this too...”
I grind gently against Harrison’s staggering member,
pressing myself down onto him again and again. He bucks slowly into me, cupping
my breasts in his strong hands. For once, we’re in no hurry. Here, alone in our
little bubble of privacy, I can ride Harrison all night if I want to. It’s the
ultimate luxury for us, a little peace and quiet. And I intend to savor every
sweet minute of it.
Our moans rise and entwine in the steamy air, bouncing off
the bathroom tiles. If there’s a heaven somewhere, bet it looks very much like
this.
Back To Reality
The
next morning...
The mob of reporters and photographers is growing by the
second outside of Harrison’s Kensington home. My back is pressed against the
oaken front door, which Harrison slammed shut just moments ago. I’d gone
outside to fetch the morning paper and found myself face to face with dozens of
ravenous media types. I’ve always been excellent in front of the press, it’s my
job, after all. But today, just now, I froze like a deer in the headlights. An
extremely conflicted and guilty deer, I might add.
Harrison is pacing back and forth in front of me like a mad
bull just waiting to be set loose from his pen. I don’t think I’ve ever seen
him as angry as this. His every muscle is wound up like a spring, and his jaw
pulses furiously. In the week since the Moscow wreck, Harrison’s gotten his
strength back and then some. We’ve been getting down to a lot of rather sensual
healing, after all. But now, in this livid state, that regained strength is
almost scary. I’ve never felt threatened by Harrison’s power before, but I’ve also
never really seen him mad.
“They can’t be here,” he mutters, shoving his hands through
his sandy hair. “This is my property, dammit. They can’t just show up here
hoping to score some fucking photo op. I bet they’d scamper off pretty quickly
if I went out there and broke someone’s nose. That would send a message,
alright.”
“You’ve got to calm down, Harrison,” I say, “I know it’s
shitty, but we need to play it cool. Don’t do anything that you’re going to
regret, here.”
“Calm down? Play it cool?” he scoffs, turning that powerful
body to face me, “We’ve been found out, Siena. All these weeks we’ve spent
together, the life we’ve been building away from prying eyes...it’s all over.
They’ve got our story in their grimy hands now. It’s all over.”
“No,” I say, closing the space between us, “Don’t say that,
Harrison. Look, we knew that this was going to happen one way or another.”
“Did we?” he demands.
“Unless you expected to keep me as your secret mistress for
the rest of our lives, yes,” I insist, getting heated myself. “That wasn’t your
intention, was it? To keep me on the sidelines for the rest of our
relationship, treating me like some perpetual booty call?”
“You know it was never like that,” he snaps, “Don’t you put
that on me.”
I hurry around Harrison toward the kitchen. For some reason,
my first impulse is to carry on as if none of this is really happening. The French
press has been sitting right where I left it. Funny how one minute you can be
putting coffee on for your perfect lover, and the next you can be watching your
life unravel before your eyes. Well, perhaps
funny
isn’t exactly the right word, after all...
“You’d like it black, yes?” I ask crisply, pulling two
coffee mugs down from the cabinet.
“How can you be thinking about your cup of morning joe at a
time like this?” Harrison asks incredulously, storming into the kitchen.
“Everything’s going to shit, and you’re going to play house?”
“I’m trying very hard to keep my head on straight,” I tell
him, pouring out two steaming mugs of coffee, “One of us has to stay—”
I gasp as Harrison swipes his powerful arm across the
counter in one furious motion, sending one of the mugs soaring through the air.
It smashes against the wall, spraying coffee and shards of porcelain
everywhere. I stare at Harrison, my mouth hanging open in shock.
“What the fuck—?” I sputter.
“Stop telling me to keep calm,” Harrison says, his voice
deadly quiet, “I’ve just been discovered to be having an affair with the sister
of my rival in this championship. Our life together is spread across the
biggest newspaper in the country. You won’t say two words that aren’t out of a
PR handbook. And I’m scared to death that I might lose the only person who has
ever meant a goddamn thing to me. So please, for the love of God, Siena—”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, throwing my arms around his broad
shoulders, “I’m scared too, Harrison. I have no idea what we’re going to do.”
“Neither do I,” he admits, “But we’re going to do it
together, aren’t we?”
“Of course,” I tell him, holding onto our embrace for dear
life.
We stand there for a long moment, locked in each other’s
arms as the growing crowd of press clamors and shouts beyond our front door. If
I close my eyes, I can almost remember what it was like just hours ago—when it
seemed that Harrison and I were the only two people in the world. I’d give
anything to wind the clock back just that much.
“Jesus...” Harrison groans, pulling back ever so slightly,
“Siena, I have to be at the track in an hour. McClain wants me to start
training with the new car today. What the hell am I going to do?”
“You’re going to go to the track,” I tell him, planting my
hands on his hard chest, “You’re going to show up for work and do your job.
You’re not going to let these gossip mongers throw you off your game. Promise
me that much.”
“I promise,” he says, sinking down onto one of the kitchen
stools.
“Good,” I say, “That means I can do my job, too. I know this
was sprung on us in a rather different manner than we expected, but we can get
control of it.”
“I can’t believe someone would do this,” Harrison says,
shaking his head, “What could they possibly want, the people who are after us?
Who the hell do you think sent that punk kid to spy on us this whole time?”
“I have no idea,” I say, sitting beside him, “For a while I
suspected Charlie. And that Shelby girl. But I just can’t see either of them
masterminding something like this. What could they have to gain from raking us
through the mud?”
“This is too big to have come from either of them,” Harrison
says, “Whoever’s behind this wants something a lot bigger than our attention.
But what?”
“We’ll figure it out,” I assure him, “But right now, you
need to get to the track. I’m sure that the McClain management will want to
have a word with you.”
Harrison nods grimly and gives me a deep, searing kiss. I
take his face in my hands, cradling his strong scruffy jaw. Whatever hell we’re
about to go through, at least we’ll be tackling it together.
He says goodbye and throws on his leather jacket and Ray
Bans. There’s no back entrance to the house, and he’s forced to walk back out
the front door. I watch through the living room curtains as he makes his way
outside, igniting a storm of flash bulbs and raised voices. I have to give him
credit, the man knows how to play it cool—most of the time. He drives through
the crowd, parting the reporters like the Red Sea. Without missing a step, he
wrenches open the door of his car and slips inside, speeding off down the quiet
residential street. I’m all alone in a house that has only just started to feel
like a home, surrounded by rabid reporters, and trapped in a world of trouble.
“I guess the course of true love never did run smooth,” I
mutter, heading back to the kitchen, “Not even for a professional driver.”
Wearily, I make myself another cup of coffee to replace the
one that’s currently drying on the wall. If I’m going to even begin to think
through this mess, I’m going to need a little caffeinated fortification. As I
wait for the water to boil once again, I spot today’s paper on the countertop
where Harrison discarded it. I know that I shouldn’t read anything that’s come
out about us. But I’m filled with dread and morbid curiosity, wondering what
the press has to say about my very private relationship. I pour myself a cup
and settle down before the paper, taking a deep breath to steady myself.
Here goes nothing.
I spread the front page out on the counter, rolling my eyes
at the saccharine headline: “Romeo and Juliet of Formula One Tangled in Tawdry
Tryst”.
“They could have done without the alliteration,” I murmur,
letting my eyes wander down to the photos above the front page crease.
A half dozen photos of me and Harrison are laid out in a
surreal collage. There’s a snapshot of us in Barcelona, staggering back up from
the beach where we’d gone to be alone. Then there’s one of us from Monte Carlo,
just before we snuck off together to make love in the backseat of Harrison’s
car. And a racy picture from Budapest of us drunk and kissing as Harrison hails
me a cab—my very short dress revealing far too much of my anatomy for my taste.
Another from Moscow, of us kissing passionately in the hotel garden. Finally,
at the center of the collage, there’s a seemingly innocent Instagram picture of
me and Harrison with a few of our F1 friends. This last shot is unlike the others.
It’s posed, not candid. Innocuous enough at first glance, but not when
surrounded by the rest of the racy shots. Why don’t I remember when it was
taken?
“Oh my god...” I mutter, recalling suddenly. I know exactly
when that picture is from. Shelby snapped it weeks ago, before things with
Harrison had even heated to a boil. I remember thinking that her insistent
photo-snapping was strange. She forced Harrison and I into the frame together.
Is this proof that she really is behind all this? Was I right in pegging my
brother’s curvy blonde companion as the blackmailer all along?
“Let’s just see what else we can discover,” I seethe,
ripping the paper open to our headliner of a story. “Oh, perfect...”
There, right on pages one and two, is a gigantic whopper of
an article, peppered with even more photos of me and Harrison in various states
of tipsy undress and giddy love. I brace myself and begin to read.
All is Fair
in Love and F1:
Harrison
Davies’ Secret Affair with Ferrelli Princess Siena Lazio
“There’s that freaking ‘p word’ again,” I mutter. Why is
everyone so adamant about painting me as a helpless princess? I notice right
away that there’s no by line attached to this story. No author has set their
name to these allegations. No small wonder—I’m sure I wouldn’t want to tangle
with both the McClain and Ferrelli legal teams. I go on to see what my
anonymous tipster has to share with the world.
-- Formula
One racing has always been a hotbed of drama and intrigue. Tempers flare,
engines rev, and empires are built and destroyed with the wave of a flag. And
that’s just on the track. But this year’s world championship is shaping up to
be the most intriguingly scandalous competition this reporter has ever
witnessed. And while there are many threads that make up the tapestry of this
particularly engaging melodrama, one is sure to take the world by storm—the
romance between McClain’s new rock star driver Harrison Davies and Team
Ferrelli’s own favorite daughter, Siena Lazio.
They could have at least mentioned that I have an actual job
on the team. Of course there’s no mention of the fact that I’m Ferrelli’s Director
of Public Relations, and a damn fine one at that. I suppose the story is much
juicier if I’m some cloistered maiden that Harrison’s stolen away from her
ivory tower. What a load of bull.
--
The
affair between Davies and Lazio seems to have started up at the onset of the
championship season. The two were seen in each other’s company for the first
time in Barcelona, the site of this year's first Grand Prix. From the evidence
that has been unearthed, it would appear that things got hot and heavy between
the lovers rather quickly. This is hardly surprising where Harrison Davies is
concerned. Though Davies stayed out of the F1 spotlight as a younger man, ostensibly
training in private, his womanizing is legendary among the people who knew him
before he was famous. Davies went through a string of high-profile girlfriends
during his early-to-mid-twenties, infamous in London social circles as a serial
heartbreaker. Add to that his penchant for club-going and whiskey, and Harrison
is hardly the settling-down sort of man.
Siena
Lazio, on the other hand, seems to air on the side of being a goody two-shoes
when it comes to romance. There is no evidence of an active love life in
Lazio’s past, though many in the F1 community always expected her to pair off
with Charles Spano, son of Ferrelli’s long time manager Augustus Spano. Perhaps
it is the gaping difference in Davies’ and Lazio’s romantic experience that has
close friends so very concerned for them.
What
close friends?
I think to myself. The only person that’s known about me
and Harrison on my side is Bex. And there’s no way she said anything to some
grubby reporter. And what’s all this about my total lack of a love life? Just
because I’ve never been the type to sleep around, doesn’t mean I’m a damn
prude. I try to tell myself not to take the story personally, but how can I not?
This is me and Harrison this author is talking about. This is my life.