Faster Harder

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.

Forward

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.