Friction: Full Velocity Series - Book 1

by Delaney, Tracie

  Friction

  Full Velocity Series - Book 1

  Tracie Delaney

  Contents

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  Books by Tracie Delaney

  Jared

  Paisley

  Jared

  Paisley

  Jared

  Paisley

  Jared

  Paisley

  Jared

  Paisley

  Jared

  Paisley

  Jared

  Paisley

  Jared

  Paisley

  Jared

  Paisley

  Jared

  Paisley

  Jared

  Paisley

  Jared

  Paisley

  Jared

  Paisley

  Jared

  FROM ME TO YOU

  Gridlock - Blurb

  Books by Tracie Delaney

  Tracie Delaney Newsletter Sign Up

  Acknowledgments

  About Tracie Delaney

  Copyright © 2019 Tracie Delaney

  Edited by Emmy Ellis at Studioenp

  Edited by Delphine Noble-Fox

  Proofreading by Love2ReadRomance

  Cover art by Tiffany @TEBlack Designs

  Photographer: Wander Aguiar (WanderBookClub)

  Model: Andrew Biernat

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in uniform or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Books by Tracie Delaney

  The Winning Ace Series

  Cash - A Winning Ace Short Story

  Winning Ace

  Losing Game

  Grand Slam

  Winning Ace Boxset

  Mismatch

  Break Point - A Winning Ace Novella

  Stand-alone

  My Gift To You

  The Brook Brothers Series

  The Blame Game

  Against All Odds

  His To Protect

  Web of Lies

  Irresistibly Mine Series

  Tempting Christa

  Avenging Christa

  Full Velocity Series

  Friction

  Gridlock

  Inside Track (coming soon)

  To achieve anything in motorsport, you have to be willing to live on the edge of disaster.

  Jared Kane.

  Jared

  I cranked open an eye, my sleep interrupted by the unmistakable graze of a nail across my abdomen and the soft moan of a female.

  Draped across my chest were two women.

  One remained fast asleep, curled into my left side, her long blonde hair tangled between her fingers, and a smudge of mascara on her cheek.

  I made eye contact with the other, a redhead, who peeked up at me, expectantly. A pink tongue darted out to wet her overly plump lips.

  “Morning, baby,” she murmured.

  Memories of last night came flooding back. They’d tag-teamed me in the bar, their intentions abundantly clear, and I’d been more than happy to oblige. I squinted, trying to recall their names. Dara was the red…and, and… Yes! Georgina.

  I twirled a lock of her hair between my fingers. “Morning, Dara.”

  Surprise that I’d recalled her name registered on her face, and then her hand slipped south, and she cupped my balls. My cock responded, thickening into something with a little more promise. I stretched one arm overhead and curved a hand around the back of her neck, urging her lower, raising my hips in silent invitation.

  She smiled and burrowed beneath the covers.

  Velvet lips closed around the head, and then she pulled me into her mouth. Soft, warm, wet, not too much suction, and the exact amount of enthusiastic moaning. Oh yeah, I remembered now. Dara had a very talented mouth. A lot of women were terrible at giving head. I’d had some doozies. Teeth… please, ladies, keep ’em away from the dick. But this delectable redhead… she’d clearly studied the art.

  Closing my eyes, I relaxed into the sensation—and then my cell phone rang. I cursed, feeling around on the nightstand. I picked up the damn thing to put it on silent—until I spotted the caller.

  “Shit.”

  I pushed Dara off me and scrambled to my feet, my sharp movement dislodging Georgina, who rubbed her eyes, emitted a soft keening sound, then rolled over, yanking the covers over her head.

  Ignoring Dara’s grumbling, I strode into the living room, carefully shutting the bedroom door behind me.

  “Kane,” I barked into the phone, as if speaking to a stranger, even though I knew exactly who’d called.

  “Jared, how’s things? I haven’t interrupted anything, have I?” Dan, my manager, said with more than a hint of mirth to his tone. Sometimes I had the distinct impression that fucker had a camera on me.

  “Nope,” I lied. “What’s up?”

  A resounding silence sent my heart crashing against my ribcage… thud, thud, thud. There could only be one reason Dan had called before ten on a Sunday morning during the off-season.

  “I heard back from Nash Racing.”

  I held my breath. If this wasn’t good news, I’d be gutted. But worse than that, I’d have failed. And failure was not an option. It might be a cliché, but a fucking true one, at least for me. I’d worked my entire life for this one opportunity. I had to pull it off.

  “And,” I prompted when the quiet sent a ringing sound through my ears. My palms dampened, and I went to wipe them on my clothes, then realized I was stark naked.

  “You think SoCal is expensive? Well, so is London,” Dan said. “You’re lucky I’m a fucking hot negotiator.”

  For a beat, I found myself momentarily confused, and then adrenaline rushed through me. “They’re offering a contract?” I asked, trying really fucking hard not to start screaming with total joy until I knew for sure Dan wasn’t fucking me about.

  “Two years, with a third as an option.”

  Yes!

  I leaped in the air, punching at nothing. I couldn’t believe it. Honest to fucking Christ. My dreams were finally coming true. Everything I’d fought for since I was eight years old and eating from food banks just to stay alive… And now? I’d been signed by Nash Racing.

  Jack Nash was God in the world of Formula One racing and an out-and-out winner. Everyone wanted to race for his team. I’d started my career in IndyCar, and I’d conquered it. Now, I sought a new challenge. I didn’t only want success on America’s shores, but internationally, too. Racing in Formula One—the fuck
ing Everest of global motorsports— was beyond my wildest childhood fantasies.

  Sure, most Americans had never heard of it, but they were the only country on the planet who hadn’t. This sport was huge. In Europe, the Middle East, Asia, Australia, Canada, South America, hell, every other country in the world, Formula One was the game in town when it came to risking life and limb by speeding around a racetrack at two hundred miles an hour with nothing between you and certain death but a thin strip of aluminum, a fire suit, and the skill of man versus machine.

  Of course, I’d be vilified in the American press. They’d write articles calling for my head, saying that I’d gone over to the dark side, jumped ship. That I’d sold out.

  Well, fuck them. I. Didn’t. Care.

  Because I’d made it.

  Jared Kane.

  Formula One driver.

  “Jared, you still there?”

  I forced myself to refocus, my attention already turning to the shit-ton of stuff I needed to arrange. The next few weeks were gonna be crazy. I’d better screw my head on tight and make sure it didn’t fall off.

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “I’m going to email a bunch of information over. I’ve already sent the contract to your lawyers, but I want you to read it through. Thoroughly. And not while you’ve got your fingers inside the drenched pussy of some fan you’ve picked up from a bar.”

  I snorted a laugh. Dan knew me far too well.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “I mean it, Jared,” Dan insisted, layering his tone with a heap of stern. “There’s a lot to figure out, and we haven’t got much time to get through it all. They want you at the test track over in Spain in two weeks.”

  Jesus. Two weeks? No time at all. “I hear you.”

  “Good,” Dan said gruffly, adding, “I’m proud of you, kid.”

  Right then, I felt pretty proud of myself, too. Who would’ve ever thought Jared Kane, the son of a cleaner and a garbage collector, would make it to the pinnacle of world-class motorsport? Well, I had. I’d proved it to all those motherfuckers who believed it was impossible for a guy from the wrong side of the tracks to succeed in a sport chock-full of rich dudes born with a silver spoon dangling from their too-privileged mouths.

  Hard work, determination, and stubborn self-belief had brought me to this place. Sure, the press wrote at length about my arrogance. They were right. But I had a reason to be, because I was fucking talented.

  And I’d proved my point—or rather Jack Nash had proven it for me. There were no flies on Jack. The man demanded the best, and only the best.

  Hence the two plus one contract making its way to my inbox right this second.

  I walked back to my bedroom. Both girls were now fully awake and giving me hungry looks, their eyes traveling the length of my body. My cock twitched, and I considered, briefly, allowing Dara to pick up where she’d left off five minutes earlier. But I was too amped, too hyped.

  I snatched their clothes off the floor where they’d dropped them after putting on a striptease for me last night, and tossed them over.

  “Time to go, ladies,” I said brightly. “Thanks for a great night. Let’s do it again sometime.”

  We wouldn’t be doing it again anytime. Ever. I preferred it that way. No strings, no ties, no responsibilities. The only obligations I willingly embraced were my racing career and my family. Everyone else provided little more than a brief interlude, just passing through. But nothing would be gained from being unnecessarily cruel.

  Dara eased to her feet, followed by Georgina. “Aww, Jared. It’s still early.”

  She sauntered over to where I loitered by the window. Her hips swayed in practiced seduction. Alas, she was wasting her time.

  “I got things to do, baby,” I crooned. “I’ll call you.”

  Georgina joined her, and the two of them wrapped themselves around me.

  “Just one more round, for luck,” Georgina murmured, her lips brushing the shell of my ear.

  I gripped each of their wrists and extracted them. “It’s tempting, but like I said, I’ve got lots to do.”

  A few moans and groans followed, but eventually the two women dressed and, after a brief caress and a kiss from them both, they left.

  I waited until the door to my condo clicked shut. And then I punched the air.

  I’m moving to London, baby.

  Paisley

  I stood on the hilltop looking down onto the racing track, the heat from the tarmac shimmering through the air. The breeze raised the hairs on my arms, or maybe it was excitement. I’d stood right on this spot many times in the past, from early childhood to now, but today felt different. Was different.

  I’d been obsessed with motor racing for as long as I could remember. Being the only child of Jack Nash, a guru in Formula One and the head of one of the most successful British racing teams in history, I guess it was inevitable. I’d grown up around engines, grease, the smell of fuel, and I loved it.

  I lived for it.

  It didn’t matter that I’d had no siblings to play with. This was my playground, and the drivers, engineers, and mechanics were my family. I idolized each and every one of them.

  But like most families, they also drove me crazy. None of them—my huge, wonderful, extended family—seemed to realize I’d grown up, that I was no longer little Paisley who’d skip down the pitlane, her pigtails flying as she launched herself into her adoring father’s arms.

  Sure, I had a lot to learn, but at twenty-two, I’d graduated from university top of my class with a mechanical engineering degree. Now, finally, I had a chance to prove to everyone I had the determination and the talent to make it as a top mechanic in an extremely competitive field.

  There was just one small problem.

  The company who hired me for my very first job? Nash Racing.

  Yep, you guessed it. I’d landed a job with Daddy.

  No matter how much I tried to deny it, I couldn’t shake the unwanted title of ‘little rich girl’ who had the world at her feet. And those who labeled me as such would be right… to a point. But I’d also worked really hard the last four years, studying every spare minute of the day to gain a first-class honors degree. Qualifications didn’t come easy, no matter who your parents were. And I was good, y’know. Really good. With some experience and a few years under my belt, I’d make a top-rate mechanic.

  It hadn’t been my intention to take a role in Dad’s racing team. I’d rather have cut my teeth with one of the smaller teams where the pressure to perform at the very highest levels wasn’t as great, but Dad had insisted. As soon as he made it clear I’d only be working for one racing team, none of the others would touch me.

  Yeah, I’m pissed off about it, but what’s a girl to do?

  Still, on the upside, working for Dad meant I’d be surrounded by the best, and that, in turn, would make me better. I had a healthy competitive streak, and learning from those who were among the greatest and most talented mechanics in the business would ensure I joined their ranks in the shortest possible time.

  See, I wanted success. I craved it. I knew lots of women who’d grown up with the adage of ‘silver spoon in their mouths’ and were happy to spend their days lounging around on their daddy’s yacht drinking champagne and screwing the crew.

  That wasn’t me.

  The desire to make the grade through my own efforts, rather than the good fortune of being born to the right parents, spurred me on. Motor racing was a man’s world, and women had to work twice as hard to succeed.

  As Jack Nash’s daughter, I’d have to work three times as hard to prove I deserved my spot through merit, not DNA.

  A few people milled about in the pit lane. Winter testing would begin in full force today, the start of the racing season still quite a way off. My dad’s racing team always tested the new car designs in Spain. The temperatures in southern Europe were a lot warmer than England, and therefore more aligned to the temperatures we’d race in.

  Testing gave
us the first chance to try out the engine and aerodynamic improvements developed in the factory and make any necessary modifications before the season began. Further testing would take place throughout the year, but this was the crucial time, in preparation for the first race. Once we started racing, we wouldn’t have time to make significant changes to the car.

  I spotted Dad talking with Lewis Hargreaves, one of our drivers. Lewis had driven for Nash Racing for seven years, but this would be his last season with us. He’d decided to retire after fifteen years at the very top of Grand Prix racing. Lewis was like the older brother I never had, and I’d miss him like crazy, but at least I’d be working with him and his mechanics. I hoped that eased me into my first few weeks in a new job. A stressful job. One that many had tried—and failed—to conquer.

  God, what if I’m not up to this… What if I can’t hack the pressure?

  I swallowed past a thick throat. Unscrewing the top on a bottle of water, I sipped, the cool liquid easing the dryness in my mouth.

  Pull yourself together, Paise. You’ve got this!

  I got back in my car and drove to the entrance of the racetrack. I flashed my access badge at the security guard who raised his hand in acknowledgement and granted me access into the compound.