by Teagan Kade
I swivel and there’s Sara right behind me looking fucking amazing in a violet minidress, her hair out for the first time and framing her features to perfection. God what I wouldn’t give to bury my face in it right now.
Stacey’s lips tighten. “Sara, nice to see you again.”
“Pity I can’t say the same.”
Stacey points between us. “Are you two…?”
Sara steps around me, gets right up in Stacey’s face. I have to admit, it’s fucking hot. “Maybe, maybe not, but all you need to know is that if you don’t stay the fuck away from me, from Andy, I’ll release all the photos.”
Stacey laughs, phony. “What photos?”
Sara holds up a phone, scrolling through the full sequence of shots the photographer took that night showing me pushing Stacey away. It makes the entire thing clear.
Stacey remains resolute. “Two lovers having a fight. So what?”
Sara pats her clutch. “Not with the bartender’s statement or those from the seven patrons who witnessed the so-called ‘kiss’.”
Stacey’s face hardens. “This isn’t your world.”
Sara stands taller. “I’m making it my world. Now fuck off.”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so New York.
Stacey’s lips tighten, but she’s out of ammunition. She snorts and vanishes back into the party.
“Thanks,” I offer, “not that I need you to fight my battles”.
“You were falling into her web again, Andy. She’s so obvious. Can’t you see it?”
“I can.”
“It sure as hell didn’t look like it.”
She seems frustrated. No, it’s something else. “What’s going on? You’ve hardly said ‘boo’ to me in two weeks and suddenly you’re here flying the Fortes flag. I don’t get it.”
And then it clicks.
“What?” she snaps, but she knows I can see it.
I reel back in mock surprise. “Holy fucking shit. You’re jealous, aren’t you?”
The way she blushes and turns away says it all. “Am not.”
“Which completely confirms it.”
“And if I am?” she counters.
“Then we should leave this party ASAP.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” I reply, like we’ve just signed a custody contract.
We remain locked like that for a moment, a DJ spinning the decks behind the bar, the noise of chatter not helping the build-up of sexual energy that’s threatening to overflow between us.
“Room Eleven,” she says, quick as can be, darting off to the front doors.
I wait as long as I can, but soon I can’t look at the bottom of my glass any longer. I’ve never wanted to catch an elevator more in my life.
*
I can’t get to her room fast enough. I’m tense, nervous, the head of my cock caught between my belt and navel rock-fucking-hard and growing.
This is it.
All the teasing, the flirting, and I have been reading the signs. She wants this as much as I do, but something, whatever it is, is stopping her from taking it to the next level.
Maybe she’s a virgin?
Doubtful. Virgin’s don’t flirt like that. They don’t stand up to girls like Stacey, vagina-fronting and playing the bad-ass. Sara’s upbringing was clearly tougher than I gave her credit for. I swear to god another minute and she would have been hauling that bitch to the ground by her hair yelling in a thick New York drawl, ‘That was my cab!’
My kind of girl.
The hallways of the Hotel Steirerscholoessl are surprisingly modern given the classical exterior. I take a breath and knock, the door swinging open with a whine.
The suite is dark. I step inside giddy with anticipation. “Sara?”
“Down here.” Her voice is coming from the back, weak, uncertain. Nervous?
The balcony doors are open, the gauzy curtains fanning back into the room with the breeze like twin apparitions. Between them Sara leans against the railing, her heels gone.
Slowly, I come up behind her, pause with my hands extended.
“It’s freezing out here,” I note, seeing the goose bumps on her shoulders and arms, the earthy aroma of her alarmingly seductive.
“Guess you better warm me up,” she says, continuing to stare into the mountain-peaked distance.
I place my hands on her hips and exhale. Her back arches. She moans, low, already wanton.
I run them down to her ass and nuzzle into her hair, using one hand to lift and sweep it aside so I can trail tiny kisses down the side of her neck, along her exposed collarbone so fragile and delicate.
She stiffens and releases, pushes her ass into my crotch, trapping my cock between her cheeks, only fabric keeping us from skin-to-skin contact.
I don’t notice the cold as I run the hand on her hip around the front of her dress and let it plunge. I kiss around her bare back, pull the skin there tight, suck it and work my way back up to the coral shell of her ear, the way she whispers, clouds of cold leaving her lips.
“Andy,” she whimpers, wanting to add more but losing her line of thinking as I let my hand slide under her dress, let the fabric bunch up over my wrist as I run my hand down the front of her panties.
She’s bare there, shaved smooth as I cup her hot mound, letting my fingers split the silky lips of her pussy and run through the hot fissure in wait.
She jerks, jamming herself back against my cock, grinding, gripping onto the railing with ivory knuckles as I hold my lips against her ear, breathing hard and close to losing it. I let the tip of a finger play in soft circles around her clit, ease it out from hiding until it’s a pliant pebble under my touch.
She shakes, but not from the cold, repeating my name over and over as I hook a finger and prepare to run it inside her body. When I do, she gasps, presses down upon it while I ease it out and in, her musky arousal floating upwards, the heat and wetness between her legs unlike any I’ve known.
I slide my finger in to the second knuckle, curl it against the ribbed patch of flesh marking her g-spot until I’m sure she’s going to come, the skin on her back patchy and flushed, her body shivering and bent on release.
“Come,” I whisper.
At my words she does, her pussy clamping tight against my finger, the convulsions causing her to flail between the railing and my cock, stunted ‘ah, ah, ah’s leaving her mouth as I pull her earlobe between my lips.
It goes on forever, the capture and release, my entire hand soaking by the time I pull it away.
The stillness of the night falls and she turns. I lean in to kiss her, but she holds me away.
No, not again.
“Sara, don’t. I want to be inside you. I have to be.”
She weaves underneath me and heads for the bathroom. “Thanks for, but… I need time to think, Andy, please.”
“Sara…”
“Please, Andy.”
“Sara!” I say it more forcefully than I intend to, her face pulling together in fright.
She looks back at me from the doorframe, eyes pooling. “Please, Andy, just go.”
The bathroom door closes and I’m left there with another raging erection and nowhere to put it. If this is all part of a larger master plan, I don’t understand it.
What the actual fuck?
I don’t understand it, but I can respect it, so I leave.
Simple as that.
CHAPTER TEN: GREAT BRITAIN
Sara
My sister’s looking over the top of her cupcake at me. “Holy shit. How many countries?”
“Twenty-one, maybe one or two more.”
My sister moved to London on a whim two years ago, much to our mother’s displeasure, but that’s Gretchen, always doing what she wants. I envied that freedom growing up, and her sense of fashion.
We are in what could well be London’s trendiest café. There’s no seating—only crates, boxes and bean bags. Not a single plate or utensil matches. I don’t even think it has a name.
“Where’d you get the top?” I ask.
Gretch tugs at it. “This?” Crumbs spill out of her mouth onto the raw timber tabletop. “Portobello Markets. You have to check them out, or is that fashion too low for Your Highness these days?”
I give her the bird. “You may have the fashion sense, sis, but when it comes to business…”
She nods, cupcake crumbs and icing going everywhere. “I know, I know. You’re the one with the brain while your sister slaves away serving drunken idiots at some dodgy London pub.”
“But you’re doing okay for yourself, right?”
She sits back. “Hell yeah, I am.”
“Men?”
She narrows her eyes, places the cupcake down. “Those creatures. Let’s just say there’s hope in London yet. I mean, Prince Spencer has hooked up with a commoner.”
I laugh, choking on hundreds and thousands. “You fancy yourself the next Queen of England?”
“Queen of West Hampshire will do, and what about you? That thing you call a vagina seen any action since 2009?”
If only you knew.
I pick up my mug, Mickey Mouse shaped of all things, some horrid green concoction inside. I play coy. “The Formula One thing’s been keeping me pretty busy. Not much time for sexual antics, sorry.”
She looks harder. “I call bullshit. You don’t get a glow like that from spending time in the sun.”
“There’s no one,” I repeat, but already my cheeks are lighting up. She knows me too well. “Well, maybe someone.”
“Who?”
“I’m not just going to up and tell you.”
“Don’t make me slap it out of you. Is it a driver?”
I remain tight-lipped, but my face gives it away.
Gretchen wiggles her nose, a bloodhound on the hunt. “Andy Fortes? Please god tell me it’s Andy Fortes.”
Damn you and your sixth sense! “I can neither confirm, nor deny.”
But she knows. “Damn, sis. Moving up in the world. Buff, inked up man perfection. What’s he like?”
“He’s nice.”
“In bed, stupid.”
“We haven’t…”
She leans back. “Ah, now we get to the heart of it. You’re holding back, don’t want to seem like a quick lay.”
Gretch has a rather indelicate way of phrasing such things. “In a sense.”
“You want my advice?”
“No, but I bet you’re going to give it to me.”
“You’re goddamn right. Sleep with him, for crying out loud! It’s a one-night thing. So what? You could do with a good slaying.”
“Slaying? I’m not a dragon in a castle.”
“You know what I mean—rumpy-pumpy, hide the sausage, shagging as the Brits call it. Let him pound you through the wall ’til you see stars.”
“Charming.”
Although she’s rough around the edges, it’s nice to see a familiar face, have someone to talk so openly with. I thought Andy and I were getting to that stage, exposing ourselves, but the sex thing always gets in the way, and why can’t I? My body sure as hell wants to, so why’s my head so reluctant?
Gretchen might be blunt, but she’s got a point. Maybe it’s time?
*
It’s windy at Silverstone, a good hour from the center of London. Like Monaco, the former military aerodrome is steeped in history. Even our hotel, the Crazy Bear in Stadhampton, has something of an eclectic, country vibe.
Andy and I have been keeping our distance, even on the helicopter flight to the track, but it hasn’t been as frosty as before. I think we both know sooner or later we’re going to pick up where we left off. Like the sun rising, it’s inevitable.
I find Andy leaning against a cardboard cut-out of himself at the back of the pits. His racing suit is peeled down around his waist, a white singlet glaringly bright in the sunshine and completely unable to contain his hard body.
He looks up to me, Ray Bans glinting. “Unusual for the UK, isn’t it?”
I take a seat on the ground beside him, and him, the cardboard doppelganger. The gravel’s hot under my butt. “That’s it? We’re reduced to talking about the weather now?”
He looks away. “Well, I’d like to talk about ripping your clothes off, but you don’t seem so keen on the idea.”
“Things were moving a little too fast. That’s all.”
“And you expect a guy like me to take it slow? I live my life in hyper-speed. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Maybe you need to slow down,” I offer, “away from the track. You know, smell the roses.”
“Or you.”
I let it pass, even though I heat up in response. “This whole obsession with winning, it can’t be healthy.”
“I have to.”
“Do you really? I mean, are pigs are going to fly if you come second? Is the world going to turn upside down?”
“And let Ferrari slip through my fingers?”
He realizes he’s said too much, but this is critical. If I can just get him to trust me… “What do you mean ‘Ferrari’?”
“Luigi Stagoni offered me a place at Ferrari next year.”
I had no idea. “That’s incredible. It was your dream growing up, right, to drive for Ferrari?”
“How’d you know?”
“Like I said, I did my research.”
“It’s still my dream. There’s only one problem—I have to retain the championship.”
It all falls into place—the stress, the boiling over. He’s so close to making it but everywhere he turns someone is trying to block his way, people who should be on his side.
I stand, brushing myself off. “I see, but you’re only trailing Carl by a few points. You can make them back.”
“Maybe.”
“This isn’t the Andy Fortes I’ve come to know. That Andy would be playing it cool, letting everyone know he was still top dog.”
“I am, but I’m helpless if my car’s failing. It’s a symbiotic fucking relationship. I can drive the shit out of that thing, but if it’s not one-hundred-percent perfect, if something’s a fraction of an inch out, I’m screwed.”
One of the mechanics calls Andy over. Qualifying’s about to start.
“Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” I reply, watching him enter the noisy den of the garage.
*
Whatever mojo I was trying to project doesn’t translate into results. Carl takes pole, Andy’s pushed to third—his worst result of the season so far.
I’m hopeful for the race. There’s a good crowd at Silverstone taking advantage of the sun, stands of pasty-white people pumped for racing.
Goodall delivers another one-two, but it’s Carl on top of the podium again. Andy may as well be attending a funeral as the presentations are made.
As if to ram it home, it starts to pour buckets, sun sheeting through as the sky opens up, magical really, but far from the miracle Andy was looking for.
When I get to the pits, I find him yelling at the mechanics and techs, most of whom who are yelling back, holding various tools like weapons.
“Andy,” I whisper at his back, but he ignores me, continuing to shout.
“It’s not fucking good enough!” he screams, booting the side of his car. “Something is fucking wrong and none of you monkeys seem to know why.”
“Andy,” Klaus starts, trying to make peace.
“Fuck off, Klaus,” Andy slurs, “these are your guys. Have them fix it or I’m walking.”
Wouldn’t Steven love that?
I try to catch Andy’s arm as he storms away, but he shrugs me off. “Not now.”
He clips Carl on the way out, who turns, “Someone’s on their period, huh?” It’s the first time I’ve heard Carl make such a barbed remark. I give him an eyeful as I pass.
Andy, however, doesn’t pay him a shred of attention. I run outside, but pit lane’s heavy with people.
He’s gone.
*
The Great Bri
tain after-party is a major event for Caliber, so I spend extra time making sure every detail of Carl and Andy’s attire is spot-on, refined. London is huge for fashion, almost forty-percent of our orders come from the UK. All the fashion houses are here and I fully expect Andy and Carl to steal the show.
I’m not disappointed.
It starts off with a friendly quip at the bar, something from Carl about Andy chasing his tail, chasing tail… I don’t really hear it. Andy lets it slide, laughing along. I’m surprised he takes it so casually.
I watch closely as I mingle, keeping my eye on both men and cringing when an idiot reporter tries to get them together for an interview. The Goodall PR manager—a young Norwegian by the name of Luca—is nowhere in sight, so it happens, the two of them forced to field questions together, each one disguised to antagonize and draw out conflict.
It’s clear the reporter wanted drama, but she clearly didn’t expect what happened next.
I’m talking to the Prince Spencer and his new fiancé when I hear a crash.
It’s not hard to zero in on the chaos as the champagne tower that was in the center of the room collapses into a sea of crystal spanning across the floor like a great, glass ocean. Andy’s lifting Carl from the floor by his collar, shoves him hard in the chest. “You serious, Heinz?”
The two men circle each other, space opening up for them and the situation spirals out of control rapidly.
Steven arrives and once again tries to intervene, but Andy holds him back. “Let the men handle this, Stevey.”
“Is it you?” Andy points to Carl. He’s tipsy. “Are you fucking with my car?”
People are starting to get their phones out. It’s a PR nightmare all over again.
I’ve got to do something before they actually start fighting.
Carl smiles, rolling up his sleeves. “What are you accusing me of? You think I’d stoop that low?”
“Shoe fits,” replies Andy.
“I’m Swiss,” Carl retorts. “I’m neutral. I don’t get involved in such petty matters.”
Andy lifts his fists, bouncing from one foot to the other. “So you think it’s petty, do you?”
“Gentlemen,” Steven’s laughing, again trying to break things up, but again forced back. None of the drivers try to intervene. No, this is too good.
It’s Luigi, from Ferrari, who finally manages to get Andy to calm down, but just as he’s leading him away, Andy turns and bolts for Heinz.
