Take Me…#5
By Colleen Masters
Copyright © 2014 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.
Also From Colleen Masters:
Faster Harder (Take Me... #1) by Colleen Masters
Faster Deeper (Take Me... #2) by Colleen Masters
Faster Longer (Take Me... #3) by Colleen Masters
Faster Hotter (Take Me...#4) by Colleen Masters
Faster Dirtier (Take Me…#5) (A Team Ferrelli Novel) by Colleen Masters
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FASTER DIRTIER
A Team Ferrelli Novel
Take Me…#5
by Colleen Masters
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Chapter One
The Lazio Family Villa
Rome, Italy
My stiletto heels click deliciously against the tiled terrace as I step outside, letting the French doors snap shut behind me. Drawing a deep, cool breath of air into my lungs, I gaze out past the balcony, across the sprawling hills that stretch in every direction. In the gathering twilight, the Italian landscape is a wash of deep, earthy hues. It’s hard to believe that this breathtaking sight is going to be my backyard for the foreseeable future. From this vantage point, I can take in the whole sweeping picture all at once.
I feel like I’m on top of the world, and not just because of the panoramic views.
Back inside the luxurious villa, someone turns up the house music to a deafening volume. The party is really kicking into gear, now. I can feel the bass line pounding in my very bones, and let my hips sway to the beat just a little as I nurse my perfectly poured martini. I know that I should be inside, enjoying the soiree. It is, after all, in my honor. But this whole week has been such an unimaginable whirlwind of new faces and incredible opportunities. I just need a minute to myself before diving back into the fray.
Glancing around at the stately terrace, I try to memorize every detail of this moment. The delicate strands of string lights hanging overhead, the turquoise swimming pool and bubbling Jacuzzi beside me, the cool breeze tickling my bare arms. Catching a glimpse of my own reflection in the French doors, I have to do a double-take to make sure it’s really me I’m looking at. I tuck a loose strawberry blonde curl behind my ear and smooth down the bodice of my gown, watching as the girl in the glass does the same. I guess it is me, after all, looking more glamorous than I ever dreamed possible. The plunging neckline of my dress is adorned with delicate golden beading, perfectly offset by the color of the dress itself—a deep emerald green.
Or should I say, Ferrelli green?
A wave of sound crashes over the terrace as the doors ease open behind me. The jolt of raucous music bursts chaotically through the cool night air before it’s sealed off again by the closing double doors. My whole body tenses up, startled by the sudden noise. But as I peer over my shoulder through the twilight at whoever’s come to keep me company, a whole new sensation takes hold of my every cell.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” says the man who’s joined me on the patio. I can just make out the shape of his impressive body, obscured by the shadow of the villa. His rich baritone voice floats to me on the crisp breeze, and for a moment I’m too starstruck to speak.
“How could you be intruding in your own house?” I ask in reply, lifting my martini glass to my crimson lips. I’m trying my hardest to look effortlessly cool, as if I’m used to this kind of thing—the party, the celebrities, the gorgeous attire...not to mention the gorgeous man standing in front of me. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth.
“Good point,” my companion smiles, advancing toward me in long, easy strides. “I should have said, mind if I keep you company out here?”
My eyes must be the size of saucers as I drink in the sight of him over the lip of my glass. At six two, he’s a solid foot taller than me—or would be, if it weren’t for these three-inch heels. His Italian wool suit is cut perfectly to his staggering form. Somehow, he manages to be incredibly cut and perfectly balanced, broad but not bulky. And so, so tall. I brace myself against the terrace railing as he comes closer, my own petite form dwarfed by his beautifully built body. I notice, as he draws up beside me, that he’s palming two lowball glasses filled with delectable-looking liquor.
“Double fisting it?” I ask, nodding at the drinks.
“Double fisting? Is that what the kids are into these days?” he shoots back, raising an eyebrow in mock incredulity.
“No, I just mean... You’ve got a drink in each hand, not...” I stammer, blushing furiously at my unintentional double entendre.
“I know what you meant,” he chuckles, his dark eyes glimmering mischievously, “I just wanted to see if you blush easily. Apparently, you do. Good to know.”
“It’s just a Scottish thing,” I assure him.
“Whatever you say,” he says, his grin widening. “Actually, one of these drinks was supposed to be for you, but it looks like you’ve got it covered.”
“Well. I’m nothing if not self-sufficient,” I smile, raising my glass to him before taking another generous sip. The nearness of him has me dizzy with nerves. All the liquid courage in the world couldn’t keep my pulse from quickening in his presence.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he replies, leaning against the railing beside me. His muscular arm brushes against mine, sending goosebumps dancing along my skin. Can he have any idea what his proximity is doing to me? “You’re also intriguing. And funny. And incredibly sexy.”
The rest of the world starts to go hazy as his deep brown eyes bore into mine. If it weren’t for the desire radiating from that bottomless gaze, I’d think he was messing with me. But I have a good nose for liars, and I can tell that he isn’t one. He actually wants me. Little old Ainsley Vaughn. Who would have thought?
A low, rasping laugh escapes from his beautiful mouth as I stare up at him, unspeaking. His sharp, sculpted features are entirely arresting. From his straight nose, to his sharp jaw, to his brooding, devil-may-care expressions, he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen up close. And is he ever close right now.
“I just had to come out here and tell you how gorgeous I think you are. I’m not very good at biting my tongue,” he tells me. I have to swallow a moan, imagining what he is good at doing with
that tongue. “I’ve had my eye on you all night.”
“I can’t say I haven’t noticed you too,” I smile. This is an understatement, of course. I’ve been noticing him for years. From afar, that is. Sure, I’ve only ever seen him on TV. And in my favorite racing magazines. And on the posters that used to hang all over my teenage bedroom... but still. “This isn’t exactly the introduction I was imagining, I have to admit,” I go on.
“No? Well, how’s this?” he counters, setting our cocktails down on the railing.
A little gasp whistles through my lips as he takes my hand in his. He draws my fingers up to his full, firm lips, planting a kiss across the bridge of my knuckles. His mouth lingers there, caressing my trembling hand for just a second longer than can be read as chaste. How can I be more turned on by his simple peck than I have been by any steamy make out session?
“I’m Lorenzo Lazio. Enzo, to my friends,” he says, his voice riding low in his chest. “But from the look on your face, I guess you already know that?”
“Of course I do,” I breathe, the corners of my lips lifting into a smile.
“Well, forget that do you. Just for this moment,” he says, running his fingertips down my bare arm. “For right now, just think of me as a guy at a party. A guy who happens to think you’re stunning. A guy who would very much like to kiss you, now.”
My mouth falls open at his daring suggestion. Of course I want Enzo Lazio to kiss me. I’ve only been dreaming about it since I was old enough to have those kind of dreams. But can we really risk it tonight? Out here in the open, where anyone could happen upon us? I try like hell to make these rational objections stick, but Enzo’s lips are inches away from mine. That built, beautiful body right is in front me. Right now. I’d be crazy to let this moment pass me by.
“Is it really just a kiss you want?” I ask, my voice dripping with lust. I set down my glass and let my hands rest against his firm, broad chest. The realness of him beneath my fingertips is as intoxicating as any martini, that’s for sure.
“For starters,” he grins, bringing his strong hands to my tiny waist.
I run a finger along his emerald green tie, smiling to myself in the warm glow of the string lights above. We’re matching, I think to myself, that has to mean something, right? But all thoughts of sartorial signals are pushed from my mind as Enzo pulls me closer. I stare up at him, scarcely daring to believe that this is happening. With his olive skin, his jet black hair, and his fierce dark eyes, he looks for the world like a Roman god, ready to have his way with the mere mortal woman before him.
And I have to say, I don’t mind the sound of that one bit.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask. “What about—?”
“Come here,” he growls, tugging me against his exquisite body. A deep throb of need pulses through my core as I feel the intensity of his desire, pressing hard against my thigh. “Is that sure enough for you?” he asks.
“We’ll just have to find out, won’t we?” I grin.
And just like that, my inhibitions are swept away on the Italian breeze. I wrap my arms around his broad, muscular shoulders, pressing myself to him with abandon. He circles his arms about my waist and spins me around, pinning me against the railing. Our three drinks go flying, crashing against the tile. He doesn’t even flinch. He just takes my face in his strong, sure hand, and brings his gorgeous lips to mine.
A groan builds in the back of my throat as Enzo Lazio kisses me, hard and deep. Our mouths move as one as I open myself to him, shivering with delight as his tongue glides against mine. I rake my fingers through his pitch black locks as the taste of him bombards my every sense, my need for him eclipsing every cautious, sensible impulse in my mind. The pulsing hardness of him is pressed flush against me, almost exactly where I want to feel it most.
Almost.
I suck in a surprised breath as he grabs me by the hips and lifts me onto the bannister. At 5’ 4” and 110 pounds, I’m not exactly bulky, but he bears my weight as if I were truly light as a feather. I let my knees fall apart as he eases between my legs, holding me close. The thin fabric of my gown is all that separates me from that sumptuous length pressing right against my sex. I grind my hips ever so lightly as we fall to kissing once more, and I swear I can feel him growing harder by the instant. A warm, wonderful need builds between my legs as he lets me feel just how much he wants me. Enzo runs a hand along my collarbone, down my sternum, letting his thumb brush against my hard, pert nipple.
“Jesus Christ. You’re not wearing anything under that dress, are you?” he groans, his breath hot against my neck.
“Hardly a stitch,” I tease, letting my hands trail down his chest. “But you can check, if you don’t believe me.”
He pulls back just a hair, taking in the sight of me balanced on the railing before him, the gorgeous Italian countryside serving as a backdrop. “You’re not like most girls, are you?” he asks, raising a thick, sculpted eyebrow.
“Well. I don’t know about that,” I shrug. “But by all means, you’re welcome to find out for yourself.”
“Oh, I intend to,” he assures me, running his hands down my slender sides. He can practically encircle my torso with his huge, capable hands. “I guess I should start by asking for your name?” he goes on.
I blink up at him in surprise. Surely, he already knows my name. And why I’m here in Italy. Right? Clarity hits me like a punch in the gut as I realize that he’s not joking. He really has no idea who I am.
“Oh boy,” I breathe, planting my hands on the hard panes of his chest. “This is about to get very interesting.”
Chapter Two
FullSpeed Racing Test Track
New York City, USA
One Week Earlier
The sweet, familiar smell of singed rubber cuts through the sunny afternoon air as I lift the helmet off of my head, shaking out my long reddish hair. A dozen hands are at the ready to help me out of the various buckles and braces that hold me lashed to the single seat of my car. I blink up into the bright light, hoping for good news.
“So, how’d I do?” I call to my team manager, Bruno Martinez.
The surly fifty-something man gives me a rare nod of approval, clutching his stop watch as if it were an Olympic gold medal.
“You beat your record by a full second,” he crows, his heavily lined face as happy as I’ve ever seen it. Which is not saying much, but still—I’ll take it.
“Hell yes!” I cry, slamming my palms against the steering wheel and leaping out of my car, free at last from the tight restraints. My adrenaline is always dialed up to ten after I step out of my car, but I think it just went to eleven. I throw open my arms, going to hug my cantankerous manager, but he dodges my attempted embrace in his usual prickly fashion.
“Don’t go getting a big head on me, now,” he cautions, shoving a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “You’ve still got plenty of competition out there, Ace.”
“Come on, Bruno,” I groan, “Let me have three seconds of triumph before you ruin it all with stats and figures.”
“Three...two...one,” he counts down sarcastically, a smirk plastered across his face.
“Hilarious,” I mutter, unzipping my jumpsuit an inch or two and tying my hair into a low ponytail. Bruno has never once let me enjoy my own success as a driver. He’s always afraid I’ll get too cocky. As one of the very few female F3 drivers the world over, cockiness is the last thing I have to worry about. Pun absolutely intended.
“Do you think a full second off my best time will be enough to impress the owners?” I ask, “I could really use some more time behind the wheel this season.”
Bruno’s expression clouds over at once. “What did I just say?” he snaps. “You’re not the only driver on this team, Ace. The owners have already picked out the boys they want front and center this year. Eddie is gonna be our lead driver. You know this.”
“Eddie?!” I exclaim indignantly, “But my times are just as good as his. If not better. What the hell
gives?”
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Bruno grumbles. “We’re a new team, Ace. We’ve got to come out strong this year. We can’t go rocking the boat by pushing a female driver right out the gate. That’s just bad business.”
“I haven’t been working my ass off for the better part of a decade to be the token girl on some no-name team, Bruno,” I shoot back heatedly.
“Should have picked a girl’s sport then,” he shrugs, stalking away from me. There’s the Bruno I know—and sometimes tolerate. I force myself to take a deep breath, though I can practically feel steam pouring out of my ears. No use losing my shit in front of everybody, no matter how aggravated I happen to be.
I check in with my pit crew as they diligently tune up my royal blue one-seater. This car has been my faithful companion since I joined up with FullSpeed Racing last year. As a female driver, I don’t exactly have my pick of the litter, where teams are concerned. But even I have to admit that FullSpeed isn’t exactly an ideal roster to be on these days.
The team was founded by two American businessmen who wanted desperately to get into the European racing scene, Formula One in particular. What NASCAR is to America, Formula One is to the rest of the world. But seeing as F1 is incredibly exclusive, downright impenetrable to wannabes, the founders of FullSpeed decided to set their sights on one of the European junior leagues instead. Specifically, F3. They even built their own training course just outside of New York City—the town where I was born and raised—and recruited a bunch of American drivers to train.
Though F3 isn’t a direct pipeline to F1, most junior league drivers are wishing and hoping and praying to advance to the latter, more prestigious league. Plenty of F1 drivers start out in F3 before being scouted by more established teams. When I was just getting started in racing, I harbored my own dreams about ascending to glory as an F1 driver. That is, until I started making the rounds, and realized right quick what a boys club racing really is.
Faster Dirtier (Take Me...#5) (A Team Ferrelli Novel) Page 1
