Faster Hotter

by Colleen Masters

  “And we will,” he grins, hoisting me up onto the counter. I gasp as I land on the cool surface, my arms circling his shoulders. He rips open the buckle of his belt and steps out of his dark blue jeans. My hands fly to him, sliding his briefs down over his perfectly sculpted ass. He tugs at my panties, slipping them down my thighs as I sit perched before him.

  “Oh my god...” he groans, as I wrap my hands around his throbbing cock.

  “I’ve missed the feel of you too,” I whisper, working both hands down along his shaft, “I love how you get even harder the second I touch you—”

  My words trail off suddenly as Harrison brings his hand to my ready sex. He trails his fingertips along my length of my slit, teasing me.

  “And I love feeling what I do to you,” he returns, feeling me grow wetter by the second at his touch.

  I steady myself against the counter, letting my knees fall open as I stroke his staggering member. My back arches as Harrison lays his fingers against my clit, kneading and rubbing with unmatched precision. Rolling, overwhelming sensation starts to build in my core as we push each other to our edges. I tighten my fingers around his tremendous length, closing my eyes as he sends me barreling toward bliss at two hundred miles per hour.

  “Harrison—” I gasp, “I’m...I’m gonna...”

  “Come,” he growls, bearing down on my hard, thrumming clit.

  I grab onto the edge of the counter with both hands as my body is flooding with warm, unnamable sensation. Reeling with the surge of bliss, I buck my hips toward Harrison, every worry and care forgotten. The orgasm overtakes me, washes over me like a heavy rain as Harrison’s strong arms hold me up. I blink up at him, my chest heaving with the power of my pleasure. A satisfied smile plays across his lips.

  “Nothing turns me on more than seeing you like that,” he says, running his hands down my back.

  “Then what are you waiting for?” I pant, “Come here...”

  He steps to me, and I accept him eagerly, wrapping my long legs around his body. I feel the tip of him against my quivering sex, moan throatily as he presses himself so deeply inside of me that I’m like to tear in two.

  “Is it too much?” he asks, smoothing the hair from my face.

  “God no,” I breathe, grabbing hold of his toned ass and pulling him deeper.

  He groans as he sinks further into me, his eyes closing in ecstasy. I can feel every inch of him, parting me, filling me. He draws back and pushes into me again, and I meet him at every pass. We move fervidly together as I rock against the countertop, his thrust coming harder and faster with every second. Our panting, elated voices rise up together as we race ahead toward the peak of sensation, bursting over the edge as one. I clutch his shoulders as we come, a warm surge flowing into me, coating the very depths of me with him.

  A little chuckle escapes my lips as I glance at our cooling meal, still sitting there all but untouched. I suppose that when it comes to appetites, my hunger for Harrison will beat out my growling stomach any day.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Harrison and I bask in each other’s company for an entire week, keeping the outside world adamantly at bay. Having finally decided to make the leap and call the same place home, we settle into a little honeymoon of sorts. After so many long months of touring the world, battling rumors, and scandals, and actual crime sprees, I think we deserve a stay-cation.

  I’d forgotten just how many surfaces there are in Harrison’s townhouse that lend themselves to a good screw. Even better is the fact that I’m not contending with any memories of lady-friends past here—Harrison never invited a woman back to his place before I came along. It’s hard to imagine the freewheeling playboy version of Harrison, now that I know what he’s really like. But we all wear masks, don’t we?

  Our first week of living “blissfully in sin” (as we like to call it) isn’t without its bumpy patches. My grief for Dad is an unwieldy sort of feeling. I’ve never lost anyone so close to me before, never had to deal with this sort of sadness. There’s a constant baseline of dull pain, but once in a while a sudden surge of piercing hurt will surprise me. I can never know when these pangs of loss are going to strike. I can be loading the dishwasher, taking a shower, or just reading the paper, and I’ll be overcome all of a sudden. Thank god that Harrison is here when these moments sneak up on me. His arms are the only thing that can comfort me, then.

  And of course, my dad’s death isn’t the only heavy thing weighing down on us from the outside world. There’s the little matter of a criminal investigation that happens to involve Harrison and I quite personally. It isn’t long before we both receive requests to appear in court for the trial of Rafael Marques. I have to laugh when asked to testify against him. I think I’ve done my part of that front quite sufficiently. Thanks to me and my friends, Marques was ousted as a criminal and a would-be murderer. There’s no way he’s wiggling free of this one. Harrison and I both agree to send in written statements and call it a day. Marques doesn’t deserve a moment more of our time or energy.

  Our first week together after the whirlwind of the past few months isn’t entirely solitary. Harrison still reports daily to the McClain practice track for training and strategy meetings. I can’t say that I mind having a little time to myself for the few hours he’s gone. It gives me some time to reflect for myself. Of course, most of my reflection is focused on the ever-growing secret that hangs between Harrison and me, unbeknownst to him. I’m officially at a loss about when to tell him about the baby. I just wish I could know for sure how he’ll feel, but I can’t exactly find out without giving away our situation.

  A week into my stay with Harrison, I wake up to find him already gone—putting in his hours with McClain before coming home to me once again. I roll out of bed, wearing nothing but one of his signature black tee shirts and some soft cotton panties. I run a hand through my loose curls and stretch languorously. Is there any sleep better than the kind that comes after a night of mind-blowing sex?

  I pad down the wooden stairs—just one of the locations Harrison and I have re-christened so far during my stay—and into the kitchen. Muscle memory sends me in search of the French press at once, but I catch myself in time. I sigh, remembering that I’m living in a post-caffeinated world, now. The whole quitting my vices cold turkey thing has not exactly been a walk in the park, but I’ve managed reasonably well. It helps that I don’t have anywhere in particular to be this week. Now that Bex has taken over as PR Director for Ferrelli, my schedule is entirely of my own making. So when I have moments of jonesing for coffee or a second glass of wine, at least I can have them in relative privacy. So far, I don’t think that Harrison is suspicious of my habit changes. We’re mostly too invested in having as much sex as humanly possible to pay to attention to anything else these days.

  I settle for a cup of chamomile tea and snuggle up on the couch for an easy morning. The morning paper sits on the coffee table, and I pluck it up as I sip my tea. Buried on some lowly corner of the paper is a blurb about Marques’s open-and-shut case. I smile to myself as I read that public opinion has him pegged for guilty, no doubt about it. For what he did to Harrison and Enzo, Sven Landers and Alexi Rostov, and the whole sport of Formula One, he should get what he deserves.

  A knock on the front door surprises me. We don’t get a lot of visitors at the house, just deliveries. But to my knowledge, we’re not expecting anything just now. I pull myself up off of the couch, throw on some shorts that lay discarded under the coffee table, and make my way to the front door. Maybe I had a fit of pregnancy craving sleepwalking and ordered tacos at three in the morning?

  A second, more insistent knock rings out just as I’m approaching the door.

  “Alright, alright,” I mutter, “Hold your horses...”

  I swing open the door, expecting to find myself face-to-face with a surly delivery man making his rounds. But instead, my eyes alight on a tall, painfully thin woman with anxious eyes and long platinum tresses. She’s probably hovering in th
e neighborhood of fifty, but with the work she’s pretty obviously had done, it’s rather impossible to know for sure. What I do know is that I’ve never seen her before in my life.

  “Hello...” I say, uncertainly.

  The woman stares at me, slack-jawed, as color rises in her taut cheeks. I wonder if she has the wrong address or something?

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” I go on, “But can I help you with anything?”

  “Who in the world are you?” she replies in a proper British accent.

  “Excuse me,” I say, shocked by her rudeness, “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “Are you just now getting out of bed?” she asks, wrinkling her nose, “Is that...is that Harrison’s clothing you’re wearing?”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business,” I inform her, “If you’re looking for a scoop or an autograph or something, Harrison’s not even here. So if that’s all—What are you doing?!”

  She charges past me into the townhouse, striding over the threshold as if she owns the place. Her gloved hands run themselves all over Harrison’s things as she takes stock of the room. I have absolutely no idea how to respond. Should I call the police? Should I try and tackle her onto the floor? She looks like she’d break in half if I so much as looked at her funny.

  “Ma’am, I really must insist that you leave,” I say, taking a step toward her, “This is a private residence—”

  “Clearly not private enough, if he’s starting bringing in one night stands,” the woman scoffs, running a finger along the mantel.

  “I’m not a one night stand,” I say heatedly, “I happen to be Harrison’s girlfriend. Now, if you’re through insulting me, I’d like you to get the hell out of this house.”

  “No,” the woman sniffs, heading for the kitchen.

  “What do you mean ‘no’?” I exclaim, “Get out, or I’m going to have to call the cops.”

  “You most certainly won’t,” she tells me, filling the kettle back up with water.

  “Watch me,” I say, making a beeline for my phone.

  “I’m going to sit here and have a cup of tea while I wait for my son to get home,” she says, spiteful amusement tugging at the corners of her lips.

  I stop in my tracks and stare at her dumbly. Embarrassment, annoyance, and wariness battle for rule over my thoughts.

  “You’re...Harrison’s mother,” I say slowly.

  “That’s correct,” she sighs, “Jacqueline Davies. And you are?”

  “Siena,” I say, crossing my arms tightly across my chest, “Siena Lazio.”

  “Lazio?” she echoes, “Why does that sound familiar? You’re not related to that Italian hot head that was always outracing my husband? The one who always walked around with his chest puffed out like some kind of bulldog?”

  “That would be my father,” I say, my fists balled.

  “You don’t say?” she replies, “Is he still presiding his over team like some old figurehead, or—?”

  “He passed away. Two weeks ago,” I tell her, shooting dagger after dagger with my gaze.

  “Oh,” she says shortly, “Sorry. Have you run out of sugar?”

  I stare at her, mouth open, completely baffled by her crassness.

  “Oh dear,” she pouts, “You’re not one of the bright ones, are you? Never mind, then. I’ll just do without it.”

  She bustles about the kitchen, clicking her tongue every minute on the minute. I want nothing more than to march up, take her by the scrawny shoulders, and give her a piece of my mind. But this is Harrison’s mother. I guess he didn’t have an easy time meeting my family, either, but this is a bit ridiculous.

  I hear a key click into the front door lock and whirl around to face it. The door opens as Harrison shoves it with his shoulder, carrying two heaping bags of groceries.

  “Siena? Are you up? I thought we could fix some dinner later, after I carry you back upstairs for a good—”

  “Hello Harrison,” his mother says coolly.

  Harrison’s head jerks up as the door slams shut behind him. I half expect the grocery bags to go toppling onto the floor. He looks back and forth between me, wearing his clothes and a deep scowl, and his mother, newly arrived and neat as can be.

  “Mother,” he begins, walking cautiously forward, “What...are you doing here?”

  “Is that any way to greet the woman who brought you into this world?” she sniffs.

  “I guess you two have met already...” he goes on, shooting me an apologetic look.

  “Oh, we certainly have,” I say, with an overly chipper smile.

  “I thought you made it a rule not to bring women into this house?” his mother goes on, taking a sip of tea.

  “Siena isn’t just some woman, Mother,” Harrison says, setting down the groceries, “We’re together.”

  “Is that what the youths are calling it these days?” she asks.

  “No. We’re—Siena’s my girlfriend. She’s moving in with me. This is her home too, now,” Harrison explains.

  “Moving in?” his mother echoes, “Well, that just won’t do, will it?”

  “I’m sorry?” I scoff.

  “I happen to know that Team McClain is very rigid when it comes to the conduct of their drivers. Illicit behavior is to be conducted in private. What will the press say when Alfonso Lazio’s daughter is coming in and out of your house?”

  “Our house,” I correct her.

  “Your father knew how to keep his vices secret,” she goes on, bulldozing right over me.

  “First of all,” Harrison says, “Siena is not a vice. Our living together is not illicit. And secondly, Dad drank himself to death on his secret vices, so pardon me if I’m not clamoring to follow his example.”

  “Don’t speak about your father that way,” she says crisply.

  “Oh yes,” Harrison laughs, “I should leave the trashing of Dad to you, right? Isn’t it one of your favorite hobbies?”

  “I will not tolerate being spoken to in that tone,” she says, crossing her matchstick arms.

  “And I won’t tolerate your being rude to Siena in our home,” Harrison replies. “Now what, exactly, did you come here for, Mother?”

  “I simply wanted to welcome you back home after your season,” she says, “I hear it went well for you.”

  “You weren’t following it?” I ask, perplexed. My mother stopped coming to race in the flesh when the anxiety of it got to be too much, but she’d always at least watch from afar.

  “I’ve never cared for the sport,” Harrison’s mother says, not even bothering to look at me.

  “I came in second, overall,” Harrison tells his mother, “McClain’s bumped me up to lead driver, now.”

  “Ah, well. Second isn’t too terrible,” she says, “You’ll do better next time.”

  “I’m sure. Thanks for understanding.” Harrison says dryly.

  “Surely McClain has already spoken to you about this little arrangement you’ve set up with Miss Lazio then?” she asks pointedly.

  Harrison and I trade looks. Of course we’ve both been lectured by our teams about not drawing any more attention to ourselves, but we’ve also been blatantly ignoring that advice. We’ve been laying low here, failing to let our teams know about our new living arrangement. Jackie can sniff out our anxiety in no time at all.

  “Harrison Davies,” she says sternly, “Team McClain singlehandedly saved our family from the poorhouse, and this is how you repay them?”

  “I think that’s a bit of an overstatement,” Harrison says, rolling his eyes.

  “Well, I don’t,” she snaps, “It’s only because of your father that my family was able to stay afloat. And it’s only because of McClain that your father was worth a damn thing. I owe that team everything I have, and I won’t have you tarnishing that relationship—”

  “You just don’t want them to cut you off from Dad’s residuals or whatever it is you get by on these days, aside from my generosity,” Harrison says, jaw clenched.

/>   “How dare you?” his mother exclaims. “What’s gotten into you, Harrison?”

  “To be frank, Mother, I’ve really just had it with your bullshit,” he replies, “Now, if that'll be all, I’d love it if you’d please get the hell out of my house.”

  “Fine,” she says primly, grabbing up her leather clutch, “I’ll leave you to live in filth with your new tramp and forget all about me. Just don’t come crawling to me when McClain axes you for your bad behavior.”

  “Trust me, you don’t have to worry about that,” Harrison says, following her as she marches out the door.

  “Nice meeting you, Mrs. Davies,” I chirp sarcastically.

  She shoots me a fierce little glare and slams the front door closed behind her. Harrison turns to look at me, face entirely blank.

  “So...” he begins, “You’ve met my mother...”

  A loud burst of laughter surprises me as it bursts out of my mouth.

  “Good lord,” I laugh, “She is actually the prototypical mother-in-law, isn’t she?”

  A peculiar look passes over Harrison’s face, and I realize the term “mother-in-law” implies tying the knot. Shit. I’ll need to call an ambulance to get this foot out of my mouth, it’s wedged in so deep.

  It would seem that, after a peaceful and perfect week, this honeymoon is over. It’s time to deal with the weird, messy logistics of this whole arrangement. Moving in with Harrison isn’t going to be as simple as bringing over an extra toothbrush. Usually, couples that shack up together have to consolidate both of their homes into one space, but I don’t exactly have a home, per se.

  I’ve spent the past few years as something of a rambler, following Ferrelli around the world. The closest thing I have to a nest is a little New York City closet, i.e. the apartment I keep. It’s a tiny studio on Avenue B, overlooking Tompkins Square, and I’d blush to say how much the monthly rent is. But still, it’s served its purpose through my academic career, and it’ll give me a place to stay while Bex and I throw together her quickly-approaching wedding.