Faster Hotter

by Colleen Masters

  “I can’t believe that this is your place,” he laughs, looking around my unthinkably tiny apartment, “I think this is the size of my guest bathroom back home.”

  “Yeah, yeah, rub it in,” I drawl, “It’s served its purpose well enough. It just looks tiny because you’re eight feet tall, or something.”

  “Ah,” he says, placing his hands on my hips, “So this place isn’t used to accommodating big, strong men, is it?”

  “You know my dating record,” I say, cocking an eyebrow, “So you know the answer to that, full well.”

  “I suppose I do,” he says, “I just like knowing that I stand out from all the men clamoring for your attention.”

  “I guess,” I sigh, jokingly, as his arms circle around my waist.

  “Oh dear,” he growls, planting a kiss just below my ear, “Have I fallen out of your good graces already? I’ll have to find a way to fix that, won’t I?”

  I gasp as Harrison pushes me up against the wall of the studio, pinning my hands up over my head. A coil of anticipation unwinds in my core, the sudden nearness of him is a happy shock. He brings his mouth to mine, parting my lips and kissing me deeply, urgently. The taste of him is better than I remember, every time I go more than a day without savoring it. My hands run down along his powerful body, skirting over pecs and abs, each crystal clear and hard as rock.

  “Couldn’t last a week without this, huh?” I grin, running my hands over the staggering rise in his jeans.

  “Are you kidding?” he says, sliding his hands up under my airy blouse, “I couldn’t go a day without touching you.”

  I let a contented sigh slide from my lips as he pushes up under my bra and cups my sweetly sore breasts in his hands. I’ve wanted him more than ever, lately. And our briefest of absences has only made my heart grow fonder—and my body hungrier—for him. I slip out of my blouse and hurriedly unclasp my bra, letting my full breasts spill out. With a sharp breath, Harrison lifts me off the hardwood floor and pins me against the wall with his powerful hips.

  “God, I love that,” I moan, as Harrison wraps his lips around first one nipple, then the other, sucking just hard enough.

  “Tell me what you want,” he breathes, kneading my tits with eager hands, “Tell me what you like.”

  “I like everything you do,” I laugh, clutching his shoulders as he pulls me away from the wall. In two long strides, we’ve crossed the tiny room to my bed. Harrison lays me out across the narrow mattress, ripping his navy blue tee from his rippling back.

  “I just want to give you everything you want,” he tells me, lowering himself onto me.

  “I...I want...” I stammer, my mind scrambled with lust, “I want to feel...your mouth...”

  “Where?” he whispers naughtily, taking the lobe of my ear gently between his teeth.

  “Everywhere,” I gasp, running my hands over his sculpted, denim-clad ass.

  My wish, apparently, is Harrison’s command. He kisses me deeply down my long neck, running his hands along my arms. His lips close around the ridge of my collarbone, work down the space between my round breasts. I writhe beneath him as his tongue glances against the skin stretched across my ribs, and forget how to breathe as his hands find my stomach. I glance down at Harrison as he kisses me there, his eyes closed in bliss. If only he knew what was happening inside of me right now, what miracle was taking place just beneath those full, gorgeous lips of his. What will he say, when he finally finds out? How will he kiss me, then? What will change between us?

  “You are so beautiful, Siena...” he rasps, tugging my cotton shorts away, “All I want is to make you happy. I’m like a man possessed for you.”

  “You’re not bored of me yet?” I ask. My tone is joking, but the question is real. Before me, Harrison’s life was chock full of raging parties and one night stands. This monogamy thing is new to him, as it were.

  He looks up at me, laying before him in nothing but a pair of panties. His gaze is baffled, bordering on hurt. “You don’t really think I could ever get bored of you?” he asks.

  “No...Of course not...” I cover, “It’s just...Your life has been so exciting. I don’t want to keep you from anything. I don’t want you to miss out on anything, for my sake.”

  “Siena,” he says, pulling me up to sitting before him, my legs spread wide, “I won’t have you talking about yourself that way. As if you were some kind of burden to me. I’d have to be out of my goddamned mind to even think about my old life, now that you’re here with me. Do you know how lonely it is, a life like the one I used to have? The same parties, the same drugs, the same nameless sex...and all of it meaning absolutely nothing. This is what I want, right here. One second of what we have together is more exciting, more incredible than a lifetime of drunken ragers. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I do,” I whisper, taking his face in my hands and kissing him joyously, reverently. Maybe it isn’t so ridiculous to dream about marrying this man—starting a family and sharing a life together. I never expected it to come so soon, but here he is, the person I want to be with. All I have to do is ask him. All we both have to do is say yes.

  But my words are knocked from my mind as he lays his hands against my sensitive inner thighs. A ripple of longing passes through me as his fingers stroke along my skin. I lean back, supporting myself with quivering arms as Harrison takes hold of panties and slides them down over the rise of my ass. I part my knees as he tosses the garment away, spreading myself wide for him. The muscles of his chest roll and ripple as he steadies himself above me, letting his fingers brush against the soft flesh between my legs.

  “Oh my god...” I moan, letting my head fall back against my shoulders as Harrison’s fingers slip between my wet lips. He’s taking his time, feeling every inch of me. He runs his fingertips all along the length of my sex, parting me deeper and deeper with every pass.

  “I love how wet you get the second I touch you,” he growls, running a slick finger around the tight ring of muscle behind my sex. The light, forbidden touch brings me down onto my elbows, my chest heaving.

  “Can you blame me?” I ask breathlessly. “You know exactly how to touch me.”

  “And I love it,” he groans, sliding two thick fingers inside of me. “I love knowing how every inch of you feels. How every part of you tastes.”

  “Harrison,” I moan, lifting my hips as his fingers stroke the silky flesh inside of me.

  “Can I taste you, Siena?” he asks, his voice ragged.

  “Yes—” I gasp, as his thumb glances against my clit, “Yes, yes—”

  Harrison’s presses back against my knees, opening me to him even more. I watch as he lowers those full lips toward my sex. He trails his tongue along the pink flesh there, teasing me with his light touch. I grab onto my headboard, bracing myself. He flicks the tip of his tongue against my throbbing, hard clit, sending a jolt of pleasure cascading through my entire body.

  “You already have me right there,” I breathe.

  He bears down, working his dexterous tongue over that hard, raw nub. My mouth opens into a long, silent cry as the swelling sensation builds inside of me, welling up with every glance of his mouth against me. His lips close around my aching clit as he brushes his sure fingers against my ass. As the tip of his tongue flicks irresistibly across that bundle of raw nerves, his fingers press gently against that forbidden area. He slips inside of me there, and I lose it. The pressure, the exciting newness of it, the real and taboo pleasure of it, sends me skyrocketing into orgasm. I come hard against Harrison’s gorgeous hands, his perfect mouth, as he touches me—all of me.

  When my vision has clarified once again, I blink up at him in the low light of my little apartment. He’s smiling back at me, satisfied and charged.

  “For fuck’s sake...” I breathe, “I’m sure glad you caught an earlier flight.”

  The front door buzzer rings out through my tiny apartment, and a startled laugh bursts out of me.

  “Expecting company?” Harrison
asks, lifting an eyebrow.

  “Just some grub,” I tell him, hurrying across the room to let in the delivery person.

  “Good timing,” he smiles, “I seem to have worked up quite an appetite.”

  I quickly throw some clothes on to receive my bountiful order. The wheezing delivery man glares at me over the threshold, angry about the climb. I bashfully accept my incredibly full bag of delicious Italian food and offer a handful of dollar bills for a tip. But the delivery man, who is quite possibly younger than me, doesn’t hurry to accept my offering. His eyes are fixed on me, wide and wondering. I smile nervously, unsure of what the deal is.

  “Here you go,” I prompt him, holding out the tip, “Sorry about the stairs, I—”

  “You’re Siena Lazio,” he breathes, paralyzed in my doorway.

  “Yep, you’ve got the right apartment,” I assure him. Don’t restaurants usually tell delivery staff who it is they’re bringing food to? I mean, my name is right there on the receipt. I’m about to ease the door closed when I notice the emerald green cap the man is sporting, bearing the name of my team and extended family.

  “I’m a huge Ferrelli fan,” the man gushes, “This year’s championship? What a show! Your brother deserved that win, one hundred percent. And what you pulled off with that dirtbag Rafael Marques? Too much. You’re my hero!”

  “Oh...” I stammer, blushing furiously. “I, uh, think that’s a first.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear about your father,” the man goes on, reaching for my hand, “I still remember when he was racing like it was yesterday, even though I was so small. I feel like I’ve grown up with you!”

  “That’s, uh, really sweet...” I smile nervously. I have no idea how to respond to this person. His sentiments are endearing, but so very personal. I’ve never had to deal with this before in my life.

  “But you’re going to take his place on the team, yes?” the delivery man asks eagerly.

  “That’s right,” I tell him, “I’ll be a Ferrelli shareholder.”

  “You’re going to be amazing at it,” he beams, bringing my hand toward his lips for a kiss. Just as he’s about to press his mouth to my skin, Harrison’s towering body steps between us. I watch the smaller man’s eyes bug nearly out of his skull as he looks up at Harrison in awe.

  “Harrison Davies?” he gasps, looking quickly back and forth between us. “Oh...Of course...The two of you...Oh, wow.”

  “Thanks for the food,” Harrison says shortly, “Three cheers for Ferrelli.”

  I skip back inside as Harrison closes the door in the delivery man’s face. Flustered, I slide his tip under the door and wait to hear his footsteps retreat out of the building before I feel at ease once more.

  “What the hell was that?” I ask, bewildered.

  “I believe you’ve got yourself a bit of a fan base now, Siena,” Harrison smiles warily.

  “That was the strangest thing,” I marvel, “It was like he thought he knew me, or something.”

  “Well, that’s exactly what fandom is,” Harrison says, setting down the huge bag of food, “People get attached to you. They get ideas about how you are, hold you to certain standards. Not that I really know for myself, yet, but I saw it with my dad. You must have seen it with yours, too. Now it’s our turn, I suppose. We can’t really be surprised, after all the attention we got during the season.”

  “But...what are we supposed to do about it?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?” Harrison replies.

  “I don’t know,” I say shaking my head, “Like just now—are we supposed to pretend to be whoever the fans think we are? Do we let them hold onto their illusions?”

  “I don’t think you should let it bother you,” Harrison tells me, “If people are attached to you now, it’s because you’re a badass, sexy superhero and F1 genius.”

  “Or maybe it’s because I’m canoodling with the likes of you?” I suggest.

  “No,” Harrison says definitively, “Even if people are fans of us being together, you’re half of the equation, Siena. You’re every bit as important to this sport as I am. More, even.”

  “How the hell do you figure that?” I scoff.

  “F1 has had plenty of male drivers,” Harrison goes on, “But not so many female team members, has it now? You’ve got yourself a place in this world, and no one can take that away from you. You don’t need to diminish yourself for anyone.”

  “Technically, it’s because of my dad that I’m a part of the team,” I remind him.

  “I didn’t know your father well,” Harrison says, “But I know he wouldn’t have given you this gift out of nepotism. He was too pragmatic to be sentimental like that. He thought you were the best person for the job, and he was right.”

  Something about hearing my dad talked about in the past tense sends a wash of grief through me. Sudden tears spring to my eyes at the thought of my father, gone for good. It’s been so short a time since his passing that part of me feels like he’s still coming back. I don’t know if that’s something I’ll ever stop hoping for.

  “Oh, baby...” Harrison says, taking my hand in his, “I’m sorry...”

  “It’s OK,” I smile, wiping away a few stray tears, “It just hits me sometimes, is all. I’m fine. And absolutely famished, I might add.”

  “Let’s dig in, then,” Harrison says, taking my cue away from the subject of my dad. He begins unloading the bag of Italian fare and gets a mischievous look in his eye. “Wait a second...” he says, “Did you know I was coming early all along?”

  “No,” I tell him, “Not a clue.”

  “Then why did you order all this food for the two of us?” he asks, eyeing the feast spread out across my little wooden table.

  “Oh...” I stall. How to tell him that I’m eating for two without him these days? “I just figured I could keep the leftovers. More convenient.”

  “Right...” Harrison says, looking through my cupboards, “Whatever you say, weirdo.”

  I force out a laugh as he prepares our table. How many more times am I going to be able to dodge his questions like this? And how, more importantly, am I going to tell him that I want to marry him and have his baby that I’m already carrying—without making him feel boxed in?

  Perhaps I’ll have a better idea once I’ve got some pasta in me, I reason, sitting down before the feast and digging in, There’s nothing a big plate of gnocchi won’t fix.

  We dig in together, eating silently but for the occasional groan of contentedness. I look across the table at Harrison and shake my head in wonder. If I could have known, as a frightened and insecure college student, that I’d one day be entertaining the man of my dreams in this little apartment...well, perhaps my post-grad second adolescence wouldn’t have felt so lonely.

  “What’s that look for?” Harrison asks, dipping a chunk of freshly baked bread into savory herbed olive oil.

  “I just can’t believe you’re really here sometimes,” I tell him honestly, “After everything that’s happened this year...it’s just sort of a miracle.”

  “That’s how I feel too,” he says, holding my hand on the table, “You know that, right?”

  “Sure,” I smile.

  “I love being here,” he goes on, “Even if your abode is a bit more humble than we’re used to...”

  “It can’t always be international hotels and sprawling estates,” I shrug.

  “On the contrary,” he replies, “What with our combined salaries? I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what it can always be.”

  My heart ticks just a bit faster at the words combined salaries. Those are married-people words, aren’t they? That’s permanent, serious business right there. Harrison’s face is as calm and smooth as ever, betraying nothing. Is he gauging my interest in weaving my life together with his, or just speaking practically? Damn his years of playing a cool game with the ladies. His poker face is impenetrable.

  “Mansions it is then,” I say lightly, lifting a forkful of pasta to my mouth.

/>   “Sounds good to me,” he replies, “But all joking aside, I hope you know that I wouldn’t need any of that, as long as you were there.”

  “Now you’re just trying to make up for making fun of my apartment,” I tell him, “I’m onto you, Davies. You can’t sweet talk me.”

  “Maybe not,” he shrugs, “But as soon as you’ve finished with your meal, I’ll do all sorts of other things with my lips that will be even better than sweet talk.”

  And that, perhaps, is the only sentence that could cause me to abandon a perfectly delicious plate of pasta.

  * * *

  “Siena?” Harrison says through the bathroom door, “Baby, are you OK?”

  I wipe the corners of my mouth, peering into the toilet to make sure I’ve flushed away all evidence of my sickness. I tried to creep out of bed as quietly as I could, but to no avail.

  “Yep!” I call cheerfully, “Be out in a second.”

  I tidy up my sleepy appearance as best I can and sidle back into the one room apartment. Harrison stands by the door, dressed in nothing but a pair of black briefs. I shamelessly drink in the sight of him in the early morning light—his tapered torso, sculpted thighs, tousled hair. It’s enough to send a girl crawling right back into bed again—or it would be, if she wasn’t too nervous about puking to get her groove on.

  “Were you just sick?” Harrison asks, “I thought I heard—”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say, brushing it off, “Some of the food from last night probably didn’t sit well is all.”

  “I feel OK,” he says, “Are you coming down with something?”

  “Who knows,” I shrug, pulling on a flowing floral dress, “Anyway, I feel fine now. Do you want to head outside? I’d love to show you around my old neighborhood.”

  “Sure,” Harrison says, slipping gracefully into his jeans and tee, “Just make sure you have a pen handy to sign all your fans’ autographs.”

  “Ha. Ha.” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’m sure that was just a one off thing last night.”

  “Whatever you say,” he shrugs, “I wouldn’t underestimate the power of your appeal.”