Dirty Brawler: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (with bonus novel!) (28 page)

I have no intention to.

I fuck her harder still, the two of us working together to come, a race to the top.

My competitive streak takes over. I tweak the bud above her hole, her mouth caught in a war between pain and pleasure. That image almost makes my cock fire off, but I resist, drawing back and plunging over and over into her increasingly sloppy hole, her juices thickening around my length as she begins to move against me, her butt lifting upwards as I pound her ruthlessly.

I huff and drive myself into her body, pistoning my cock into her sex with as much speed as I can muster.

I press a little harder against her clit, her pubic bone grinding down against my chest and forcing her orgasm. She collapses onto me, biting into my shoulder as her entire body jerks and flaps by unseen forces. Her pussy contracts and opens in quick succession with her orgasm, squeezing until my balls literally ache with anticipation.

Mouth against my hair, breath ragged, she squeezes her thighs around me, milking me with her pussy.

“Come,” she says.

All I can focus on is the exquisite snap of sensation that occurs when my cock gives in and I release, emptying myself inside her.

It goes on and on, endlessly. Finally, she lifts herself from me, drawing up against my side. Her cheeks are burning and her eyes are glazed over in heat. Her chest heaves furiously, up and down. I look down at my cock, the condom streaked with our juices.

“You’re still hard,” she notes, and I am, rock hard, in fact. It hasn’t happened in years. It stands tall and proud, throbbing for more.

She looks at my cock quizzically as it swings there in air, twitching involuntarily. She reaches down and pulls the condom away, bending at the waist and extending her tongue, swiping a single drop of cum off the slit and locking her eyes with my own.

My head drops back into the mattress.

Andy Fortes, what have you gotten yourself into?

Sara

Meet me out front in twenty.

It’s a rather cryptic message from Andy. I’m smiling as I read it, the promise of more time together, more of
that
. Officially, Andy should be down at the track, but I don’t think Steven’s about to go chasing him. Their relationship continues to grow increasingly sour. It’s only a matter of time before things boil over completely.

It’s hot and dry in Monza, the kind of weather that sucks the life from your lungs. It’s no wonder that by the afternoon the entire country seems to be asleep. I select a white and rose floral number, very Milan circa 2014. I forego underwear, the thought of Andy’s hands gripping my ass sending floaty tingles down my spine.

He’s waiting outside the Hotel de la Ville leaning up against a red Ferrari. I don’t know much about cars, but everyone knows a stallion when they see one.

“Funny looking Goodall,” I question from the top of the stairs.

He looks over me approvingly and steps back to open the passenger door. “Fuck Goodall. Besides, it’s not my car.”

I smile, slipping beside him and swinging into the passenger seat-slash-human bucket. There’s barely any padding and harnesses instead of seatbelts. I have to get so low to get in the thing that anyone within a mile radius probably gets a hell of a show. “Who does it belong to?”

“Luigi.”

“He just loaned you a Ferrari for the day?”

Andy crouches down beside me, runs a hand over the top of my thigh. “Not just any Ferrari. An F40.”

I draw a sharp intake of breath at his touch.

“Besides,” he continues, “I’m doing him a favor”.

My voice is choked up with arousal. “How’s that?”

He winks. “I’m taking it home.”

*

I shouldn’t be surprised Luigi owns a property close to the Autodromo Nazionale Monza. It’s Tuscan in style, terracotta and open air.

Andy pulls up to the front door and Luigi comes out surrounded by three Maltese terriers. It’s weird to see him not dressed in red, not that the pink polo he’s wearing is any less subtle.

“Welcome,” he says, as we step out.

The dogs yap and nip around my heels. I crouch down, stroking the back of their heads. “Who are these guys?”

Luigi points. “Enzo, Enrico and Edmondo.”

Andy embraces him. “Wow, you really take this Italian thing to the extreme, don’t you, my friend?”

“We’re passionate people. You’ll see. Come.”

I follow the boys inside.

Luigi stops at a large table by the kitchen. There’s a document on it. “First, business. Your autograph, if you will.”

Andy looks to me.

I nod.

He takes a pen off Luigi and signs. “What did I just get myself into? You’re not taking a kidney are you?”

Luigi laughs. “No, only your soul. But remember, signing with Ferrari is all well and good, but the contract’s void if you don’t win the championship this season,
capiche
?”

Andy nods. “I understand.”

Luigi claps his hands together. “Now,
l’uomo è ciò che mangia
, a man is what he eats and I have yet to do so since breakfast an hour ago. Shall we?”

I take his hand. “We shall.”

*

The antipasti is enough, not to mention umpteen glasses of wine. Luigi seems to have a story behind every one. We look out over his vineyard, a hobby he says hasn’t been terribly productive this season—much like his team.

Andy looks oddly refined holding his wine glass, swishing it around just so. He looks through it. “It’s been a tough season. I won’t lie. Carl’s good, but I’m better.”

“I know,” smiles Luigi, “but you can’t let him get ahead here or in Singapore. Monza is the quickest track on the calendar. Use it to your advantage.”

Andy nods, taking it in.

It’s a beautiful place. I could stay here forever, everything forgotten, Andy and I with a checkered rug under a tree on a hill, making love until the sun sets. Liv Tyler had the right idea. Watching
Stealing Beauty
was the first time I masturbated, dreaming of a dark Italian taking me on the grass. Andy may not be Italian, but he’s no less passionate, no less driven, though he is yet to take me on the grass…

We get a town car back into Monza and can barely keep our hands off each other. We don’t even make it into my room before Andy’s hooking a finger into the waistband of my panties, his lips pressed hot against my neck, but my phone’s having a seizure.

“Don’t,” he whispers, pressing me against the door. “Let it ring.”

It goes again and I can’t take it. I glance down at the screen. “It’s my boss.”

“She can wait,” Andy drones, hand cupping my mound, my clit pulsing.

The elevator dings down the hall but Andy makes no attempt to stop.

I squirm away, reluctantly, and swipe my card, moving through the gap in the doorway, using the door to shield myself. “Clearly, you’ve never met her.”

Andy takes my hand before I close it. “Tomorrow?”

I beam. “Win and I’ll let you take me wherever you want, however you want.”

*

Andy explained everything that night in Belgium. The cork that was once bottling him up has been let free. He’s becoming increasingly open, much to my surprise.

I stand against the pit wall watching the teams prep their cars on the track. In his Ray Bans, hair slicked back, Andy is the epitome of a Formula One playboy.

It’s bright and sunny out and we have umbrellas for shade.

There was a certain level of trust extending on his behalf telling me about the thing with Ferrari. If I wanted to ruin Andy I could go to Steven, tell him all about it, but increasingly I’m finding myself siding with Andy, not that I didn’t trust him to begin with. He isn’t imagining the mutiny going on behind the scenes. It couldn’t be clearer, even to an outsider like me.

“I’m Anna.”

I turn, a little shocked to see one of the grid girls standing beside me, her hand out.

I take it. “Um, Sara.”

She’s chewing bubblegum, her black Lycra jumpsuit leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. She speaks with an eastern European accent. “I have seen you at Goodall.”

“I’m working PR, yes.”

She nods to the track. “You could be out there. You have body for it.”

“Not really my thing, sorry. No offense.”

She laughs, pinching the jumpsuit. “It is like sauna in this thing, material riding your ass all day. I make more money doing porn.” She looks to Andy. “You are seeing him, yes?”

“Andy?”

“No need to be shamed. He is solid man.”

I hate lying, but it has to be done.

“I’m not,” I fumble. “I mean, no, we’re not dating.”

“Why?” she says, completely blank.

“Andy Fortes?” I laugh, sounding completely fake. “The guy’s a—” but I can’t bring myself to say it, to call him out to a fellow female.

“A penis in racing suit. Yes, but he is not so bad.”

I’m worried I’m going to get more information than I want here, a sexual tell-all from one of Andy’s former flames. She seems like the type.

Anna puts her elbows on the wall, boobs spilling out of her top. “I would date him, yes, but he never let anyone close. No girl more than a day. He is not marriage man.”

“You’ve… been with him?”

Now she laughs. “Nyet. Nyet. He is probably good fuck, but I need long-term man, you know?”

“You don’t think he can do long term?”

She laughs harder. “Leopard does not shed spots. Nice to meet you, Sara,” pronouncing the ‘r’ like a ‘h’.

She walks off, legs at least a mile long.

A weird encounter to be sure.

So, it’s getting around. Soon the press will be onto it and from there there’s no turning back. Either I make it official or quash it altogether.

*

Andy’s only ever lost once at Monza, but Carl makes twice. Andy’s mood changes, however, when I tell him I want to attend the after-party as a couple.

I help him do up his bow-tie standing outside the party, held near the old track banking.

He looks at me cautiously. “You’re sure?”

I nod. “Yeah, let’s stir things up a bit.”

“So it’s just for show then?”

I wink. “Depends on how you play your cards.”

“We talking poker or blackjack?”

“Go fish.”  I take his arm and a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”

We’re the talk of the party. I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to so many people in my life. The guys nod knowingly at Andy, the girls try to place a voodoo curse on me as they nod and smile. “So happy for you two!” they beam, wishing they were in my place, and I’m kind of proud, weird as that is, to have Andy at my side.

We’re walking to a bar made out of tires when Steven steps in front of Andy, hands in his pockets. His cheeks are red. He’s been drinking. “Nice racing today, Andy. Let’s hope you don’t come unstuck in Singapore. As they say, anything can happen.”

Andy tightens beside me. I squeeze his arm. “Come on. Get me a drink.”

I can see Andy’s still uptight as we sit at the bar. It’s clear that whatever working relationship Steven and Andy has is completely gone. I can’t see any way to repair it without someone getting hurt in the process. They’re not even trying to hide their animosity anymore.

I hold his hand. “You’ve got to let these things go, Andy.”

“That fucker is trying to undermine me. You can see it, can’t you?”

I nod. “Yes, I can, but stewing away like this doesn’t do you any good. Focus on the racing. Forget about that pencildick.”

“You’ve seen his dick?” Andy laughs.

“I can’t imagine it’s much bigger that a gnat.”

“An ant, more likely.”

“Dental floss.”

“Silly string.”

We both laugh, like two teenagers who shouldn’t be at the bar on a school night.

Steven leaves early and Stacey’s nowhere to be seen. It allows us a certain freedom. We have a good time. Who wouldn’t?

“Take me back to the hotel,” I whisper into his ear. “It’s late.”

“And the fun’s just beginning,” he whispers back, squeezing my ass.

From the marble Jacuzzi to the bed and even the kitchen bench, our little romp around Andy’s hotel suite doesn’t stop until I can barely walk.

Steven

Work ethic—it’s something a guy like Andy Fortes will never understand. He’s got talent, it’s undeniable, but he also had the money behind him, the best mentors. I never had that at Goodall. I scraped and clawed my way to the top of the corporate ladder, and it got ugly. My family was loaded, but my father wouldn’t lend me a dime. I did it dirty and fucking ugly. I made enemies, but the friends I share this rarified air with are greater. That’s why I’m here, at the top. The last thing I’m going to do is let some cocky, wealthy dipshit like Andy Fortes fuck it all up for me. He’s going to go down like the dog he is and those bookies are going to cough up while I laugh in their face. I’m sure they’re doubting I can deliver. I’m Steven Jones. I
always
deliver.

The mechanics look at each other nervously. Calling them to this meeting without the drivers present was a risk, but it needs to be done. Klaus looks around at the dark garage. “A bit Tinker Tailor, don’t you think, Steven?”

“This matter needs some discretion,” I start, smiling, letting them know I’m one of them. I start to pace, hands behind my back. “One thing we can’t have in this team, gentlemen, is insubordination. We’ve been here before. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.”

“Andy?” fills in one of the junior techs.

Did I fucking ask your opinion, cocksucker?
I force a smile in his direction. “Yes, Andy.”

“What do you want us to do, Steven? Cut his fuel lines?” adds Klaus.

Yes.

“No,” I laugh, “but
something
needs to be done. Am I making myself clear?”

The mechanics look at each other oddly. I’m losing them. “Look, we all have to make hard decisions here for the benefit of the team. Do we agree on that?”

Make them say yes, to anything. That’s the first step.

They nod, murmur in agreement.

“Rest assured whatever happens I personally will bear the responsibility,” I continue. I won’t allow any harm to fall upon your shoulders, but there will be rewards for those that bring this team back into line.”

“Steven,” starts Klaus, cautious.

I cut him off. “Think about it. That’s all I’m asking.”

Andy

It’s balmy out the back of the pits, the Singapore Big Flyer slowing rotating, floodlights turning night into day.

I lean against the transporter. “Fucking spit it out, Klaus. What happened?”

He steps closer. “There was a meeting, with all the mechanics working on your cars.”

“
My
cars?”

“Yes.”

“Not Carl’s?”

“No.”

I can’t hide my frustration. “What the fuck about?”

Klaus looks behind his back again, lowers his voice so I have to crane to hear it. “Steven was very clear. You are not to win the championship. He wants us to do whatever we can to stop you without being obvious.”

That motherfucker. “Those were his exact words?”

“In a manner of speaking. My English isn’t perfect, but I, how do you say it, got the gist.”

My anger gets the better of me. I grab Klaus. “His exact words, yes or fucking no?”

He slaps my hands away. “I’m trying to help you here, Andy, because you are the best and I do not think this is right, it’s not racing.”

I turn around, look to the lit circuit so quiet before the storm of cars to come. “You’re damn fucking right about that. And what happened? Are the others going to do what he asks, sink to his level?”

I can see the worry on Klaus’s face. “Jan and Niklas, no, but Tom and Jannik? Maybe. It would be easy.”

I pick up a discarded bottle and heave it in the direction of the garage. Something else breaks inside. “Fuck!”

“Andy,” says Klaus, “I’ll keep an eye out, but you should know there’s a target on your back now”.

He’s right. He could have kept his mouth shut. He’s going out on a limb here.

I take his hand, shake, one hand on his shoulder. “You’re right. Thank you.”

“Just win, okay?”

I nod. “You fucking bet.”

*

Singapore is the only night race on the calendar. It’s physical, like most street tracks, but tearing around the city, the bright lights of the financial district in the background, gives it a unique, cosmopolitan atmosphere.

I qualify in pole, Carl making do with third. Throughout the whole race I’m waiting for something to go wrong—a tire to go sailing, the car to split in half, but it remains in one piece. I play to my strengths, impressed by the visibility offered, not making a single mistake.

The same cannot be said for Carl. He overcooks a corner and spins off, failing to finish and delivering him a big fat zero points.

Everything is falling into place. I meet Sara at the after-party held in pit lane itself, street vendors bussed in serving everything from chicken rice to bak kwa.

I can’t keep my hands off her, but we keep to the shadows.

Sara’s shoveling down kaya toast by the pit wall, looking to the lights of the city.

“Most people have that for breakfast, you do realize.”

She takes another bite, the coconut custard sweet and fragrant. “Honestly, all these time zones, I don’t care anymore. It’s damn delicious and I’ll eat it whenever I want.”

I brush her hair back, place my lips against her ear. “Can I eat
you
whenever I want?”

She slaps me on the shoulder. “You are shameless. Like you’re not getting enough already.”

“I could never get enough of you.”

“Andy.”

Luca, the PR kid, is running up to me with a clipboard. “Did you forget about the hot laps?”

“Shit.” I’m supposed to be running VIPs around the circuit in the Goodall tandem car, give them a little taste of what being in an F1 car is like, give them a little adrenaline rush. It’s tedious, but any excuse to hit an open circuit is fine by me. “When’s it supposed to start?”

Luca looks nervous. “Five minutes.”

“Better warm up my race suit then.”

I take hold of Sara. “Meet me at the grid in half an hour.”

I take off with Luca.

“Andy?” she calls, confused.

“Just be there.”

*

We only run the tandem car at two circuits, at Monza for our European friends and Singapore for our Asian sponsors and corporate high flyers. It’s always the same response as they step out of the car behind me, usually shaking. “That was fast!” they say, while I laugh inside.
That was only half throttle.

My last victim is walking duck-legged back to the pits when Luca walks Sara over in a fresh race suit, helmet tucked under her arm.

“He forced me,” she says.

Luca shrugs. “Actually, Andy said if I didn’t get you over here I’d be out of a job, so…”

“Did he?” she smiles. “I guess there’s nothing for me to do but to hop into this death machine.”

I motion to the rear seat. “Hop right in, partner.”

Luca helps her pull her helmet on and she collapses into the narrow confines of the cockpit.

I speak into the headset. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes, asshole,” she replies, loud and clear.

“You ready?”

“For what?” she laughs.

I smash the throttle to the floor. “For this.”

She’s so terrified she can’t even scream.

I don’t hold back. I come into Turn One sideways, keeping on the gas and hooking us inches from the wall.

She finds her voice, a constant string of expletives unleashed into my ear that barely make any sense, all ‘fihts!’ and ‘motherfuckhole!’. If only she could see the grin I’m wearing under this helmet coming into Stamford Road.

I keep her pinned in her seat, driving as fast as this rust bucket will allow.

By the time I pull up all I can hear is her erratic breathing.

I help her out, unable to hold off the laughter any longer. Poor thing can barely stand.

I take her helmet off, her hair matted to her face. “So,” I query, “did you come?”

*

We’ve got the entire fiftieth floor to ourselves, the entire penthouse at the Marina Bay Sands to cover before sunrise.

I take in Sara’s prone and flushed form on the dining table. My finger runs down the side of her neck into the valley of her cleavage, only the city lights and those from the infinity pool below for illumination.

I lift up the swell of a breast, sweep around the nipple in soft circles. Another finger joins the first to pinch and flick it. It grows and fills, standing as pink and erect as the cock tapping against my chest.

“How do you want me to take you tonight?” I ask.

“Like I said, however you want,” she replies, words rushed.

I move my fingers to the other nipple, drawing it into a similarly stiff pillar.

“Close your eyes,” I command, moving to the bedroom and returning with a small vial. I remove the cork and apply the substance to my hands, rubbing the liquid into her body, a fragrance of sandalwood and rosewater lingering.

“What is it?” she asks, eyes shut.

“A local balm.”

I dab the oil over her nipples, apply it to the crook of her neck and behind her ears—everywhere but the hot space between her legs. No, I leave that to last.

When my fingers finally work their way down her thighs, she stiffens, sucking air in through her teeth.

I take two hands and spread her thighs wide, applying the oil directly to her clit. I rub in a circular motion, the heat from my fingers running into her skin and spreading out through her entire body until I sense the orgasm building in her core.

“Andy, god…” she mews.

I play with the smooth folds of her labia, run my fingers up and down her lips, letting them slip through my fingers like a roll of silk. “Your pussy is exquisite,” I tell her.

She jars at the word, bucks against my hand as I rub a little firmer.

I come up to the side of the table and lean over it, kissing her hard, kissing her like this is our very last day alive.

I tilt her head sideways and place the crimson head of my cock against her lips. She opens her mouth, allows me to run the slick body of my cock inside, lets it slide
back and forth across the porous surface of her tongue.

Once I would have kept going, cared only about my own orgasm, but it’s different with Sara. The thought of getting her off is so much more appealing.

I climb onto the table, straddling her breastbone before slowly dropping down her body. I can almost feel her wet sex tingling with expectation, her hands reaching out to grip the sides of the table.

Lying between her thighs, I press my tongue against her wet flesh. I open her with my thumbs, bury my tongue deep into her hole. All I want is to feel her come, slip away from reality if only for a moment by my hand, by my lips.

I whisper into the hot juncture that splits her pussy, my
tongue flicking and curling and constantly working against her folds until her entire body is begging for my cock, jerking and twisting, trying to find relief any way it can.

My thumbs drop. I separate her ass cheeks and brush the tip of my tongue against her taint. I press against it lightly, testing its resistance before drawing my tongue back up and spearing it deep into her pussy.

Her head snaps up off the table, a hissing exhale leaving her lips. “I want you inside me,” she pleads. “Please.”

I replace my mouth with fingers. They steal into her folds, her thighs slippery now with perspiration and slick arousal. My own breathing is labored, the reward so close.

I screw my thumb to the bottom of her depths, the pad of another working against her clit.

Her excitement builds, a physical, viscous thing around my digits as they jam together inside her. My fingers move quicker, pressed together and shoveling into her with speed as I nibble on the inside of her thigh.

“Please!” she screams, lifting and bowed.

It’s enough.

I let my fingers slide away and crouch, flipping her over and bringing her to her knees. I take hold of her hips, holding her into position.

“Please!” she begs again, head hanging loose, her shoulder blades drawn together as bony peaks.

Okay.

I take hold of her hips and ram forward, driving almost my entire member balls deep into her soaking pussy. She groans, long and loud, as I draw back and thrust forward again, penetrating her as powerfully as I can, using the full measure of my cock to drive over and over into her sopping hole.

Her breasts swing back and forth under the assault. I can smell our union, the earthy scent of her split body.

I place a hand against her lower back and press down, her sex stretching around my cock.

Soon she speaks only in short rasps against the
slap, slap, slap
of our bodies meeting, my fingers digging into her ass as I try to run deeper, giving her all I have.