Faster Dirtier (Take Me...#5) (A Team Ferrelli Novel) (10 page)

“Jesus Christ kid,” he grins, turning to stroll away from
me, “I thought you said this was going to be a challenge.”

I hurry after him as he moves away toward his car. My tongue
is tied in a tight knot in the wake of this latest surge of desire for him. I
need to be more careful around my new mentor. Anything that goes down between
us needs to be purposeful. Thought-through. If I were wise, I’d totally rule
out getting down and dirty with Enzo. But I try not to make promises that I
can’t keep, even to myself.

Chapter Nine

We’re all but silent as we speed on over to the Ferrelli
test track. Though I’m writhing with frustrated horniness, Enzo seems to be
doing just fine. He throws on a hard rock radio station and cracks the windows,
letting in the cool Italian breeze. My hair is tossed back against the seat as
we fly along, Enzo steering with one easy hand as he cradles his smoke with the
other. I never would have pegged him for a smoker, based on his public persona.
But then, there are a lot of things I wouldn’t have guessed about Enzo from his
soundbites and post-race interviews.

Before long, I spot the test track looming ahead. My hands
close into tight fists as my adrenaline kicks in. I’m always amped up by the
prospect of getting behind the wheel of a car, but today I’m extra pumped.
Today, I’ll show Enzo Lazio what I’m really made of as a driver. I can’t afford
to botch this. As much as I hate to admit it, it’s important that he have a
good opinion of me. I try and convince myself that I just want him to agree to
be my mentor. But if I’m honest, I know I want his approval for other reasons.
I want him to appreciate me. Respect me. And, might as well admit it,
want
me.

Enzo executes a less-than-necessary hairpin turn into the
parking lot and swoops into a VIP space right near the track’s entrance. I roll
my eyes at his antics, but am secretly a little pleased. He’s showing off for
me. I can tell. I’ve spent enough time around F3 boys to know what it looks
like when a driver is trying to impress you. Enzo swings his tall body out of
the car and sets off for the track, with me on his heels once more. I can’t say
I like the feeling of being a tag-along, but I’m sure I’ll feel much better
when I’m strapped into my new ride.

“Ready to put your money where that dirty little mouth is?”
Enzo asks, unlocking the front gate with a special key card and leading me into
the Ferrelli garage. I can’t help but notice that we’re the only two people on
the premises. Anything could happen between us, and no one would be the wiser.

“You know it,” I reply, dragging my mind back up from the
gutter.

“Good,” Enzo says, approaching a vehicle that’s been covered
with an emerald green tarp. “Because it’s go time, kid.”

He whips off the protective cover like a magician executing
his grand finale. And that follows, too, because this must be some kind of
trick. The vehicle standing before me isn’t any old racecar. It’s Enzo’s very
own ride. His pride and joy.

“You can’t be serious,” I say, gaping at the car.

“What’s the matter?” Enzo grins, running an affectionate
hand along the side of his ride. “Haven’t you ever driven an F1 car before?”

“You know full well that I haven’t,” I tell him. “I’ve been
racing in F3. Our cars are totally different. What’s the idea, here?”

“Just figured I’d throw you into the deep end,” Enzo shrugs,
“See if you don’t sink like a very pretty stone.”

“If you want to see how well I can drive, give me a car I
can actually work with,” I seethe, “This is a nasty trick, Enzo.”

“It’s not a trick at all, kid,” he returns. “You wanna be an
F1 driver? Well guess what—you’re gonna have to learn how to drive an F1 car.
So are you gonna get in there and let me see what you’re made of, or are you
gonna head back to the junior leagues with your tail between your legs?”

I stare at Enzo, my fists clenched. It would be absolutely
insane to get into that car. I’m totally unprepared. Not to mention terrified.
But for all that, I know there’s only one thing I can say.

“Gimme a damn helmet, then,” I demand, storming off to get
suited up.

Enzo takes his sweet time getting me strapped into his car,
explaining the mechanics of the machine as he goes along. I try and listen as
best I can, but between the fear and the arousal at his hands being so close to
my body once more, I have a hard time hearing a word he says over the beating
of my own heart. At last, the moment comes. We’re out on the expansive Ferrelli
test track, a cloudless blue sky arching overhead. It’s just me and the car,
now. And of course, my sexy one-man pit crew. I slip a vibrant green helmet on
over my ponytail and take a deep breath.

“OK,” I call over my shoulder to Enzo, “Start me up!”

“Oh, I intend to,” he winks.

“I mean the ignition, jackass,” I tell him.

“Right, right,” he grins, manning the external starter. Most
F1 cars have to be started by a pit crew member, who inserts a long rod into
the car’s starter hole to get things going.

And yes, I know exactly how dirty that sounds.

“Have a good run, beautiful!” he calls, as the engine begins
to whirr.

He called
me beautiful,
I think rapturously, as the purr builds to a roar. But all
thoughts of Enzo quickly fade away as the powerful machine kicks into gear
beneath me.

I take off down the long, flat expanse, hands tight on the
steering wheel. By all rights, I should be pissing myself in fear right now.
I’m whipping down the track in an insanely powerful vehicle that I have zero
experience with. But against all logic and reason, I don’t feel scared at all.
Whenever I’m behind the wheel, a cool, calm focus always comes over my mind and
body. And it’s no different this time around. I don’t dare push Enzo’s car to
its utmost capabilities. Instead, I get to know the feel of it, testing my
prowess against its potential for speed. It’s a dance between me and the car,
an improvisation. I lose myself in the thrill of this new experience, a wide
grin spreading across my face.

In no time at all, I’ve swooped all the way around the
track, back to where Enzo stands waiting for me. I speed past him, the blood
rushing wildly through my veins. Letting the car drift to a halt once more, I
remember that I came to this track with a mission: to prove to Enzo that I’m
worthy of my place on Team Ferrelli. I wait with bated breath as my mentor
lopes over to the car, stop watch clutched in his hand. His gorgeous face
appears beside the car, those dark eyes boring into me from above.

“So?” I prompt him, lifting the helmet off of my head,
“How’d I do, professor?”

“Are you seriously telling me that was your first time
behind the wheel of an F1 car?” he asks, his voice unreadable.

“First time,” I assure him, “Scout’s honor.”

“Well then,” he says, leaning his elbows on the side of the
car, “I’m not only amazed by your time, kid, but I’m also pretty pleased to
have been your first time.”

“You’re totally an ass, aren’t you?” I smile, blinking into
the bright sunlight.

“Totally, completely, absolutely,” he says, his eyes
gleaming.

And before I can say another word, his mouth is on mine. I
gasp as he kisses me, hard and fast, over the side of the F1 racer. Without
thinking, I bury my hands in his hair, pulling him closer to me. Between the
adrenaline of the ride and the aching need for him I’ve kept tamped down inside
me, this sudden contact has me reeling. His hands fly to release me from the
confines of the car’s safety harnesses, and soon enough I’m free. With no
effort at all, he lifts me out of the car, his mouth moving against mine all
the while.

My boots hit the pavement as he backs me up against the warm
metal surface, his tongue gliding against mine, probing deeper and deeper into
my eager mouth. His big, capable hands explore my every curve, caressing my
breasts through the thick material of the jumpsuit. I clasp my hands behind his
thick neck, crushing my body to his. In a moment of daring, I close my teeth
around his bottom lip, and smile as he sucks in a quick breath.

He pulls back to stare at me, leaning back against his car, my
face flushed from the rush of the drive—not to mention the kiss. The wind is
nearly knocked out of me by the sheer intensity of that stare. I have to work
to draw deep breaths into my heaving chest as he looks me over, inch by inch.

“I have to tell you, Ace,” he murmurs, using my nickname at
last, “I don’t think you could possibly be any sexier than you are right now.”

“You just saw me in an evening gown and heels,” I remind
him.

“I know,” he growls, running his strong hands down my sides.
“And my point still stands. If I’d known last night that you weren’t only sexy
as hell, but that you could drive too? I don’t think I could have let you leave
that balcony.”

“And now?” I breathe, resting my trembling hands on his
chest.

“Now...” Enzo says, his voice low and ragged, “We can either
do the smart, professional thing and keep our hands to ourselves, or we could
do the honest thing. Are you an honest person, Ace?”

“I like to think so,” I whisper.

“Then come on,” he says, brushing my hair behind my ear,
“And you can prove
that
to me, too.”

He takes my hand in his, and we all but sprint back toward
the abandoned garage. My rational mind is screaming at me to stop and think
about what I’m doing, but my body is having none of it. Decorum can go to hell,
for all I care. I squeeze Enzo’s hand as we book it back to the entrance of the
shadowy garage, feeling like I’m going to burst if I don’t get to feel those
hands all over me in the next three seconds—

“Hey you two!”

I stumble into Enzo’s solid form as we stop dead in our
lusty tracks. Looking wildly around the supposedly abandoned test track, I spot
two figures up in the stands, waving at us amiably. Squinting into the blinding
morning light, I make out a flash of blonde hair. It’s Bex and Charlie Spano
standing there, looking down at us with curious smiles spreading across their
lips. I take a hasty step away from Enzo, smoothing down my tousled hair. Shit.
How much of that did they see? With the twinkle in Bex’s green eye, it’s tough
to say.

“Chuck,” Enzo grumbles, shoving his hands deep into his
jeans pockets. “What brings you down here on a Saturday, my friend?”

“Siena mentioned that you and Ace were going to start her
training this morning,” Charlie replies. “Thought I’d swing by and make sure
you were all set to go.”

“We’re doing just fine,” Enzo tells him, laying a platonic
hand on my shoulder. “In fact, Ace just took her first spin in an F1 car. She’s
as good as Siena’s been saying all along.”

“You...already took out the car?” Charlie asks, the color draining
from his face. “Without a pit crew here, or a medical team on call, or any
supervision whatsoever?”

“Yep,” Enzo grins, “Just the two of us.”

“Lorenzo,” Charlie says, gripping the railing in
exasperation, “I know that you’ve always done whatever the hell you wanted
around here when our dads we in charge. But now that I’m the team’s manager, I
really do insist that you run this kind of thing by me first.”

“What’s the problem? We’re both in one piece,” Enzo shrugs.

“That’s not the point,” Charlie shoots back heatedly. “You
don’t have the run of this place anymore, Enzo. It’s a new era. I know that you
grew up hearing the same stories that I did, from our dads’ generation. About
the loose cannon drivers, swilling booze and smoking like chimneys, sleeping
around and not giving a fuck. But that’s not how our generation does things,
Enzo. No more playboy antics this season, you hear me?”

I look nervously at Enzo, expecting him to explode in a rage
at Charlie’s harsh words. My brooding mentor stares up into the stands for a
good, long moment. The air crackles with tension as the two men glare across
the space at each other, ready for a fight. But when Enzo finally opens his
mouth, a hearty, bellowing laugh comes ringing out. I look at him in amazement
as he doubles over with uproarious laughter, his shoulders heaving with the
hilarity of it all. Bex lays a steadying hand on Charlie’s shoulder. The
manager looks downright furious.

“Oh man. I’m sorry Chuck,” Enzo finally manages to say. “For
a second there, I thought you were actually telling me how to do my job as the
lead driver for this team. The job that I scraped and toiled and slaved away
for my entire life. I thought that you, a rookie manager, were trying to put me
in my place on my own damn track. But that couldn’t possibly be the case, could
it, Chuck? You don’t have the balls to—”