Throttled (Dirty Air Series Book 1)

Monaco. The ultimate racing Prix to attend. Bandini’s week is packed with events before the world-famous Monaco Grand Prix, known as one of the oldest races in F1 history, fueled by wealth and luxury. Celebrities from all over the world come to attend. Yachts litter the sea, glittering under the bright sun as I observe from our hotel room.

The Bandini team schedules a week packed with boat trips, interviews, galas—you name it, they have it. Which means I get to go, too. My supportive sister role has no bounds, and although I usually try to avoid these types of events, I don’t complain about this race week.

Because not even I can resist a party with one of the Kardashians.

Monte Carlo is the coolest place ever. Pictures don’t do it justice; they’re unable to capture the picturesque shoreline and old-world feel. I can’t believe Santi wants to buy an apartment here. We picked one out earlier in the week before he got busy, a modern two-bedroom overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.

I can tell the stress is getting to him. He seems edgier than usual, getting heated at smaller things, like when I left my makeup all over the bathroom counter. Monaco’s race is a big deal and he feels pressure from Bandini to perform well. It doesn’t help that this Prix happens to be one of Noah’s best, a place where his racing skills shine.

What exactly am I doing on a Tuesday in Monaco?

I’m on a boat.

Bragging isn’t something I usually do. But come on. This is Monaco… By boat, I mean one that is at least a hundred feet long, the white fiberglass gleaming under the hot summer day. But I don’t ask the owner about footage because that’s rude and not high class.

And I want to be posh and proper this week.

My body lies on a lounge chair on the front deck of the McFloating Mansion. I already toured the four different floors, drank a cocktail on the back deck, and did a vlog interview with my brother while breathing in the crisp ocean breeze. Talk about living my best life this week.

I grab a sunscreen bottle out of my bag because my skin is warming under the intense sun. Noah, a man with impeccable timing, decides to plant himself in a lounge chair next to me.

“Avoiding the sun?” He taps at the pink bottle in my hand. Dark sunglasses make it difficult to see and read the emotions swirling within his blue irises. To be honest, his whole look unsettles me. His preppy bathing suit looks shorter than regular swim trunks, accentuating muscular thighs and calves. Plus, he’s lost his shirt somewhere between the cocktail hour and now. My eyes flick across his tan, sculpted body before focusing on the deck.

“No tan is worth aging when I’m already naturally golden.” My heart quickens when he leans in closer.

His hand brushes against mine, causing an intense buzz of energy, one that never goes away no matter how many times his skin touches mine. He grabs the sunscreen bottle right out of my hand.

“Uh. I can handle that!” I sound breathy. Can he tell?

His cocky grin tells me that yes, he can. I grab my sunglasses from the top of my head and pull them down onto my face, creating a barrier because two can play this game. An immature move I have no problem with.

“Turn around. I’ll help you.”

Is it possible to die of a heart attack at twenty-three? What are the stats?

I pull out my cellphone, desperate to check.

“What on earth are you so interested in now? Every time I’m around you, you’re always doing something fidgety.”

I want to disappear in the lounge cushions or melt away into the sea. He’s onto me.

He plucks my phone straight out of my hands.

“Excuse me! Hand it back. Now.” I use my best mom voice, but it lacks the desired effect I want, making Noah chuckle instead. Going to suck at punishing my kids one day.

He ignores me, choosing to swat away my grabby hands.

“What are the chances of dying of a heart attack at twenty-three? Seriously, you’re googling this? I didn’t know I had such an effect on you. You flatter me.”

I shoot him my best scowl, but he just laughs. A full throw-your-head-back laugh, and if I weren’t peeved, I’d find it extremely attractive. Who am I kidding? I do. Annoyed or not, this man is fine. Handsome and absolutely fuckable.

I take advantage of his moment of weakness and snatch my phone back.

He rotates his finger in a motion to get things moving here, his previous task no longer put off. I reluctantly turn and lie down stomach first on the reclined lounge chair. Noah sits by my side, the cushion dipping under his weight as his thigh presses against my body.

He toys with my red bikini strap before squirting the sunscreen bottle. “You look good in red.”

Does his voice sound huskier? Is it just me? I can’t see his face since I’m looking out at the Mediterranean Sea.

My body jerks when the cold liquid hits my back. I lie to myself, chalking up my goosebumps to the cold sunscreen. Not because of Noah rubbing sunscreen all over my back. Nope.

I tell myself so many lies about Noah that I convince myself to go to the local confessional. A priest will have a field day with this type of stuff, offering sage advice before sending me off with at least five Hail Marys. I can’t blame myself. Noah has the sex appeal of about one hundred men combined, making this whole process hard.

My arms grow heavy as he continues to rub lotion into my back; I’m enjoying the feeling of being cared for while Noah’s hands caress me. His strokes leave a path of warmth behind them. I let out an embarrassing moan that I try to cover up with a cough.

His laugh—all throaty and deep—makes my body sing. He acts like this is natural, just the two of us hanging out on our private yacht, enjoying a casual day on the water. We might as well be because not one person passes by to save me.

He can’t see my face, thankfully, because my cheeks sear at his unrelenting touch.

And that’s not the only thing heating up.

My core pulses at the attention from him. How long has it been since I’ve slept with a guy? Maybe my junior year of college? My brain draws up a blank, which I don’t find to be a good sign. I decide this must be my issue with him. Not because he knocks off every attractive thing on my checklist.

Sure.

His hands move to the dip in my lower back and I groan as they knead my skin.

I’m so very fucked.

My body hums with excitement at Noah’s touch, not understanding why this is all so very, very wrong.

He pulls me out of my thoughts.

“Did I tell you that you look beautiful today?”

Nope, you didn’t. But I’ll take it now, with my head pressed against the comfy lounge chair as his hands rub my back. I don’t think he has a drop of sunscreen left on his fingers.

“Hmm. Not sure.”

Okay, good job. That didn’t sound half as desperate as your moan.

“You look stunning today.” He ramps up his charm.

He shocks me by doing the unthinkable. I suck in a breath as his lips press against the curve of my neck. Swoon. It takes everything in me to not bolt from the chair. My fingernails claw into the seat fabric to hold still, leaving indentations to match the ones Noah burns into my brain.

My body feels on fire and my most intimate places are worse off. How is it possible to get turned on by sunscreen application? There should be a warning label on the back of the bottle for this. Screw damaging rays, this shit with Noah burns me up worse than any SPF below fifty.

He lets out another chuckle that prompts me to turn around and face him.

He looks unaffected, and it ticks me off. I check for signs. His eyes remain hidden, and his face looks neutral. My eyes surpass his golden chest and abs because I have absolutely no time or restraint for that.

I smirk at the bulge in his bathing suit. His cheeky grin makes me want to kiss it off his face, replacing the humor in his eyes with lust.

Our attraction threatens our semblance of normalcy with one another. Not sure what to make of this. I need time to process, concoct an avoidance plan, set up defenses against the ultimate playboy. This will take effort. I may even need Sophie’s help with reinforcements because plans are her thing; she’s been successfully avoiding her attraction to Liam like a plague.

Thou shall not bang your brother’s teammate rings in my ears, a new mantra for me by now. Yes, my mantra list continues to grow, but you haven’t met Noah Slade. You don’t understand how sensuality seeps from his pores. Never underestimate the power of pheromones and wicked smiles.

He even makes sunscreen application into some kind of foreplay.

Guilt rushes through me because I don’t want to be attracted to Noah. Although he does nice things for me, he stills acts like a dick to Santi. I’m a walking contradiction at the moment, battling the pros and cons, weighing catastrophic situations if Noah and I got together.

Noah gets up from my chair, placing the offensive sunscreen bottle next to me. A wave of uncertainty passes through me. Part of me wants to make him stay while the other part of me wants him to go. My brain needs to digest this information. His boner distracts me enough, drawing my attention to it, the bulge looking much larger as he stands. I need it removed from my vicinity ASAP.

He tugs on my ponytail. I smile up at him because somehow it’s become our thing.

How can he be so hot yet so cute at the same time? Troubling.

“Don’t think too hard. You’ll be stuck battling the ‘what if you dos’ and the ‘what if you don’ts’ instead of living in the moment. Call me if you need my help again. I’ll be around.” He gives me one last cocky smile before disappearing below the deck.

I let out a deep sigh.

I’m so royally screwed, by the F1’s American Prince no less.

I can lie and pretend I’m a mature woman. I can say I’ve kept it cool in front of Noah and my brother. But I haven’t. Why bother lying when I suck at it anyway?

My butt plants itself on the bench inside of a local priest’s confessional. My mother loves how I’ve found time to go to church while in Monaco. The priest wishes me lots of luck with my life and tells me to go to Mass more. It feels good to let it all out, even to a man of the cloth, like my own therapist on the road. I’d describe the experience as cathartic. No shame as I spill my guts to him, letting it all out in a confessional booth.

Surprisingly, he sends me off with three Hail Marys, two Our Fathers, and a bottle of holy water to cleanse myself whenever I have impure thoughts. Confessions come with goody bags—who knew?

I start a new Avoiding Noah campaign. It goes strong for two days, thanks to Sophie’s obsession with lists and plans.

Two long days. If anyone understood the amount of effort it takes to avoid him, they would be impressed. He and my brother have to do everything together in Monaco since a united team looks great to the public.

I spend a lot of me-time in our Monaco hotel avoiding parties and cocktail hours. To pass the time, I book myself a massage. It doesn’t yield the same physical reaction as Noah’s back rub, but I attribute it to having a woman massage therapist. She doesn’t physically do it for me. Santi covers the cost, but unbeknownst to him, he basically rewards me for my good efforts of avoiding Noah. I take one for the team here.

I would count my evading techniques as successful, at least until my brother asks if I can attend a fashion show that apparently is a big deal. An A-list event I should be grateful to have an invite to.

Santi makes me watch him practice his runway walk to make sure he looks good. He loves the limelight, but not this kind—with the expectation to model. And I do not blame him at all. If I did a show like this, I would definitely fall flat on my face before rolling into the pool.

“Do you really need me there?” Please say no. I can only execute so much control around Noah. And once you add a tux element into the mix, it’s a recipe for disaster.

I feel like my brother sets me up for failure here.

“I never thought I’d have to convince you to go to this. Everyone wants a ticket.” He pouts at me, a bit extra for his standards. It impresses me yet flusters me all the same because he uses my own strategies to get me to agree.

I can’t get out of this when his words sound absolute. So I engage in the next step of a desperate woman’s plan.

I bargain.

“Can Sophie come—if she doesn’t have an invite already—because I don’t want to be alone during it.” I don’t trust myself, I mentally add before putting my two hands together in a silent plea.

He texts away on his phone, searching for the answer to my question, unable to resist my charm.

“All right, I got her a ticket too. But you both have to behave because I won’t be out there protecting you from the old men.”

“But I’ve always wanted a sugar daddy!” I whine while throwing my hands up in the air.

He throws a pillow at my face. Santi may have won this battle, but I’ll win the war.