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Some would say that a chauffeur wasn’t exactly the most ambitious job there ever was.
In fact, Alfred’s mother had cried when he told her that he was going to “waste” his life driving around rich old farts. It stung at the time, but he went through with it anyway. He was good at his job. He knew L.A. like the back of his hand and all the best ways to shimmy through traffic. He also knew how to please his patrons, acting almost like their personal concierge. He always kept the cars spotless and well-stocked. And he knew all the best restaurants and bars. He even knew the most discreet places to go for more shady vices. (Best of all, he knew how to keep his mouth shut.)
It wasn’t too surprising that he rose through the ranks quickly in the personal driving agency he had signed on with. Soon enough, he was asked for by name and then moved onto exclusive contracts with the rich and famous. He wasn’t rich by any stretch of the imagination, but he had modest enough means to afford an apartment with just one roommate. It made his mom happy(-ish).
Sure, maybe a mechanical engineering degree was wasted in his line of work, but Alfred didn’t care. He wouldn’t trade his job for the world. Not for the money (obviously) and not for the access to said rich and famous (although he had stories). But there was another reason entirely.
He loved cars.
He really, really loved cars.
Why would he want to spend his life tinkering around with engines of boring mass produced steel boxes, when he could touch and smell and feel the sublime class of the luxury models only the obscenely rich could afford? The oiled leather, the hot steel curves, the purr and vibration of the world-class engine underneath him, the squeal of the steering wheel underneath his leather gloves. At nights, he’d dream about them. Dream about what he could do in them, to them. God, just thinking about it made delicious shivers run down his spine.
No, he wouldn’t give up his job. Not ever.
Which was why he met the year-long contract with some smarmy Brit with utter dismay.
“An entire year!” Alfred cried, quickly flipping through the pages as his boss, Ludwig, studied him over his interlaced fingers. “Boss, seriously? I’ve never even met the guy before! What if I hate him?”
Or worse, his car?
Ludwig gave him a look of cool unsympathy. “You were requested by name. Recommended by one of your own clients. The money should more than compensate.”
Alfred glanced at the sum and it gave him just brief pause. Okay, it was more than he made in three years, which was kind of absurd. Still, the thought of losing access to his (clients’) Bentleys, Ferraris, Lamborghinis and Porsches made him want to cry.
He whined instead. “But Boss-!”
“This is not up for discussion,” Ludwig snapped in a tone that made Alfred’s back straighten like ramrod steel. “You are a professional. You are contracted with the agency. We need this to go smoothly, so that we can expand our branches in New York and London. You will do this. So shut up and do your goddamned job!”
Alfred nodded slowly, not daring another peep of protest.
Freaking terrifying Germans!
“Good,” Ludwig said and slid a stray lock or two back into its slick hairstyle. “Now, you are on call with the standard hours of 7 AM - 8 PM, Monday to Friday, up to 40 hours a week. Any more or alternate hours, you will be compensated with overtime pay. And be more meticulous with your time cards, Jones. Your sheets are a mess.”
“Sure Boss,” Alfred replied, having regained a little of his vigor back. “So when do I start?” he asked, not noticing the date circled in red on the contract.
“...Tomorrow,” Ludwig replied flatly. The German leaned over and roughly tapped the top of the page, “At this address. I expect you to be there fifteen minutes early.”
“Yes Boss,” Alfred replied, feeling the doom and gloom of resignation cloud his cheery disposition.
“Good. You may go,” Ludwig said and waved the young American out of his office. Alfred got up with a sigh and headed out into the garage bay. Maybe he could con Feliciano out of his Ferrari job before his one-year sentencing.
~o~
The next morning, Alfred arrived right on time at Mr. Kirkland’s address in 90210, instead of early - just to spite Ludwig. Hopping out of the cab, he dusted off his slick black uniform and glanced up at the wrought iron gates. Looking past them, he saw the brown stone chateau and high green hedges. Not bad, at least in the multi-millions. If one liked bloated country cottages on steroids.
The security box crackled by him and a stiff accented voice called to him. “Can I help you?”
Not British. Some staff person probably. “Yeah, I’m the new driver? Alfred Jones. I’m supposed to start today.” The box gave another crackle. Then a gate promptly swung open, allowing him entry into the circular enclosed driveway. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Alfred jogged along the gravel path, keeping an eye out for what sort of vehicle he was going to be chained to for the next year. Dude was rich, so that was promising. Then again he was British and they tended to like understated things. Like a Benz, yuck.
Eyeing the closed garage, Alfred rang the doorbell and waited. The wooden slat door swung open, revealing a very, very stiff looking tall brunette in glasses. “You are ze driver?” the butler(?) asked, in an accent that wasn’t quite German, but almost. He knew, because that was what Ludwig used to sound like. “You are late. You vere expected fifteen minutes early.”
On time was not late! However, Alfred gave the man a toothy smile. “Sorry, sorry. The taxi took a wrong turn. Even though I told him better,” he lied.
The butler gave an unconvinced hmph of disapproval. “Mr. Kirkland vill be coming down shortly. Do you know his place of occupation?”
“Yep, I have it all down,” Alfred replied, tapping at his temple. Usually, he had a lot more than just work or home to memorize, but it seemed that Mr. Kirkland had only moved here recently. Work related, probably. His dossier hadn’t mentioned any family members either. “When does he need to get to work?”
“He makes his own hours,” the butler said stiffly. Then said nothing, leaving the pair of them in uncomfortable silence. Upon closer look at the man, Alfred noted he was actually a lot younger than first impression. Maybe mid-thirties, younger? But his tone and rigid demeanor just made him seem ancient. Suddenly, the butler said, “Ah, he is coming.”
Alfred glanced over towards the butler’s gaze and saw a slim, somewhat lanky, well-dressed man striding down the wooden stairs as he adjusted his cuffs. Alfred regarded him in vague interest, recognizing that his attire was expensive and fashionable. Though he didn’t pay nearly as much attention to clothes as he did to cars. The Brit also had a decent enough face, a little pointy. Also those eyebrows were humongous.
Upon catching sight of Alfred, however, Mr. Kirkland stopped short at the foot of the stairs. His green eyes widened and blinked in surprise. It didn’t take a genius to see why he stopped, when his eyes took on a sheen of particular interest. It was a look that Alfred knew quite well. Not to brag, but he knew he looked damn fine and he often got looks like that from all kinds of people. Plus everyone liked a uniform.
Alfred gave Mr. Kirkland a charming smile and a tip of his hat, “Good morning, Mr. Kirkland.” He watched as the Brit took another half-step. Kirkland was pretty good at hiding his reaction, his expression unmoved. Still, all the stony expressions in the world couldn’t hide a blush.
“You’re the new driver?” Mr. Kirkland asked, his accent reminding Alfred of the purr of Alfa Romeos and Aston Martins. Bond, James Bond.
“Alfred Jones,” he replied brightly. “But you can call me Alfred. Ready to head out?” he asked, picking up a briefcase he found nearby the door.
“Yes, I am,” Mr. Kirkland replied, giving the butler but a nod before heading outside. He seemed to have recovered himself and asked, “I had my car imported. It only arrived last week. Are you able to drive on the right side?”
“Oh, no problem. I’ve done it before. I’ve had other clients with foreign cars,” Alfred replied with a chipper grin. However, a thrill of excitement went through him. Imported? Well, that was promising. What could it be? Ascari? Aston Martin? Even Lotus? It had to be a devastatingly gorgeous car to bring it all the way here. He couldn’t help a hastened clip to his step, barely able to keep himself from bobbing on his heels as Kirkland showed him the garage code.
Then the large wooden doors swung open.
The briefcase hit the gravel and Alfred’s jaw dropped down with it.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
“Alfred?”
It was a thing of absolute beauty. Those sleek curves, dressed in pristine white and gold. The winged ornament pressing forward into the breach, the Spirit of Ecstasy.
“Alfred Jones.”
Every detail was flawless, from the chrome grill to the antique headlamps, to the emblematic RR rims. He could see that the interior was rich with full grain leather seats and-
“Mr. Jones, are you quite alright?”
Finally snapping out of it, Alfred looked dazedly over at his client. “You... Rolls Royce,” he wheezed, before he coughed and regained a bit of his voice. “I... Your Rolls Royce is... stunning.” That was an understatement. He had dreams about this car. He had fucking wet dreams about this car. It was THE car. The 1955 Rolls Royce Silver Wraith. It was beauty incarnate. He never thought he’d ever have a chance to see one in person, much less drive one. Fuck, he could feel his whole body growing flushed, threatening to perspire underneath his sleek black suit.
Mr. Kirkland didn't seem to notice. In fact, he beamed softly at the compliment. "Why thank you. I am quite proud of it." As well, he should be, because fuck it was a beautiful car. "I trust you'll take good care of it," he said as he pulled out the keys and held them out to Alfred.
Alfred took them reverently, his hand actually trembling with excitement and trepidation. Shit, he had no idea what he was going to do when he got in that car. Oh, it was going to be good, obviously. But it could also be really, really bad.
Picking up Mr. Kirkland's briefcase, Alfred gently unlocked the car. It opened with a small well-oiled chhk that seemed to reverberate right to his soul. He opened up the door for his client and slid the briefcase in next to him. His fingers slid over the cool white metal, tracing along the lines like a lover as he strode over to the driver's side.
He slid inside, smelling the oiled leather and the varnished wood like a heady perfume. He ran his hands over the leather steering wheel, mentally adjusting to the right side of the car. He adjusted the mirrors, catching sight of Kirkland's cool green eyes watching him from the back seat. It was like a sobering splash of acid, keeping him from getting too excited.
Even so, when he turned the ignition and felt the old beauty come to life, purring like a tiger, he thought he might cum right then.
"Enjoying yourself?" Mr. Kirkland asked wryly, his eyes glinting with amusement.
Oh yes, but the Brit didn't need to know how much.
"Any stops on the way?" Alfred asked as he pulled out of the garage. If the Brit said anything about going for a coffee Alfred was going to hijack the car right then and there. However, the man merely shook his head and turned to his newspaper. Not that he was fooling anyone with the way he kept glancing up in Alfred's direction. He didn't mind so much, so long as it stayed below sexual harassment levels. He was more focused on the sheer smoothness of the ride, ready to melt into his seat at how divine it felt to drift through Beverly Hills and Los Angeles proper as though he were on a magic carpet ride.
Soon enough, they arrived at the sleek corporate office where Kirkland worked. Alfred grabbed his briefcase, holding the door open for the Brit to exit. "Thank you," Mr. Kirkland said primly, taking his things. "I won't be needing you until around four o'clock. Here is my number if you need to call me," he added, casually slipping Alfred his business card with his cell phone number hastily scrawled on the back.
Smooth. Alfred smiled and nodded, "Have a good day, Mr. Kirkland."
"You as well, Alfred," the Brit said, slightly clumsy on Alfred's name. That was alright, he didn't seem like a first name basis kind of guy. The Brit quickly spun and headed towards his office, leaving Alfred alone. With the Rolls.
Alfred glanced over to it and shook out the sudden tremble in his hands as he casually slipped back in. No need to make himself look like he was jacking the thing - even though that's exactly what it felt like. Now he had him, it was definitely a him, for hours. His palms began to sweat, wondering how soon he could get the Rolls in private.
No, no. Too soon. He had to be respectful. Show him a good time. Know him... intimately.
Then he'd get nasty with him.
~o~
When Mr. Kirkland got out in the afternoon, Alfred was ready and waiting as usual. They had developed a nice routine over the past couple of months, though Mr. Kirkland didn't seem all that interested in anything other being shuffled to and from his office. And Alfred. Oh boy was he interested in Alfred.
Not that he'd ever act on it. He was too reserved and British for that, which suited Alfred just fine.
"How was your day, Mr. Kirkland?" Alfred asked, bright and chipper.
"Quite good, thank you," the Brit replied, sliding in close to Alfred to slip into the door. Only he paused and sniffed.
Oh shit.
Mr. Kirkland's cheeks flushed, recognizing the musk of after-sex. He stayed just a touch too long, soaking it in, before he hastily escaped into the car.
Only it was worse in the Rolls. Alfred just prayed his patron would think it was because he was in an enclosed space with Alfred. Perhaps he did, as he only grew more flustered than angry, wriggling uncomfortably in his gorgeous leather seat. He seemed incapable of settling into his normal routine of reviewing his work files, his briefcase untouched at his hip. The Brit tugged nervously at his collar, trying to release some heat as Alfred started the Rolls.
“Ah, um, so...” Mr. Kirkland started, making some awkward attempt at small talk as means of distraction. “H-how did you get into this line of work?” He seemed so much younger than forty then. Was he forty? Alfred just assumed he was. Mr. Kirkland seemed to fluctuate between thirty and fifty sometimes. It was hard to pin down his age. “W-were you an actor?”
Alfred let out a bark of laughter. Really, why was that always the first thing people guessed? “No, I’m not a failed actor. I came out this way for school and sort of just stuck around. I guess the place suits me.”
“School? What did you study?” the Brit asked, finally seeming to get used to the smell. Or the idea that his crush had just recently had sex.
“Mechanical engineering at UCSD,” Alfred replied simply.
Mr. Kirkland immediately spluttered, as the driver expected. “Y-you, what?! What on- Why are you a chauffeur for hire?” he demanded abruptly, before he seemed to remember himself. “Ah- I mean- You don’t need to answer. It’s just... highly unusual.”
“It’s not a problem. I get the question all the time,” Alfred replied. Second only to the actor question, which was the more annoying one. “I just... really enjoy my job. That’s all. I enjoy driving you folks around.”
“Oh...” Mr. Kirkland said. After a pause, he asked, “Do you? Enjoy driving me around?”
“Oh yes,” Alfred smiled, his thumb gently caressing the head of the stick shift.
That seemed to appease the Brit and he kept quiet for the rest of the journey. When they arrived back at the chateau, Mr. Kirkland did not immediately go back inside. Instead he lingered by the door, tugging on his cuffs in nervous habit. “Something you need, Mr. Kirkland?” Alfred asked politely, even though he was anxious to get the car back in the garage to give him a rub down.
“Ah, well, Alfred... Mr. Jones, I was just thinking... You’ve been my driver for the past few weeks and have proven yourself reliable and capable and I... quite enjoy your company...” the Brit started, making Alfred’s stomach pool with dread. Oh crap, was he about to ask him on a date? Could he somehow say no without offending his boss? And possibly lose his Rolls Royce in the process?
Thankfully, Mr. Kirkland didn’t go that route, “I was wondering if you would be interested in becoming my full-time chauffeur. After my contractual obligation to your agency ends, I’d like to sign you on. If you’re willing.”
Alfred blinked. Full-time? As in permanent? As in, he had to remain monogamous to one car and one car only? Then again, it was THE car. With so much access...
Taking the driver’s silence as sliding towards the negative, Mr. Kirkland began to babble nervously. “Ah, I did not mean to sound so forward. I- you don’t need to worry about saying no. I’ll happily have you the rest of the- Ah, I mean, not have you, but- Oh bollucks, I’m mucking this all up. I just mean that- you’d have a more substantial salary if you didn’t have to pay a percentage to your agency. A-and you’d have the option of living here, with me. Ah! That- you don’t have to see me outside of work. If you don’t want to. It’s an enormous house, plenty of room. But it’s free room and board and I just thought at it might be more convenient- what with-”
Alfred couldn’t help but crack a smile, watching Mr. Kirkland just get more and more flustered. Funny, the man didn’t seem to be any older than 23 when he was like this. “Okay,” he chirped, deciding he was ready for some commitment.
“-and I-” Mr. Kirkland paused. “Oh? Oh, really?” he said, as if dumbstruck that Alfred had accepted.
“Can I start living here now?” Alfred asked, as the Brit stared at him.
“Oh! Oh, yes, of course,” Mr. Kirkland replied, his neck and cheeks heating up. “I suppose there isn’t any harm in that. I’ll have my lawyers draw up a contract. We’ll call this year your probationary period and I’ll be ready to have you- move you in two weeks. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough,” Alfred smiled, taking Mr. Kirkland’s hand and shaking it. “It will be a pleasure working for you.”
“Oh no, the pleasure’s all mine,” his new employer replied, scarcely noticing the way the driver glanced at the Rolls out of the corner of his eye.
~o~
It was early one Saturday morning, late in summer, when Arthur strolled by the second floor corridor looking out over the courtyard. He yawned widely, still nursing a cup of strong black tea, as he mentally filed through his to-do list for the day. Some movement caught the corner of his eye and he turned to look out the window to the bright gravel courtyard.
...Oh my.
His gorgeous fit young driver decided it was car washing day. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with casually watching. After all, Alfred was just doing it right out there in the open.
Yet Arthur felt like stalker as he shielded most of his body behind the window, guiltily spying on his employee. Alfred all but glowed in the sunlight, his golden hair shining bright as his tanned adonis skin sparkled with beads of water. And oh but he was fit. It was only all the more obvious as he wore only a thin white vest, showing off his toned arms and shoulders. The cotton was soaked through, clinging to his abs like a second skin.
A sharp, delicious heat spread down his back as he watched Alfred stretch out over the white and gold bonnet of the Rolls with a soapy sponge, giving Arthur a prime view of that tight-
“Mr. Kirkland.”
“Sweet, buggering fuck-!” Arthur cried out, dropping to the floor like a cannonball and out of sight. His heart pounding out of his chest, he looked up and found his butler’s stony face looking back down at him. “Roderich! Bloody hell! Make some noise when you’re sneaking up on me!”
“Apologies,” the butler replied, sounding not at all apologetic. He glanced out the window down into the courtyard. “Ah, Mr. Jones is vashing the car again, I see.”
“Is that so unusual?” Arthur asked as he picked himself back up to his feet as gracefully as he could manage. “It’s part of his duties.”
“Mr. Jones vashes the car everyday,” Roderich noted primly.
“Well, I suppose that means he’s diligent,” Arthur argued back.
“Vithout fail.”
“...Very diligent,” the Brit frowned. “Roderich, what exactly are you getting at?”
The butler didn’t answer. Not directly. “I’ve noticed some nights that Mr. Jones does not sleep in his own bed.”
The words made Arthur’s insides churn with an ugly tendril of jealousy. After all, Alfred wasn’t sleeping in his bed. “Is that a problem?” he asked, ready to defend his chauffeur regardless. “I don’t believe it’s in his contract that he is required to sleep here every night. And well... he’s just a lad. I’m sure he must have interests elsewhere...” Some movie starlet no doubt. Someone young and beautiful and female.
Roderich shook his head, as if dismissing his master’s inner thoughts. “On those nights, I have noticed that the lights in the garage are alvays on.”
Arthur blinked. Well, that was unusual.
“There is something very strange about that boy,” Roderich noted lightly. Without another word, he headed back down the corridor, leaving Arthur to his thoughts.
After that, Arthur kept a closer eye on his young employee. He took up residence behind a certain nook that was partially shielded by a thick curtain with a perfect view of the young chauffeur’s door. After four nights of complete inactivity, he felt a little bit ridiculous spying on Alfred like this and wondered if Roderich was just having his leg. However, on the fifth night, he was rewarded when he saw Alfred leave his room at eleven o’clock at night. He waited in the dark until it was clear, before pushing himself up off the floor as his body creaked from being stuck in one position for too long.
Don’t follow him off the grounds. Don’t follow him off the grounds, Arthur reminded himself, heading to the corridor that overlooked the courtyard. He peeked out over the gravel shining brightly in the moonlight and found Alfred quickly darting out like a fox. However, instead of going to the gate, he went straight to the garage as Roderich had intimated. Bizarre.
His curiosity burning, Arthur headed down to the main floor and out into the courtyard. Treading as softly as he could over to the back of the garage. His bare feet found some purchase in the old stone, lifting him up to the slim window looking into the brightly lit bay. He peered in, looking for signs of the lad. Then, he saw movement and the glow of perspiration on naked limbs.
Arthur’s jaw dropped, his green eyes widening as he looked upon the scene. He craned himself further up, trying to find some evidence of another partner, another person, not-
Suddenly, his footing gave way and he let out a sharp cry as he tumbled down to the ground.
Groaning, he rubbed his bruised shoulder, giving himself only a minute before he took off. Arthur ran back to the house as quickly as he could before Alfred could spot him. He didn’t stop running until he made it back to his room, door slammed behind his back. Panting harshly, the Brit slid down to the floor, his spinning head still trying to process just what he’d seen.
Alright. Clearly, Alfred Jones was not lying when he said that he loved his car. Arthur had just never expected it to go that far. All this time, had Alfred just been using him for his Rolls Royce?
Well, obviously.
The Brit’s face only coloured more as the vivid scene played itself out at the back of his mind. It was- It was positively obscene. The very height of debauchery. His poor car was absolutely filthy now.
It was... Arthur swallowed heavily, feeling his skin prickle with the burn of arousal.
It was fucking hot.
~o~
Alfred was more than a little terrified when Mr. Kirkland called for him the next day. Someone had obviously caught him doing the nasty and had run off to tell their boss what he was up to late at night. Alfred bet it was Roderich, that nosy European douchebag.
Dread weighed down his feet like lead, as he imagined getting fired - not just from here - but completely barred from his old agency as well. Nobody was going to let him anywhere near their cars ever again. Not even with his mechanical engineering degree. He was doomed.
Swallowing heavily as he spotted Mr. Kirkland in the foyer, he pulled on the best smile that he could managed and pulled off his cap. “Good morning, Mr. Kirkland. You wanted to see me?” he asked, looking stunning in his black uniform. After all, he was about to get buried in it. Might as well look amazing on the way out.
Hands folded sternly behind his back, Mr. Kirkland nonetheless gave him an appreciative look. Not disgusted, which was a good sign. Maybe nobody had told him? “I think we can dispense with the last names at this point,” the Brit said. “Call me Arthur.”
Alfred immediately flushed. Arthur. Of all the names, that was Mr. Kirkland’s first name?
“Problem?” the Brit asked, his tone slightly accusing.
“Ah, no. No, A-Arthur,” Alfred replied stumbling clumsily over the name. “It’s just that...” No, he was not about to tell the man he called his Rolls Arthur. “Well, I think it’s funny, that’s all. One of my favorite movies is called Arthur. Y’know, the 1981 version.”
“Dudley Moore?” Mr. Kirkland - Arthur - asked lightly. “As I recall, that film rather prominently features a Rolls Royce Silver Wraith, doesn’t it?”
.....Shiiiiit.
As a full on panic attack began to set in, Mr. Kirkland waved him towards the front door. “Come, I want you to drive me somewhere.”
“W-where’s that, Mr.- Arthur?” Alfred asked. His grave probably.
At that, the Brit gave him a strange, mysterious smirk. “Mulholland Drive.”
Confused, Alfred just nodded and headed out to get the Rolls. Mulholland Drive? In the middle of the day? Well, it wouldn’t be all that busy on a weekday, but the views from the overlooks were pretty lame at this time of day. However, he didn’t dare argue as he drove the car up to pick up Mr. Kirkland.
The Brit gave his Rolls a very peculiar look before he got in, solidifying the knowledge that he must know about Alfred’s habit. However, he didn’t say anything as he slipped inside and let Alfred close the car door for him.
It didn’t take long at all to slip onto the winding mountain road of Mulholland, the drive nearly on top of Beverly Hills. Alfred took the drive with practiced ease, forgetting momentarily about his troubles. LA sprawled out below them the further up they got, flat and unimpressive in the daylight, though Alfred didn’t pay much attention to that. It was just a joy to drive it in this car, windows rolled down, gliding smoothly up the mountain path as the summer wind blew over them.
Suddenly, Mr. Kirkland called out. “Stop here.” It was one of the many overlooks on the drive and this one was particularly empty for some reason. It made Alfred suddenly nervous. What exactly was the Brit going to do? Throw him off a cliff? The driver obeyed, pulling up into the parking lot and shutting off the car.
“It’s much nicer up here at night,” Alfred tittered nervously. “I could bring you up here anytime, you’d probably like it better-”
“Shush,” the Brit ordered, effectively muting his driver. Without a word, he got out of the backseat of the car and rounded over to the driver’s seat. He opened the door, looking down at Alfred a predatory gleam to his eye.
Alfred swallowed heavily. “Boss?”
“Hush,” Mr. Kirkland insisted again, pressing a finger to Alfred’s lips. Next thing Alfred knew, the Brit was on top of him, straddling him down to the driver’s seat. He couldn’t speak even if he wanted to, Kirkland’s lips were devouring his. The man’s hands were all over him, hard and covetous. And he smelled- oh, he smelled of wood polish and oil of leather and grease.
“Bo- Mr.- Arthur,” Alfred gasped, “What are you-?”
“I do believe I am about to have a threesome with you and my car,” the Brit said lightly, tugging off his and Alfred’s clothes. “Problem?”
“N-no,” Alfred gasped, unable to believe that this was happening.
Then Arthur purred in that voice that reminded Alfred of Alfa Romeos and Aston Martins. “Good.”
~o~
Many, many turns later, the pair of them basked underneath a blanket in the backseat of the Rolls, limbs and skin cooling from their exertions. “Holy crap, I’m not going to be able to sit right for a week,” Alfred groused.
“And I’m not going to be able to get in my car again without getting extremely horny, so thank you for that,” Arthur mumbled back, his arm slung over Alfred’s toned abs.
“You’re welcome,” the chauffeur chirped, quite pleased with this fact.
Eventually, the Brit tapped Alfred on the stomach. “We should get going before the fuzz catch us,” he said, pushing himself up off the taller man. “Take us home and perhaps we can continue this later.” Nodding, Alfred got up and they both got dressed back in their rumpled clothes, looking semi-decent although the car was still heavily perfumed with their activity.
As Alfred got back into the front seat and started the car, Arthur called out from the backseat. “By the way,” he said, drawing Alfred’s eyes up to the rearview mirror where they met sly and devilish green. “I was thinking of acquiring another vehicle. Do you have any suggestions?”
Alfred let out a wheeze.