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"Oh, come on, they're limited edition. I had to have one.” Peter shrugs, unbothered. “Well, two."
"Where’s the Camaro?"
"I gave it to Cora. Black no longer fits my aesthetic."
"Your aes—" Stiles scrubs a hand over his face. "Jesus, suffering Christ, Peter, you can’t just buy a new car—"
"Cars."
"—every time you get bored with the color!"
"Of course I can. That’s what rich people do."
Stiles curses under his breath, rubbing his temples to massage the evolving headache. "Our garage isn't big enough to cope with your mid-life crisis."
Peter laughs, immune to Stiles's jibe. "They can stay on the drive."
Stiles huffs as Peter's arms snake around his waist, tugging him against his chest. Despite himself, Stiles sags into the warmth, the fight gradually leaving him. "Why do you need two cars?"
Peter hooks his chin over Stiles’s shoulder, his stubble grazing the side of his neck, making him shiver. "They're not both mine, my cherub, but I call dibs on the red."
"Don’t even joke."
"I'm not. I love you, and I want to spoil you," Peter admits. "And now we'll be driving around in matching style."
Stiles scoffs. "Roscoe's stylish."
"Sweetheart, the Titanic has fewer dents than that Jeep."
"Don't insult her deformities. She’ll get a complex."
Peter snorts but otherwise stays silent. Stiles takes a moment to study the Cobras lining their driveway, and yeah, they're pretty sexy. Pretentious as hell, but the raw power he imagines those sleek frames conceal sends a thrill rushing through his veins.
Shit.
"Just look at that shade of blue, baby. She was made for you," Peter coaxes, clearly sensing Stiles's internal battle. "She's overwhelmingly fast. One-thousand horsepower, to be exact." The wolf's lips caress Stiles’s ear, his voice dropping to a seductive rasp. "And she doesn’t grind in second."
Stiles releases a shaky breath, the final shred of his resolve now mingling with the wind. Damn his husband and his ability to make him fold like a cheap lawn chair.
Damn him to hell.
"Where’s the keys?"
Peter’s grin tickles Stiles's skin, and the keys are dangling in front of his face a second later. "All yours."
Stiles growls, snatching them from the wolf’s grasp. He ignores the infuriating chuckle as he storms towards the driver's side. "I'll take her for a spin, but that doesn’t mean I accept her."
"Uh-huh."
Stiles points at Peter once he's finished melting into the seat. "And this does not mean I'm not still mad at you for not consulting me."
Peter's smirk widens. "Don't worry, I'll fuck you until you forgive me later."
Stiles curls his fingers around the soft leather wheel, his chides losing heat. "You really need to tone down your impulsiveness."
"Whatever you say."
"You're such an asshole."
The bastard winks, radiating self-satisfaction. "But you love me."
Stiles starts her up, a groan ripping from his throat as the low, rumbling purr of the engine vibrates deep within him. "Fuck, yeah, I do."