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Summary
Colt didn’t realize that having Driver meant learning to share with a fucking car, but here they are.
Grease smeared across the long, lean stretch of Driver’s torso, marring the pale skin into a Rorschach. The back bench of the Malibu was thick with the scent of engine oil and polish and sex. The engine thrummed, the smooth purr of it reverberating throughout his entire body. Sprawled out in the backseat, he feels it everywhere, head to toe. The only thing Driver can focus on is the thrum beneath the back cabin seats, the slick clinging to his thighs, the lingering taste of the Malibu on his tongue.
“Uhm… am I interrupting?” Colt says, lip twitching with the beginnings of a smirk.