Shadow of the Templar: What Happens In Vegas

On timeline: post-High Fidelity
Spoilers for: the overall resolution of the novels, and for Escort Services, oddly enough
Warnings: wholly self-indulgent, sleazy, also porny

I wrote the first bit in response to a prompt in the story-prompts thing and promptly faded to black again. When I got called on it... I fixed it.



      Las Vegas was every bit as gaudy as Simon had imagined. It was gaudy from the air. Also, there were slot machines right there in the airport, which managed to exceed Simon's somewhat-limited powers of imagination. After an initial 'huh', however, he found that he wasn't surprised at all.

      What surprised him was the reception he got at the baggage claim. "Whoa," he said, rocking to a halt. "So. Okay. Who are you, and what have you done with Archer?"

      Jeremy only huffed out a breath, touching his collar. He was wearing a nice, almost normal white button-down shirt (which had probably cost more than Simon's entire wardrobe) and an equally nice, equally normal pair of loose pants in a color which Simon would dismiss as 'tan' (or possibly 'babyshit') but was probably 'wheat', 'beige', 'buff', 'dead camellia', or something else dramatically overnamed. Only the pair of shades currently threaded into the shirt's collar looked anywhere near familiar. "I may like black, Simon, but I draw the line at wearing it in an actual desert."

      "Seriously, you look..." Simon groped for the appropriate words. "... like a guy."

      "A guy," Jeremy repeated.

      "You know. A regular dude. Well, almost. A regular dude would probably be wearing jeans."

      Jeremy mimed a little shudder. "It's almost thirty-nine degrees out there, Simon. You could not pay me enough to wear denim."

      "Christ, I sure couldn't. I know exactly how expensive you are."

      "Quite." Jeremy pulled out his sunglasses and put them on, revealing a tiny 'v' of deep red t-shirt just barely showing behind his unbuttoned collar. "Shall we go, or did you have a checked bag?"

      "No, just this," said Simon, hefting his duffel.

      With a faint, acknowledging smile Jeremy turned on his heel. He led Simon through the surging crowds of tourists, heading for a smallish 'private' exit tucked away to one side. The heat from outside punched Simon in the face while he was still three feet from the door; once he actually got out onto the pavement, the heat followed through with a sledgehammer to the top of his head. Simon exploded in sweat on the instant; his sodden jeans sucked onto him in multiple places and began to bite down. He gritted his teeth and tried not to walk too funny.

      They were in the shade, at least. A long, covered drive separated their terminal from another building and gave the rich people a sheltered spot to transfer into their vehicles. There were expensive-looking cars parked along one side of the drive and limousines of several kinds idling by the door; Simon caught up to Jeremy as he skirted a tacky white stretch limo. "So what are you driving this time?"

      "Oh, I'm not," Jeremy said. "I have a car, but my hotel offers a limousine service, and, well." He smiled down at his feet. "I thought perhaps you might like it."

      Simon blinked, then cracked up. "Aw, you remembered," he said. "Pity it's too hot for more than a quick handjob—Christ. Is that a Rolls?"

      "That it is," Jeremy said, signaling to the driver. The driver touched his cap and hurried forward to take Simon's bag. Once the driver had trotted off to put the duffel in the trunk, Jeremy looked back at Simon, his expression rendered opaque by his sunglasses. "I couldn't pass up the opportunity."

      "God damn, I'm gonna be a Texas oilman," Simon said gleefully. "Seriously, Archer, you take me to the best cars."

      One eyebrow rose quizzically from behind Jeremy's shades, but in the end, he decided not to ask. "You're welcome," he said instead.

      "Yeah, yeah, thank you and all that," said Simon. The driver reappeared around the side of the car and opened the door, and Simon slid right into the air-conditioned interior with a groan of relief. The Rolls-Royce managed to be astonishing in a completely different way from most of the astonishing cars that tended to surround Jeremy: what wasn't made of leather was made from burled wood and chrome, and the back seat was a deep, lush sofa that folded itself around Simon and swallowed him entirely. He barely noticed when the other door opened and Jeremy slid in beside him, settling neatly into his own corner of the back seat. The driver got in and put the car in gear, and Simon went limp as it purred off. "Damn," he said, under his breath.

      "Mm," said Jeremy, leaning forward to turn the crank on the seat in front of him. A glass partition rose, separating them from the driver. "There we are," Jeremy said, settling back. "I suppose we could have that sleazy and degrading sex now, but... it's just so bright out."

      "Yeah, it's a mood killer," Simon agreed, his head spinning a little. "We'll take this thing out tonight, what do you say? Give the driver fifty bucks to go buy himself a really long cup of coffee."

      The ghostly reflection of Jeremy in the window smiled, just a bit. "I'm certain something could be arranged," he said. "Of course, I'm equally certain we're not the first people to have that idea."

      "I don't care," Simon declared. Jeremy's hand fell lightly onto his thigh; Simon jumped a little, then hissed out a breath and settled just an inch or so. "When am I ever going to have the chance to have sex in a Rolls again?"

      Jeremy's fingernail ran up along the zipper of Simon's jeans with a sound like sizzling. "Oh, I don't know," Jeremy said. "These things do tend to happen, after all."


      Simon was weirded out and blissed out in equal measure by three o'clock that morning. True to form Jeremy had managed to find a hotel in Vegas that was so discreet and so elegant that it didn't actually bother with a sign on the outside of the building, which might attract the wrong element (people who didn't already know it was there). The casino that occupied its first floor was all restrained high-class glitter and strictly formal attire, without a single slot machine in sight. Simon had been torn. On the one hand, here was a prime opportunity to live out all his favorite James Bond fantasies; on the other, Jeremy hadn't told him to bring his tuxedo, so he hadn't, not that he would have in any case. He had remained torn (and a little grumpy) for almost fifteen minutes—then he'd opened the closet to put away his empty duffel and found a new tuxedo already hanging there, waiting for him. He'd been forced to call Jeremy's own suite and call Jeremy a couple of choice names in thanks.

      They'd spent the rest of the evening down in that astonishing casino. Jeremy had spent the entire time lounging at one of the baccarat tables, losing an ungodly amount of money with suspiciously-dimwitted good cheer; Simon had taken advantage of his miraculously large account with the house to win a little at blackjack, then lose a lot at the roulette wheel, then unwind at the bar with a martini—partially because his Bond fantasies required it of him, and partially because he'd just lost the equivalent of three months' salary on one spin of the wheel and he really needed to drink away that memory. Unwinding at the bar with a martini had been so sweet that Simon had unwound himself all over again. Now, though, riding the crest of a decent little buzz, all he wanted was to get out of this penguin suit, have a shower, maybe see if he could figure out which of these suites was Jeremy's—he'd just pulled his tie loose and popped the topmost stud from his shirt collar when the door to his suite clicked quietly open. "There you are," Simon said. "Lost enough at baccarat for the night, Mr. Bond?"

      "For the night, Mr. Leiter," said Jeremy, letting the door whisper closed behind him.

      Simon shut his eyes. "Oh, Christ," he said. "Say that again."

      "For the night, Mr. Leiter," Jeremy repeated in faint, amused reproof. Even though it was ungodly o'clock in the morning he was still wearing his tuxedo, his bowtie undone and hanging around his neck like a scarf; he also had a fairly large bottle of champagne and two glasses caught negligently in one hand, which pretty much completed the 007 picture. Glancing at the door, he took a couple of quick steps forward and caught Simon's sleeve. "Come with me," Jeremy breathed, his voice alive with connivance as he urged Simon towards the door.

      Simon automatically resisted the pull. "At least let me get out of my tux first—"

      "Come on," Jeremy said, taking half a step back. Simon took the matching half-step forward, mostly but not entirely willing; Jeremy rolled his eyes, mostly but not entirely fondly, and held up his hand to display his burden. The champagne looked like an expensive vintage, and the glasses had to be crystal, but it was the last item that riveted Simon's attention: a small and ordinary keyring dangled from Jeremy's littlest finger, two longish keys and a battered old leather keyfob with a headily-familiar 'RR' stamped on its steel plate—

      A healthy fear shot up Simon's spine to freeze his brain even as a healthy something-else-entirely shot down his spine the other way. Twisting in Jeremy's grip he grabbed Jeremy's wrist, reaching for the keys with his other hand. "Jesus, did you steal those?" he hissed. It was his turn to glance at the door, like the casino Gestapo might burst in at any moment.

      Jeremy pulled his hand back out of Simon's reach, making the keys ring softly against the bottle's sweating side. "In point of fact, no," he said, eyes glinting. "I hired the limousine for the next three hours—"

      "I'm pretty sure they don't just let you drive it yourself," Simon interjected. They were huddled together against the wall, heads ducked down, whispering sidelong into each other's ears. "No matter how much money you lose at baccarat."

      "—and then paid the chauffeur very well to lend me the keys and lay low," Jeremy went on, as if Simon hadn't said anything. His conspiratorial laugh was warm against the side of Simon's face. "It would behoove us to go... quietly, but... need I point out that you promised?"

      "I didn't promise. I offered." Simon glanced over Jeremy's shoulder, as if someone might somehow be there to overhear them. "Christ, if we're caught, I am going to be in a world of shit—"

      Jeremy tilted his head to one side. "Really? Are you, Mr. Darcy?"

      Simon pulled up short. "Oh, Jesus, that's—did Ethan do that on purpose?"

      "It would suit his sense of humor. So... you're rescinding your offer, then?" It wasn't a question. It was a challenge, naked and unadorned. Jeremy's twisted little smile was downright wicked. "Now that is a pity."

      Simon shut his eyes and fought with himself, a fight that he wanted to lose with all his heart and groin. Eventually, he did. "If we get caught, I'll kill you," he promised, straightening up.

      "Just follow my lead," Jeremy breathed, one eye dropping closed in a swift wink.


      The trip lost all touch with reality before they even got out of Simon's suite. The carpet was so lush that even Simon's hurrying footsteps were silent, which made Jeremy into some kind of tuxedo-clad ghost; they half-walked, half-ran down the hallway, Jeremy clutching Simon's sleeve, leading him away from the elevators. Deep in the throes of his Bond fantasies again, Simon only hissed urgently in warning when Jeremy reached for the fire door with its CAUTION—ALARM WILL SOUND notice. Jeremy glanced back at him, gave him an arch little smile, and hit the bar, revealing a marked lack of alarms and a relatively plain concrete stairwell.

      Now their footsteps echoed, as they hurtled headlong down the stairs, but they were so hidden away that it didn't seem to matter—Simon's awareness seemed to expand to take in the entire stairwell. He half-expected faceless minions to burst in at any moment. His heart sped. He caught himself wishing he were carrying, which would have been stupid on every possible level, if appropriately Bond-ish.

      They burst out of the emergency stairs at ground level. Simon found himself in a plain back hallway, obviously for the use of the hotel staff. At the far end there was an exit to the outside, but Jeremy led him the other way, to a door marked GARAGE—PRIVATE. A thin piece of plastic fell free as Jeremy pushed the door open; Jeremy kicked it into the new stairwell and left it there. The door closed behind them with the flat click of a lock engaging, but Simon barely had time to notice before Jeremy was hustling him on down the stairs, his grip on Simon's sleeve both a come-on and a come-along.

      Two stories down and they came to an abrupt halt outside another door. "Shh," Jeremy breathed, taking a single deep breath, which prompted Simon to do the same. Jeremy studied the view through the door's narrow window for a long moment, then hit the bar and let them out.

      The dim garage that Simon found himself in was very small and very private. The dozen spaces ranked along the walls were all marked with people's names—probably the casino's higher-ups, all currently at home asleep. Most of the spaces were empty. There were two nice cars still parked along the wall, and at the far end of the garage, in a special double-sized space—

      Jeremy drew Simon towards the Rolls at a swift lope, glancing warily back and forth out of what Simon hoped was only habit. Towards the end he dropped Simon's sleeve, darting forward to pull open one of the Rolls' back doors—Simon threw himself into the back seat, breathing hard, and scooted all the way over. Jeremy threw himself in after Simon (somehow preserving both the bottle and the glasses) and yanked the door shut behind himself.

      Silence fell, the echoes of the door's slamming dying away. Simon hunkered down a little and turned to peer out of the car's back window, half-expecting to see security burst through the stairwell door. Abruptly he realized that he was still panting. He tried to stifle it. "Jesus," he muttered, not sure why, just needing to say it. "So... what, we're just going to sit here in the garage?"

      "I'd hate to risk damaging such a lovely vintage car," Jeremy said, his eyes gleaming. "And besides, isn't it sleazier this way?"

      "You know, when I said sleazy and degrading, they weren't exactly demands. More like—" Simon groped for the word "—options."

      "Options noted, then." Jeremy put the two champagne glasses on the narrow shelf that projected from the back of the front seat, then rolled down his window. "Just in case," he said. He aimed the neck of the champagne bottle out the window and worked at its cork with his thumb.

      Simon braced himself for a loud pop and the hiss of champagne fizzing over—particularly after that exhilarating dead run, which probably could have carbonated normal wine, to say nothing of what it might do to the sparkling variety. The pop he got was of the sheepish, understated variety, however, and after a moment Jeremy set the cork upright on the shelf and picked up the glasses instead.

      The champagne on top of his slight two-martini buzz nearly took the top of Simon's head straight off. It must have been good, because it felt like a celebration going down. Jeremy settled back in his half of the lush back seat and raised his glass. His little smile was faint. "Cheers," he said.

      "Whoops," Simon said, raising his own, still half-full. With an effort, he relaxed. Most of the way, anyway. He was still half-expecting to get caught any minute now, but the nervous certainty eased a little with every passing second. It freed him to notice other things—"Christ, this car," he said under his breath.

      "Lovely, isn't it," Jeremy said, touching appreciative fingers to the burled wood of the shelf. A little flash of evil humor passed over his face. "And so spacious."

      "Spacious," Simon agreed. He was still a little worked up from the trip and a little distracted by his continuing certainty that security would be along shortly, but he was also starting to remember why they'd come—

      "If they were going to catch us, they'd have done so by now," Jeremy said, as if he could read Simon's mind. He glanced out the back window. "Still, there's no hurry, is there? If this is to be properly sleazy and degrading, I'd say we both need to be at least a little drunk."

      Rolling his champagne glass in his fingers, Simon looked around, at the darkened interior of the Rolls, at Jeremy's slightly-rumpled tuxedo, at his own—"I can see why you thought champagne was appropriate," he said.

      "And it is a celebration of sorts, isn't it?" Jeremy's glass tipped one way, then the other, then rose as he took a sip. "Happy belated birthday, and all that."

      Simon snorted. "Okay, first of all, my birthday was like three weeks ago, and second of all, you cannot even tell me that that's the only reason we're here."

      "Well, no." Jeremy quirked an eyebrow at him. "I thought we both knew that we were ultimately here for something else entirely—"

      "Not here," Simon said, flicking his fingers at the front seat of the Rolls. "Here. In Vegas. You wouldn't be in a place like Las Vegas just because it's my birthday."

      Jeremy smiled. "On that point, you're absolutely correct, although it did seem like a lovely opportunity to... celebrate."

      "So... why are you here?" Simon remembered his champagne and drained it, nearly taking off his nose this time as the bubbles tried to escape. "Better not be working. You and I had a deal." He scrubbed at his nose, noting in passing the faint hot flush in his cheeks.

      "I assure you, Simon, I am not breaking the law in any significant way." Jeremy lifted his own glass to the light, scrutinized it, then emptied it. "Preparing to break the laws of another country, yes. And I am in the country under a false name, as I'm sure you're aware—"

      "—that, I'll cope with—"

      "—but my only purpose in being here is to lose a tremendous amount of money at baccarat at this very particular private casino," Jeremy said. His empty glass dangled forgotten from his fingers, catching what little light there was. "In a few weeks, I'll go to Monte Carlo and do the same at an equally exclusive casino there. And by then, with any luck, a certain fellow will have taken notice and will invite me to his villa for his private game, intending to fleece me, and, well." Jeremy left off there with a shrug and a truly nasty little angelic smile.

      "So... I don't need to care," Simon concluded, holding out his empty glass. "Hit me."

      Jeremy smiled and plucked the bottle from the floor of the Rolls.


      The mostly-empty bottle was rolling around on its side on the floor, dripping onto the expensive floorboards. The glasses were probably down there too, not that Simon was keeping track, crushed as he was down in the corner of the Rolls' luxurious leather back seat with Jeremy all heavy on top of him; they were both buzzed off their asses, tingling and blissful, and the open-mouthed kissing was wet and sloppy and half-frantic, half-lazy, broken occasionally by a low snerk of wobbly laughter from one of them or the other.

      One of Simon's shirt studs had popped right off, snagged by one of Jeremy's studs and pulled free during the initial squirming for position; they'd both grabbed for it and missed, ending up with their fingers tangled together while the stud bounced down Simon's stomach and lost itself under the seat. They'd both cracked up, and then Jeremy had taken Simon's hand and pinned it to the door. Simon's legs were stuffed awkwardly anywhere they'd fit, which left one foot jammed up against the door at an odd angle, which he'd probably care about later. His other hand was on Jeremy's ass, at least, just sort of idly groping around back there while Jeremy's mouth traveled wetly from Simon's ear to his cheek to his mouth and back.

      "So going to get caught," Simon wheezed, but he no longer really cared. He had a really sturdy sweet and fruity drunk on, not exactly blitzed but way more than just tipsy, and under the influence of all that champagne the idea of getting caught was purely exciting, like porn always promised it would be. He kept rearing up to glance at the stairwell door before the rolling weight of Jeremy crushed him right back down again. "So drunk, so going to get caught..."

      "Part of what makes it sleazy, Simon," Jeremy said, insinuating one thigh between both of Simon's.

      Simon groaned and dug his fingers into Jeremy's ass. "You sonofabitch, if you make me come in my tux—"

      "Don't," Jeremy breathed, pressing that leg down.

      "Rrrghbastard," Simon said, all in a breath, but he was too drunk, too excited, and too goddamned wedged in to do much of anything about it, so he shut his eyes and enjoyed it instead. Jeremy's mouth found his again, and Jeremy shifted in such a way that more of his weight landed on that intruding thigh, and then Jeremy was rocking against him with such verve that Simon could sort of hear the Rolls' shocks complaining, which was awesome. Beat the shit out of having uncomfortable drunk sex with some stranger in a tacky white stretch limo in Atlanta, beat it all to hell—Simon whacked the back of his head against the car door just to keep from coming too soon and ruining it all. Unfortunately, since he was seriously tipsy, what was supposed to be a whack turned into more of a thud. "Ow," Simon said, his eyes unfocusing.

      "Careful," Jeremy said, letting go of Simon's pinned hand and insinuating his fingers behind Simon's head. "And don't come—"

      Simon stuck his freed hand awkwardly between them, grabbing a handful of Jeremy's own still-clothed cock. "—better let up, then—"

      Jeremy laughed under his breath and shifted to rub against that hand instead, which did, at least, make him let up a little. "Don't," he mouthed against Simon's cheek, too softly to be heard. "Not yet."

      Simon only groaned in answer. Jeremy's cock was slithering back and forth along the channel of his hand with silky ease and there was still that thigh pressed hard against his own dick, and he was damned near dizzy with it—Jeremy shifted atop him again and kicked out, causing the champagne detritus on the floorboards to clink and clatter out of the way, and then Jeremy slid aaaaall the way down along Simon's body until he landed on the floorboards himself, half-kneeling, half-sitting. His fleeting smile was crooked and knowing and left Simon with no illusions about what was about to happen, not that he'd had many anyway.

      Jeremy's hands found Simon's cummerbund and pushed it up—"I got it," Simon said, grabbing his cummerbund and freeing Jeremy's hands to unzip his pants, and then there was the struggle to push himself up enough to pull his pants down enough to let Jeremy get at him, a struggle which Simon eventually won—Jeremy swallowed his cock damned near to the root a few seconds later and Simon's spine went to water, dropping his head back against the padded leather of the back seat. His breath burst out of him in an appreciative "Hah!" and he sank both hands into Jeremy's hair.

      No finesse about this, no delaying tactics, no teasing, none at all, just Jeremy's hand on the inside of his thigh and Jeremy's other hand around the base of his cock and Jeremy's mouth hot and wet and insistent on his dick, sucking at him with such vigor that it nearly lifted Simon from his seat with every pull, the speed and the need for secrecy and the champagne still bubbling in Jeremy's system combining to make it just as sleazy as Simon could have ever dreamed—Christ, but Simon needed it sloppy sometimes—the orgasm building in Simon's system was a steamroller already in motion, and then someone opened the stairwell door.

      Simon froze, his sudden panic like a jolt of lightning up his spine. "Oh fuck," he whispered, as someone crossed the parking lot—someone female, judging by the sharp pok-pok-pok of heels on pavement. "Oh fuck—" and he grabbed Jeremy's hair, trying to make Jeremy stop before they could get caught at this, not that they weren't about to get caught anyway, but they could at least get caught without Jeremy's mouth actually on his dick—Jeremy only hummed out a devastating little laugh and kept going, and despite himself Simon fell back into it even as he cringed down to keep himself from showing in the rear window and strained to keep himself quiet, his hips cycling in a flat little arc as he drove up into Jeremy's waiting mouth despite himself—"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Simon chanted under his breath as the footsteps got closer and closer. Some nearby car chirped out a welcoming sound and in his sudden, electric relief Simon came like an explosion, making a strangled "Gnrghnnnk!" sound which only made Jeremy laugh again.

      A car door slammed, the car's engine started, and its owner backed it out of its space, and Jeremy kept Simon going (or coming) all the way through, his mouth refusing to relent until Simon's entire body was limp and rubbery, twitching with the aftershock. Simon let go of Jeremy's hair and clumsily rubbed his face, aware of how hot his cheeks were, how flushed he must be. The sound of the car's engine died away. Jeremy finally let him go. "Why would she come over to look at the Rolls?" he asked, rubbing the back of his hand over his lips. "She must see it every day."

      "Die in a fire," Simon told him, his voice unsteady. Jeremy only laughed and then helped Simon tidy himself away as best he could—his tuxedo was sadly rumpled and askew, but at least nothing untoward was showing any more. Simon collapsed back against the seat and concentrated on catching his breath while Jeremy extricated himself from the floorboards. It took Jeremy a few seconds—he was really wedged in there—but eventually they were both sitting in the back seat again. There were a few wet spots on the leg of Jeremy's tuxedo pants, stray droplets of champagne marring the pristine fabric; why that was so damned hot, Simon had no idea. "Come here," he said, "come here," and he lunged across the seat at Jeremy.

      It wasn't that he liked the taste, not precisely. He didn't exactly like it, but sometimes he couldn't get enough of it, no matter whose it was, just because of what it was and where it had come from and what had just happened to create it; Jeremy knew that much by now and gave Simon what he wanted, stabbing his tongue deep into Simon's mouth and giving back the ghost of that salty-bitter throat-punching taste. Pushing forward into the kiss with enough insistence to jam Jeremy's head back against the window, Simon fumbled at Jeremy's waistcoat with both hands, then at his pants. "Christ, I'm so drunk," Simon said, breathless and snickering already, and then one knee fell to the floorboards and he folded his other leg up against the Rolls' door and dropped his mouth straight down from Jeremy's lips onto Jeremy's cock.

      Christ, but it was awkward, even with Jeremy pressed hard against his own door and folded forward over Simon's head. Simon was a big guy and the Rolls was spacious but not huge, so Simon was left with his shoulders hunched and his limbs folded away anywhere they'd fit. One arm was in the process of being eaten by the seat cushions and the other was clutching at the chrome handle on the back of the front seat. Simon didn't care, though. Simon cared about getting a little of his own back, and judging by the little gaspy sounds that Jeremy was making, he was succeeding.

      Jeremy's hands caught at his shoulders, then scraped through his hair, then clutched at the back of his neck, making Simon shiver. There was no time for teasing and no room for finesse; the blowjob was a hard, pounding affair that Jeremy had to brace against, his thigh like rock against Simon's cheek every time that they touched. Simon rescued his arm from the maw of the cushions and curled it around Jeremy's hips, digging his clawed fingers into Jeremy's ass and pulling him forward, pulling Jeremy up and into his waiting mouth—Jeremy caught at random Rolls-Royce outcroppings with both hands and somehow managed to support himself in that ridiculous half-lifted position, giving Simon just enough room to swallow him whole. Simon couldn't breathe like that, but he didn't need to. He took his breaths each time he pulled back, then slammed down again, pressing his entire face against Jeremy's tautened stomach and thighs—

      He knew it was coming and he dragged Jeremy up to meet it. Jeremy's entire body arched up and forward as Simon lifted him into his own orgasm, a trembling arc on his knees with his shoulders pressed hard against the windowglass. The resulting flood burned Simon's throat like napalm. Simon let it come—let Jeremy come—and held him there until he was done.

      Jeremy sagged back against the door once Simon let him go, his little champagne high making the collapse slightly less graceful than usual. Simon was glad to see it—enjoyed the hell out of that little scrap of clumsiness, really. Simon reclaimed all his limbs with some effort and sat back up, rubbing the circulation back into his legs, scrubbing his tongue against the roof of his mouth until the bitter taste diluted and subsided. There was a mark on the window from the toe of Simon's shoe. He snickered and scrubbed at it with his sleeve.

      "Sleazy enough for you?" Jeremy asked, lifting his hips long enough to zip his pants. His voice was still a little thick.

      Simon hesitated, looking around, rubbing his fingers along the fine leather of the seat back. "I dunno," he finally said. "I mean, sure, it was sleazy as hell, but sleazy enough? I mean, you said we had three hours..."

      The raised eyebrow which Jeremy turned on him was nothing short of measuring, and in the depths of that look Simon could see the next hour or so so clearly—

      —the windows were starting to steam over, and the car's springs were squeaking with a telltale regularity, but inside the Rolls it didn't matter—what mattered was Jeremy like a live wire astride Simon's lap, half-mad with drink and sex and Simon's dick in him halfway to his throat, his pants kicked halfway off—the kiss was a frantic on-again off-again wet and biting thing as Jeremy's hands caught at Simon's face and pulled him up into it, a demand that Simon was all too glad to answer—their chests were pressed together, their expensive shirts damp with sweat, their shirt studs pulling out one by one to fall to the seat around them—here in a minute someone's tuxedo was going to get absolutely ruined, maybe both tuxedos, but inside the Rolls no one gave a good goddamn, because you could always get another tuxedo but moments like these you'd carry with you for the rest of your life—

      —"I suppose we don't have to go quite yet," Jeremy said, settling back into his corner of the back seat, the faintest little smile on his face.



I like how the one 'future' paragraph is probably hotter than the entire rest of the story. Whups.