#32 for ocko_okate:The Thief
DISCLAIMER: All the fics posted below are just that, FICTION. None of the authors claim to have any idea what's going on in Viggo and Orlando's life, it's all made up and no profit is made at all.
OVERALL RATING: NC-17 overall, not every single fic is, but just in case;)
NOTE/RULES REMINDER: Please remember I cut out any hints that could point to the author, like beta thanks, most notes etc. Writers, don't reveal your indentity yet! Readers, guess the author, list of participants is right here. Leave feedback, but play nice. No flaming.
32. For ocko_okate, who asked for AU set in present time, with mysterious,brash!Orlando and rich, mighty!Viggo, where Orli is this daring thief that keeps borrowing Viggo's fast new cars for nightly rides. And one night Viggo decides to teach him a lesson (NC-17, please?) Extra points for a wild car chase and sex on the car hood!
Title: The Thief
Warnings: AU
Viggo loved beautiful things.
There were the intangible beauties, like that certain time in late afternoon when the sun was golden and the air seemed to shimmer with living energy and Viggo felt alive in every fiber of his being. Unless he was deep in the middle of a business meeting he couldn't interrupt, Viggo would spend this part of the day by himself just enjoying the natural beauty of the world. It helped to remind him the world was much larger than Mortensen Enterprises.
There were the tangible beauties, like the Monet paintings that hung in the study of his Beverly Hills estate. Viggo painted when he had the time, which was less and less as the years wore on. His accountants had urged him to invest in art. Viggo had placated them by buying the Monets, but the real reason he had bought them was the same reason he spent his afternoons by himself.
And then there were his cars.
Viggo collected cars. Not just any cars. These cars were works of art in and of themselves, and something only someone with Viggo's bankroll could afford.
He had a Lamborghini Miura, several Bugattis and Duesenbergs. He owned one of the two hundred Porsche 959s ever built. But the crown jewel of Viggo's car collection was his newest addition - a McLaren F?1, one of only one hundred ever made. Designed by McLaren racing engineers, the car could go from zero to sixty in 3.4 seconds with a top speed of 240 miles an hour. Viggo knew that for a fact. He'd road-tested the car himself on a race track before he bought it at auction. When you were about to fork over a cool million dollars for one car, you made sure it worked as advertised.
Sleek and shiny black, the F-1 was the ultimate supercar. Viggo's friend Sean, who had no interest at all in high-priced cars, called it the Batmobile. Viggo had to admit the F-1 bore more than a passing resemblance to Bruce Wayne's ride, what with its batwing doors that lifted up instead of opened out, and a low profile that just screamed speed.
Sean had taken one look at the car and told Viggo he'd have more ass than he could handle if he took it for a cruise in West Hollywood. Viggo had chuckled good-naturedly, but Sean just didn't understand. The F-1 wasn't about getting laid. It was a work of art that let Viggo fly.
Viggo kept his cars in a climate-controlled garage on his Beverly Hills estate. Each car had its own bay in the garage, and was kept clean and waxed by the same caretaker who kept Viggo's landscaping up to Beverly Hills standards. The garage had a security system in addition to the general gated security for the estate, and each car was equipped with a GPS tracking device. More than enough to discourage casual car thieves who might otherwise think any one of Viggo's cars was a short-cut to an early retirement plan.
But Viggo's car collection had attracted the attention of someone who was neither a casual nor average car thief.
He had attracted the attention of Orlando Bloom.
***
Technically speaking, Orlando wasn't a thief at all. He was a borrower.
Thieves stole to possess or for money. Thieves took what didn't belong to them with no thought for property rights, and a good deal of them didn't even have any regard for the property they stole.
Orlando revered the cars he borrowed.
He slipped into the estates of the rich and famous in the dead of night, by-passed elaborate security systems as if they didn't exist at all, and liberated sleek machines built for speed from their high-priced prisons. Cars like these didn't belong behind lock and key. They belonged on the open road, hugging curves at a hundred miles an hour, chasing moonbeams on the straight-aways at speeds that made the white lines blur.
When he'd given the cars a good workout, Orlando would take them back, replace them as he'd found them, and be gone.
Viggo's considerable collection attracted Orlando the way the sweet smell of clover blossoms attracted honey bees. One mere sip wasn't enough.
Orlando had taken Viggo's Lamborghini Miura out for a spin in the wee hours of the morning one night a few months ago. Several weeks later Viggo's silver Porsche 959 went for a similar drive with a black-leather clad Orlando at the wheel, and then a week later he drove the Lamborghini again. Each midnight liberation took place while Viggo was out of town on business, and each time Orlando had brought the car back and left it where he'd found it.
But the F-1....
For the first time in his life, Orlando was tempted not to bring a car back. The moment he set eyes on the automotive equivalent of sin, he felt the need to possess instead of just borrow. And for that reason he'd avoided liberating the F-1 and taking it for a nighttime spin of its own.
Until tonight.
He couldn't help it, not really. The sleek, black car seemed made for him. After he disabled the security system and detached the GPS tracking unit, he slid behind the wheel and lowered the wing-shaped doors. It was like being in a cocoon of leather and speed. Orlando started the engine and was rewarded with a throaty purr.
"Oh, you're a good one," he said to the car. A sleek, black panther just waiting to stretch its legs.
Orlando drove the car through the gated entrance to Viggo's property and out into the Los Angeles night. He had a stretch of road in the foothills he wanted to try, or maybe he'd take the F-1 for a spin on the freeway and out into the desert where the road stretched straight and long.
He had a few hours before he had to bring the car back. Maybe by then he would talk himself into actually returning it.
***
Viggo sat before a small, closed-circuit monitor in his study. The pale glow from the screen was the only light in his house.
On the monitor the car thief moved with sure, compact motions. Tall and thin and dressed in black pants and a black leather jacket, the thief disabled Viggo's elaborate security system and fiddled with something beneath the F-1's hood. The GPS tracking device, no doubt. Too bad the thief didn't know that on this particular car, Viggo had installed a second GPS device. There was no such thing as too much redundancy when a million dollar asset was involved.
Viggo had suspected for some time that someone was tampering with his cars. The cars just felt wrong when he took one out during his brief stays in his Beverly Hills home. At first he thought perhaps his groundskeeper was doing more than taking care of the cars, so on one of the man's days off, he'd installed the closed circuit monitors. The cameras were well-hidden, as were the monitors in his house. This particular monitor was in a new compartment hidden behind one of his Monets, which was itself protected with a separate alarm system.
Viggo had reviewed the tapes recorded during his last business trip to the east coast. He'd been surprised when the tapes showed not his groundskeeper, a middle-aged Korean, but a total stranger moving about his garage like he owned the place.
Only now Viggo wasn't watching a tape but live action. Viggo had canceled his latest business trip at the last minute, instead staying behind with all the lights off in his house, trying to lure the thief with the appearance of an empty house.
Except was it really thievery when the thief brought everything back?
On the monitor, the thief - Viggo couldn't think of a better word for him - got in the F-1 and closed the doors. The security system wasn't equipped for sound, but Viggo knew well enough the sound of the F-1's engine purring to life. He watched as the thief backed the car out of its bay in the garage.
A split second later a green light flashed on the remote in Viggo's hand. The thief was opening the gate to Viggo's property.
Viggo hovered his thumb over the override button on his remote. With one touch he could reverse the gate and close the gate, trapping the thief and his car inside. Then he could call the police and the whole matter would be taken care of.
Only Viggo didn't trigger the override.
He let the thief drive out into the night.
Viggo turned the monitor off, secreted it away behind the Monet and reset the painting's alarm system. He picked up the handheld GPS tracker and the keys to his Porsche 959. It was the only car he owned that had a chance of keeping up with the F-1 if his midnight joyrider decided to open the car up and let it fly.
He didn't know what he'd do if he caught the man. Hell, he didn't even know why he let the thief go. All he did know was that when he pulled the silver Porsche out onto the street and started following the blip on the tracker's screen, he felt more alive than he had in years.
***
Driving the F-1 was a dream. Orlando moved it smoothly through the sparse traffic on the I-15 out of the Los Angeles basin. It climbed the foothills without a hitch, and once the road leveled out, Orlando let the car fly.
Orlando checked the rear-view mirror, at first concerned about any cops who might be lurking. Although no police car would be able to catch him in a flat-out chase, the F-1 was a distinctive enough car that almost guaranteed he would eventually be spotted and caught when he returned the car to Viggo's estate. He could always abandon the car along the road somewhere in the city and get away on foot, but he was a borrower, not a common thief. No matter how much he might want to keep the F-1 for himself, it wasn't his to keep, and he wasn't about to leave it on the street somewhere for thugs to dismantle or destroy just because they could.
After five miles of flying down the open road, Orlando realized someone was following him. Not only following him, the headlights behind him were keeping up with him.
Orlando checked the speedometer. He wasn't going top speed, not yet, but 160 miles per hour was bloody fast for just any car. He increased his speed to 180 - the car behind kept up.
Bollocks.
There was only one person it could be - Viggo. Orlando didn't know how Viggo'd found him, but he obviously had.
The freeway was nearly deserted at this hour. Orlando opened the car up as much as he dared. He zoomed around other cars like they were standing still, wove in and out of the slow-moving semi's like he was driving an obstacle course.
The car behind not only kept up, it started gaining on him.
That was impossible. The F-1 was the fastest car Viggo had, the fastest car Orlando had ever driven.
Heart slamming against his chest, Orlando pushed the car harder. He took chances he wouldn't have otherwise taken, cut the margin between himself and the other cars closer and closer. The nighttime freeway rushed by in a blur. Orlando felt like he was part of the car, part of an incredible, sexy machine eating up the miles in a furious burst of speed.
He nearly didn't see the warning signs.
Road construction.
Orlando was going too fast to brake in time. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
He used every skill he had to avoid other cars that were bunching up and slowing down in front of him. The road narrowed to one lane, and all Orlando could see was the string of red taillights in front of him. The F-1 wouldn't survive an impact, not at these speeds, and neither would anyone Orlando hit. He only had one choice.
He braked hard and turned the wheel, and with a sickening screech and the smell of burning rubber, the F-1 shot off the road and into the desert.
***
Viggo couldn't believe it when he saw the F-1 drive off the road.
He'd seen the road construction warnings, saw the traffic start to slow down even as he raced to keep up with the thief. As the traffic thickened, he'd started to slow down himself - the thief really had nowhere to go - and then he'd watched, mouth open, as the F-1 sped off the freeway and into the desert.
Viggo had half-expected the car to flounder in the sand, or else flip in a spectacular crash, but the desert floor must be harder-packed than it initially looked. The tail lights on the F-1 had fish-tailed as the thief fought to keep the car under control. But it didn't take long for the man to straighten the car out and take off across the desert.
Viggo had only a split second to decide: stop now and let the cops find the car based on the GPS, or follow the thief himself.
It was no contest.
Viggo slowed his car down as he left the road and followed the thief out into the desert.
The Porsche made popping and groaning noises Viggo'd never heard it make before as it slid across the dirt before the tires caught and the car shot forward. Still, it was like driving through quicksand. Viggo was used to speed on the open road or better yet, on a racetrack, not this slogging through mud feeling. He had to hang on tight to the wheel to control the Porsche, and he spent as much time avoiding scrub brush and good-sized rocks as he did keeping his eyes on the taillights in front of him.
He only hoped the thief was taking as much care with the F-1 as Viggo was taking with the Porsche.
Part of him was angry as hell at the thief. Viggo had close friends he never let drive his cars, but this man had the balls to break into his garage and take what was his. And then to treat the F-1 like this? Who the hell did this thief think he was?
But if it had just been about property rights, Viggo would have called the police and left it at that. No, following the thief had been all about the thrill of the chase. The adrenalin rush of driving a powerful machine at high speed.
Viggo knew other men who collected high-powered and high-priced cars just for the art, who never took them for more than what amounted to a spin around the block. Viggo loved beautiful things, and his cars were certainly beautiful things, but he also loved them for the feel of controlling all that power. Driving at high speed in a machine built for just that purpose was the closest thing to flying Viggo knew.
Ahead of him the taillights winked out of sight in a cloud of dust illuminated by Viggo's headlights. Viggo cursed and slowed down so he could safely check out the GPS display without plowing into an unexpected rock or fissure in the desert floor. According to the GPS, they were a good ten miles away from the freeway, and the thief had made an abrupt right turn and... stopped?
What the hell?
Viggo slowed down further, studied the GPS display, peered into gloom. He saw a stand of scrub brush, ghostly pale in his headlights. Beyond the brush, a rocky hill rose off the desert floor. Viggo could see tire tracks left by the F-1. The thief had driven around the base of the hill.
Viggo down-shifted, slowing the Porsche as he followed the tire tracks. He could almost taste the dust kicked up by the F-1 as it passed this way.
Even though he knew the thief had stopped, Viggo was still startled when the Porsche's headlights picked out the dark shape of the F-1. The F-1's headlights were off. And there, leaning against the driver's side door, stood the thief, arms crossed over his chest.
Long and lean, the thief looked just like he did on the closed-circuit security monitor. His black pants and black leather jacket blended in with the black of the car. He could have disappeared into the night with that outfit, but there he stood, waiting. Head tilted, and... with a smile on his face?
What the fuck? Was this all some game? No one played games like this with Viggo Mortensen.
Angry again, Viggo stopped the Porsche ten yards away from the thief. He turned off the motor, left the headlights on, and stormed out of his car.
***
Orlando had never been caught before. Ever. But after ten miles of driving over hard-packed dirt, fighting the steering wheel when the tires caught on half-buried rocks and skidded over sandy stretches, Orlando could still see Viggo's headlights in the rearview mirror. Even shrouded by the dust kicked up by the F-1's tires, the headlights were a steady presence that wasn't going away.
If he was going to have to concede defeat, he might as well do it in style.
So Orlando found a place where he could temporarily disappear from sight. He slid the F-1 into a half-turn, braked, and switched off the lights. He got out and leaned against the driver's side door and waited.
It didn't take long for Viggo to find him. Headlights pinned Orlando where he stood. He grinned. Viggo was driving the Porsche, just liked Orlando had guessed.
Orlando's heart thudded in his chest as Viggo got out of the car. He felt almost as big a rush waiting for his uncertain fate as he did when he was driving.
He half expected Viggo to throw a punch at him. He might have been tempted to do that, had their situations been reversed. Orlando had violated Viggo's property. That was tantamount to violating a man's wife. Or lover, in Orlando's case. He had no idea what Viggo's preferences were in the matter. He hadn't pried into Viggo's personal life. He'd only studied Viggo long enough to know when the man was out of town and left his cars relatively unguarded.
Although, come to think of it, Viggo hadn't exactly been predictable on that point either.
"You want to tell me what the hell you think you're doing?" Viggo shouted at him.
He'd stopped a good ten feet away from Orlando. One hand swiped at his hair, a rough impatient gesture; the other hand was balled into a fist at his side. He was silhouetted in the Porsche's headlights, and Orlando couldn't see his expression clearly. Given the tone of his question, it wasn't hard to guess.
"Going for a little drive," Orlando said pleasantly. "Or at least I was until you started to follow me."
"And it didn't bother you that it wasn't your car."
Orlando thought the answer to that was fairly obvious, so he didn't say anything.
"Just how many times have you 'gone for a little drive' in my cars anyway?"
Orlando didn't answer that question either.
"Have you called the police?" he asked instead. Not that he thought he could get away if Viggo had. The car obviously had a GPS still inside somewhere. Orlando didn't have time to locate and disable it, even if Viggo would let him, which wasn't likely at this point. And taking off on foot into the desert at night was a sure way to get himself killed.
Now it was Viggo's turn not to answer.
They stood there in the quiet of the desert night, the cars' engines ticking as they cooled. A coyote yipped in the distance, and farther away another coyote answered it.
"I would have brought it back," Orlando said. "I always bring them back."
Viggo didn't say anything right away. Orlando got the distinct feeling he was being studied. Measured, maybe. He kept the grin on his face with some effort.
"You would, huh?" Viggo said, and his tone was almost a challenge.
"That's what I said."
"Then do it." Viggo gestured wide with one arm. "After you," he said.
What?
Orlando's surprise must have been clear on his face. Viggo laughed, a short bark with no real humor.
"Thanks to you," Viggo said, "I have two cars out in the middle of nowhere. I can't drive them both back by myself, and I don't want to leave either of them out here. You say you always bring them back. I want you-" Viggo pointed at Orlando. "-to drive that car-" Now he pointed at the F-1. "-back to my place."
Orlando shifted his weight, no longer quite leaning on the car. "And what then?"
Viggo smiled. Probably the same smile he used in the boardroom after he sealed a deal. A man who could afford cars like these no doubt had extensive experience closing deals to his advantage.
"Then I decide what to do with you," Viggo said.
"And if I don't?"
"I keep chasing you across the desert until one of us runs out of gas or manages to get stuck out here in all this nothing."
At this point neither of those options was appealing.
"You should know I don't give up," Viggo said. His smile got bigger and a good deal less pleasant. "Ever."
Orlando already knew he was out of choices. Driving the F-1 at top speed on the open road was one thing; it was suicide to drive at high speeds across the desert at night. He'd been lucky so far that he hadn't ended up at the bottom of a ravine.
"All right," he said. He tilted his head to the side and nodded, just enough to punctuate his agreement. The dry dust still swirling around them threatened to make him sneeze. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. "To your house then."
He opened the batwing door of the F-1 and slid behind the wheel. Before he reached up to close the door, he saw Viggo get in the Porsche, heard the car's engine growl as Viggo turned the key.
Back to Viggo's place, huh? Well, that should be interesting. Orlando didn't think Viggo would call the cops, no matter what he said. This had the feel of personal justice to it. He wondered what form it would take.
***
What the hell was he thinking?
Had he lost his mind tonight along with nearly losing his F-1?
Night's not over yet, Viggo's annoying inner voice reminded him.
No, that was true. He still had to get the F-1 home, and then he could think about why the hell he'd invited the thief to his house.
It had nothing to do with the thief's long, lanky body. Nothing at all to do with his soulful eyes and thick, curly hair, and the way his black leather jacket and pants were so tight they seemed to be painted on.
Nothing. At. All.
Viggo gritted his teeth and gripped the steering wheel harder than necessary. He kept the thief in front of him. The headlights picked up the tire tracks from their race across the desert floor. Viggo would know if the thief left the trail they'd made and decided to make a break for it. So far the man was following the tracks back to the freeway, and at a much more sedate pace than before.
Of course, following the thief was doing nothing to get the vision of the man out of Viggo's mind.
What, for fuck's sake, was wrong with him?
Viggo hadn't gotten where he was in the world by allowing a pretty face to distract him. If Orlando had sat across a conference table and tried that cocky smile and self-confident air, Viggo would have ripped him a new one and Orlando would have left thanking him for the experience.
So what was it then? The combination of fast cars and breakneck speed? The danger of the race, the thrill of the unknown outcome?
Viggo always went into a business meeting knowing the outcome. "Never ask a question you don't know the answer for," his father had told him. "And never take a meeting if you don't have the upper hand going in."
It had been sound advice. Viggo had built up a nice little empire by buying and selling assets, whether those assets were stocks and bonds or businesses ripe for the picking and parsing. He always made a tidy profit, and he always won.
And over the years, with the outcome always a foregone conclusion, the thrill of it had long since disappeared. That's why he'd started collecting cars. Not only collecting them, but driving them the way they'd been meant to be driven.
While Viggo appreciated these cars as beautiful works of art, he also appreciated them for what they were - uniquely powerful automobiles meant for speed. They were thoroughbreds. He might pamper them, keep them in a climate controlled garage, but he took them out and put them through their paces. He'd even driven in a few pro-am races and done well for an amateur.
So why was he taking this thief home with him, essentially going into a meeting without knowing the outcome, without knowing the answers to the questions his annoying inner voice wouldn't let him drown out with the purr of the engine and the rush of the world slipping by? Was it the thrill of the unknown? The rush of thinking on his feet, improvising to meet the situation - the modern-day thrust and parry of white-collar combatants?
Or was it something far more baser than that?
"Fuck it," Viggo muttered.
Too many questions. For the first time in his life he didn't want to know the answers ahead of time. He followed the dust cloud kicked up by the F-1's tires and tried to just live in the moment. It wasn't easy, but as the cars ate up the miles, Viggo discovered it was damn exciting. And he discovered one more thing.
He liked it.
***
The last time Orlando had been in Viggo's garage, it wasn't with the interior lights blazing and Viggo standing guard.
At least now he could get a good look at the man who held Orlando's immediate future, not to mention the next five to ten years of Orlando's life, in his hands.
Orlando had seen photographs of Viggo in the business section of the Times. Those were studio portraits for the most part, posed photographs of Viggo Mortensen, business tycoon, in his natural habitat - the glass and steel of a sterile boardroom. The photographs captured Viggo's casual good looks, his clear-eyed stare, his self-confident posture. They even hinted at a charisma that made him as popular as he was powerful.
But now, standing in close proximity to the man, Orlando discovered that the photographs didn't begin to do him justice. Viggo wasn't only rich, powerful, charismatic, and self-confident. He was quite possibly the sexiest man Orlando had ever met.
Orlando leaned against the side of the F-1, much the same way he had in the desert, and tried to maintain his own composure. So far Viggo hadn't come near him, for which Orlando counted himself lucky. Orlando watched as Viggo triggered a secondary security system - one Orlando hadn't known about - leaving the system Orlando had bypassed alone.
The system Orlando had bypassed on more than one occasion.
Fuck. That meant Viggo had known about Orlando's little illicit drives, and what? Set up a trap for him? Why else leave a perfectly good system offline? A more than perfectly good system, if Orlando was honest with himself.
Orlando swallowed hard. He wondered if his face was on a video surveillance camera somewhere. If Viggo had planned the whole thing, and Orlando was fairly certain he had, it stood to reason that Viggo would have enough evidence against him to lock him away for a good number of years.
Viggo walked the parameter of the garage checking that everything was locked up tight. He'd kept Orlando in sight the whole time but hadn't spoken to him.
When he came to stand in front of Orlando, he didn't crowd him, but stood close enough just the same.
"So what should I do with you?" Viggo asked. His tone was conversational, his voice a raspy drawl that was more than just a little sexy.
"You could let me go," Orlando said, trying to recapture some of the his self-confidence. He didn't think Viggo would just let him walk away with no consequences, but it wouldn't hurt to make the suggestion.
"Just like that?"
Orlando grinned. "I did bring your car back like I said I would."
"That you did. After you took it in the first place."
"It's what I do." Orlando took a chance. "But you knew that. You watched me, didn't you? For quite some time, I'd say."
Viggo didn't respond, only stood there looking at him, his hands on his hips.
"Could almost say you were complicit in the entire affair," Orlando said. He grinned his best cheeky grin. "And if I had your implicit permission, then I haven't committed any crime, have I?"
Viggo made a short, breathy sound, almost a huff but not quite. "You always talk this much?"
"Only when I think it might get me somewhere."
"And you think this time it's going to get you a free pass out the door."
"It might."
Viggo took a step closer. Orlando felt his composure slip.
"If I did that, what kind of a businessman would I be?" Viggo asked. "My reputation as a hardass would be shot to hell."
"I wouldn't tell." Orlando's voice came out much throatier than he'd planned on. He couldn't help it. Driving like he had tonight always turned him on, and here Viggo was, face flushed, eyes bright with his own excitement, standing within arm's reach.
Wait....
Did he just think that Viggo was excited? Was Viggo affected by what happened tonight the same way he was?
Orlando risked a glance down at Viggo's crotch. The man had on well-worn jeans that weren't skin-tight, but the bulge was unmistakable.
Orlando grinned, his self-confidence coming back. "I wouldn't tell at all," he said, his voice practically a purr that he combined with his best come-fuck-me look.
One of Viggo's eyebrows rose halfway up his forehead before he seemed to catch himself, once again looking like a man who's used to being in charge. His eyes traveled over Orlando's body, the same kind of looks Orlando was used to getting from club boys who wanted to blow Orlando in the loo. Maybe he'd get out of this with a quick fuck and be done with it.
"See anything you like?" Orlando asked.
Viggo shook his head, just a small gesture. "Un-fucking-believable," he muttered. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they were so dark and intense Orlando's heart pounded in his chest and blood rushed to his cock. He didn't think he'd ever seen anyone look sexier. He'd certainly never wanted anyone more.
"Lose the pants," Viggo said.
Orlando didn't have to be asked twice. He unbuckled his belt, slid the zip down, and peeled the black leather off his thighs. His cock tented out the front of his boxers. His thighs were beginning to tremble with tension and the uncertainty of his situation. His trousers had dropped below his knees, effectively hobbling him.
Viggo hadn't glanced at his crotch, at least as far as Orlando could tell. Instead Viggo's gaze was riveted on Orlando's face. "Turn around," Viggo said, his voice a deep rasp that made Orlando's cock push harder against the fabric holding it captive.
Orlando did as he was told. As soon as he'd turned his back on Viggo, Viggo grabbed him and slammed him face-first over the hood of the F-1. Orlando brought his hands up just in time to keep himself from kissing the dust-covered black finish.
"What the...."
Orlando didn't get to finish the question before Viggo pulled his boxers down. Set free, Orlando's cock bobbed up to hit the hard, cold metal of the car. He shuddered when he felt Viggo's hand on his bare arse, cupping one of his cheeks. Viggo moved closer, his denim-covered thighs pressing against Orlando's bare skin. Orlando could feel the hardness in Viggo's jeans.
Oh yeah....
All that driving had definitely turned both of them on.
"This what you want?" Viggo asked, his voice a harsh growl as he bent over Orlando's back. "You want me to fuck you?"
Orlando thought it was fairly evident, but he pushed his arse back against Viggo's crotch just to emphasize the point. "Yes," he said, his voice rough.
"Too bad," Viggo said.
What?
Viggo pulled his body away. Orlando tried to turn around to protest, but Viggo still held him pinned to the car with one arm against his shoulders. Viggo's other hand, the one that had been caressing Orlando's arse, suddenly came down on the fleshy part of his bum with a loud, stinging smack!
Orlando shouted with surprise and pain. What the fuck? Viggo was spanking him?
***
Viggo had officially lost his mind. That was the only explanation.
He was in his garage with a half-naked stranger pinned to his car, and he was spanking him.
Insane. Totally insane.
The man squirmed and shouted beneath Viggo's grip, but Viggo just held on tighter. He brought his hand down hard again. The slap seemed to echo in the cavernous garage. Viggo's palm tingled with stinging pain, and he thought if his dick got any harder, it would strangle him in his jeans.
"What the fuck?" the thief shouted. "Are you bloody mad?"
Viggo hit him again.
"Possibly," Viggo said.
He didn't go in for rough sex. Sex was all about pleasure. Viggo liked taking his time, liked to make love. He didn't get turned on by the idea of whips, restraints, or fuck-me heels. He might be a hard case in the boardroom; in the bedroom, he liked his sex a little more on the romantic side. He didn't need candlelight and champagne, but he did like touching and kissing - without the biting, thank you very much - as much as he liked fucking. He supposed it was the same romantic side that made him appreciate late afternoon sunlight and the soft pastels of a Monet.
So why, oh why, did he feel like he was going to cream his jeans the more he spanked this beautiful young thief?
The man's smooth skin was turning a rosy shade of red in roughly the shape of Viggo's hand. The thief grunted every time Viggo's hand impacted with his ass. Viggo realized he'd stopped shouting and had even stopped trying to wriggle out of Viggo's grip. Instead, the his squirming had taken on a whole new purpose. It looked like he was trying to hump Viggo's car.
The thief was just as turned on by this as Viggo was.
Instead of slapping him, the next time Viggo's hand came down, he grabbed a handful of the man's ass and squeezed. The thief groaned and pushed his hips against the car.
Viggo leaned over him. "You gonna 'go for a little drive' in my cars again?" he asked. His voice was so deep and raspy, Viggo almost didn't recognize it himself.
The man shook his head.
Viggo squeezed his ass harder. "I need to hear you say it."
"N...no. No, I won't," the thief said.
His voice sounded strained. It took all of Viggo's self-control not to groan at the sound. He couldn't help himself from burying his nose in the man's soft hair. God, he smelled good, like sweat and leather and sex.
Viggo made himself back away. He let go of the man's shoulders, took his hand off the man's ass. He expected the thief to pull up his pants and beat a hasty exit. But the man stayed right where he was.
"Don't leave me like this," Viggo heard him say. His hands were clenched white-knuckle tight on the hood of the car next to his head. "I'm so close."
This time Viggo did groan. "You don't even know me," he said.
"It doesn't matter." The thief turned his head to look over his shoulder at Viggo. "I want you. I need you."
Whatever reservations Viggo might have felt vanished when he saw the naked want on the young man's face. His eyes were wide and so dark they were almost black. His mouth was wet, his lips parted enough that Viggo could see the tip of his tongue playing with his teeth.
"This is nuts," Viggo muttered. He should stop right now, but Viggo realized he was already past that point.
He pulled the thief off the car, turned him around, and captured his mouth in a deep, forceful kiss. The man didn't fight him; he met Viggo's tongue with his own and wrapped Viggo in a strong embrace. Viggo felt the man's cock hard against his belly.
Viggo fumbled with the button on his jeans. Before he could get his zipper down, the thief had swatted his hand away and pulled it down himself. Viggo shuddered when the thief's hand closed around his aching cock.
"What's your name?" Viggo asked when they broke for air.
"Orlando."
Viggo wrapped his hand around the man's sizeable erection and squeezed. He felt Orlando shiver. Orlando squeezed him in return, and Viggo thrust himself into Orlando's fist.
"Come to bed with me, Orlando," Viggo murmured into Orlando's ear. He snaked his tongue out to lick around the shapely shell.
"Not gonna make it to your bed," Orlando said. He latched his mouth on to Viggo's neck and sucked, and the feeling went straight to Viggo's cock.
Viggo was losing control, and he knew it. "Me either," he said. He pumped his hips against Orlando and fisted Orlando's cock. Orlando's breath whistled in and out through his nose as he kept his mouth latched onto Viggo's neck. With his other hand, Viggo forced Orlando's mouth away from his neck until their mouths met in a wet, wild kiss, and then he was coming.
Viggo was vaguely aware that Orlando had stiffened, and then his body jerked against Viggo's and he was coming too. Viggo smelled him, the musky odor of sex, and felt slippery warmth pulse out of his cock.
Their mouths had parted when they came. Now Orlando sought him out for a kiss that was gentle, that felt almost loving. Viggo gave Orlando's cock one more tender stroke then let go.
Orlando's gaze was deep and soft when he stopping kissing Viggo. "I think someone mentioned bed?" he said.
Viggo blinked. Once it had become clear they wouldn't make it out of the garage, Viggo didn't think Orlando would take him up on his invitation.
"You still want to?" he asked.
"Fuck yeah." Orlando cupped his hand around the back of Viggo's head. "If this is the warm up, I can't wait for the real thing."
"You gonna leave my cars alone?"
Orlando smiled. "If you want me to. But I'm hoping that maybe someday you'll invite me for a ride."
"Someday, huh?"
Orlando stroked his thumb over Viggo's cheek. "Yeah."
Yeah. Viggo kissed Orlando again, then took his hand to lead him into the house. He didn't bother to tuck himself away, although he let Orlando pull his pants up high enough to be able to walk. They'd be taking their clothes off soon enough anyway, and there was no one in the house who'd see them.
Viggo was man who appreciated beauty. He surrounded himself with beautiful things -- hung beautiful artwork on his walls, collected beautiful, powerful automobiles. Viggo glanced at the man who held his hand. Orlando was beautiful, but it was more than beauty that made Viggo invite Orlando to his bed. He didn't know where this would go, but he was willing to take a chance that maybe he'd found a kindred spirit.
He might know the outcome of every business negotiation he undertook, but there was something to be said for taking a chance.
"You know," Orlando said as he leaned in and gave Viggo a peck on the cheek. "I'm going to have to get even for that spanking."
Viggo grinned. "Oh really? I thought it was kind of mild punishment for grand theft auto."
"It was not grand theft." Orlando bumped his shoulder into Viggo's. "It was grand borrowing auto."
"There's no such thing."
"Are you sure?"
Orlando's eyes were alight with good humor. Viggo wondered what he had in mind, and found he didn't care. As long as it involved Orlando and his bed, that would be good enough.
The End
OVERALL RATING: NC-17 overall, not every single fic is, but just in case;)
NOTE/RULES REMINDER: Please remember I cut out any hints that could point to the author, like beta thanks, most notes etc. Writers, don't reveal your indentity yet! Readers, guess the author, list of participants is right here. Leave feedback, but play nice. No flaming.
32. For ocko_okate, who asked for AU set in present time, with mysterious,brash!Orlando and rich, mighty!Viggo, where Orli is this daring thief that keeps borrowing Viggo's fast new cars for nightly rides. And one night Viggo decides to teach him a lesson (NC-17, please?) Extra points for a wild car chase and sex on the car hood!
Title: The Thief
Warnings: AU
Viggo loved beautiful things.
There were the intangible beauties, like that certain time in late afternoon when the sun was golden and the air seemed to shimmer with living energy and Viggo felt alive in every fiber of his being. Unless he was deep in the middle of a business meeting he couldn't interrupt, Viggo would spend this part of the day by himself just enjoying the natural beauty of the world. It helped to remind him the world was much larger than Mortensen Enterprises.
There were the tangible beauties, like the Monet paintings that hung in the study of his Beverly Hills estate. Viggo painted when he had the time, which was less and less as the years wore on. His accountants had urged him to invest in art. Viggo had placated them by buying the Monets, but the real reason he had bought them was the same reason he spent his afternoons by himself.
And then there were his cars.
Viggo collected cars. Not just any cars. These cars were works of art in and of themselves, and something only someone with Viggo's bankroll could afford.
He had a Lamborghini Miura, several Bugattis and Duesenbergs. He owned one of the two hundred Porsche 959s ever built. But the crown jewel of Viggo's car collection was his newest addition - a McLaren F?1, one of only one hundred ever made. Designed by McLaren racing engineers, the car could go from zero to sixty in 3.4 seconds with a top speed of 240 miles an hour. Viggo knew that for a fact. He'd road-tested the car himself on a race track before he bought it at auction. When you were about to fork over a cool million dollars for one car, you made sure it worked as advertised.
Sleek and shiny black, the F-1 was the ultimate supercar. Viggo's friend Sean, who had no interest at all in high-priced cars, called it the Batmobile. Viggo had to admit the F-1 bore more than a passing resemblance to Bruce Wayne's ride, what with its batwing doors that lifted up instead of opened out, and a low profile that just screamed speed.
Sean had taken one look at the car and told Viggo he'd have more ass than he could handle if he took it for a cruise in West Hollywood. Viggo had chuckled good-naturedly, but Sean just didn't understand. The F-1 wasn't about getting laid. It was a work of art that let Viggo fly.
Viggo kept his cars in a climate-controlled garage on his Beverly Hills estate. Each car had its own bay in the garage, and was kept clean and waxed by the same caretaker who kept Viggo's landscaping up to Beverly Hills standards. The garage had a security system in addition to the general gated security for the estate, and each car was equipped with a GPS tracking device. More than enough to discourage casual car thieves who might otherwise think any one of Viggo's cars was a short-cut to an early retirement plan.
But Viggo's car collection had attracted the attention of someone who was neither a casual nor average car thief.
He had attracted the attention of Orlando Bloom.
***
Technically speaking, Orlando wasn't a thief at all. He was a borrower.
Thieves stole to possess or for money. Thieves took what didn't belong to them with no thought for property rights, and a good deal of them didn't even have any regard for the property they stole.
Orlando revered the cars he borrowed.
He slipped into the estates of the rich and famous in the dead of night, by-passed elaborate security systems as if they didn't exist at all, and liberated sleek machines built for speed from their high-priced prisons. Cars like these didn't belong behind lock and key. They belonged on the open road, hugging curves at a hundred miles an hour, chasing moonbeams on the straight-aways at speeds that made the white lines blur.
When he'd given the cars a good workout, Orlando would take them back, replace them as he'd found them, and be gone.
Viggo's considerable collection attracted Orlando the way the sweet smell of clover blossoms attracted honey bees. One mere sip wasn't enough.
Orlando had taken Viggo's Lamborghini Miura out for a spin in the wee hours of the morning one night a few months ago. Several weeks later Viggo's silver Porsche 959 went for a similar drive with a black-leather clad Orlando at the wheel, and then a week later he drove the Lamborghini again. Each midnight liberation took place while Viggo was out of town on business, and each time Orlando had brought the car back and left it where he'd found it.
But the F-1....
For the first time in his life, Orlando was tempted not to bring a car back. The moment he set eyes on the automotive equivalent of sin, he felt the need to possess instead of just borrow. And for that reason he'd avoided liberating the F-1 and taking it for a nighttime spin of its own.
Until tonight.
He couldn't help it, not really. The sleek, black car seemed made for him. After he disabled the security system and detached the GPS tracking unit, he slid behind the wheel and lowered the wing-shaped doors. It was like being in a cocoon of leather and speed. Orlando started the engine and was rewarded with a throaty purr.
"Oh, you're a good one," he said to the car. A sleek, black panther just waiting to stretch its legs.
Orlando drove the car through the gated entrance to Viggo's property and out into the Los Angeles night. He had a stretch of road in the foothills he wanted to try, or maybe he'd take the F-1 for a spin on the freeway and out into the desert where the road stretched straight and long.
He had a few hours before he had to bring the car back. Maybe by then he would talk himself into actually returning it.
***
Viggo sat before a small, closed-circuit monitor in his study. The pale glow from the screen was the only light in his house.
On the monitor the car thief moved with sure, compact motions. Tall and thin and dressed in black pants and a black leather jacket, the thief disabled Viggo's elaborate security system and fiddled with something beneath the F-1's hood. The GPS tracking device, no doubt. Too bad the thief didn't know that on this particular car, Viggo had installed a second GPS device. There was no such thing as too much redundancy when a million dollar asset was involved.
Viggo had suspected for some time that someone was tampering with his cars. The cars just felt wrong when he took one out during his brief stays in his Beverly Hills home. At first he thought perhaps his groundskeeper was doing more than taking care of the cars, so on one of the man's days off, he'd installed the closed circuit monitors. The cameras were well-hidden, as were the monitors in his house. This particular monitor was in a new compartment hidden behind one of his Monets, which was itself protected with a separate alarm system.
Viggo had reviewed the tapes recorded during his last business trip to the east coast. He'd been surprised when the tapes showed not his groundskeeper, a middle-aged Korean, but a total stranger moving about his garage like he owned the place.
Only now Viggo wasn't watching a tape but live action. Viggo had canceled his latest business trip at the last minute, instead staying behind with all the lights off in his house, trying to lure the thief with the appearance of an empty house.
Except was it really thievery when the thief brought everything back?
On the monitor, the thief - Viggo couldn't think of a better word for him - got in the F-1 and closed the doors. The security system wasn't equipped for sound, but Viggo knew well enough the sound of the F-1's engine purring to life. He watched as the thief backed the car out of its bay in the garage.
A split second later a green light flashed on the remote in Viggo's hand. The thief was opening the gate to Viggo's property.
Viggo hovered his thumb over the override button on his remote. With one touch he could reverse the gate and close the gate, trapping the thief and his car inside. Then he could call the police and the whole matter would be taken care of.
Only Viggo didn't trigger the override.
He let the thief drive out into the night.
Viggo turned the monitor off, secreted it away behind the Monet and reset the painting's alarm system. He picked up the handheld GPS tracker and the keys to his Porsche 959. It was the only car he owned that had a chance of keeping up with the F-1 if his midnight joyrider decided to open the car up and let it fly.
He didn't know what he'd do if he caught the man. Hell, he didn't even know why he let the thief go. All he did know was that when he pulled the silver Porsche out onto the street and started following the blip on the tracker's screen, he felt more alive than he had in years.
***
Driving the F-1 was a dream. Orlando moved it smoothly through the sparse traffic on the I-15 out of the Los Angeles basin. It climbed the foothills without a hitch, and once the road leveled out, Orlando let the car fly.
Orlando checked the rear-view mirror, at first concerned about any cops who might be lurking. Although no police car would be able to catch him in a flat-out chase, the F-1 was a distinctive enough car that almost guaranteed he would eventually be spotted and caught when he returned the car to Viggo's estate. He could always abandon the car along the road somewhere in the city and get away on foot, but he was a borrower, not a common thief. No matter how much he might want to keep the F-1 for himself, it wasn't his to keep, and he wasn't about to leave it on the street somewhere for thugs to dismantle or destroy just because they could.
After five miles of flying down the open road, Orlando realized someone was following him. Not only following him, the headlights behind him were keeping up with him.
Orlando checked the speedometer. He wasn't going top speed, not yet, but 160 miles per hour was bloody fast for just any car. He increased his speed to 180 - the car behind kept up.
Bollocks.
There was only one person it could be - Viggo. Orlando didn't know how Viggo'd found him, but he obviously had.
The freeway was nearly deserted at this hour. Orlando opened the car up as much as he dared. He zoomed around other cars like they were standing still, wove in and out of the slow-moving semi's like he was driving an obstacle course.
The car behind not only kept up, it started gaining on him.
That was impossible. The F-1 was the fastest car Viggo had, the fastest car Orlando had ever driven.
Heart slamming against his chest, Orlando pushed the car harder. He took chances he wouldn't have otherwise taken, cut the margin between himself and the other cars closer and closer. The nighttime freeway rushed by in a blur. Orlando felt like he was part of the car, part of an incredible, sexy machine eating up the miles in a furious burst of speed.
He nearly didn't see the warning signs.
Road construction.
Orlando was going too fast to brake in time. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
He used every skill he had to avoid other cars that were bunching up and slowing down in front of him. The road narrowed to one lane, and all Orlando could see was the string of red taillights in front of him. The F-1 wouldn't survive an impact, not at these speeds, and neither would anyone Orlando hit. He only had one choice.
He braked hard and turned the wheel, and with a sickening screech and the smell of burning rubber, the F-1 shot off the road and into the desert.
***
Viggo couldn't believe it when he saw the F-1 drive off the road.
He'd seen the road construction warnings, saw the traffic start to slow down even as he raced to keep up with the thief. As the traffic thickened, he'd started to slow down himself - the thief really had nowhere to go - and then he'd watched, mouth open, as the F-1 sped off the freeway and into the desert.
Viggo had half-expected the car to flounder in the sand, or else flip in a spectacular crash, but the desert floor must be harder-packed than it initially looked. The tail lights on the F-1 had fish-tailed as the thief fought to keep the car under control. But it didn't take long for the man to straighten the car out and take off across the desert.
Viggo had only a split second to decide: stop now and let the cops find the car based on the GPS, or follow the thief himself.
It was no contest.
Viggo slowed his car down as he left the road and followed the thief out into the desert.
The Porsche made popping and groaning noises Viggo'd never heard it make before as it slid across the dirt before the tires caught and the car shot forward. Still, it was like driving through quicksand. Viggo was used to speed on the open road or better yet, on a racetrack, not this slogging through mud feeling. He had to hang on tight to the wheel to control the Porsche, and he spent as much time avoiding scrub brush and good-sized rocks as he did keeping his eyes on the taillights in front of him.
He only hoped the thief was taking as much care with the F-1 as Viggo was taking with the Porsche.
Part of him was angry as hell at the thief. Viggo had close friends he never let drive his cars, but this man had the balls to break into his garage and take what was his. And then to treat the F-1 like this? Who the hell did this thief think he was?
But if it had just been about property rights, Viggo would have called the police and left it at that. No, following the thief had been all about the thrill of the chase. The adrenalin rush of driving a powerful machine at high speed.
Viggo knew other men who collected high-powered and high-priced cars just for the art, who never took them for more than what amounted to a spin around the block. Viggo loved beautiful things, and his cars were certainly beautiful things, but he also loved them for the feel of controlling all that power. Driving at high speed in a machine built for just that purpose was the closest thing to flying Viggo knew.
Ahead of him the taillights winked out of sight in a cloud of dust illuminated by Viggo's headlights. Viggo cursed and slowed down so he could safely check out the GPS display without plowing into an unexpected rock or fissure in the desert floor. According to the GPS, they were a good ten miles away from the freeway, and the thief had made an abrupt right turn and... stopped?
What the hell?
Viggo slowed down further, studied the GPS display, peered into gloom. He saw a stand of scrub brush, ghostly pale in his headlights. Beyond the brush, a rocky hill rose off the desert floor. Viggo could see tire tracks left by the F-1. The thief had driven around the base of the hill.
Viggo down-shifted, slowing the Porsche as he followed the tire tracks. He could almost taste the dust kicked up by the F-1 as it passed this way.
Even though he knew the thief had stopped, Viggo was still startled when the Porsche's headlights picked out the dark shape of the F-1. The F-1's headlights were off. And there, leaning against the driver's side door, stood the thief, arms crossed over his chest.
Long and lean, the thief looked just like he did on the closed-circuit security monitor. His black pants and black leather jacket blended in with the black of the car. He could have disappeared into the night with that outfit, but there he stood, waiting. Head tilted, and... with a smile on his face?
What the fuck? Was this all some game? No one played games like this with Viggo Mortensen.
Angry again, Viggo stopped the Porsche ten yards away from the thief. He turned off the motor, left the headlights on, and stormed out of his car.
***
Orlando had never been caught before. Ever. But after ten miles of driving over hard-packed dirt, fighting the steering wheel when the tires caught on half-buried rocks and skidded over sandy stretches, Orlando could still see Viggo's headlights in the rearview mirror. Even shrouded by the dust kicked up by the F-1's tires, the headlights were a steady presence that wasn't going away.
If he was going to have to concede defeat, he might as well do it in style.
So Orlando found a place where he could temporarily disappear from sight. He slid the F-1 into a half-turn, braked, and switched off the lights. He got out and leaned against the driver's side door and waited.
It didn't take long for Viggo to find him. Headlights pinned Orlando where he stood. He grinned. Viggo was driving the Porsche, just liked Orlando had guessed.
Orlando's heart thudded in his chest as Viggo got out of the car. He felt almost as big a rush waiting for his uncertain fate as he did when he was driving.
He half expected Viggo to throw a punch at him. He might have been tempted to do that, had their situations been reversed. Orlando had violated Viggo's property. That was tantamount to violating a man's wife. Or lover, in Orlando's case. He had no idea what Viggo's preferences were in the matter. He hadn't pried into Viggo's personal life. He'd only studied Viggo long enough to know when the man was out of town and left his cars relatively unguarded.
Although, come to think of it, Viggo hadn't exactly been predictable on that point either.
"You want to tell me what the hell you think you're doing?" Viggo shouted at him.
He'd stopped a good ten feet away from Orlando. One hand swiped at his hair, a rough impatient gesture; the other hand was balled into a fist at his side. He was silhouetted in the Porsche's headlights, and Orlando couldn't see his expression clearly. Given the tone of his question, it wasn't hard to guess.
"Going for a little drive," Orlando said pleasantly. "Or at least I was until you started to follow me."
"And it didn't bother you that it wasn't your car."
Orlando thought the answer to that was fairly obvious, so he didn't say anything.
"Just how many times have you 'gone for a little drive' in my cars anyway?"
Orlando didn't answer that question either.
"Have you called the police?" he asked instead. Not that he thought he could get away if Viggo had. The car obviously had a GPS still inside somewhere. Orlando didn't have time to locate and disable it, even if Viggo would let him, which wasn't likely at this point. And taking off on foot into the desert at night was a sure way to get himself killed.
Now it was Viggo's turn not to answer.
They stood there in the quiet of the desert night, the cars' engines ticking as they cooled. A coyote yipped in the distance, and farther away another coyote answered it.
"I would have brought it back," Orlando said. "I always bring them back."
Viggo didn't say anything right away. Orlando got the distinct feeling he was being studied. Measured, maybe. He kept the grin on his face with some effort.
"You would, huh?" Viggo said, and his tone was almost a challenge.
"That's what I said."
"Then do it." Viggo gestured wide with one arm. "After you," he said.
What?
Orlando's surprise must have been clear on his face. Viggo laughed, a short bark with no real humor.
"Thanks to you," Viggo said, "I have two cars out in the middle of nowhere. I can't drive them both back by myself, and I don't want to leave either of them out here. You say you always bring them back. I want you-" Viggo pointed at Orlando. "-to drive that car-" Now he pointed at the F-1. "-back to my place."
Orlando shifted his weight, no longer quite leaning on the car. "And what then?"
Viggo smiled. Probably the same smile he used in the boardroom after he sealed a deal. A man who could afford cars like these no doubt had extensive experience closing deals to his advantage.
"Then I decide what to do with you," Viggo said.
"And if I don't?"
"I keep chasing you across the desert until one of us runs out of gas or manages to get stuck out here in all this nothing."
At this point neither of those options was appealing.
"You should know I don't give up," Viggo said. His smile got bigger and a good deal less pleasant. "Ever."
Orlando already knew he was out of choices. Driving the F-1 at top speed on the open road was one thing; it was suicide to drive at high speeds across the desert at night. He'd been lucky so far that he hadn't ended up at the bottom of a ravine.
"All right," he said. He tilted his head to the side and nodded, just enough to punctuate his agreement. The dry dust still swirling around them threatened to make him sneeze. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. "To your house then."
He opened the batwing door of the F-1 and slid behind the wheel. Before he reached up to close the door, he saw Viggo get in the Porsche, heard the car's engine growl as Viggo turned the key.
Back to Viggo's place, huh? Well, that should be interesting. Orlando didn't think Viggo would call the cops, no matter what he said. This had the feel of personal justice to it. He wondered what form it would take.
***
What the hell was he thinking?
Had he lost his mind tonight along with nearly losing his F-1?
Night's not over yet, Viggo's annoying inner voice reminded him.
No, that was true. He still had to get the F-1 home, and then he could think about why the hell he'd invited the thief to his house.
It had nothing to do with the thief's long, lanky body. Nothing at all to do with his soulful eyes and thick, curly hair, and the way his black leather jacket and pants were so tight they seemed to be painted on.
Nothing. At. All.
Viggo gritted his teeth and gripped the steering wheel harder than necessary. He kept the thief in front of him. The headlights picked up the tire tracks from their race across the desert floor. Viggo would know if the thief left the trail they'd made and decided to make a break for it. So far the man was following the tracks back to the freeway, and at a much more sedate pace than before.
Of course, following the thief was doing nothing to get the vision of the man out of Viggo's mind.
What, for fuck's sake, was wrong with him?
Viggo hadn't gotten where he was in the world by allowing a pretty face to distract him. If Orlando had sat across a conference table and tried that cocky smile and self-confident air, Viggo would have ripped him a new one and Orlando would have left thanking him for the experience.
So what was it then? The combination of fast cars and breakneck speed? The danger of the race, the thrill of the unknown outcome?
Viggo always went into a business meeting knowing the outcome. "Never ask a question you don't know the answer for," his father had told him. "And never take a meeting if you don't have the upper hand going in."
It had been sound advice. Viggo had built up a nice little empire by buying and selling assets, whether those assets were stocks and bonds or businesses ripe for the picking and parsing. He always made a tidy profit, and he always won.
And over the years, with the outcome always a foregone conclusion, the thrill of it had long since disappeared. That's why he'd started collecting cars. Not only collecting them, but driving them the way they'd been meant to be driven.
While Viggo appreciated these cars as beautiful works of art, he also appreciated them for what they were - uniquely powerful automobiles meant for speed. They were thoroughbreds. He might pamper them, keep them in a climate controlled garage, but he took them out and put them through their paces. He'd even driven in a few pro-am races and done well for an amateur.
So why was he taking this thief home with him, essentially going into a meeting without knowing the outcome, without knowing the answers to the questions his annoying inner voice wouldn't let him drown out with the purr of the engine and the rush of the world slipping by? Was it the thrill of the unknown? The rush of thinking on his feet, improvising to meet the situation - the modern-day thrust and parry of white-collar combatants?
Or was it something far more baser than that?
"Fuck it," Viggo muttered.
Too many questions. For the first time in his life he didn't want to know the answers ahead of time. He followed the dust cloud kicked up by the F-1's tires and tried to just live in the moment. It wasn't easy, but as the cars ate up the miles, Viggo discovered it was damn exciting. And he discovered one more thing.
He liked it.
***
The last time Orlando had been in Viggo's garage, it wasn't with the interior lights blazing and Viggo standing guard.
At least now he could get a good look at the man who held Orlando's immediate future, not to mention the next five to ten years of Orlando's life, in his hands.
Orlando had seen photographs of Viggo in the business section of the Times. Those were studio portraits for the most part, posed photographs of Viggo Mortensen, business tycoon, in his natural habitat - the glass and steel of a sterile boardroom. The photographs captured Viggo's casual good looks, his clear-eyed stare, his self-confident posture. They even hinted at a charisma that made him as popular as he was powerful.
But now, standing in close proximity to the man, Orlando discovered that the photographs didn't begin to do him justice. Viggo wasn't only rich, powerful, charismatic, and self-confident. He was quite possibly the sexiest man Orlando had ever met.
Orlando leaned against the side of the F-1, much the same way he had in the desert, and tried to maintain his own composure. So far Viggo hadn't come near him, for which Orlando counted himself lucky. Orlando watched as Viggo triggered a secondary security system - one Orlando hadn't known about - leaving the system Orlando had bypassed alone.
The system Orlando had bypassed on more than one occasion.
Fuck. That meant Viggo had known about Orlando's little illicit drives, and what? Set up a trap for him? Why else leave a perfectly good system offline? A more than perfectly good system, if Orlando was honest with himself.
Orlando swallowed hard. He wondered if his face was on a video surveillance camera somewhere. If Viggo had planned the whole thing, and Orlando was fairly certain he had, it stood to reason that Viggo would have enough evidence against him to lock him away for a good number of years.
Viggo walked the parameter of the garage checking that everything was locked up tight. He'd kept Orlando in sight the whole time but hadn't spoken to him.
When he came to stand in front of Orlando, he didn't crowd him, but stood close enough just the same.
"So what should I do with you?" Viggo asked. His tone was conversational, his voice a raspy drawl that was more than just a little sexy.
"You could let me go," Orlando said, trying to recapture some of the his self-confidence. He didn't think Viggo would just let him walk away with no consequences, but it wouldn't hurt to make the suggestion.
"Just like that?"
Orlando grinned. "I did bring your car back like I said I would."
"That you did. After you took it in the first place."
"It's what I do." Orlando took a chance. "But you knew that. You watched me, didn't you? For quite some time, I'd say."
Viggo didn't respond, only stood there looking at him, his hands on his hips.
"Could almost say you were complicit in the entire affair," Orlando said. He grinned his best cheeky grin. "And if I had your implicit permission, then I haven't committed any crime, have I?"
Viggo made a short, breathy sound, almost a huff but not quite. "You always talk this much?"
"Only when I think it might get me somewhere."
"And you think this time it's going to get you a free pass out the door."
"It might."
Viggo took a step closer. Orlando felt his composure slip.
"If I did that, what kind of a businessman would I be?" Viggo asked. "My reputation as a hardass would be shot to hell."
"I wouldn't tell." Orlando's voice came out much throatier than he'd planned on. He couldn't help it. Driving like he had tonight always turned him on, and here Viggo was, face flushed, eyes bright with his own excitement, standing within arm's reach.
Wait....
Did he just think that Viggo was excited? Was Viggo affected by what happened tonight the same way he was?
Orlando risked a glance down at Viggo's crotch. The man had on well-worn jeans that weren't skin-tight, but the bulge was unmistakable.
Orlando grinned, his self-confidence coming back. "I wouldn't tell at all," he said, his voice practically a purr that he combined with his best come-fuck-me look.
One of Viggo's eyebrows rose halfway up his forehead before he seemed to catch himself, once again looking like a man who's used to being in charge. His eyes traveled over Orlando's body, the same kind of looks Orlando was used to getting from club boys who wanted to blow Orlando in the loo. Maybe he'd get out of this with a quick fuck and be done with it.
"See anything you like?" Orlando asked.
Viggo shook his head, just a small gesture. "Un-fucking-believable," he muttered. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they were so dark and intense Orlando's heart pounded in his chest and blood rushed to his cock. He didn't think he'd ever seen anyone look sexier. He'd certainly never wanted anyone more.
"Lose the pants," Viggo said.
Orlando didn't have to be asked twice. He unbuckled his belt, slid the zip down, and peeled the black leather off his thighs. His cock tented out the front of his boxers. His thighs were beginning to tremble with tension and the uncertainty of his situation. His trousers had dropped below his knees, effectively hobbling him.
Viggo hadn't glanced at his crotch, at least as far as Orlando could tell. Instead Viggo's gaze was riveted on Orlando's face. "Turn around," Viggo said, his voice a deep rasp that made Orlando's cock push harder against the fabric holding it captive.
Orlando did as he was told. As soon as he'd turned his back on Viggo, Viggo grabbed him and slammed him face-first over the hood of the F-1. Orlando brought his hands up just in time to keep himself from kissing the dust-covered black finish.
"What the...."
Orlando didn't get to finish the question before Viggo pulled his boxers down. Set free, Orlando's cock bobbed up to hit the hard, cold metal of the car. He shuddered when he felt Viggo's hand on his bare arse, cupping one of his cheeks. Viggo moved closer, his denim-covered thighs pressing against Orlando's bare skin. Orlando could feel the hardness in Viggo's jeans.
Oh yeah....
All that driving had definitely turned both of them on.
"This what you want?" Viggo asked, his voice a harsh growl as he bent over Orlando's back. "You want me to fuck you?"
Orlando thought it was fairly evident, but he pushed his arse back against Viggo's crotch just to emphasize the point. "Yes," he said, his voice rough.
"Too bad," Viggo said.
What?
Viggo pulled his body away. Orlando tried to turn around to protest, but Viggo still held him pinned to the car with one arm against his shoulders. Viggo's other hand, the one that had been caressing Orlando's arse, suddenly came down on the fleshy part of his bum with a loud, stinging smack!
Orlando shouted with surprise and pain. What the fuck? Viggo was spanking him?
***
Viggo had officially lost his mind. That was the only explanation.
He was in his garage with a half-naked stranger pinned to his car, and he was spanking him.
Insane. Totally insane.
The man squirmed and shouted beneath Viggo's grip, but Viggo just held on tighter. He brought his hand down hard again. The slap seemed to echo in the cavernous garage. Viggo's palm tingled with stinging pain, and he thought if his dick got any harder, it would strangle him in his jeans.
"What the fuck?" the thief shouted. "Are you bloody mad?"
Viggo hit him again.
"Possibly," Viggo said.
He didn't go in for rough sex. Sex was all about pleasure. Viggo liked taking his time, liked to make love. He didn't get turned on by the idea of whips, restraints, or fuck-me heels. He might be a hard case in the boardroom; in the bedroom, he liked his sex a little more on the romantic side. He didn't need candlelight and champagne, but he did like touching and kissing - without the biting, thank you very much - as much as he liked fucking. He supposed it was the same romantic side that made him appreciate late afternoon sunlight and the soft pastels of a Monet.
So why, oh why, did he feel like he was going to cream his jeans the more he spanked this beautiful young thief?
The man's smooth skin was turning a rosy shade of red in roughly the shape of Viggo's hand. The thief grunted every time Viggo's hand impacted with his ass. Viggo realized he'd stopped shouting and had even stopped trying to wriggle out of Viggo's grip. Instead, the his squirming had taken on a whole new purpose. It looked like he was trying to hump Viggo's car.
The thief was just as turned on by this as Viggo was.
Instead of slapping him, the next time Viggo's hand came down, he grabbed a handful of the man's ass and squeezed. The thief groaned and pushed his hips against the car.
Viggo leaned over him. "You gonna 'go for a little drive' in my cars again?" he asked. His voice was so deep and raspy, Viggo almost didn't recognize it himself.
The man shook his head.
Viggo squeezed his ass harder. "I need to hear you say it."
"N...no. No, I won't," the thief said.
His voice sounded strained. It took all of Viggo's self-control not to groan at the sound. He couldn't help himself from burying his nose in the man's soft hair. God, he smelled good, like sweat and leather and sex.
Viggo made himself back away. He let go of the man's shoulders, took his hand off the man's ass. He expected the thief to pull up his pants and beat a hasty exit. But the man stayed right where he was.
"Don't leave me like this," Viggo heard him say. His hands were clenched white-knuckle tight on the hood of the car next to his head. "I'm so close."
This time Viggo did groan. "You don't even know me," he said.
"It doesn't matter." The thief turned his head to look over his shoulder at Viggo. "I want you. I need you."
Whatever reservations Viggo might have felt vanished when he saw the naked want on the young man's face. His eyes were wide and so dark they were almost black. His mouth was wet, his lips parted enough that Viggo could see the tip of his tongue playing with his teeth.
"This is nuts," Viggo muttered. He should stop right now, but Viggo realized he was already past that point.
He pulled the thief off the car, turned him around, and captured his mouth in a deep, forceful kiss. The man didn't fight him; he met Viggo's tongue with his own and wrapped Viggo in a strong embrace. Viggo felt the man's cock hard against his belly.
Viggo fumbled with the button on his jeans. Before he could get his zipper down, the thief had swatted his hand away and pulled it down himself. Viggo shuddered when the thief's hand closed around his aching cock.
"What's your name?" Viggo asked when they broke for air.
"Orlando."
Viggo wrapped his hand around the man's sizeable erection and squeezed. He felt Orlando shiver. Orlando squeezed him in return, and Viggo thrust himself into Orlando's fist.
"Come to bed with me, Orlando," Viggo murmured into Orlando's ear. He snaked his tongue out to lick around the shapely shell.
"Not gonna make it to your bed," Orlando said. He latched his mouth on to Viggo's neck and sucked, and the feeling went straight to Viggo's cock.
Viggo was losing control, and he knew it. "Me either," he said. He pumped his hips against Orlando and fisted Orlando's cock. Orlando's breath whistled in and out through his nose as he kept his mouth latched onto Viggo's neck. With his other hand, Viggo forced Orlando's mouth away from his neck until their mouths met in a wet, wild kiss, and then he was coming.
Viggo was vaguely aware that Orlando had stiffened, and then his body jerked against Viggo's and he was coming too. Viggo smelled him, the musky odor of sex, and felt slippery warmth pulse out of his cock.
Their mouths had parted when they came. Now Orlando sought him out for a kiss that was gentle, that felt almost loving. Viggo gave Orlando's cock one more tender stroke then let go.
Orlando's gaze was deep and soft when he stopping kissing Viggo. "I think someone mentioned bed?" he said.
Viggo blinked. Once it had become clear they wouldn't make it out of the garage, Viggo didn't think Orlando would take him up on his invitation.
"You still want to?" he asked.
"Fuck yeah." Orlando cupped his hand around the back of Viggo's head. "If this is the warm up, I can't wait for the real thing."
"You gonna leave my cars alone?"
Orlando smiled. "If you want me to. But I'm hoping that maybe someday you'll invite me for a ride."
"Someday, huh?"
Orlando stroked his thumb over Viggo's cheek. "Yeah."
Yeah. Viggo kissed Orlando again, then took his hand to lead him into the house. He didn't bother to tuck himself away, although he let Orlando pull his pants up high enough to be able to walk. They'd be taking their clothes off soon enough anyway, and there was no one in the house who'd see them.
Viggo was man who appreciated beauty. He surrounded himself with beautiful things -- hung beautiful artwork on his walls, collected beautiful, powerful automobiles. Viggo glanced at the man who held his hand. Orlando was beautiful, but it was more than beauty that made Viggo invite Orlando to his bed. He didn't know where this would go, but he was willing to take a chance that maybe he'd found a kindred spirit.
He might know the outcome of every business negotiation he undertook, but there was something to be said for taking a chance.
"You know," Orlando said as he leaned in and gave Viggo a peck on the cheek. "I'm going to have to get even for that spanking."
Viggo grinned. "Oh really? I thought it was kind of mild punishment for grand theft auto."
"It was not grand theft." Orlando bumped his shoulder into Viggo's. "It was grand borrowing auto."
"There's no such thing."
"Are you sure?"
Orlando's eyes were alight with good humor. Viggo wondered what he had in mind, and found he didn't care. As long as it involved Orlando and his bed, that would be good enough.
The End