“So, I just got off the phone with the insurance agent,” Blaine says, putting his jacket around Kurt’s shoulders and rubbing his husband’s arms to keep the chill of the night air away. “If we can call a cab to take us back to the hotel, they’ll have a rental for us in the morning.”

“That’s…that’s great,” Kurt grumbles, more embarrassed than upset. He hears Blaine snicker, and Kurt hangs his head. He can’t look Blaine in the eyes, but he also doesn’t want to see Blaine’s baby, his BMW 550i xDrive Sedan, wrapped around the trunk of an ancient English Oak.

“Are you alright? Nothing hurts? Nothing broken?” Blaine asks for the fifth time, and for the fifth time Kurt answers, “Yeah…sure…great.”

There’s nothing else that Kurt can think of to say. Physically, he’s fine. Emotionally, he could live a hundred years and never, ever live this down.

Plus, Blaine’s being such a good sport about this, and that just makes the whole thing suck worse.

They’re supposed to be on vacation, one week away to visit Kurt’s dad over the Thanksgiving holiday, but also to escape from work, from stress, from everything – crowded, hectic New York City; Blaine’s ultra-needy graduate students; Kurt’s new winter clothing line, coming together slowly, but on time for the Vogue Winter Extravaganza. But Blaine’s phone wouldn’t stop ringing – Master’s students freaking out about final projects, his private students asking for advice on upcoming auditions (one of who performed their entire solo for Blaine’s voicemail, hoping for a note by note critique), new professors to the graduate program who need his guidance on everything from assigning end-of-the-year performance projects to grading student recitals. He shut the damn thing off, but that didn’t solve the problem. It only delayed it for a while. Once he turned it back on, he found he had a million messages, both text and voice, and in less than a minute, it began to ring again.

Eventually, Blaine had to change his ring tone because, as much as he loves Katy Perry, he got sick of hearing her so much.

Driving down the Interstate from the Hummel house to their hotel, Blaine was obviously tense, gripping the wheel so tight that Kurt thought he might tear it off of the steering column. Kurt had to do something. He’d never seen Blaine so wound up. He was afraid that if he didn’t find a way to calm Blaine down, he’d snap, veer off the highway in a rage, and drive straight into a tree.

Not really, but Kurt always had a certain appreciation for the dramatic.

At most, Blaine would get back to their room and spend the whole night awake watching Battlestar Galactica re-runs on TV. He was already taking medication for a chronic case of stress related acid reflux, and had suffered three major bouts of insomnia since the beginning of the school year. Kurt didn’t want that to happen again, not here, where they had come back to the familiar, to their family and roots, to get away from it all.

Kurt had an idea, but he didn’t know quite how to execute it. It wasn’t exactly his idea. It came from an old movie his dad had been watching during A&E’s salute to Steve Martin. Kurt had rolled his eyes when he saw it, thought it was immature and uncouth, but looking at Blaine, cheeks flushed with the anxiety of phone call avoidance and a vein throbbing in his neck, Kurt thought he would give it a try.

What could it hurt?

Kurt had given Blaine countless hand jobs on the road before. A blow job couldn’t be much more difficult.

Blaine was so focused on the road, his brain caught up in thoughts that had nothing to do with Lima, Thanksgiving, visiting his in-laws, or even Kurt, that he didn’t notice when Kurt began to undo the buckle of his belt, unbutton the fly of his jeans, and then sneak underneath his arm to get at his flaccid member. It took Kurt grabbing his husband’s cock and sticking it in his mouth before Blaine reacted, jumping at the unexpected sensation of hot and wet, then letting out a long gasp as that heat crept under his skin and invaded his entire body.

“God, Kurt,” Blaine moaned. “W-what are you doing? You can’t…we shouldn’t…be doing that now.”

“You don’t think you’re a good enough driver to handle a little…distraction?” Kurt looked up from Blaine’s lap - a coy, half-smile on his moistened lips, and in his dark, seductive eyes.

“I didn’t say that.” That, to Kurt, was as good as the go ahead, and he went back to circling the head of Blaine’s cock with his tongue. “B-but…” Blaine interrupted in a shuddering voice, “w-what if a cop notices your head in my lap and we get pulled over?”

Kurt climbed up Blaine’s chest, right hand stroking slowly, the fingers of his left hand threading into his husband’s hair, and whispered in his ear, “I’ll just tell that nosy officer that I was sitting here beside my sexy husband, getting hard and bothered, and I couldn’t help myself. I just had to have my mouth on him now. Then I’d tell him to move along.”

Blaine smirked. “You’d say that, hmm?”

“You bet your gorgeous ass I would,” Kurt said, employing the voice of his inner vixen, and sank slowly back into his husband’s lap to get his mouth around him again.

“But…I wanna be able to properly enjoy it,” Blaine whined, even as his husband’s talented tongue began long laps up and down his shaft.

“If you don’t enjoy it,” Kurt purred, “I promise a repeat performance back at the hotel.”

“Mmm, you promise?”

“I do.” Kurt paused a moment to kiss Blaine gently down the length of his erection – soft little pecks he knew drove his husband wild. “So relax, keep your eyes on the road, and try not to kill us, okay?”

“Okay,” Blaine agreed, adjusting his seat back as far as it would go with him toeing the pedals, and let Kurt work his magic.

Kurt hadn’t meant to make this the best b.j. of Blaine’s life. He had hoped to keep his husband at a low boil, relax him but leave him a horny mess so that when they got back to their room, the real fun could begin. But Blaine sounded like he was enjoying it so much, that he was so desperate to cum, it spurred Kurt on, and he found he was doing everything he could to make his husband moan louder, buck up into his mouth, even swear a little.

It didn’t take long to get Blaine to the point where he was shallowly, but rhythmically, snapping his hips, and even though Kurt had intended on torturing him all the way back to their hotel, he was kind of relieved. He had heard the distinct sound of Blaine’s engine revving twice now. Kurt couldn’t get a good look at the speedometer, but he had a feeling his husband might be exceeding the speed limit.

“Oh, God, Kurt. I’m…I’m cumming, Kurt. I’m…” It was at the moment of his fantastic climax that Blaine shut his eyes for a split second, opening them when a horn sounded too loud and much too close for comfort. Blaine turned the wheel abruptly, swerving out of the path of oncoming traffic and plowing into a tree. However he hit the aging oak, his airbags malfunctioned, which turned out to be a blessing, since the force behind one of those deploying might have snapped Kurt’s neck. As it was, Blaine had managed to slow down enough that even though the wreckage to the vehicle looked tremendous, the two shaken men were able to unbuckle their seat belts and simply exit the car.

Kurt’s mother always said that there was a separate God looking after fools and children.

Kurt peeks up at the smoking remains of Blaine’s demolished engine.

Kurt is a thirty-five year old man. That definitely makes him a fool.

Flashing lights approach from the slow lane and pull up beside Blaine’s wrecked BMW. Kurt knew a highway patrol officer would probably be along any time, but he still didn’t want to have to face up to what happened. Not to a man with a badge and a gun. The officer doesn’t get out of his patrol car right away, which unnerves Kurt, but he has to remind himself that the officer has things he has to do first - run Blaine’s plates, check the secret police database to make sure it’s not stolen, and that two men fitting his and Blaine’s description aren’t wanted by the law. When the officer does leave his car, he has in his possession the brightest flashlight Kurt has ever seen, shining almost in their eyes, its beam bouncing from Blaine, who raises a hand and waves; to Kurt, who nods solemnly and looks down at his shoes; to the once immaculate black car, folded almost in half. Luckily, no one had pulled over with them, either to help them or harass them, so the only two people who really know what happened are Kurt and Blaine.

“Good evening,” the officer says. “You gentlemen look like you got yourselves into a bit of trouble.”

“Yes, officer,” Blaine says. “I’m afraid we did.”

“Are either of you hurt?”

Kurt curls in on himself further, but Blaine shakes his head, cool and calm, as if his husband isn’t trying to disappear into his own skin, like that house at the end of the movie Poltergeist that crumbled inside out and then blinked out of existence.

“No, sir,” Blaine answers. “Luckily, we both came out okay. Not even a scratch.”

“That’s good to hear.” The officer approaches them with a genuine enough smile. “Do you need a tow truck?”

“No.” Blaine continues to carry the conversation, and Kurt, maintaining a low profile, is quietly impressed by how collected he seems. So, maybe that blow job helped just a little. Kurt has that to be proud of. It probably wasn’t worth a $69,000 car, though. “I contacted my insurance company and they’re sending a tow.”

“Great. In that case, can either one of you tell me what happened?”

Blaine glances sideways at his mortified husband, a smile on his lips hiding multiple embarrassing remarks at Kurt’s expense.

“Uh, do you want to tell him what happened, honey?” Blaine asks. “You did say you’d handle it.”

“No,” Kurt replies quietly, holding himself tighter, thinking that now is not the appropriate time for his husband to be teasing him. Though, if Kurt had stuck to what was appropriate, waited till they got to their hotel room before deep throating his husband, they might not be in this mess. “No, I do not.”