Fic: Man in a Black Suit (Karl/OFC)

[urbancate]

Written for affectingly  's picspam of AWESOME, including Karl in a black suit getting out of a car

Karl/OFC, R, about 1000 words, very little of redeeming or pertinent quality, movie and London references

She meets him in a taxi. It's random and exactly the sort of thing you think might happen to you when you move to London, but never actually does. She is crap at hailing down those damn black cabs; she is not assertive enough or not London enough or something. A man in a black suit has summoned one to the curb with ease and she sighs, because this is how it goes. Her arm is out and she really is trying her to best to look important enough to snag a cab when she realizes the man isn't getting into the cab, he's holding the door open and looking at her.

She meets his eyes, and Oh, and he gestures to the cab. "Share a cab?"

"You don't even know where I'm going," she says, but her feet are already moving, her damn feet have already decided that wherever she's going, she would like it to be with him, please. yes, that one, the one with the ridiculously open shirt underneath the suit and the slightly wicked raise to his eyebrow as he waits for her assent.

"That's the adventurous part," he smiles and holds the door as she slides onto the seat. Then he's sitting next to her and with a shock she recognizes him. Her life is becoming a movie, an honest-to-Richard-Curtis movie. Any second now someone will say surreal, but nice and she will know that there is a camera somewhere.

"I usually take the Tube," she offers as conversation, explanation, whatever, as she feels a blush creep up her face.

"Where to, then," the cabbie interrupts.

"Ladies first," says the man, the man in black, the man named Karl.

She gives her address in Highbury and feels the surreal factor go up another notch. "It's okay, you know, if you don't want to ride all the way to North London and back - it's gotta be out of your way."

"I don't mind at all."

"Are you sure? Because you look like maybe you have somewhere to be?"

"Just trust me," he smiles at her and, well, there is no arguing with that smile, is there. "I'm Karl, by the way."

"Bridget," she laughs and shakes her head a little, waiting for the joke. There is always a joke. She is American, her name is Bridget (Knightley), she lives in London, in Highbury, to be precise - as if Fielding and Curtis and Austen conspired to construct her current life for the entertainment of others.

The joke doesn't come. Instead he shakes her hand, brief and warm contact that sets something off deep inside her. "Pleasure to meet you, Bridget."

When the cab pulls to a stop in front of the tall brick piece of the city she calls home, she doesn't have to ask, he simply follows. Apparently a cab ride with an outrageously attractive man in a black suit is all it takes to find her sense of adventure.

He doesn't hover or crowd her as she unlocks the front door, he doesn't have to - he takes up too much space as it is, has already crowded her awareness with his presence.

With the door closed behind them, there is an instant, a moment of pause, because she really doesn't know what to do about this Kiwi sex bomb who has followed her home. Or, she knows what she wants to do, but adventure is a relatively new concept.

He leans into her, now, crowding, and she has to look up rather sharply to meet his eyes. "That's just not fair, you know," she blurts out.

"What's not fair," he says, one of his hand finding a spot on the wall next her head.

"The tall, dark, smoldery thing. It's really not fair."

"How do you figure?"

His half-open shirt is right in front of her, tanned skin beckoning, and she decides she won't resist. "Because you're doing it, but you're not doing anything about it," she says, bringing two fingers to the exposed skin of his neck and chest, drawing a small line downward.

"That can be remedied." He leans in closer, until her eyes are fluttering shut in anticipation. His mouth tastes sweet and sinful and warm and the sweep of his tongue is a shock, a honey shock that shoots right through her.

The remaining buttons of his shirt come undone beneath her fingers while he unzips the back of her dress and keeps kissing her with slow deliberation, while the air in her lungs grows thick and heated. She nips at his lower lip and he returns the gesture - bite, lick, suck - and repeats, until she's twisting in his arms and digging her fingers into the heat of his back, sliding her hands down for more solid contact, for more, more.

If this is adventure, she thinks with her last breath of coherency, getting naked in the entry hall with a man she barely knows, then yes, she will take more adventure.

Somehow they navigate to the couch - it's closer than the bed - and he pushes her down and then pushes inside her and Oh, god.

"That's it, that's it," his voice is rough and low against her ear. Nothing has ever felt this good, she has never been so full or so on fire.

And then he moves and everything flies out into space, to somewhere that is not her head, because there is only room for their bodies, for heat and friction and pressure and everything wonderful and delicious. 

He stays the afternoon, the evening, the night. He redraws the maps and sets different boundaries on her body, on possibilities and adventure and tales of strangers meeting in a taxi cab.