He thought to himself that this must be what Tantalus felt like, to have the means to assuage his terrible thirst and hunger so very close, and yet so far out of reach, retreating just beyond his lips every time he approached.
They were sharing a bottle of Bâtard Montrachet which tasted like bottled sunlight and autumn leaves. Arthur was tucking in to a grilled sea bass fillet with celariac remoulade and a timbale of cannelini beans and aubergine, and talking animatedly - between polite mouthfuls - about how he actually preferred surrealist painting more than Piranesi or Escher, and Eames was waxing lyrical in reply about De Chirico and Ernst and felt pleasantly unsurprised to see that there was a touch of chaos under all that order. He had ordered a whole lobster, because he felt that an outlandish situation such as having dinner with Arthur deserved food to match.
“My dear boy, you have to try this. It's exceptionally good.”
He held out a piece of lobster between thumb and forefinger, dripping with glossy butter, and offered it to Arthur. Eames knew perfectly well that Arthur would not compliantly lean forwards and take both lobster and fingers into his mouth, swirling his tongue around them like Eames wanted him to. This was the real world, after all, but Eames couldn't resist at least playing out his half of the fantasy.
Arthur gave him a withering look, picked up his fork and speared the piece of lobster between Eames's fingers, twisting it out of Eames's grip and popping it into his mouth. He did at least hum appreciatively as he chewed, and Eames leaned back in his chair, sucking the butter off his fingers and thumb himself, which wasn't nearly as much fun.
“Don't you ever get even just a little bit dirty?” Eames asked suggestively, swiping the last of the butter off his thumb with the tip of his tongue.
Arthur swallowed his mouthful, took a sip of wine, then looked Eames directly in the eyes.
“You have no idea,” he said, and there was a sudden heat in his dark eyes. Eames felt his stomach tighten and flip, and struggled to maintain his urbane façade and not sound too eager as he drawled,
“Oh darling, do tell. Did you once get a splash of mud on your shoe in the rain? Was it very traumatic for you?”
He watched as Arthur shifted in his chair, stretching his long legs out under the table. Eames thought about those legs, going on for miles, slender, but strong and agile, and wouldn’t they look just perfect wrapped around his waist, or sliding between his thighs, when he was brought out of his reverie by the faintest brush of Arthur’s ankle against his. Eames held perfectly still; he’d spent years perfecting his poker face for occasions such as these. While his belly roiled with heat and want and newly soaring hope, he waited, expecting Arthur to realise his mistake and move in any second.
“Actually,” Arthur said, and he was as collected as ever, though there was a hint of a challenge in his direct gaze, “there have been plenty of times when I’ve ended with mud on my hands and knees and, well, pretty much everywhere else too.”
Even the greatest poker player on earth would have had some trouble to keep themselves from reacting when faced with cycling all the possible scenarios where Arthur - fastidious to an almost pathological degree - could possibly have ended up with mud on his knees - Arthur on his knees for God’s sake!
Luckily Eames was rescued from a downward spiral into madness by the arrival of dessert. Eames had a fig tart with salted caramel ice cream, and Arthur had a ramekin filled with lavender and honey crème brulée.
“Good?” Eames asked as Arthur popped the first spoonful into his mouth and his eyes fluttered closed for a second. He couldn’t help but notice how Arthur’s ankle was still tucked snugly against his own, and he felt it flex for a second as Arthur swallowed.
“Exceptionally good,” Arthur said, licking his lips as he repeated Eames’s words back to him.
“Share then, dear. Don’t keep it all to yourself,” Eames said, and chose that moment to unleash a number 9 on his scale of charming smiles, coupled with a penetrating gaze from under his eyelashes. It was one of his most potent combinations, but failed to have the desired effect as Arthur protectively pulled his dessert plate closer to himself and said with a smirk,
“It’s far too good for the likes of you.”
Eames’s mouth parted in an involuntary indignant gasp, and he had half a mind to take the initiative and fling his wine over Arthur, and finally have the satisfaction of seeing him thoroughly sullied.
Arthur, quick as ever, had taken advantage of Eames’s open mouth and reached across to hastily shove a ready spoonful of his oh-so-exquisite dessert between Eames’s lips. Eames blinked and swallowed reflexively as Arthur pulled the spoon back out. There was a tiny quirk at the corner of Arthur’s mouth, and a look in his eyes, the same kind of triumph when he’d dispatched an entire roomful of projections singlehandedly.
“I’m not so cruel that I wouldn’t give a man a taste of what he’s missing.”
Eames swallowed again, and then said without a trace of humour,
“Only a taste? How much more cruel to whet his appetite with only a morsel, and deny the rest to him.”
That was when Eames felt Arthur’s ankle slide away from his, and his predicted disappointement changed into something else as he felt it press along the length of his foot, the movement almost deliberately slow. Arthur was laughing, but there was no mockery there, only a genuine warmth in his smile as he said emphatically,
“No matter how charming you are, Mr Eames, you are not having any more of my dessert. Eat your own.”
He added as an afterthought,
“And because I can see you wondering. Fed training.”
“What is?” Eames said, only half-listening by now. Everything felt too tight. His shirt. His pants. His skin.
“The mud. I was covered in head to foot.”
That got Eames’s attention and he leaned forwards, stroking his lower lip with his finger meditatively.
“Photos,” he said, “or it didn’t happen.”
They lounged out in the garden, drinking antique XO cognac, and Arthur bummed another cigarette off Eames, as they listened to the constant, soothing chirrup of the cicadas in the trees. Their twin coils of smoke rose up into the night, furling and coiling around one another in the soft, warm breeze, and up into the deep violet and indigo of the sky.
“Another drink?” Eames asked, draining his glass. It turned out that dinner with company, particularly Arthur’s company, was something that might bear repeating. There was a long pause as Arthur seemed to consider this deeply, before he replied,
“No.” Another pause. “I'm ready for bed.”
“At least it's not far for you to go,” Eames said, not letting even the tiniest hint of chagrin filter into his voice. He'd never been to Arthur's apartment, but had no doubt that it would be full of expensive art, thick rugs, painfully sophisticated furniture, and swathes of taupe and cream and chrome and dark wood. And a bed that was far too large for one person.
“Not far at all,” Arthur said, sitting forwards and stubbing his cigarette out in the cut-glass ashtray. His eyes slid over and found Eames’s, and he said very quietly, very clearly, “When we got here, I booked one of the bungalows.”
It took a moment for Eames to process the information that had just been given to him, and what it implied. Arthur was watching him with quiet intensity, and Eames couldn't pretend to himself any longer that this was an ordinary evening, and that Arthur was innocent and oblivious and not interested in him. He sat up and looked Arthur in the eye.
“Darling, am I imagining things, or is this a date?”
Arthur laughed softly.
“I honestly thought you’d be better at this.”
“At what?” Eames said, feeling mildly put-out.
“Seduction,” Arthur said, and the way it rolled off his tongue was the word made flesh.
Eames was unused to having his prowess called into question, and far too accustomed to the barbs between their interactions, so there were a few drops of acid in his voice as he sniped back,
“Oh I do beg your pardon for disappointing you, Casanova, but I’d given up on the more traditional techniques with you ages ago when they weren’t getting me anywhere. Most people I try it on with are flat on their backs within the hour and eternally grateful afterwards.”
“I’m not most people,” Arthur replied, and there was no hint of apology in his eyes. Instead there was a candour which halted Eames’s desire to defend his dubious honour right in its tracks.
“No. You really aren’t,” he admitted ruefully. All at once he felt exhausted. The effort of keeping his guard up, even now, even when it seemed like he might finally get what he’d wanted for so long weighed heavy on him. He was still expecting the rug to be pulled out from under his feet, for it to be an elaborate joke on Arthur’s part, a dream within a dream, and so he shoved his hand into his pocket, turning the little disc in there over and over.
“So you had to resort to less conventional methods, did you?” Arthur was asking softly.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Eames said, feigning innocence.
“The food, Eames. And not just any food. The kind that leaves most people with a dry cleaning bill afterwards. And saying you want to fill me up? God, Freud would have had an absolute field day with you.”
“Hush, you,” Eames chided, even as his heart hammered in his chest. “My poor stymied libido needed an outlet somewhere. The displacement was inevitable.”
Arthur wasn’t smiling. He was running his finger around the rim of his brandy glass until it emitted a soft, low hum.
“Why now?” Eames asked, frustrated at the thought of wasted years as he watched that elegant finger swirl round and round with the lightest touch.
“I’m only human, Eames.”
“Could have fooled me.”
The glass let out a last, lingering ring as Arthur pushed it aside.
“Forgive me for taking a little more time to be convinced that my con-man colleague is showing me genuine interest. And for showing more than a little reluctance to get involved because we work together. It’s got so much potential to get -”
“Messy,” Eames said without hesitation, thinking he had the gist of it. “Like Dom and Mal.”
Arthur was shaking his head, no.
“Even before all that went the way it did. I can’t, I’m... not so good at...” he paused, searching for the right word. Eames waited for a moment longer, then offered quietly,
“Relationships?” This time Arthur nodded, and his hand crept across the table. His knuckles whispered across the back of Eames’s wrist.
“I need you to understand that that’s what I would want. Not just a quick fuck.”
Eames turned his wrist over and caught hold of Arthur’s hand.
“Do you think I’m that cruel, to only give you a taste?”
Arthur laughed softly.
“You really can be a bit of a bastard sometimes.”
“Takes one to know one. Besides, I’m a magnificent bastard, not just your run-of-the-mill everyday cad,” Eames said, slipping his fingers up past Arthur’s cuff to caress his wrist. “Did you plan this whole thing, this evening?” he said quietly.
“Once I figured out what you were trying to do-”
“You figured it out?”
“It’s kind of my job, remember?” Arthur said with a laugh. “Besides, you really weren’t subtle. But it was the fact that you went to the trouble to get things I’d like, that I’d enjoy, and that you’d noticed I’d gotten thinner - that only tends to happen when you’re not there.”
Eames’s heart contracted, and he momentarily tightened his grip protectively on Arthur’s wrist; the bones there were narrow, but he could feel the unassailable strength and power that ran through Arthur’s whipcord body.
“It made it really difficult to keep kidding myself that you didn’t care,” Arthur continued, voice barely above a whisper. His mouth twisted up as he added, “even if you were trying to sabotage the contents of my wardrobe in the process.”
“The way to a man’s heart might be through his stomach,” Eames said sagely, “but the way to his body is through his clothes.”
“Don’t be so fucking glib,” Arthur said, fire in his eyes.
“Don’t be so fucking bossy,” Eames said mildly, sliding his legs under the table to catch and squeeze one of Arthur’s ankles between his.
“See, the thing is, Eames,” Arthur said, and Eames felt the tremor of Arthur’s pulse quicken under his fingers. “ All this week while you’ve been doing your best to get me in a mess with my lunch, you’ve forgotten something.”
“I’ve been watching you. I’ve watched you getting yourself wet with the juice from that damned stupid peach - which was fantastic, by the way - and sucking up all that spaghetti, and getting your lips all covered in icing sugar so I just wanted to lick it off them, and then how wide you can get your jaw open to fit that enormous burger into it. I’ve had to stay sat down at my desk all week because of you. And the spare ribs, Jesus, your fucking mouth.”
Arthur reached out his other hand and it found Eames’s lapel, and Eames felt the fabric bunch around his neck as Arthur gripped tight. He seemed to be finding it hard to breathe. Eames had stopped breathing altogether.
“Your fucking mouth,” Arthur hissed again, staring at it.
There was a scraping, discordant sound of metal on stone as Eames shoved the small table barricading the space between them aside with his foot, nearly sending the glasses and ashtray flying, and then Arthur was on him, hunched over the chair awkwardly so he could tilt Eames’s head up and back to get to his mouth.
At the first press of Arthur’s lips, Eames half-dragged him down into the chair, not caring who might see, or where they were, because fuck it, this was LA, and this was Arthur. The next second a moan caught in his throat, because Arthur had his knee wedged up on the chair between Eames’s splayed thighs, right up against the ridge of his cock, and Arthur was crouched over him and there was nothing else in existence except the warm slide of Arthur’s tongue against his, the heat of his hands, the tiny, throaty gasps and the way he he could feel everything shuddering, breaking apart as Arthur tried his hardest not to shake with desire in his arms.
Arthur pulled away from him for a moment to catch his breath, and when Eames made to draw him close again, Arthur stopped him, holding him at arms length and whispering fiercely,
“What we do in the dream, what you have to do, who you have to do, that’s okay. It’s always been okay. But I want to be the only one who gets to touch you in the real world.”
Eames took hold of Arthur’s tie and enunciated very clearly, while his mind became a gibbering hot mess,
“Where is this room?”
Eames found himself being tugged along by his hand along the pathway through the dark trees, and it was so easy now, to interlock his fingers with Arthur’s, the grip of his hand sure and steady. Their progress was halted by the need to stop, to kiss, to reassert that this was happening, that it was going to happen, and the overhanging leaves and branches were the only witnesses to their first faltering dance of ‘yes’ and ‘now’ and ‘oh, you damned tease’.
Eames couldn’t keep off him as Arthur fumbled with the keycard, sliding his hands round Arthur’s narrow waist and down to trace the shape of his erection, because now he’d been given the permission to touch he wasn’t going to stop.
“You have led me on a merry chase, darling,” Eames muttered between kisses into the back of Arthur’s neck, and thought of how many times he’d imagined it, this very moment. Nothing could have prepared him for the real thing, as Arthur finally shoved the door open, turned, and dragged Eames in with him.
“It’s not a chase when you’re side by side running from the same thing,” Arthur said, the colour high in his cheeks.
He tried to kick the door shut and it caught on Eames’s elbow, which hurt, and Arthur said, “Sorry, sorry,” and he didn’t sound like he meant it, but he made up for it by backing Eames up against the door with his hips and kissing him like he’d been starving his whole life. The totality of him was so complete, so impossible to replicate in a dream, the way he commanded every sense. Even the most skilled dreambuilder would have floundered at the challenge.
“What did Ariadne say to you?” Eames muttered into Arthur’s ear, when he could break away from his mouth long enough to speak. Arthur shifted in his arms until he was looking straight at him.
“When? She’s been harping on at me all week.”
“Has she indeed?”
“Yeah. On Tuesday she asked me how long I’ve been in - how long I’ve liked you for. I told her she was imagining things. She told me to get the fuck over myself and that for a smart guy I was being incredibly stupid to waste another minute. She was right, of course. Not that I needed any more persuasion. You did that all by yourself.”
“All the same, remind me to send her flowers. Lots of them. Really big ones.”
Eames kissed him then, slow and deep. He wanted to savour Arthur, to hold on to him and let each sensation draw through his body, like fine wine lingering on the tongue. But there was so much need to devour, to ravage, to gorge himself completely. The last shred of pragmatism that was left in his mind made him draw back for a moment and wedge a hand into his pocket.
“I suppose we should dispense with the formalities,” Eames said, and flipped his poker chip onto the hall table.
Arthur pulled his die out of the breast pocket of his waistcoat and tossed it to land flush against the chip, his eyes resting on it only long enough to be satisfied with how it fell before he turned back to Eames. A little piece of balled-up fluff the exact same navy as Eames’s linen trousers had come out along with it, and it eddied around the tabletop. Eames laughed long and low when he caught sight of it, and realised that he had been thoroughly beaten at his own game, and yet somehow felt like he’d still won. He watched as Arthur smiled, knowing exactly why Eames was so amused, and shrugged off his jacket, fitting it around the back of the hall chair with practised grace. Eames reached out and hooked his hand into one of Arthur’s trouser braces where it peeked out from under the back of his waistcoat and used it to pull him close again, wrapping his arms round Arthur’s waist until they were flush against one another, knee to chest in one unbroken line. He tilted his hips forwards once, twice, and Arthur gasped and bucked back against him hard.
“Is that real enough for you?” Eames asked, his voice a low purr.
Arthur was shaking his head, his pupils blown wide even as he tried to sound offhand.
“I’m an empiricist. I have to see things, touch them, feel them, to believe them.”
“I can assure you I don’t have the genital equivalent of your beloved Penrose steps in my underwear, but don’t let me stop you doing all the research you need to satisfy your curiosity.”
“That really shouldn’t turn me on as much as it does,” Arthur said huskily, and started unbuttoning Eames’s shirt.
Eames had dreamed of this a hundred times - a thousand - more. Several times a day in graphic, glorious technicolour. Waking; sleeping; in dreams both natural and artificial. He’d catalogued ever detail of what would happen, the way Arthur’s head would tilt just so, the look on his face, the way he would feel under Eames’s fingertips as clothing surrendered to skin. Yet he was the one being deftly and methodically stripped. He’d managed to loosen the knot on Arthur’s tie and slip it over his head, and undo the two top buttons on his shirt, but that was all. Arthur was simply too quick, his hands were everywhere, working at zips and buttons, and at every touch Eames felt tremors under his skin as his muscles contracted, his breath coming fast and shallow in his chest.
“Urgh, I hate your clothes so much,” Arthur said, working on a particularly stubborn button with dogged determination.
“Probably not the best moment to be insulting my sartorial choices, you snob,” Eames said, trying and failing to get at least one item of Arthur’s clothing off, and settling instead for a good, thorough grope of his ass.
Arthur looked up with a glint in his eye.
“I hate them because they’re in my way. I haven’t been able to look at paisley for years without getting hard.”
Eames’s grin was broad and smug and delighted.
“Does that mean you want me to leave my shirt on?”
“No. Really no.” And Arthur had already pulled it down over his wrists and onto the floor, biting and sucking at Eames’s throat and it felt too good to be real, too real to be a dream. Eames arched into the wet heat of Arthur’s tongue against the tattoos on his bicep, and then his chest, as Arthur tried to lick the ink right out of his skin. He reached out his hand and ran it over Arthur’s head, through his still-neat hair, and when Arthur moaned his assent into Eames’s navel he dug his fingers deeper into the dark strands, tugging gently, enough to destroy its precision completely and send it into soft tufts between each knuckle.
Arthur had sunk to his knees and was pulling off Eames’s shoes, and Eames grinned to himself because there was a sight he thought he’d never see. But then he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out when Arthur tilted his face up and nudged his cheek into the swell of Eames’s erection. Arthur was rolling off his socks, his fingers brushing against the sensitive spots on Eames’s ankles, and it made Eames’s chest ache a little to see how Arthur tucked each sock into its respective shoe methodically, before shoving them out of his way across the polished floor.
Eames watched as Arthur dipped his hands inside his waistband and eased his trousers down over his hips. He still had his head pressed against Eames’s groin, and as Eames twisted and wriggled to kick off his trousers, Arthur mouthed at his cock through the cloth of his briefs and Eames nearly fell over. Arthur laughed softly and did it again, and Eames could feel his teeth dragging along the length of him through the fabric and his cock twitched and twitched and he couldn’t wait any longer.
Eames practically ripped his own briefs off himself, as Arthur stood up and stepped back to watch unblinkingly as Eames slid them down over his thighs and kicked them off across the floor. He stood for a moment, breathing hard and leaning against the door as Arthur silently feasted his eyes on him, his gaze intense and focused as it raked the length of Eames’s body, and Eames thought to himself that Arthur could probably make him come just by looking at him. Arthur swallowed hard. Eames watched a bead of sweat that ran from his temple, down his cheek and neck and disappear behind his shirt collar, and wanted to chase it with his tongue. He grunted and his hand went to his cock, but before he could touch himself Arthur was on him, pinning his wrists against the wall, his eyes bright and fierce and face very close.
“No,” he breathed, hot against Eames’s mouth, “no. I’m the only one who gets to touch you.” He slanted his head and fitted his mouth over Eames’s, and it would have felt like being claimed, owned, were it not for the way Eames could feel the fine tremors going through Arthur’s body, juddering against his pinned wrists. Arthur’s kisses were savage, all teeth and growling, and when Eames slid his tongue into Arthur’s mouth to deepen it further, Arthur sucked on it hard, nudging Eames’s legs apart so he could ease between them and roll his hips sinfully, grinding his dick against Eames’s. Arthur let go of Eames’s wrists and ran his hands up his arms, gripping at the muscles of his biceps and massaging them under his thumbs. A thrill went through Eames, liquid and electric up his spine, to be standing there naked with Arthur pressed up against him, still fully clothed and so very hard for him. Each tiny movement was such sweet friction; the silky-scratchy prickle of wool against his nipples and cock, the scuff of starched cotton against his throat, and the buttons of Arthur’s waistcoat, cool and maddening against his heated, oversensitised skin.
Eames took hold of Arthur’s shirt collar and pulled it down far enough so he could get his mouth on his neck, lips brushing lightly over the pale skin there, tasting Arthur’s rapid pulse, and then he fastened his teeth in deeply, hard enough that he heard the muscles crunch, hard enough to leave a bruise there for days to come. Arthur snarled and grabbed him by the hair, but not to pull him away. He shoved against him and angled his head so he could leave a mark of his own, and Eames choked out a gasp as he felt Arthur bite the long, thick tendon that ran along the length of his throat.
“You know,” Arthur said hungrily, and Eames’s felt a nerve in his thigh twitch involuntarily as Arthur circled his thumb against the mark he’d left, “I think you’re going to taste better than dessert.” Then in one swift motion he was back on his knees, hands splayed wide and braced against Eames’s belly, and his mouth was on Eames’s cock.
Eames gave a shuddering sigh of pleasure, then reached out and fisted his hands into Arthur’s hair. He held his breath, trying not to blink, trying to hold back the next echo of his own heartbeat in his ears and make time stand still because this, he never wanted this to end; the warm, wet heat; the way Arthur’s tongue flicked his foreskin back to press with aching deliciousness against his glans; the way Arthur’s mouth looked, stretched around his dick.
Arthur paused halfway down his shaft and Eames watched him take a breath, nostrils flaring. Eames tucked his thumb under Arthur’s chin and stroked once, twice, very gently, feeling how tight the muscles there were, how very full Arthur’s throat was already with his cock. Then Eames let out a strangled, ‘Oh, fuck,’ as Arthur took hold of him by the hips and swallowed the rest of him, until his nose was buried in dark gold curls and he looked up at Eames with an amused and wicked twinkle in his dark eyes.
“Is there anything you don’t excel at?”
The corners of Arthur’s mouth twitched up for a moment, then Eames felt Arthur’s throat closing around the head of his cock, and he was moving back and forth in a punishing rhythm, licking, sucking, letting Eames fuck his mouth, and Jesus, this wasn’t going to last long, because Eames couldn’t remember the last time he’d been sucked off like this. His bare toes curled into the coarse doormat beneath his feet, and he tried to hold on, to hold back, but it was Arthur, oh fuck, it was Arthur, taking his cock as deep as he could and humming, humming, a lascivious purr that made pleasure rip through him and bring him right to the edge. He was so close he could taste it.
“Arthur, I... Arthur...”
Arthur twisted his head back out of Eames’s grasp at the last minute and kept his eyes fixed on Eames. He took hold of Eames’s cock in his fist and gave one, expert tug, and the first jet of come hit him full in the face. Eames thought this was it, if he wasn’t dreaming then he must have died and this was heaven, and he could only watch, feet braced against the floor as the door rattled and rattled behind him with the force of his orgasm. The image of Arthur, lips curled up in a snarl of pleasure, mouth wide and swollen and smeared with his come, eyes shut in rapture, was seared permanently onto his retinas. Arthur leaned back further, chest rising, and this time Eames let out a deep, shuddering moan as he branded Arthur all over his bared throat, looping pale strands across his shirt and waistcoat. Eames slid halfway down the door, clawing at the wood, as his dick jerked and spurted with every squeeze of Arthur’s hand. The white cotton of Arthur’s shirt became dark in patches as the wetness seeped through and stuck the fabric to Arthur’s skin, and the charcoal wool of his waistcoat was covered with a fretwork of silver streaks fading to a faint white at the edges. Arthur pitched forwards and rubbed himself up against Eames’s cock, smearing come everywhere, dragging the sticky wool and sheeny cotton across the sensitive head, and Eames let out a long, wordless cry. It was only Arthur’s hands on his hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, which were stopping him from slumping to the floor. His blood sang a loud hiss of white noise in his head, and his skin prickled with electricity.
“Is that what you wanted,” he heard Arthur say thickly through the din in his ears.
Eames blinked and tried to clear his vision, because he had to see this.
Arthur looked utterly ruined, ecstatic. Most of his waistcoat and the entirety of his shirt above it was daubed with come. His mouth was slick with it. Best of all, Eames saw that there wasn’t even a hint of sheepishness or embarrassment: Arthur’s expression was contentedly wanton. For a second Eames was niggled with a jealousy he wasn’t sure he was yet entitled to, as he wondered if Arthur made a habit of letting men come all over his best suits. Then, that thought was forgotten as his eyes swept down to the outline of Arthur’s cock, tenting the front of his trousers and straining against the zip. Arthur swiped a languid hand through the mess on his chest and raised his fingers to his lips.
Eames hadn’t consciously registered that he was moving, until he realised he’d hauled Arthur to his feet, arms tight around his waist, the damp of Arthur’s desecrated clothes cold against his skin.
“Yes, fuck, yes. You’ve let me make the most exquisite mess of you.”
Arthur held him back with an elbow to his chest before he could kiss him, and said urgently as though he’d read Eames’s mind,
“I wouldn’t have ever let anyone but you do that to me.”
Eames had the slightest moment where he wondered if anyone but Arthur could make something so very fabulously depraved into what amounted to a romantic gesture, before he took hold of him by the shoulders and reversed their positions, slamming Arthur up against the door so hard that the safety chain clinked out of its coupling. He licked into Arthur’s mouth, forcing it wide, and moaned loudly when he tasted himself there, and could still feel the stickiness of his semen slick on Arthur’s tongue. Arthur moaned and struggled and writhed against him, spreading come across Eames’s chest as he bucked against Eames’s hip, his cock seeking out any pressure it could get right now.
Eames reached down and unzipped Arthur’s fly, as he traced the edge of Arthur’s ear with his tongue and felt him shudder. His fingers slipped inside past the zip teeth, and he suddenly stopped, sucking in his breath sharply. There was no barrier, nothing but warm, silky skin and the springy feel of curls beneath his fingertips, and the hard satin heat of Arthur’s cock, and oh, apparently Eames had been dreaming exactly the right size all along.
“You... you’re not wearing any...” Eames spluttered, sounding almost indignant in his extreme delight, because really, how in the world was this knowledge fair in hindsight. He leaned back and saw Arthur’s cheeks flush. He was biting his lip and looking very pleased with himself, though this could in part have been because Eames had wasted no time in wrapping his hand round Arthur’s cock and fisting it with a merciless twist at the end of every stroke.
“It ruins the line of my pants,” Arthur said, gasping out his explanation with a grin. Eames dropped his forehead onto Arthur’s shoulder with a groan; Eames noted with a hint of pleased possessiveness that this too was wet.
“Oh it does, does it,” Eames replied, tugging harder, squeezing under the slippery head of Arthur’s cock, and Arthur thrashed against him, lifting up onto the balls of his feet to get closer, to thrust harder into the squeeze of Eames’s hand. “Do you mean to tell me that for the last however many years that I’ve been lusting after you, you’ve been going around all that time without any underwear on?”
“Pretty much, yeah,” Arthur said, and Eames could hear the laughter in his words, and felt Arthur’s fingers scrabbling against his back, digging into his shoulderblades, and there was desperation in the jagged scrape of his fingers, his trimmed nails.
“My god. You are perfection.”
Eames had thought that he might drop to his knees and suck Arthur off like that, ravish him in the remains of his wrecked suit, but he’d waited this long; he could wait a few minutes longer to do it right. The way his fist was getting wetter with every pull told him that Arthur couldn’t last much longer.
Eames brought his other hand up to Arthur’s chest and started to undress him, and there was no fumbling this time. He was in perfect control, not rushing, not tearing at the fabric. There was a touch of mastery to how he popped open each button with a twist of thumb and forefinger, echoing the motion as he flicked his thumb over the slit of Arthur’s dick, undoing him with both hands as Arthur bit back a sob of pleasure. He pushed the waistcoat off Arthur’s shoulders and it dropped to the floor with a heavy, wet sound that made them both grin. Then, unable to resist, Eames let go of Arthur’s cock and wrapped both hands round his braces.
“I apologise in advance,” he said, trying to look serious but sounding nothing but gleeful, and then pulled back to snap both braces against Arthur’s chest, right over his nipples. Arthur rolled his eyes and smacked him contemptuously round the head.
“Get on with it,” he said, pulling the too-tempting braces off his shoulders. Eames gave him a sly smile and deftly did as he was told. Arthur shucked off his shirt as soon as Eames had unbuttoned it, and Eames moaned into Arthur’s ear as their skin touched, heated and damp. He unbuttoned the waistband of Arthur’s trousers, and with a little hip wriggle they were on the floor, and for a moment all Eames wanted was to press against the length of Arthur’s body, lips whispering kisses against Arthur’s neck, allowing himself to relish in the feel of him. Then he stepped back as Arthur had done to get a good look at him.
Oh, wait, he’d forgotten the shoes and... hmm... Eames folded his arms.
“Darling, how do you expect me to ever recover, now that I know you go around without any smalls on, but wear sock garters?”
He sank to his knees, and liked the way Arthur’s gaze never deviated from him, not even once. He lifted Arthur’s foot and pulled off one Oxford, then did the other, resting his chin on Arthur’s thigh.
“Honestly,” Eames muttered, running his fingers around the elastic of the garters circling Arthur’s lithe calves, “I won’t be able to keep my hands off you, you fabulous pervert.” Eames worked the silk socks down over Arthur’s legs, pulling them off and then held them for a moment, rubbing at the texture contemplatively between thumb and forefinger, before looking up and giving Arthur a cheeky grin.
“Want me to come on these as well, so they don’t feel left out?”
“Don’t make me jealous of my own clothing,” Arthur said, voice heavy with desire. He shifted his hips and his cock bobbed, tapping Eames lightly on the cheek and leaving a silvery smear.
Eames actually felt his pupils contract and dilate, a small, almost painful tug of muscle in each eye, a testament to desire, to his body’s helpless responses to Arthur. He reached around the base of Arthur’s cock and tilted his head towards it, looking up at Arthur, and choosing this exact moment to use a force 10 from his arsenal of seductive looks. Arthur made a small, needy noise and cupped Eames’s cheek,
“Say what you like about me, you’re the one who’s a fucking cocktease,” Arthur hissed, his fingers brushing against Eames’s mouth, slipping past his lips. Eames drew three of Arthur’s finger into his mouth, and sucked and bit until Arthur all but whimpered, then he eased back off them.
“You have no idea,” Eames said with a knowing smile. He ran his tongue over his lower lip, getting it as wet as he could, and enjoying the way it made Arthur’s eyes widen and his breath come faster. Eames leaned forwards, lips ghosting over the vein running along the length of the shaft, tongue coming out to flicker against the tiny seam of sensitive skin under the inverted heart of the tip, which made Arthur gasp and his cock jerk up so hard it nearly hit his belly. Eames licked his mouth again, and then he slid the head of Arthur’s dick against the glossy slickness of his lips, moving his head from side to side. He felt Arthur’s hands clamp on each side of his head and try to push his hips forward, but Eames had him literally by the balls, and this was all the friction he would allow him, this tiny rubbing motion that was only enough to drive him insane. Arthur growled softly, and his cock leaked precome onto Eames’s lips. Instinctively, Eames’s tongue went out to lick them and it accidentally flickered over the head of Arthur’s dick.
Arthur keened and bucked against the sensation, and he whispered, “Please, please,” and Eames realised with a flutter in his belly that he couldn’t deny Arthur anything if he asked him like that. He held Arthur’s gaze and made Arthur watch him slide his tongue out again over the head of his cock, fucking the slit with the tip of his tongue.
It was only a soft noise, but uttered with such heat that Eames knew Arthur was breaking apart under his hands and mouth. Eames felt Arthur’s thighs start to shake, and his cock grew impossibly hard against Eames’s tongue.
“I can’t... I can’t,” Arthur said through gritted teeth. “It’s too much.”
It was the knowledge that he’d penetrated the veneer of control that Arthur wore at all times that made Eames start to quake with lust and victory and an almost painful joy. He reached further between Arthur’s legs and pressed the heel of his hand up behind his balls, and slid two fingers against his hole, circling the entrance, and moved his head down to take all of Arthur’s cock between his lips.
Arthur yelled loudly and thrust deep into Eames’s mouth, and Eames kept his eyes focused on Arthur’s face as Arthur stared back, open-mouthed, and then he saw it. That moment when Arthur came undone completely.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Eames,”
Arthur looked as though he was completely broken as his brows drew up and he bit his lip, and then in the next instant he was remade, mouth open and eyes soft and unfocused, and Eames finally, finally got to savour him, salty and bitter and Arthur on his tongue, and was forever spoiled for the taste of anything else afterwards.
It was late morning by the time Eames blinked awake, aching deliciously everywhere, and feeling the closest to sated he’d ever been, in a bed barred with sunlight and Arthur dropping kisses onto his shoulder.
“Oh Arthur, your hair.”
Arthur’s normally immaculate hair was rumpled into every angle possible like a tiny explosion round his head, any last traces of pomade sacrificed to the pillow during the night. He reached up out of instinct to brush a hand through it, but Eames caught him by the wrist.
“No, no, no. You look positively delectable. I could eat you up.”
“I might let you,” Arthur said with an indolent smile.
“Speaking of eating, do you want room service? Pancakes with maple syrup? Only with extra maple syrup, and no pancakes?”
Arthur stretched and yawned, shifting himself so he was half-draped over Eames.
“No, not right now,” he said, nuzzling into Eames's neck, making him grin sleepily. “First, I think we both need a shower.”
“Hn,” Eames said approvingly, rocking his morning erection against Arthur's hip.
“Then I'm going to lick you out until you’re begging me for it, and get you stretched open, and then I’m going to fuck you until you come over both of us. Then we'll have breakfast.”
It took a second or two for all that to filter into Eames's brain, but when it did, he said, “Oh. Specificity,” and felt his cock leak against Arthur's skin. “Jesus, you really are a filthy slut. I approve.”
“By the way,” Arthur said with an impish grin, getting up somewhat awkwardly given how hard he was, and taking Eames by the hand to encourage him (not that he needed encouragement) out of bed and towards the bathroom.
“You owe me a new suit.”