As with the story, Disaster, I wrote this for a prompt at the Insaners Tattoo Kink Fest at LJ and is written from Arthur's POV:) I decided to be nice and bring it over to share with you all!

The prompt this story is based upon is this: It all started when Arthur first caught a glimpse of Eames' tattoos, and now he can't get then out of his mind, how they'd feel, how they'd taste. And it's driving him crazy.

Whoops
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Ummm…sex? Haha.
Length: 8377

Summary: Obsessions. Do I have them? Yes. Are they inappropriate? Perhaps. What do I do when my business associate happens to embody them? Dream about it and hope he doesn't notice.

Disclaimer: No, Inception is not mine because wild gay sex romps do not happen.

Thanks to: A big BIG thank you to my beta who I pestered the crap out of to read this beast of a story. And also a hearty thank you to Franalan on LJ for providing me with such great inspiration! Much love to the both of you:)

Who? What? No? This is surely a hoax. A God awful prank. Someone has tranquilized me. Someone has put me so far under, has put me into a sleep so deep, that my obscene sex dreams have seemed to become some perverse version of reality. Because that is all they are: dreams. My obsession with tattoos? A fantasy. My obsession with seeing Eames of all people naked? A fantasy. For them to both be happening at the same time? Impossible. Unequivocally, unquestionably, IMPOSSIBLE. That is why I must be dreaming. It is the only logical deduction to this situation.

I have been standing in this doorway for Lord knows how long. 10 seconds? 30? A full minute? Two? All I can register is that Eames, Eames, is standing in the middle of our hotel bathroom—naked—unreservedly naked. And fuck is he fit. And quite well endowed. And, curse this awful, horrendous, indecent fixation of mine—covered in tattoos. The words I had been about to speak upon opening the door have been completely lost to me, trapped in the abyss that is my subconscious. All I can manage to do is flap my mouth ashamedly like an idiot. Since there are no words for me to say, I might as well continue to stare because this is simply a feast.

Eames eyes drag upwards. His eyes meet mine in the mirror and widen perceptively. "Arthur?" he whispers in shock. It only takes that one simple, little word to get me moving. I can feel the deep red rush of mortification creep up my face as I step back and slam the door shut.

Shit. Oh shit. I take a shaky step backwards and then dash over to my side of the room. I quickly grab my hotel key, cell phone, and wallet before doing the only rational action: I walk straight out the front door and away from the walking, talking sex-god in my bathroom. As I make the familiar trip down the hallway and to the staircase, I take the time to settle myself and my jilted nerves. Breathing in deeply, I count to ten and attempt to calm my racing heart. I hastily walk down the stairs and head towards the bar. Stepping into the chokingly smoky room, the sound of music fills my ears and my rampart mind finally catches up with itself. Oh my dear Lord. The truth of what I've just done infiltrates my brain like a cancerous disease. What I just did is completely moronic. If I had wanted to put things to right, all I ultimately had to do was swallow my pride and apologize. Then everything would have gone back to normal, or as normal as Eames and I do. Instead of doing that simple act though, I ran away from him like a teenage girl who has never seen a naked man before. Christ, I'm nearly 30 years old! This very well might be the most humiliating thing I have ever done.

Heaving a sigh, I haul myself up on the bar stool and order a double vodka. Gods do I need a drink. I sip at the offensive liquid and scowl at the taste. Liquor tastes positively foul; however, the relaxing quality it provides cannot be disregarded. I take another sip of the drink and lean on the counter. Ugh. It is hard to recall the first time I dreamt of Eames in all his naked glory. All I know for certain is that the idea has been haunting me for years. Like an incessant whining, the image continually assaults my brain without a reason or sense of propriety. And the glaringly painful truth is that I do not know what it is about him that attracts me. He is acerbic, snarky, and has the most appalling fashion sense I've ever had the displeasure of marring my retinas with. Nevertheless, there is still something about him that gets through my rigid defenses and brings out my most base reactions. My customarily inflexible, calm, stoic walls are torn down over and over again with each and every moment I spend in the company of this man. I have yet to discover whether or not this is a positive or detrimental situation.

However, in all my wildest dreams, I had never anticipated seeing what I did upon entering the bathroom this evening. I had never expected Eames to have so many… tattoos. At a ripe young age of 16, I had started my unsuccessful fray into the dating scene. Much to the dismay of my wayward parents, my first boyfriend and lover had been 23 years old and had as many tattoos as a hardened biker. Not that I came out and told them these facts of course. No, I, like many others, had had the unfortunate experience of having my father walk right into a wild sex romp, which arguably haunts him to this day. Can't say that I blame him really. If I walked in on my 16-year-old son getting fucked up the ass, I might just have a mental breakdown as well. Nevertheless, even after my parents forced the two of us to end our 'inappropriate' relationship, I have been unsuccessful at ridding myself of this fascination with inked skin. Quite frankly, I had spent more time licking that boy's skin that a kid licks a lollipop. Not that skin tastes particularly sweet or anything, it is more about the level of control you gain while doing so. As you trace the skin with your tongue, there comes with it a certain pristine pleasure: the sounds your partner makes; the spasms of their body beneath you; the feeling of their skin between your teeth as you claim them as your own. I shudder just to think about it.

But this situation is okay. It is fine. Eames and I still have a professional relationship. It doesn't matter how much I am attracted to him—or to his skin of all things—I will not succumb to the urge. Eames is difficult enough to deal with as it is. No need to add in an extra, unnecessary complication to our partnership. Yes, exactly, Arthur. I nod my head in affirmation of my own admonition and swallow down the rest of my vodka. Yes, I am indeed going to need another.

X

Eames lies beneath me, his arm flung out to the sides as I shift in his lap. I undulate my hips ever so slightly, causing our cocks to brush against each other. A loud hiss tears out of his mouth at the sensation. Oh excellent. With a smirk, I spread my hands over his chest, examining his pectorals with such intensity that I could very well burn a hole right through them. He is beautiful. Leaning over him, I replace my hands with my lips, tasting his skin for the first time. Oh Christ. I suck harshly at his nipple, waiting to hear the hitch in his breath before I drag my lips up and over the first line of his tattoo. The design on his chest is too complicated to trace with my tongue. But who really needs to do that? I have a much better idea. I take the marked skin between my teeth and bite down firmly, waiting until I hear a soft grunt before I release it. Immediately afterwards, I blow a hard breath over the bitten skin, watching in aroused fascination as it blooms a dark pink, the color filling in the gaps between the black lines. Eames squirms beneath me at the feeling and damn does it just make me all the harder. JESUS YES. A low growl rumbles out of my throat. Just, let me…fuck. An unashamed whimper tumbles from my lips as I place them back over the reddened area. With my lips in place I begin to suck that delicious skin of his. With each inhale, I press my tongue down, forming a strange sort of rhythm between my lips and tongue and his skin. But within one minute of starting this erotic dance, Eames pulls at my hair. "Bloody hell, Arthur," he moans. I release his flesh with a 'pop' and look up at him. His eyes are positively feral as they gaze at me.

When I see his expression, an aroused shudder tears through the entirety of my body, forcing out a soft whisper, "Fuck me."

I open my eyes with a start to find myself sprawled awkwardly across my bed, still in my pants and shirt from the previous evening. Fucking son of a bitch. The only positive thing about this moment is the assured knowledge that I do not have a hangover. However, everything else about this instant is just ten shades of wrong. What the hell is wrong with me? My drunken mind could have conjured any number of imaginings, and that, that was the one it chose to show me? With a groan, I roll over and crack open a gritty eye. Eames is still fast asleep on the bed across from me. I let out a sigh in relief. At least I don't have to look at him. Honestly, could this situation get any more awkward and exasperating? Hmm…I'm having homoerotic sex dreams about a colleague of mine who utterly despises me. Nope. Can't get any worse than that. Fuck me. My eye twitches at the phrase. Thank you dreamland for providing me with far more inconvenient imagery than I could possible need and or want.

I pull myself out of bed and quickly head into the bathroom, grabbing my clothing along the way. My outfit can hang inside the bathroom door while I shower because there is no way in hell I'm dressing out here. Not after yesterday. I turn the water on as hot as it will go and stand under the steaming spray. I rub soap into my hair and try to turn off my mind. I am not going to think about this, I am not going to let these dreams get the better of me…but no matter how many times I give myself this mental lashing, my imagination is disgustingly crass and persistent. I wonder what possessed Eames to get so many tattoos in the first place. Particularly that one that is so obscenely low on his belly. Was he just begging for someone to lick it? Taste his salty, sweaty skin, trace the curves of the letters, and then sinking, sinking, lower and lower and taking that luscious fucking cock of his into one's mouth. My body trembles and my shaft begins to harden. Shit. Groaning, I drop my head onto the shower wall and let the water wash away the last of the shampoo.

Get out of my head, Mr. Eames. You are not allowed to be the theme of my fantasies, not with the way our relationship is, not when you're a complete ass. You are not allowed in my sex fantasies damn it! I do not like you. Okay, maybe a little. Okay, maybe a lot. But fuck you are infuriating. You show me no respect. You push my buttons in a way no one has ever dared to before. You push me, and prod me, and snip at me, and talk back to me. Gods you make me want to just fucking ride you 'till morning all the damn time. Just imagine taking that—muscled—arm of yours and nipping every swirl and twist. Imagine sinking my teeth into your flesh and watching the skin darkening, watching the red mix with the black. Does it hurt? Does it hurt when you get your tattoos bitten I wonder? Would you cry out or would you moan? Would you let me have my way with you or would you quickly drag me off and fuck me into the mattress? What would you do, Eames, if I kissed and suckled that skin of yours? Jesus fucking Christ.

I pound my palms flat against the tiles of the shower and will my erection away. No. Absolutely not. I am not masturbating to the thought of a man who is literally right outside the door. Urgh! I flip the shower's knob to the opposite direction and wait for the icy chill of the water to splash down my body. Shit. I stand, quivering, as the cold water glides over my skin in agonizing waves and raises goose bumps on every blasted inch. I stand there for a full, miserable minute before I am calm enough to start moving. I grab the bar of soap and start scrubbing my shaking body with it. I will bear this. I will get over this Eames mania that my body has taken up. By the time I've finished and rinsed off all the suds, my erection has deflated and my body is violently quaking with its need for warmth.

After turning off the water, I swiftly leap out of the shower and grab the towel. Shit, my hands are shaking so badly I can barely hold the damn cloth. I towel myself off as quickly as possible and begin donning my clothing. No matter how many layers of clothing I have on though, my body still won't stop shivering. I am an absolute imbecile. I don't do well with cold temperatures and I know that. It's not as though I am unaware how my body reacts to the chill. It had caused me plenty of woe as a child living in Vermont with absolutely no way to maintain my body heat. Unfortunately, it is the cruel reality of being born with such a lean frame. I have to exercise extra hard just to get the bit of muscle that I have. Shit. I need to get warm NOW! I stumble out of the bathroom and as swiftly as I can, crawl under the covers of my bed. Wrapping the blankets tightly to me, I lay there and shiver uncontrollably, my teeth already chattering. Why are hotel rooms so cold again? I don't understand why they need to be 50 degrees all the damn time. Now, come on blankets, do your job! And body, please behave for once. Please. Okay, okay, I need to calm down. Take in a deep breath. Closing my eyes I begin the set of calming exercises I had perfected as a teen. Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six. I continue reciting the entirety of the French number system, only stopping when I reach cent. The shivering dies somewhat, nevertheless that feeling of being dipped in ice hasn't dissipated. Okay, okay, let's continue. I am at cent trente when I hear the unmistakable sound of movement from across the room.

"Arthur?" I hear the whispered word, but do not grant it with a response. Maybe if I don't reply he'll assume I'm still asleep. If only I were so fortunate. "Arthur, I know you're awake. I'm not mental you know."

Cracking my eyes open, I give him a heated glare. "F-uck off." I don't know how I manage the words, but manage them I do.

"Jesus, are you okay?" Eames quickly rolls out of his bed and takes the few steps over to mine.

"I-I'm fine, just c-cold." I snuggle deeper into the blankets and will my body to behave. Damn circulation. Damn cold fucking shower. Damn Eames and his fucking edible skin. I hear Eames sigh from beside the bed before he trots out of my sight. I hear the clicking of dials before a sudden gust of warm air shoots throughout the room. I sigh in contentment as I feel the first brush of hot air flow over my cold cheek. Fortunately—thank Jesus—the heater is closer to my bed. Wait. Why didn't I turn on the heater in the first place? I practically moan aloud. My God, what is wrong with me?

"Better?" Eames questions with a hesitant lilt.

"Yes," I respond simply. Ugh. Wait. I let out a heavy breath as a stench pervades my nostrils. Oh great. The heater's scent is that of burnt hair. How wonderfully convenient. Despite the wretched smell though, warm air rapidly works its way throughout the room, dispelling the chill and bringing with it blessed heat. As much I hate the smell, I will gladly deal with ravaged nostrils if I can be warm again.

"So what possessed you to take a bloody frigid shower and then not dry yourself properly? The carpet from your bed to the bathroom is absolutely soaked."

"Shut up, Mr. Eames. That's none of your business," I mumble without stuttering. Fantastic. I won't admit it out loud, but I find myself being grateful to Eames in this moment. If he hadn't just turned on the heat, how long would I have lain here trying to warm myself? I groan just to think on it. Eames had quickly analyzed my discomfort and had assisted without thinking about his own needs. He could have been roasting hot for all I know. Just great, just one more thing to feed my unhealthy liking of this man.

Eames rolls his eyes at me but steps away nonetheless. He goes to the small hallway closet to grab his outfit for the day—probably something mauve colored and velvet, the bastard—and steps towards the bathroom. "Now Arthur," Eames turns his head and gives me a hooded look in the dim lighting of the room, "if you want to come in, all you need to do is knock." He steps into the bathroom before I can respond and shuts the door. What? I nearly choke on my own breath in my haste to sputter incoherently. He—what? Eames isn't attracted to me…is he? No. Eames is just being his normal, teasing self. I nod my head assuredly and huddle beneath the blankets. It is inconceivable. Eames has never showed any signs of interest in me before. We have spent nearly all our time in the past five years snipping at one another. Why should that be any different now? Even if he was concerned about me, we're work partners and that is all. Okay, good. Now that I have that settled.

I cast a look at the clock and see that the numbers read six a.m. I still have close to two hours of sleep time before I need to be awake. Which begs the blaringly obvious question: why did I get up and start getting ready in the first place? Maybe I was a bit drunker than I had thought after all. With a tired snort at my own miserable failings, I snuggle into the blankets and let the sleep come. Even as the weariness begins to take me, even as I begin to slip into the world of dreams, my mind unconsciously drifts against my wishes deep into the land of sex, replaying the knowledge that Eames is yet again naked behind that door. And even more alluring than that is the idea that all I would have to do to kiss him, and suck him, and fuck him…is knock…

X

"Arthur?"

Grumbling, I roll over towards the pleasant sound and crack open my heavy eyes. "Mm?" Eames is standing next to the bed with a strained look on his face. What? My mind immediately perks up at his look, dispelling every tired sensation within an instant. Shit. Is something wrong? "What?"

"It's nearly 8:30. If you were planning on actually eating, I would highly recommend that you get out of bed."

"Fuck!" I scramble out from under the blankets and nearly collide into Eames. He cocks an eyebrow at me before letting a smirk twist his lips.

"Had a bit too much to drink last night, Arthur?"

The silky tone of his voice slithers over my body. I am hard pressed not to just pull him to me and kiss the life out of him. Instead of giving into the urge, I hiss, "Shut up, Eames."

Cocking his head to the side, Eames takes a step closer to me, bringing with it an uncomfortable air that I am unsure of how to handle. "What the hell are you so afraid of, Arthur?" he murmurs.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Confusing bastard. I shove Eames out of my way and head towards the bathroom so I can fix the damage I've done to my clothing and my hair.

"I saw the way you looked at me," he calls out after me. I stop dead in my tracks. This isn't happening. We are not having this conversation. I am still standing perfectly still when Eames steps up behind me. I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, I can feel his eyes tracing over me. I resist the urge to shudder under that intense gaze. Even so, I cannot stop myself from jumping when I feel a hand rest at the small of my back.

"What the hell are you doing?" I snarl.

Instead of answering me, the asshole, he runs his open palm up over my shoulder blade and down the curve of my shoulder. My breath sticks in my throat and my heart flutters against my chest. Oh God. Even that one touch makes me begin to harden. I can hear the rustle of movement and then a pair of soft lips catches gently at the skin on my neck. Oh gods. My hands clench against my will as I fight the nearly overwhelming urge to lean back into the treacherous man standing behind me. "Why are you so afraid of admitting your attraction?" he whispers against my skin. The words sear through my brain like acid.

"Get off me you idiot!" I turn around and shove him off. "Don't play your fucking mind games with me today. I'm not in the mood." Stepping into the bathroom, I slam the door in what I hope is finality. Perhaps he'll get the picture now. I lean my head against the door and take in a shaky breath. What am I doing? This isn't like me. Where's the calm, collected Arthur that everyone knows and respects? Apparently he leapt out a window in order to pursue a higher cause. Fuck.

X

I spend the day doing what I do best: I let disdain, utter lack of sympathy, and methodical calmness be the driving force behind my actions, my words, and ultimately my job. It is these qualities within me, which have given me the ability to do what I do without flinching. It is these traits that have allowed me to deal with the people I have to in this business. Usually this course of action leads to a very fruitful and otherwise successful day. However, the tides of fortune are abhorrently against me on this fine—atrocious—day. Eames and I meet our client in a rustic café on the main street. Although we will have other members joining us for this job, Eames and I are the first two to have arrived. Cobb, even though he is the extractor and the most vital part of the team, isn't arriving until tomorrow, until after he's spent one more day with his children. If he was truly concerned about leaving the children alone, it is foolish to imagine why he continues to do this work. As much as I respect him, sometimes Dom Cobb is a moron, plain and simple.

Eames and I take our places at the small corner table with our drinks, me a nice hot tea, and him some cappuccino concoction that is more sugar than coffee. Disgusting is what it looks like. Our client sits down at our table with little preamble, jumping almost immediately into his acrimonious spiel as to why he needs us. By the time he's gotten into the third sentence of his useless rant, my mind has already drifted. Instead of listening to his words, like I should be doing, I find my eyes dragging over and down Eames' arms, the images of those black lines flashing in my brain and sticking to the back of my eyelids. Mmm…just imagine: tying down those arms and watching him twist and pull at the bonds. Watch him thrash mindlessly as I tear my nails and then my teeth down the skin. Run my lips over the inside of his arm and suck harshly at the colored flesh there, marking that patch of flesh as my own. My body trembles and I find it difficult not to simply leap out of my chair at him. Gods. What does that skin of his taste like? Does he taste sweet, or does the grimy, salty sweat cling to him? What does he smell like? Does his scent change during sex, or does that faint lingering odor of aftershave still stay with him? Christ. I feel the arousal spread through my groin. I clench my hands around my steaming cup of tea and practically plead with myself. Don't do this to me body. Not now. Not in public. You've been able to deal with your attraction and your silly little crush for years. Why now? Why won't you listen to me now body? You are better than this.

"Arthur?"

My eyes snap open and I turn a hopefully not flustered look on Eames. "Yes?" I respond evenly.

"Are you going to answer his question or not?"

"Question? What question?" My Lord, I sound like I'm high. Eames snorts and my client turns dagger eyes on me. "I'm sorry, sir. My minded drifted for a moment. Would you mind repeating the question?"

He gives me a disgruntled look, but takes my apology nevertheless. We are back on task and I am yet again bored to tears. This man is, well, how would one describe him? A driveling sack of dog vomit? No, no, that's much too crude. A driveling, whining, useless galoot? Ah, much better. Much more sensible. This job is so incredibly easy that I almost consider just walking away out of sheer disinterest. But alas, I do enjoy actually having money. The only reason why Cobb and I agreed to do this in the first place is because the man has the money to back up his requests. How did this man ever get so much money in the first place? I have to speculate that he inherited it because surely he didn't come into it in his own right.

We wrap up the meeting fairly quickly and Eames and I head back to the hotel so we can grab our things and move to a more appropriate location. We do not speak to each other as we head back in the taxi. We continue to remain speechless while passing through the lobby and heading up the elevator. When we reach our room and the door shuts behind us, all noise seems to dissipate. There is nothing but blank silence. I cannot even hear myself breathing. I wonder if I even am. Eames and I stand in the hallway of our room stock-still. But then, with exact precision, Eames turns towards me, his eyes flashing dangerously. "So tell me, Arthur," he whispers. "What exactly was that back there?"

My lips thin. You do not deserve a response to that. So I am not going to give it to you. "I have no idea what you're going on about, Eames. I was bored, nothing more."

He takes a measured step towards me and I struggle with the urge to move back. I refuse to let him intimidate me. I won't. Eames moves closer until his—hideous—pink shirt brushes against mine. "What the fuck is wrong with you? You either want me or you don't. Make up your mind, Arthur."

I bare my teeth at him and practically snarl. I hate it when he can read me. I hate that Eames is the one person who can decipher every look and every gesture I make. The fact that I am like an open book to him absolutely terrifies me. No one has ever been able to read me so well. The thought slithers through me unpleasantly and I lash out. "I don't want you so fuck off. I don't know where you got the idea that I wanted you in the first place. How many years have I spent telling you you're an absolute imbecile?"

My attempt at a snide remark is completely ignored. Eames grasps at the collar of my shirt and drags me forward until our faces nearly touch. I don't know why I let him manhandle me. Perhaps there is a side of me that wants him to tear me apart. Perhaps. "I always assumed that you felt that way. I never pursued you because I thought you were a straight shooter. But do not lie to me. Ever since yesterday you have done nothing but froth at the mouth just at the mere sight of me. Just try to tell me you aren't attracted. Just try to tell me you don't want me."

With a snarl, I tear out of his hold and shove past him. No, no, NO! I don't do complicated. I don't date or fuck complicated men. It never works in the end. I have been broken down too many times to risk unstable relationships. I have had my heart torn apart just one too many times. "Go away, Eames. Just go."

A low growl rumbles out of his chest and I nearly stumble at the sound. Faster than I can imagine, faster than I can react, Eames comes up behind me and pulls me flush against his chest. "Arthur," he hisses in my ear. I stand there in his hold without moving. Why am I not struggling? I should be struggling. Eames hands trace over my hips, up over my ribs and pectorals before sliding back down lower, lower. My breath stutters as his hands move to frame my crotch. "Why are you afraid of me, Arthur? I've wanted to bloody fuck you for years. Why won't you let me have you? Now that I know you're interested, you can't expect me to just walk away. Not after you've been eye fucking me for the entirety of the day."

I tremble at the words. Years. Eames actually wants me? All these years he's wanted me? Oh God. It just can't be. But oh how I want it to be true. "But you hate me," I murmur weakly.

Eames chuckles and the sound of it reverberates through me. "Arthur, I am as far from hating you as a person can possibly get. I fucking love everything about you. I love the way you snap at me. I love the way you move, the way you speak. Hell, even the way you stand perfectly still before firing a gun turns me on. How did you never know? Every extra touch, every brush of the shoulder… Fuck, darling, I've done nothing but try to woo you to me since day one."

"That's impossible," I swallow harshly and try to clear my throat. This isn't happening. Nope, not happening. "When did you put me under, Eames? How long have I been asleep? At least several hours I imagine. I should have realized it when I first opened the door to the bathroom."

Eames lets out a snarl and grabs hold of my erection. Fuck. "Does this feel like a dream to you? Does it?" With deft hands, Eames undoes my belt buckle and the button of my pants. Why am I not stopping this? This is a bad idea. This is—JESUS. My head lolls back onto Eames' shoulder and I let out a loud moan. Oh sweet Lord. Eames' hand is expert at this. I shouldn't really be surprised, I suppose. "Arthur, we are not dreaming. I want you. And if you don't let your silly objections get in the way, I am going to have you, understand?"

I grasp his forearms with my hands and dig my nails into his skin through his shirt. He hisses, but doesn't stop stroking me. "You're going to fuck me and then leave me out for the wolves, aren't you? You're one of those problematical men who just love the thrill of the chase, right? Come morning, you'll never want me in your bed again." Although I try to keep the bitterness from my tone, I don't think I succeed for Eames' hold tightens just that much more.

He huffs a chuckle against the column of my throat and says, "Arthur, darling, you are never leaving my bed again. In fact," his tone darkens, and a tight thread of anger weaves its way through his speech, "if any man so much as looks at you again, I'm going to have their head on a platter. Do you understand? You're going to belong to me." My body shivers at the words. So presumptuous of him, so demanding—so fucking hot.

Despite the thrill that spikes through me, despite the toe-curling pleasure running through my body, the arguments still tumble from my mouth. "And what authority gives you the right to say those words, Mr. Eames? I don't recall ever agreeing to be yours."

I suck in a harsh breath as Eames fingers twist harshly around the head of my cock. Nngh. "You agreed to be mine, and only mine, the moment we walked through that door. Bloody hell, Arthur, if you don't say 'yes' I'm just going to shag you and deal with the consequences later. Say 'yes', Arthur. Say 'yes', darling. Be mine. Give me permission. Please."

That one little word nearly sends me to my knees. My world goes white as the overwhelming pleasure tears through me. I cry out, thrashing against Eames' firm hold and coming across his hand. Shit, shit, shit, shit! "Eames," I groan. Oh, how long I've wanted this, wanted you. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and refuses to let the words pass.

"Shit," Eames whines against my neck. "Please say 'yes'."

"Yes." I don't know if it is post-orgasm hysteria that causes me to say the word. Nevertheless, it is out of my mouth before I can take it back. And oddly enough, contradictory to my usually rigid, controlling need for orderliness, I find that in this moment I do not care in the slightest about what I've just agreed to.

"Oh, thank Jesus," Eames mutters. He withdraws his hand from my increasingly shrinking shaft and wipes his hand off on his pant leg. Gross. I hope he plans to wash those soon. "Come now, clothes off and get yourself up on the bed. We have so much to do and so little time in which to do it. I want you thoroughly debauched before we leave this room." I turn around in his now lose hold and give him a disbelieving stare. He smirks at my expression and then moves his hand around to caress the curve of my ass. "Clothes, Arthur. Sometime today would be preferable."

This is honestly happening, isn't it? I shakily lift a hand and trace it over his chest. His face softens and a small smile crosses his lips as I continue to trace his pecs. I drag my hand over where I know one tattoo lies and curl my fingers against the flesh beneath the shirt. I take in an unsteady breath. "Why all the tattoos?" I find myself asking.

Eames gives me a winning smile before tilting back his head and laughing. His laugh is positively beautiful. "Is that what today was all about? My tattoos? You're attracted to my tattoos? I should be astonished, but I find it oddly suitable for you. Here," he says. Stepping back from my hands, Eames proceeds to open his shirt, ripping off half the buttons along the way. I watch, practically drooling, as each inch of skin is revealed. He drops his shirt to the ground—thank the gods that offensive piece of clothing is ruined—and grasps my wrists. With a maddening smirk, he lifts my hands and places them against his chest again. "Explore all you want."

I narrow my eyes at him, but follow through with his instructions. Yes, yes, yes. My hands wander everywhere. His skin is soft, but the muscles underneath are hard as iron, the fine tufts of hair on his chest silky rather than coarse. The flesh beneath my fingers twitches as I trace the lines of the tattoos on his chest and then on his biceps. It only takes me a minute to become restless. Fuck this. I don't just want to touch, I want to fucking taste him. Dropping down to my knees I finally give in to the need that's been torturing me all day. I lean in and begin to trace the letters on his abdomen with my tongue. The only sign Eames gives that my ministrations affect him is a large hand twisting into the locks of my hair. I want to drive you crazy, Mr. Eames, just as much as you've been causing me duress. And so I begin my, 'let's drive Eames over the deep end' attack. Puckering my lips, I begin to kiss the skin beneath them slowly and methodically. When this only earns me an increase in breathing speed, I open my mouth. Pushing my tongue hard against his skin, I let my eyes drop closed and sink into the sensation of his skin beneath my lips. His skin indeed tastes salty; but it is pure masculinity and I love it.

He hisses the word, "Fuck," before his hand tightens painfully in my hair and yanks me up. "No more of that." He bares his teeth and snarls, "You need to be naked right now." Oh joy. My mission to drive Eames wild? A success.

Without another word, Eames reaches out and begins to rip off my sweater and then my shirt. I let him have his way, watching pleasantly as my clothes hit the floor. Marvelous. With a mild tone I comment, "I believe, my good, sir, that you need to disrobe fully in order for this to work."

Eames laughs and he starts working at his pants. If he's going to get blessedly naked—thank God—then I should be as well. Share and share alike. I rip down my briefs and my pants, pointedly ignoring the drying cum on my clothing. Those will definitely need to be washed later. As soon as I've divested myself of my shoes and socks, I turn and quickly crawl onto the nearest bed. I turn around and watch fascinated as Eames' hungry gaze scours every inch of my body. A shudder goes through me as his eyes stop to stare pointedly at my cock. Licking his lips Eames turns away. What the hell is he—oh. Eames steps away from his suitcase with a bottle in his hand. Lube, oh what a splendid thing!

"One must always be prepared," Eames smirks.

"Of course," I murmur. My eyes trace down his gorgeous naked body and catch on the sight his cock—hard and seeping, and oh so ready. My mouth waters at the sight. Now that I have time to fully appreciate his body, I might as well. It is so intriguing really; he's not circumcised. First man I've ever had sex with who wasn't. But then, that's a European thing, isn't it? I wonder how different the sensation is. Is it more? Is it better?

"Darling, as much as I enjoy the thought of letting you taste me, which you seem very intent upon, I would actually like to fuck that lovely arse of yours. So be a good boy and stop staring at me as if you will devour me."

My face flushes. Bastard. "Yes, well, if you would hurry your ass up and get over here sometime in the near future, maybe we will."

I don't have to say another word. Eames descends upon the bed like a ravenous hunter and fuck if that isn't just the hottest thing? His movements are slick and smooth, just like the way he speaks. "Lay back." I do what I am told…for now. Unbeknownst to Eames, this is not the way this evening will end. I've wanted to ride him now for so long that it burns. And damn it, I am going to whether or not that's what he wants. A hiss leaves my lips as Eames shoves in two cold, slick fingers. "Sorry."

"Cunt," I snarl. Even though I say the words, my body writhes pleasantly around him.

"What a filthy mouth you have all of a sudden." He chuckles and continues to move his thick fingers within me. FINALLY. I twist about as he stretches me. He is quick and efficient, leaving me to whine for more within minutes. "I am not going to break, Eames. Get a fucking move on."

"Snide fellow aren't you?" He shoves in three digits.

"Shit." My head drops thickly back against the headboard and my body convulses around his fingers. My ass burns, but oh does it feel so good. Just the feeling of his hand writhing within me starts to bring my cock back to attention. Thank the gods for having some stamina. Eames' fingers twist and I groan. Yes, yes, yes. More, just more. I thrust my hips against his fingers and keen unintelligibly. So good.

"Jesus." My hazy brain vaguely realizes that Eames is slicking up his cock.

Oh no, no, no. "Wait," I mutter.

A strained look falls across his face and I am hard pressed not to burst into laughter. "What, Arthur?" I take the moment's hesitation and plant my hands firmly against his chest as he looms over me. I shove him backwards with all of my might, and force him down onto the bed. As I position myself over him, he gazes up at me wildly. "What the hell?"

That ridiculously stupid complaint dies the moment he sees me crawling up between his legs. "I am going to ride you now, Mr. Eames. And you are going to accept that."

Those beautiful eyes of his widen in pure shock. If I wasn't so hard right now I would dignify him with a laugh. But as it is, I am so fucking ready for this that I am close to just grasping myself and giving into the release my body so desperately wants. So, so ready for this. How do you do it, Eames? How do you drive me this wild? I straddle his waist and reach behind me to grasp onto his slicked cock. Both of us shudder at the feeling. Oh God. Without preamble, I start to guide that thick cock of his inside of me. Oh fucking shit. Eames' eyes roll backwards and my body screams with desire and pain all at once. He's so big. I whimper helplessly as I sink further and further down, until finally, I slide the last bit of his cock inside me, until his hilt is resting against the base of my ass. He raises his knees up to cradle me from behind and I lean myself against them as I adjust to the feel of him thick and hard inside me. I burn and sting at the intrusion, the heat of it all clawing at my channel. But fuck if it isn't the most miraculous feeling in the world. I sit there for a moment, letting the sensations tear through every extremity of my body. This is why I like to bottom, this feeling of fullness, of being heated from the inside and out, of being completely taken.

I flex my legs and drag myself upwards, my muscles clinging deliciously to Eames. A strong pair of hands immediately grasps my hips, helping to guide me along the way. The feeling of his hands brings my eyes crashing down, where I find Eames gazing at me with such intent that I shiver. Sliding up, I nearly pull him out whilst I prepare myself. Just as I press back down, Eames thrusts his hips up. A tortured cry breaks out of me at the feeling. Fuck! As my hands fall against his chest to steady myself, I catch the smirk on Eames' face. Asshole. As punishment for his smug look, I tighten my muscles around his shaft. He lets out a strangled gasp at the feeling and I reciprocate his leer with one of my own.

In response, the man beneath me lets out a growl and shoves his hips upwards again. My breath catches in my throat and I am forced into action. Using his chest as my stability, I lift myself up and down, rolling my hips back and forcing Eames to find his rhythm. Eames, versatile man that he is, manages to thrust his hips in just the right way, causing a very embarrassing whimper out of me with each stroke. I should have known he would be good at this. Why did I ever doubt him?

SHIT. I flail uncontrollable as Eames sits up. "What the hell are you doing?" I pant, grasping onto his shoulders at just the last second.

Eames twitches within me and a full-blown smirk crosses his lips. "Oh, I think it's time to reciprocate. Don't you?"

"Wha—"

Keeping me held tightly to his body, Eames shifts us forward, bringing his legs up beneath him so he can lay me flat down on the bed. I struggle to maintain my hold on him, but somehow I manage. He slips out nearly all the way during the move and I find myself whining at the loss. "Eames. Inside." I want you back in me. I want—oh, how I want—

Eames grasps a hold of my legs and shoves them against my chest before slamming back into me. I scream out raggedly. Oh God, oh God, oh God. I move my legs around to rest on his shoulders and cross my ankles behind his neck. He gives me a heated look that tells me exactly how hot he finds this position and then rams into me once more. He is not gentle with his movements, but I am perfectly content, no, more than content with that. Sweat gleams on Eames brow and I want nothing more than to kiss the hell out of him. But this position allows no such purchase; I must content myself with the delicious slide of his stomach against my shaft as he moves. So fucking good, more, more, more. "Harder," I finally manage to groan at him. My brute of a partner shoves into me so hard that black licks my vision. Shit. Please oh please let me come. Just—fuck.

The orgasm rushes through me like fire, burning through every part of my body and rushing down through my toes, leaving me gasping, screaming my release. I buck against his hold, but he grips me firmly and isn't moved. Even so, my body tightens about Eames so hard that he grunts. As soon as my ass clenches, he completely loses hold of his rhythm. Within several, uncoordinated strokes, he is shuddering within me, my body still trembling with the aftershocks of my orgasm. "Arthur," he moans. Damn, the way he says my name is hot.

When he stops convulsing, Eames pulls back gingerly. His softening shaft pulls out and suddenly I feel empty. I am satisfied and warm and thoroughly pleased; but empty. Eames drags himself up beside me and collapses to the bed, his breath still coming in heaving pants. I turn towards him and then proceed to let out a girly shout as his hand snags my waist. He pulls me in against his side and just holds me there. It's, well, it's truly a romantic gesture. I have rarely been with a man who likes to cuddle. The fact that Eames is that type of man sends a tingle of warmth through my chest. Rolling his head to the side, Eames looks right into my face and meets my gaze head on. Those eyes of his are deadly. Even thoroughly sated, that look sends a shiver of desire through me. "Now, Arthur. I promise you. If you so much as let another man touch you after that, I will find them and remove whatever it is they happen to call a penis. Is that clear enough for you?"

A small smile tilts my lips. "You aren't going to toss me out of your bed and look for the next man that will have you?"

My smile breaks into full bloom while I watch the amused anger snag his full lips. "No. Indeed I am not. I find that you were quite worth the wait, darling. I'm rather certain that I will be more than happy with you for a long time to come."

Without thought, I reach out a hand and trace it along the tattoo on his bicep. Is this a risk I can take? I know Eames. He brings trouble with him wherever he goes. But then, I kind of like him that way. At least whilst in the same field, we'll be together more often than not. "I'll give you fair warning. I do not share. And I do not do not serious. If you aren't prepared for that, walk away now."

Eames lips crack into a wide smile and my breath catches to see it. "I've waited five years for you. If I wasn't serious, I would have walked away when we arrived at this room."

I cannot help myself, I grin in return. So lovely and sweet…when he wants to be. Snuggling in against his side, I throw my messy, sweat-smeared body over his. "Glad to hear it, Mr. Eames."

As I'm drifting off, my eyes fluttering closed, I hear a soft whisper next to my ear. "Arthur?"

"Hmm?" I mumble.

"I love you."

"I love you too." And then I'm off to the land of dreams again where my sex fantasies have become all the more accurate and detailed. Oh, how lovely.