It has an air of desperation, as it always does. These moments, these secret meetings -- they’re borrowed, Eames knows this. He’ll take it if it means he gets to taste Arthur, to have him say Eames’s name like he can’t help it escaping him. He’ll take any scraped out time he can get just to feel Arthur’s hungry hands on his body.
He has Arthur pressed against the wall of the hotel room, Arthur’s jacket tossed onto the desk, shirt hanging open, tie loosened and askew on his chest. Eames drops to his knees, works Arthur’s belt open as he mouths his stomach, Arthur lolling his head back to the wall, eyes closed, mouth open.
When he pulls down Arthur’s trousers, tugs at the elastic of his briefs, he sees them: finger-shaped bruises on Arthur’s hip. Eames’s mouth twists in pain, loathing. He stops what he’s doing.
Arthur looks down, impatient. Eames turns his head to avoid Arthur’s gaze. He pulls away, stands up.
“You can’t tell him to ease up a little?” the contempt in Eames’s voice is checked, but only a little.
Arthur glances at his hip, looks back at Eames. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. What do you expect me to do, Eames? I can’t stop altogether, he’ll suspect something.”
“I know that,” He closes in on Arthur again, slips his hand around Arthur’s waist and pulls him in, thumbs over Arthur’s nipple. “It’s just -- is it so wrong of me to want my marks on you instead?” he says, quiet.
Arthur’s jaw sets, forehead wrinkling in a frown. “Don’t start, okay? Let’s just --” he doesn’t finish, instead he sets about unbuttoning Eames’s shirt, kisses along his jaw. And Eames knows they should talk about this; they’ve started this conversation dozens of times, but when Arthur’s hands are on him, his resolve dissipates. He lifts his chin, exposes himself to Arthur. He closes his eyes and silently curses himself, the situation, the boyfriend, everyone but Arthur, who right now feels good enough to eclipse all else.
He gives in, shuts down the questions nagging at his brain that he doesn’t want answers to. Instead he grips Arthur’s head with both hands and kisses him deeply, licking in and sucking on his tongue as if he could somehow clean out the history there. Arthur melts, relaxes against the wall and lets himself be plundered, and how could Eames ever stop this? He ought to, but he’s not so self-delusional to think that he will someday.
Eames reaches down and hooks his hands under Arthur’s arse, lifts him and relishes the feeling of those strong legs wrapping around him. Arthur huffs a small breath into Eames’s mouth at the sudden shift but doesn’t pull away. Eames leans his weight into Arthur, pulling a groan from him.
Pressing him into the wall like this, he almost feels he could trap Arthur, keep him if he could just hold him tight enough. He kisses down Arthur’s jaw to soft skin just beneath and sucks softly. Arthur sighs and presses into it, then jerks away. “Don’t,” he says quietly but it lacks conviction.
Eames lets Arthur down and pulls him towards the bed where they undress each other with a kind of frenetic impatience, uncovering skin like they’re trying to find something they’ve lost. Eames’s hands drift over Arthur’s body, mapping him, pressing in at the places that make Arthur gasp: the dip just above his collarbone, the sensitive juncture between hip and leg. He digs his fingers into the firm flesh of Arthur’s arse, gripping tight and Arthur bites hard at Eames’s shoulder.
“I said stop that, no marks,” he whispers huskily, but laves the bite with his tongue, soothing.
Arthur pushes him down, straddles his lap and nips at Eames’s lips, kisses down his torso to suck and bite at Eames’s nipple. He sinks his teeth in and Eames squeezes his eyes shut, the pain sharp and clear and he knows what Arthur is doing. Arthur thinks he’s marking for both of them; he doesn’t realize that it awakes a vicious urge in Eames to just take what isn’t given freely.
Gripping Arthur tightly, Eames rolls them both, pins Arthur beneath him and reaches down to hike Arthur’s thigh up to wrap around Eames’s waist. He blindly feels around the bedcover to find the lube he’d tossed there earlier when he’d received Arthur’s text. He coats himself, twisting his wrist and pumping a few times, watching Arthur gaze heavily down at Eames’s preparations. Eames rubs what’s left on his hand over Arthur’s pink puckered hole, swirls it around the downy hairs there. But he doesn’t press in and Arthur looks up questioningly at him.
Eames lines himself and rubs the head of his cock back and forth, applying just enough pressure to make his intent clear. Arthur frowns but when Eames pushes in Arthur only grunts softly; he doesn’t object. That he hasn’t put on a condom this time, that Arthur watched and didn’t object makes Eames’s head swim. It’s almost overwhelming, the thoughts that spin out from this one little fact, but he hasn’t the focus to make sense of them.
He pushes hard, Arthur’s tight collar of muscle clenching hard around Eames’s girth as he sinks in deep. Arthur lifts his head from the bed, presses his forehead into Eames’s shoulder and Eames feels Arthur flex around him, feels his legs drawing Eames’s body in further. That lean, lithe body below him arches up, becoming slick with a thin sheen of sweat as Eames begins to thrust, long, slow strokes.
Arthur latches his mouth onto Eames’s skin, sucks hard and Eames pulls his shoulder away, grabs Arthur’s hands and pins them to the bed. He bends down and kisses Arthur’s neck, his shoulder, and begins to suck a mark just below Arthur’s collarbone. Arthur growls in frustration and struggles to free his hands but Eames lets his full weight hold Arthur down while he continues pulsing in and out.
Arthur’s skin is salty, smooth, firm under Eames’s tongue and he wants to suck hard, pull up a bruise that won’t disappear for weeks. But he stops himself before the urge becomes overwhelming, and pulls off, a silvery line of saliva connecting his tongue to Arthur’s skin. The faintest of red marks is all that remains of Eames’s near loss of control and he frowns at himself.
He returns to Arthur’s mouth, sucks at his tongue in substitute. Arthur’s hands grip Eames’s, tug at them in a useless effort to pull him in closer and Eames pumps in hard, bottoms out. Arthur’s cock is leaking between them, rubbing against Eames’s belly. When Eames changes his angle slightly, Arthur slams his head back into the mattress, his mouth falls open, and their torsos slide slickly together with the sudden rush of hot come.
With Arthur clenching around him and the heavy scent of sex filling his nostrils, Eames’s orgasm crests and he grinds in hard, filling Arthur up as if he could somehow claim him from the inside out.
When he collapses, spent on Arthur’s limp form, he feels Arthur’s hand come up to run fingers through his hair.
“Hey,” Arthur says. “Roll off, you’re heavy.”
Eames does with a sigh and Arthur hisses a little when Eames slips out. Eames reaches down to feel his seed dripping out and Arthur spreads his legs, gently turning towards Eames to kiss him but allowing the exploration.
“Stay here tonight,” Eames says, because he’ll throw himself against this wall until he’s bloody and beaten.
Arthur swallows, kisses Eames again.
“I’m serious, stay.”
“You know I can’t,” Arthur says. “We’ll stay together in Bruges next month on the Kesler job.”
Eames shakes his head. “That’s not what I’m asking, Arthur, and you know it.”
Arthur lifts Eames’s hand away and shifts to get up. “I’m not doing this now. I have a meeting in an hour and I have... dinner plans tonight. Look, we’ll talk about this tomorrow, all right?”
“Arthur, if you don’t love him, you’re not doing anyone any favours by staying.”
“I never said I didn’t... fuck, Eames. Don’t fucking do this now.” He’s pulling on his clothes angrily and Eames grabs his own trousers, feeling suddenly far too naked. Arthur turns to him as he does up his trousers. He softens. “I love you. I do. It’s just, it’s complicated.”
Eames sits down at the edge of the bed and pulls Arthur back to him, strokes his hands up the backs of Arthur’s thighs. He looks up and Arthur cups Eames’s face in his hands.
“Do you love him?” Eames asks, not wanting to know but needing to anyway.
“I did. For a long time.” Eames shutters his expression; it works on most people but Arthur knows him too well. He strokes his thumb across Eames’s cheek. “We’ll work this out, Eames. But I have to go. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Eames asks, hating himself for letting this get deferred again. Arthur bends down and kisses him.
“I promise,” he says, then gently extracts himself to put himself together again.
When Eames walks him to the door, he steals another kiss, long and deep, and when Arthur steps outside, Eames’s hand drifts down his back, trails after him as he steps away like they’re connected by a string.
He closes the door and lets his forehead thump on the cool hard surface. Eames has no illusions about what he is: a thief, and a good one. But he lets himself hope that soon he won’t have to be.