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The man with his fingers in my icebox

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It was about twenty minutes after the job had wrapped, and Eames was down on his knees. The right against-the-odds victory could do strange things to a man. Make him hungry for new limits to push.

They were in a panel-beating workshop where their getaway car had been parked, awaiting tomorrow's re-badging. Smell of grease. Single fluorescent light on the wall casting stark shadows.

Arthur was leaning against the glossy red hood. He watched with the corners of his mouth turned down as Eames unbuckled the stiff leather of his belt and slowly undid his fly.

"No hands. I want to see what you can do with your mouth," he said in exactly the same voice he had used in the dream, when he'd had the mark face down on the concrete with a pistol at the nape of his neck. "Take your shirt off first."

The thing with Arthur was he didn't play often, but when he did, he did it with complete conviction. Flicking open as few buttons as he could get away with, Eames's stripped his shirt off. The brush of contact and the charge in the air pebbled his nipples in an instant. He reached for his belt.

"Stop that." Arthur's arm bent, as if it might have a back-hander in mind, and damned if the idea of Arthur striking him wasn't so fresh and unexpected that his dick gave a throb in his pants. "That's all you get to take off for now. Not until you work for it."

Eames still had a Beretta tucked in the small of his back. Somehow that made it all the more exciting when he raised himself back up on his knees and kissed the hot bulge of Arthur's dick through his briefs, feeling the scrape of the zipper against his chin. He met Arthur's gaze while he did it, looking up through his lashes while he pressed his lips and then his nose into the growing firmness of his arousal.

"That's it," Arthur practically purred down at him. "Show me how much you like it."

God forgive him, he groaned at that, and pushed his face harder against Arthur's cock, hands fisting in empty air at his sides.

"Don't be greedy," came Arthur's voice as a firm grip on his hair pulled him back. "Try again. Like you mean it, this time."

And then Arthur slipped his fingers under the waist band of his briefs and slid them down his thighs.

Down beneath the collared shirt and the brown leather jacket, Arthur was as naked as a man could be. There was not a hair or a freckle to mar the bare skin across his groin. Nothing obscured the mechanics of his hard-on, swelling up from a thick base that Eames wanted to wrap his fingers around. For a long moment, all he did was look, while the impatience in both of them built to an ache. Then Eames nudged his shirt up with his nose to kiss the little knot of his navel. He rubbed his bristly jaw over the smoothness all around it, alternating the abrasion with lightly bestowed kisses. It wasn’t long before the insistent tip of Arthur’s arousal was nudging against his neck. He pulled back to have a good look at Arthur's dick, rock hard and perfectly stripped bare.

He leaned in, paused a finger-span away where his warm breath would make an excruciating tease.

"Go on. Kiss it."

The murmured command gave him such a warm shiver that he made himself pause, to hear it again.
Instead, Arthur tilted his erection down with his thumb to sit at the perfect height and waited. Eames did as asked, then, slow and lingering, letting the texture of his lips drag over the delicate skin. There was an instant, helpless jerk under his touch. Arthur’s sigh sounded lost, unravelling. "Again," he said.

Eames gave him what he wanted, kissed him over the slit, working slowly all over the blood-flushed crown, onto the fine ridge at its circumference. He wet his lips in his mouth and went over the same ground with a delicious, damp cling of skin on skin. Arthur removed his hand to let Eames get underneath and push it up against his belly, kissing passionately down the underside until his thigh muscles jerked. But when Eames opened his mouth, Arthur stopped him.

"I’ll tell you when you can have more."

And the thing was, they had hours to indulge themselves, and Arthur asking to have his cock sucked was the sort of gorgeous filth he could be patient for.

"I can wait," Eames assured him. "As long as you like."

Arthur touched the side of his face, thumb stroking over his temple. "You'd better."

Nothing got Eames going like a challenge.

He started at the tender inside of Arthur's hip bone and kissed his way down the immaculately waxed muscle until he reached the base of his cock. He trailed delicate brushes of lips up the straining line of it, and let his eyes drift closed as he zeroed in on the faint glimmer of moisture starting to ease out of the slit. He kissed it until his lips were sticky, and then he pulled back to give Arthur a good look at what he'd done.

"Keep going," Arthur managed to say.

After that, he bent the rules and used the wet insides of his lips as well, bathing Arthur's cock in spit. Arthur was lavishly wet before long, pre-come clinging to Eames’s lips with each kiss, stringing out between them and leaking the occasional drop when Eames's mouth wasn't close enough to catch it. Eames had to lay his hands flat on his own thighs to keep them out of trouble. It was one of those surprises about Arthur that hooked him in, the way he got so helplessly, expressively wet. Arthur, who could wipe out a dozen projections at close-range without breaking a sweat.

Eames leaned back and slowly sucked his lips clean. Breathing deep, Arthur watched every movement.

"Would you like me to swallow down your cock now?"

Arthur's fingers were gentle on his lips, sliding slickly back and forth.

"Take it slowly," Arthur told him. "Make me feel your throat opening up around me."

Eames had to bite back a sigh. At first, he only filled up his mouth, nudging Arthur's cock against his soft palate and cinching gently with his lips. He let his eyes roll back just a little. This was part of the game. It was something he liked to bring to the performance. Whether his mouth worked better than any other man's, he couldn't say. His unique skill was convincing himself that he needed Arthur's cock in his throat far more desperately than air. He breathed in one last slow breath through his nose, and gave himself the space he need to believe it.

He sank down, slow and blind, fighting his reflexive resistance all the way. He didn't do this often enough to make it easy. He didn't want to. He liked the fight he had to bring, the work he had to do.

And Arthur liked it even more. "Holy shit, Eames, Eames—" he was saying.

He was at full stretch now, throat jammed full of cock. Disobediently, his hands came up to grasp Arthur's hips and pin them both into this awkward position.

"Yes," was all Arthur could say now, over and over until it choked out of him. "God, Eames, move."

This time, it was the tremor of desperation he wanted to satisfy, so he worked his throat hard and deep, gliding back and shoving himself forward hungrily. Arthur was never a grabber during these games. His fingers brushed Eames's hairline, his cheek. All the effort of keeping himself choked on cock came from Eames.

He drew back, gulping in a breath, and each time forced himself back down again to let Arthur feel the resistance, the will-power it took. He was getting loose-lipped and easy now, spit and come sliding over his lips and dripping onto his chest.

"Christ, you want it—" And Eames did, he did. He let his eyes flutter closed deliriously and pressed himself right down until his nose was brushing Arthur's belly.

Arthur made a ragged sound, a growl dragged out through gritted teeth, and a second later he was losing it.

Every bit as committed to the part as Arthur, Eames pulled back enough to swallow. Even when the last pulse of orgasm had spent itself, he kept the head in his mouth until specifically told to desist,

He rubbed his face, waiting for the shimmering in his vision to resolve itself as he panted and gasped his way back to steadiness. Arthur was reclothing himself in swift, efficient movements, but his eyes were dark and half-focused. His skin prickled as Arthur looked down on him.

"Satisfactory?" he asked.

"I think," Arthur told him, soft now but no less steely, "you know exactly how good you are at that."

"How about you tell me anyway."

A delicious shiver ran over his skin as Arthur paced around behind him and bent down to remove the Beretta. He leaned in to say in Eames's ear,

"You know what the only thing hotter than this high-powered piece of machinery is, Mr Eames?" Eames looked the Ferrari up and down. The mud guards and low-sitting chassis were darkly spattered from their getaway, but everywhere else gleamed luxuriantly. "It's having a naked man lying across the hood."

Another time, Eames would have given him a slow striptease, but just now it was a test of patience to tug his shoes off and strip himself out of his jeans. The sense of entitlement in Arthur's gaze made his blood even hotter. It settled with due appreciation on the state of Eames's arousal.

"On your back," he said, softer than ever. "Hands above your head. You won't be using them."

The metal was cool against Eames's backside as he placed himself just forward of the wing mirror, on top of the aerodynamic ridge that curved from above the front wheel down to the headlight. The body dipped slightly under his weight. As he lay back, the gradient perfectly accommodated the curve of his spine. When he came to rest, his head was pillowed against the metal ridge on the opposite side, and his toes had lost contact with the ground.

Arthur walked around to lift a thick length of chain off the wall and draped it over his wrists. Heavy enough to hold him still when he hooked his fingers into it.

"That's it," Arthur told him. "Now don't make a sound."

The building shiver in him was from more than just the cold metal.

Arthur nudged his knees apart to stand between them. His body was warm through the wool, and firm. Eames's cock shifted helplessly against his belly. Arthur's finger started at his navel and traced a straight descent, trailing up over the shaft with a tantalizing graze of well-tended fingernail. When he reached Eames's balls, he toyed with them idly as they throbbed and began to ache.

"You're hot as coals down here, Mr Eames. As if I didn't know already, how bad you need this."

An hour ago, he'd been holding a gun to the head of an ex-KGB bodyguard. Now it was all stripped off him, everything except the sizzle of adrenalin that was turning into something else, focused powerfully in Arthur's hands.

Arthur lifted his cock up perpendicular and held it there. A hot drop slid out of his slit and spilled. The chain scraped on the floor, low and revealing.

"Not a sound," Arthur murmured, and graced him with a few thorough strokes between finger and thumb, sliding the foreskin around confidently. Then he let go.

Eames could feel the powerful in-out shift of his lungs pressing into the metal hood. His cock would be dark red against his belly now, full to an ache. It was going to be dazzling when he came. Arthur could keep him waiting for hours.

"Would you like it better if there was someone here to watch? A whole audience to see you laying yourself out for me? I could show them how easy you are, for someone who knows how to handle you right."

Jesus, some days he found this kind of talk unbearably potent. Today was one of those days, and the state of his body was broadcasting it like a screen. His legs relaxed open a little further, acknowledging Arthur's control.

Arthur's hands were hot on his thighs, squeezing hard. "I could put you on the internet. All that muscle and ink, with a sleek machine underneath you. And look how willing you are." His voice dwindled to a whisper. "Look how much you like it."

Cold struck him unkindly when Arthur stepped back. "But you're going to wait for it."

His skin prickled all over. That was Arthur – a man you could count on never to leave a job half-finished; who liked nothing better than exceeding expectations.

The soft grind of boot heels on concrete approached the opposite side. The wool of Arthur's trousers scraped Eames's arm. He fought to keep the chain still and quiet, but his efforts failed when Arthur leaned calmly over to pluck at his nipple. His whole body spasmed at the unexpected jolt of pleasure. The links rattled as Arthur repeated the gesture on the other side: a rough touch that dragged the vulnerable flesh out and released it with a delicious burn of friction. His untouched cock felt every last stroke of it, desperate even for vicarious stimulation.

They'd found out the hard way that there was no point in trying to make him beg. What worked on him was this: build-up and denial, the humiliation of being made to wait. In his head, he said now, now Arthur, now. But all he got was Arthur bending right down to stroke one pitiless finger from the base of his cock to the tip, continuing upwards in a damp slide that ended at his bottom lip. He knew how to use denial, Arthur. The caress left him burning where he'd been touched, and tingling everywhere he hadn't.

"Hush," he said, and Eames's fists closed tight to silence the chain. "I want you to come for me now. With your mouth shut. "

When Arthur crossed back around and took him in hand, Eames practically had to bite through his lip to stay quiet. The wonderful thing about Arthur was how he knew how to dispense with any gentle instincts and strip Eames raw, like everything between his legs was there for Arthur and Arthur alone. The heat was simmering in him, building explosively, too much to contain. A sting of pain jerked through the base of his cock from too much rough treatment, but not enough, not enough. He crushed his eyes closed as his panting got a tortured edge of voice, but he couldn't articulate the formless thing he wanted to beg for. More. Harder. Everything.

His hips jerked up off the hood as it took hold of him at last, the electric shock of release, as he went into freefall, a blaze of white behind his eyes, white over blood red.

He was still only half-conscious when he heard the wet splatter on the windscreen as Arthur shook off his handful. He was wiping his fingers on an oily rag when Eames opened his eyes.

Wordlessly, Arthur brought him his clothes. It was always tricky, at this end of things, to know when the playing was over. As he buttoned his trousers, he gauged the tension between them and thought it might be. But Arthur was standing closer than he needed to, watching Eames pull his shirt on.

When he got to the sleeves, Arthur stepped in and finished off the cuffs, turning Eames's wrists upwards and taking his time.

Eames's head was still a bit fuzzy. The fake passport in his back pocket and the stolen information in his head seemed much less real than the long, kissable line of Arthur's bottom lip.

"I've got a room in the city," Arthur said as he straightened Eames's collar. "Harbour views. Come back and let me take care of you."

It wouldn't be long before the spell wore off and that kind of talk lost its magic. But right now, his nerve endings were still glowing like little stars and he could see himself doing pretty much anything to hang onto this feeling as long as he possibly could.

He wet his lips. "By taking care of me," he asked, slowly, "did you mean tying my wrists together and fucking me over the back of a sofa?"

A few moments' silence was Arthur's only acknowledgement that this was a step into uncharted territory. He let out a long, patient breath.

"Oh, Mr Eames. That's another privilege you'll have to earn." He kissed the corner of Eames's mouth lightly. "But I'm going to let you try."

**