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You're Just My Type

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He stares at the finger ghosting down his sleeve, just his sleeve, pale skin against paler cotton, an incongruous carmine nail. It’s not quite a touch but a wave of heat prickles down his arm all the same. His heart begins to race and he can't hear beyond the blood pounding in his ears. The slender hand pauses at his rolled cuff and the finger dips inside the fold of fabric, slips to the inside of his forearm. Even muffled through the crisp fabric of his shirt the touch is electric. His breath hitches; he is dizzy with need, shaky. Her finger strays to the bottom of his cuff and lingers there, stroking along the edge. He keens, ready for the jolt of skin on skin. The moment stretches to three, then four seconds of absolute stillness. His entire world narrows down to that single red-tipped finger just shy of his bare wrist. He wants to move; he wants to beg; he wants to breathe.

And Arthur releases an involuntary gust of laughter because of course, of course, Eames is a tease. Eames is always a tease. Even when Eames is an appealing woman with plush lips and dark red nails. Especially when Eames is an appealing woman with plush lips and dark red nails.

Arthur is not confused about his sexuality. Not since he was twelve and endured an awkward summer of buff lifeguards and inconvenient erections. He considers himself a firm six on the Kinsey Scale. Case closed. Until this afternoon, when Eames looked at him with unfeigned astonishment and said, “What, never?”

So. This is what Eames thinks he would want in a woman: late-twenties, red curls, athletic. Eames is good at what he does so Arthur probably would be attracted to this woman. If he was attracted to women. Which he is not.

“Okay,” he says, willing to concede some ground. “I’ll admit that was hotter than I expected but you overplayed the…”

Arthur gasps as Eames steps closer and pulls him into a kiss. It’s disorienting. It’s confusing. It’s arousing. Eames runs her hand down to Arthur’s fly and there is really no denying that his cock is more aroused than confused.

“Do you need a moment,” Her voice is low, contralto, just the suggestion of an accent. “For your big bisexual freak out?”

It’s Eames, but it’s not. All of it is Eames, but not. And that’s the key.

Arthur draws Eames back in with both hands and says with perfect clarity, “Idiot. I’m only straight for you.”