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Be Careful, Be Careless, Be Careful

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Eames will never tire of kissing Arthur.

“How can you know that?” Arthur asks, as Eames smooths his palms over Arthur’s ribs, tonguing sloppy kisses down the groove of Arthur’s breastbone. “It took you a year to decide that you wanted to kiss me at all.”

“Eleven months,” corrects Eames, nosing at Arthur’s bellybutton, moving on to press soft lips against Arthur’s hipbone, “and it wasn’t that I couldn’t decided if I wanted to. It’s that I wanted you too much.”

“Never too much,” Arthur says breathlessly, shifting restlessly beneath the surety of Eames’ mouth and hands. “Not for me.”