Sinful.

It’s strange, really strange, this moment. For what’s possibly the first time in Eames’ life, he’s at a complete loss for words. He knows what he wants to say, just not how to go about saying it. He opens his mouth once or twice, but no words come out and he quickly becomes frustrated. Arthur waits patiently, as if he has all the time in the world, which he probably does, with one hand resting on the strap of his messenger bag, one eyebrow raised in expectation.

Finally, Eames, giving up on trying to speak with any sort of grace or ceremony, settles for a simple, blunt, “What exactly are you trying to pull here?”

Arthur’s eyebrow raises a notch higher and his expression takes on an air akin to amusement. “I don’t think I understand what you mean,” he says, though his tone says otherwise.

Eames frowns, partly in annoyance, but mostly in a sort of frustrated endearment. It’s so like Arthur to be evasive like this. He kind of half-glares at Arthur for a moment before saying, arms crossed, “You really enjoy being difficult, don’t you?”

Arthur shrugs once and lets his bag slip off of his shoulder. He places it carefully on a nearby stool and takes a step or two closer to Eames. Arthur is slightly taller than Eames, and he has his hands casually in his pockets. He studies Eames carefully for a while in that speculative way of his, and Eames feels the urge to say something but bites his tongue instead.

Arthur moves to cup Eames’ chin with one hand and Eames feels a smirk carving its way onto his face. Arthur’s eyes look dark and stormy and filled with a certain wanting that Eames craves. Eames becomes intensely aware of how Arthur’s body is pressed up to his, of how warm Arthur is, fingertips hot against Eames’ skin as they rub along Eames’ jaw line. Eames wonders if Arthur is always this warm or if it’s only because of Eames (he hopes it’s the latter).

“Yes?” Eames purrs when the moment extends just a little too far for his liking.

The corner of Arthur’s mouth twitches up and that’s all Eames has time to see before Arthur is crushing his lips against Eames’. And oh god how good this feels, to finally get what he’s been wanting, needing ever since Wednesday morning. The spice and the heat and hint of red wine and something sweet and acid that, Eames thinks, must be Arthur when he’s no longer hiding behind the fineries he surrounds himself with.

Eames easily moves his lips with Arthur’s in a soft, fluid motion and it’s not long before it becomes hard for Eames to breathe. Arthur has a certain fondness for using his teeth, Eames notes as Arthur bites down on Eames’ bottom lip. It’s kind of really hot. Eames never realized he had such a fetish for it until precisely this moment.

“You know,” Eames mumbles against Arthur’s lips, unable to keep his hands still. Somewhere along the way, he’s untucked Arthur’s shirt and his hands are now running along the curve of Arthur’s spine. Arthur gasps and his body bends to Eames’ touch, and Eames sees it, finally. That little slip of control, the shifting, the giving away in the impervious façade Arthur puts up for everyone. More, Eames thinks, almost greedily; he wants to see more.

“You know,” Eames tries again after momentarily losing his train of thought, “As much as I’d love to simply ravish you right here, I think it might be best if we at least go on one date first. It’d be simply tactless otherwise.”

Arthur pulls away from him just enough to look him in the eye, expression just shy of the crisply composed control it usually is, and his eyes flicker in mixed thoughtfulness and playful teasing. He’s purposefully taking longer than he needs to and both of them know it. Arthur’s pupils are blown wide and his cheeks are ever so slightly pink.

“Alright,” Arthur says finally.

Eames grins and reaches behind him for a pen and emerges victorious with a Sharpie. If Arthur objects to being written on with permanent marker, he shows no sign of it. Eames scrawls his address down on Arthur’s hand, the black ink from the Sharpie an exceedingly dark stain against Arthur’s pale skin. He pauses for a moment, pen tip hovering over fair skin, and decides to write his number down as well, just in case, just because.

When Eames finishes, Arthur stares at his hand for a long moment before looking up at Eames. “I have paper, you know,” he says. “You could’ve just asked.”

Eames just shrugs and leans back against the worktable behind him. “Well, you didn’t exactly complain, now did you?” he points out, a smirk on his face. They both know that the real reason Eames wrote on Arthur’s hand and Arthur let him is that they both kind of like the idea of people just looking at Arthur and knowing that something’s going on.

Arthur chooses not to respond to Eames’ comment. Instead, he leans in and proceeds to kiss the breath out of Eames again, effectively making him forget whatever argument he’d been making, before going to get his messenger bag. He hooks his messenger bag over his shoulder again and looks back at Eames.

“Seven o’clock,” he says, “Tonight.”

Eames manages a smirk around the breathlessness that has overtaken him in the aftermath of the kiss and teases, “Impatient, now aren’t we?”

The corner of Arthur’s mouth twitches up slightly and he says, “Wear something nice.”

And then Arthur turns and leaves, his shoes clicking against the concrete flooring of the building. Eames listens to them echo away and then lifts his fingers to his lips, pressing lightly where Arthur’s were not moments before. He thinks he can still taste Arthur if he licks his lips and he feels more than a little bit giddy. He smiles to himself as he finishes cleaning up his workspace so he can go get something for lunch.

While he’s walking out of the building, however, he begins to realize that seven o’clock isn’t all that far away. If he stays in the studio for the afternoon till they’re all kicked out promptly at four, he’ll have three hours until Arthur comes to pick him up. And (oh god, Eames feels like such a teenage girl for thinking this) he doesn’t even know what to wear.

Wear something nice. What does that even in mean? In Arthurland, that could mean anything from a simple button up shirt and dark jeans to a full three-piece suit, probably.

Eames sighs as he steps out into the noontime sunshine, sliding a pair of sunglasses on over his eyes. It’s safe to say he’s getting a little bit frantic. He’ll need to call Ariadne over for assistance when he gets home.