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In their line of work, trust wasn’t something that happened overnight. When they were together, for the first time, Eames could still remember Arthur’s words, low and husky, feeling the rush of Arthur’s breath hot against his own lips, “One condition… Face to face, always.” Arthur wanted to see him, to see the crinkles around his eyes when he smiled; to kiss and feel those plump lips wherever Eames elected to place them. He wanted to bury his fingers in Eames’ hair, regardless of the presence of hair gel, to sink his fingers in and grip tight while powerful hips pounded hard and fast against his. Arthur needed to see Eames, he needed to be absolutely sure that the man touching him so intimately… was truly Eames.
The first time Arthur had rolled over, had laid his forearms down against the bedsheets, finger grappling with the edge of the bed, his ass raised so Eames could delight in the delicious arch of his back, that was when Eames knew he’d fallen for Arthur. A man who immersed himself in dreams, who struggled to trust those he knew best, those who could creep into the dark corners of his mind and see his thoughts; this man was face down on the bed in front of him, vulnerable, trusting Eames, trusting the man behind him to be who he wants needs him to be.
The forceful in-out-in-out had Arthur moaning, grasping at the rough hands held in his own, pressed to his lower back. He knew those hands. They had been all over his body. He knew those hands. They were Eames’ hands. He couldn’t forget the almost too soft caress against his cheek, like freshly shaved cheeks against the tender skin of his inner thigh, smoothness Arthur could feel wrapped around his cock causing a delicious slip-sliding with an excess of lube. Those were Eames’ hands. Smooth hands. The same hands that grazed his thighs, that felt like sandpaper juxtaposed by silk boxers.
Eames knew. He held tightly to Arthur’s own fingers, pressed into his lower back, using them as leverage for as long as he could. Moving one hand, his thumb shifted to be captured in Arthur’s free fingers, giving him something to hold onto, to ground him. Arthur couldn’t forget. It was Eames’ hand. Eames’ fingers held tightly in his own. When he felt the tight heat coiling in the pit of his stomach, his muscles tensing, tightening, his balls drawing closer, threatening with a soon-to-come release, Arthur still held tight to that hand, to thumb and four fingers. To Eames’ thumb and four fingers. To Eames.