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There are nights when Eames is right where Arthur needs him to be, when Eames is so close it’s suffocating. With his calf tucked tight against Eames’s shoulder, Eames’s forehead rests against the bridge of his nose, and he can feel each exhale on his skin. Arthur’s body is contorted to fit, to invite Eames to sink in deep, to fill him and touch him there with each controlled press of his hips.
“Eames…” Arthur moans, thick and breathy and half-strangled with pleasure. He never used to get his leg this high. It used to be a throbbing ache from hip to knee, one that came second to the lower ache that had settled into his spine.
“Practice, love,” Eames had whispered to him each time before, kneading at the tense muscle, sating the deep ache with deeper thrusts.
Arthur’s eyes slide closed every time, his lips parting to exhale heavy breaths, pushed from his lungs as Eames crushes him closer; Arthur’s hand rests on his back, cupping the base of his ribcage, encouraging the other man to pull the air from his lungs between thrusts.
When Arthur comes, he’s silent. His mouth is open in a soundless scream, but Eames could never miss the look of ecstasy on his lover’s face as he comes undone.