"So, darling. What's on the schedule for today?" Eames said, joining him in the kitchen. Except he said it in his ridiculous and frankly amazing accent. Sshhhedule.
"Oh my god, you are SO British," Arthur laughed. "Tell me, honestly. Do you piss tea?"
Eames grinned cheekily. "Oh, this is nothing compared to how British I can be, darling."
Arthur knew a challenge when he heard one. "Oh yeah? Prove it," he said, one eyebrow raised.
Eames raised an eyebrow back, then reached for Arthur's tie, running it lovingly through his fingers. His voice dropped an octave as he growled, "The new Jaguar goes naught to 60 in 3.4 seconds."
Arthur's mouth quirked in a smile, but he was surprised at the heat that started to curl in his belly at Eames's voice.
Eames stepped closer, pulling Arthur by his tie to close the distance. "We can park it in the garage next to the lorry." His voice was caramel and silk and sin and Arthur couldn't tear his gaze away from the sight of Eames tracing his bottom lip with his tongue. Eames did it again, slower, a flash of teeth biting his lip.
"Porsche," Eames rumbled, his hand skating over the small of Arthur's back to grasp his ass.
"Zebra." He slid his thigh in between Arthur's and dragged his body up against his.
He dropped his head to Arthur's ear. "Aluminium," he said, drawing the word out, dark and dangerous, and Arthur shivered.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Arthur said, desire in his eyes and lust in his voice. "Take off your pants."
Eames grazed his lips over the curl of Arthur's ear and his fingers over Arthur's waistband. "Trousers, darling."
"No," Arthur demanded, grabbing the bulge of Eames's erection possessively. "Pants," he said fiercely. "Right fucking now."
"Bloody hell."