She stays in LA for two weeks, after. She doesn't know what happened to the others (and tries to convince herself that she doesn't care), only that they were all gone.
Truth is always hidden in lies.
She finds the heat and crush of people unbearable, all motion and no structure (it's the lack of structure she finds most appalling, no depth in this city). She toys with the idea of returning to Paris, perhaps finishing her classes but dismisses the idea as soon as she has it. She can't imagine herself sitting through lectures and sketch classes, surrounding herself with the idea of being grounded.
She knows differently now.
Knows that a few months can change the course of a person's life forever, knows that if you can find people you would trust with your life, you should hold them. She's young (and perhaps naïve), so she hadn't quite understood that people like Eames, Cobb, and Arthur (she tries not to think of Arthur with his ties and quiet eyes) don't hang around when a job's over. They simply move on, looking for the next mark; next job. It had been one job, nothing else had been promised but a payday.
She's left behind, twisted and searching.
He finds her in Cairo, after. He doesn't tell her that he's spent the better part of three months tracking her down, doesn't tell her that he had assumed she would turn around and fly to Paris. He's mildly surprised at the lack of focus her travels have taken her, the lack of direction.
But he doesn't let her know any of this.
Instead, he pulls up a chair and silently waits for her to acknowledge him. He waits a few minutes before she lifts her head from her sketch book.
She studies him, eyes noting the lack of tie. This bothers her, a little, changes her perception of him enough that she clenches the chess piece in hand tighter. She doesn't doubt that he would notice the gesture. He has.
"I see you've made concessions for the weather." Her hand indicating his throat.
"I see you haven't." The corner of his mouth turns up slightly, head nodding towards her scarf.
Instantly, she brushes down the urge to make a retort (its linen), and hates that in the span of two minutes he can make her feel so defensive.
So she waits, eyebrows arched. It doesn't take long.
"There's a job."
"There's always a job." Because she knew this is why he would come to look for her and it breaks her a little.
Inside this lie, there's a truth.
She's in a bar, time folded and bent to her will. The mark has his hands resting lightly on her arm and she's leaning in, flirting with her eyes and body. The dress is too tight but it's her dream and she knows it looks good on her.
He moves his hand to the nape of her neck and she won't claim that she's not affected (it's been too long, too long). It's the job; get in, get out. She had wryly asked Arthur how far she should let the mark in and he had leveled his gaze on her, eyes burning tension. Get the job done. She had flushed, with anger and embarrassment (and resentment).
Now, she's tempted (oh so tempted), when she catches him out of the corner of her eyes, watching them. His hand is clenched tightly around the glass in front of him, eyes burning into hers. The corners of his mouth are turned down, and she looks away quickly. There's work to be done and she shouldn't forget.
(but she might let the mark kiss her once or twice, just to remind her)
There's a truth in his lie.
He leans over, his lips quickly claiming hers, his eyes close and she presses closer to him taking the lead, allowing their breaths to mingle. She leans closer to him, kissing him with an urgency that shakes her. Clutching at his shirt, he gently pries her fingers off, as if to say, 'don't wrinkle the shirt."
She thinks, 'the hell with this,' but then his tongue delves deeper, exploding with urgency, his mouth restless, moving over hers and drawing her closer, demanding more.
She licks his bottom lip and he groans, parting his mouth and holding her face more firmly. She touches his tongue with the tip of hers and then withdraws a fraction, teasing, getting him to lean forward, searching for more. His tongue chases hers, playing and exploring. His kiss is not gentle; instead it's hungry and possessive. She tastes both frustration and desire, held back with a fierce restraint.
Their tongues tangled together in a heated dance so sensual her body ignited and burned.
For only a kiss it was unbelievably erotic.
He pulls back, "Fuck," he whispers, and covers her mouth again.
She participates fully in the kiss, opening her mouth under his, raising her hands to rest them on his shoulders. When his tongue met hers again, she digs her nails into his shoulders and hears the soft hiss he makes.
She breathes in deeply, her nose next to his cheek and absorbs herself in a heady odor of soap and Arthur. With each beat of her heart, with each stroke of his tongue, she slides further down the bed. Because she couldn't stay upright, his body is pressing her down, down, down…
He groans and dimly, she realizes he is affected as she is (layers to this man, she's always known that). She should draw away, walk away while she still can, but his mouth is too delicious, stroking heat into her, his taste too heady. She drifts dreamily, drugged with sexual heat as he explores her mouth.
He withdraws the barest breath away and she sighs in disappointment, but he immediately places his lips on her jawbone and nips lightly. His voice startles her, so out of place in this context, "I hate those scarves you wear. You use them to hide behind."
She wants to push him away, hates how easily he sees her. 'As if the suit isn't armor,' she wants to say, "as if controlling everything around you isn't another way of hiding." But she doesn't, this feels too good and she's wanted this too long. Instead, she leans back and her breathing speeds up as his mouth moves to her ear, where he traces delicate whorls with his tongue.
(tomorrow is another reason to stay)
He lifts his head and she shivers at the heat in his eyes. Arousal had turned his face stark, his face flushed. His eyes were dark and his hand is slowly stroking her breast, his thumb slowly circling her nipple.
Before she can form even a sluggish thought, he's bent his head to her breast and she gasps as he takes the tip into his mouth.
Lies uncovered by truth.
How many times had he wanted to touch her, caress her, stroke her, feeling her skin warm under his touch? He layered everything he felt for her beneath his cold indifference, beneath his faint praise. He should have known that she would be the one to see through it.
"Yes," she murmurs as she exhales softly, her head falling to one side.
"Christ, you're lovely." His voice comes out low and rough.
He still can't get the image of another man's hands touching her; another man's cock inside if her, out of his head. It drives him crazy and his hands turned rough as he pulls her closer to him. With a low, maddened growl, he pulls her panties off and pulls her up to him. He turns with her held in one arm and with the other he moves over to the desk in the corner, sweeping it clear; books thudded to the carpet as he lays her down on the wood surface.
He stops a moment, staring down at her figure laid out like a sacrifice, all legs and strappy sandals. He is hard as a rock, his penis straining to be inside her. "I need you, Ariadne." He mutters against her neck, not really sure what he was saying.
"I'm yours."
His eyes close in pain and his hands shake as they travel up her legs. His thumbs open her and he dropped to his knees.
She is as beautiful here as she is everywhere else, smooth folds of skin surrounded by fine brunette hairs. He watches his fingers coax her arousal from her. Her back arches and she moans as he slides first one finger, then a second finger into her.
He brings his mouth to her and hears her sharp intake of breath. He kisses her deeply, exactly as if he were kissing her mouth. His tongue circles her clitoris then slides lower to plunge back into her. His thumbs opened her wider as his tongue imitates his cock.
Ariadne's thighs shake and she suddenly cries out and pulses against his mouth. He could feel, taste her climax. Rising swiftly, he opens his pants, turns her towards him and thrusts into her hard. He grits his teeth to keep still as she continues to climax around him.
She threw her arms up over her head and lay stretched out before him, pale and slender, impaled on his cock. The pulsing in her cunt matches her pulse beats and he could feel himself become impossibly harder inside her.
As the contractions faded away, she opens her eyes. "God," she whispers, sounding dazed.
"Arthur," he says harshly, staring at her face. Flexing his back muscles, he pushes with the force of his hips deeper into her. He clenches his jaw and pushes farther, opening her up even more to his possession. "Fuck," his voice guttural.
They stare at each other, joined in every way possible, and he breaks under her gaze. He grips her hips hard enough to bruise and he begin thrusting with all the strength of his body. Hard and fast, creating a rhythm which he knew would have hurt her if she hadn't already climaxed. A hot wire flashed down his spine, his back prickled. He could hear her faint cries beneath him and when he felt the clench of her around him it was as if a bus had barreled into him and he erupted in her. His orgasm seemed to last for hours as he shook and groaned, spilling into her.
He would never be able to get enough of Ariadne, never be able to let her go.
Lies he tells himself.