A/N: Oh hay, I wrote a sequel to Mirror, Mirror. LOOK AT THE TITLE; AREN'T I CLEVER? Ahaha.
Saito/Eames, rated R for risqué indeed. 922 words. As usual, plz don't sue.
Eames is standing at the curb of LAX airport waiting for a cab when he hears the voice again, not inches away from his ear. "We meet again," says Saito, moving to stand beside him. A cab has stopped in front of them, but Saito takes Eames by the arm and steers him back away from the curb.
"Saito?" says Eames, questioning, but he feels a thrill run through him because he thinks he knows where this is going. He knows, and he's not entirely bothered by it. Not at all, actually. Sure enough, Saito leads him gently around the sidewalk to a handsome black Mercedes parked a few dozen feet away.
"After you, Mr. Eames." Saito smiles lazily and opens a door for him. Eames slides into the leather seat with an expression of mingled anticipation and bewilderment. This is good, could be good, but it seems so out of the blue. So does the kiss that Saito attacks him with when he climbs in next to him. Eames is shocked, momentarily, but as strange as this feels it also seems right in a way. Each of them had something invested in this job. They've all shared in the emotion of it, even Eames, who'd had little to lose and everything to gain. What they've been through together... there's no erasing that. So he kisses back. Saito bites at his lips and probes with his tongue, begging the entrance that Eames is all too pleased to give him. He feels the older man's hands running up his sides, then down over his arms, and in less than three seconds flat he's so hard he could die. He breaks the kiss a moment later, if only because all the blood has rushed from his head, and if he doesn't get some oxygen he's going to pass out in Saito's lap. The car takes a turn (when had it started?) and Eames shoots a glance to the driver. The driver, however, is doing a bang up job of ignoring them fooling around less than a foot behind his head. Saito grins and Eames decides not to worry about it.
They're still lip-locked when they reach Saito's hotel (no, really, hotel) what seems like a few seconds but is really more like ten minutes later. Eames juggles the poker chip in his pocket incredulously as Saito breezes right past the front desk and takes them on the direct elevator right up to the penthouse suite at the top. It's a long ride made even longer by the fact that Saito's hands are now probing insistently at the waistband of Eames' trousers and feeling him through the rough fabric. They spill out into the short hallway between the elevator and the suite, and Eames doesn't even get a look at the place after Saito has them in the door-he's busy being slammed against the wall as Saito kisses him and grinds against him furiously. Then suddenly he's moving lower, unbuttoning Eames' shirt and leaving a wet trail with his mouth as he goes, and despite the fact that his knees are about to go out, Eames has the wherewithal to ask Saito a question for once.
"Ah, Saito," he gasps as the man's teeth graze a nipple. "Not that this isn't bloody amazing, but... why?"
Saito pauses in his ministrations, looking up at Eames with a spark of annoyance in his eyes at the interruption. "What do you mean, why?"
Eames lets out a huff of a sigh. "It just seems as if, since Cobb was the one to rescue you from Limbo and all..."
Saito climbs back to his feet, fingering Eames' collar. "Perhaps, Mr. Eames, perhaps. But Cobb is not the one I want."
As if to punctuate his words he gives Eames' cock a squeeze, and in an instant Eames has forgotten all about it. All he can think about is Saito's hot mouth sucking on his neck and his fingers that are in the process of dexterously undoing both of their belts and flies. Eames shifts a bit lower against the wall as Saito's hand finally snakes in, pulls down his boxers and wraps firmly around his cock. He can't quite stifle a groan as the older man starts stroking him, the other hand moving to snatch Eames' and direct him to do the same. They set up a quick and even pace, each jerking the other for all they're worth and Saito's thigh shoved between Eames' and grinding against his balls.
"F-fuck," Eames bites out, but he's silenced by Saito's mouth over his. The other man groans into him as he steadily approaches climax, his motions going jerky and strained. Eames can't help but be seconds behind; this is so overwhelming that he can't believe-he's seeing stars-is this even-fuck!
Saito's pulsing in his hand as he comes, and his knee is the only thing keeping Eames still standing as his own orgasm rips through him like a tiger. Or something. He can't spare a thought to think about it, not when his mind is so blessedly blank and his body twitches in the pleasurable aftermath.
They spend a moment in silence, until Eames is fairly certain he's able to think again and finally opens his eyes. There's come on his hands, come on his stomach, and come all over his and Saito's indubitably more expensive dress slacks.
"Damn," Eames remarks at the mess. "Arthur would cry. He'd-"
"Oh, probably," Saito grins and cuts him off again. With his mouth. Eames doesn't mind.