Chapter 2: Brutalism
Eames tossed his car keys towards the bowl by the door, missing by a long shot. Despite being the type who considered running 10k a light warm up, modeling always left him exhausted. He shuffled to the bathroom and ran the shower, holding a hand under the water til the old pipes warmed up. It took a while, but it was a hell of a lot quicker than what he had been used to in Mombasa. That and the mosquitoes were the only things he didn't miss about Africa. Paris's respectable history and the refined quality of its humanity didn't really suit Eames, in fact, neither did being a live model, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. There was something electric about being in the hushed room with twenty-odd pairs of eyes on you; it forced a deep state of concentration that he had come to crave. Plus the undeniable sexual tension was kind of a rush. He was used to the collective pounding pulses of middle-aged French women in the weekend classes and the nervous swallowing of first year art students, but never had bothered to connect with any of them despite some looking like all they wanted to do was go home and have a week-long wank.
But this girl, the little architect, with her huge, dark, animal eyes and those perfect Clara Bow lips that he wouldn't at all mind seeing moving down, down, down his body. He wasn't normally one to notice girls that young, but something in the way she moved, like a little hurt robin, made his palms itch to touch her. He ran the soap over his torso, massaging the tense muscle where his neck and shoulder met and cleaning behind each ear like he was raised to do. Despite all the dirty, unsavory things Eames loved to throw himself into; from eating nyama choma at a street cart in Mombasa to fixing junkyard cars to stealing watches in London's smoggy financial district, he always looked forward to a scalding shower at the end of each day.
The architect's face hovered in his mind as he slid the soap lower before setting it aside to grasp his now hard length. Steam filled his lungs and he let his head fall back, imagining the architect undressing, her small, skilled fingers making quick work of buttons and zips, baring that creamy skin for him. Breasts white as magnolias and so, so soft. Women like that always tasted clean, worked so hard to keep it so. They reminded him of soda crackers. Comforting. Tasteless. One needed to dirty them up a little, get them after work or in a hot room and tease out the human flavours: a tang of embarrassment or sharp, salty lust; the rich, heavy taste of physical exhaustion. How would she taste, in the secret place behind her knees, at her skinny wrists? Eames dug his toes into the bottom of the tub, his tongue tingling at the suggestion of her skin. He bit his lip and picked up the pace, imagining what curves might be hidden under her baggy sweater, her body warm and pliable beneath his hands. He came, clumsily, and sighed, reaching for the soap again. Just wanking off wasn't going to do it. He had to see how far he could push, how crazy he could make her, before the architect tumbled like a cabin made of toothpicks.
IMPORTANT A/N: Just a short little chapter :) From here on in, it's going to get REAL raunchy so in keeping with the guidelines, I will not post that here but refer you to where it will be available for your reading pleasure: head to archiveofourown dot com and paste /works/1451239 after the URL. You can also find it under my username, LaMaldita.
Sorry guys, I know it's a real pain but I don't want them to shut down my account!