Hands Free (1/1)
Title: Hands Free
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Arthur/Ariadne(+ Eames)
Disclaimer: Nolan created them, I just make them do dirty things
Summary: Arthur is not going to be deterred by one little phone call - isn't this the age of multitasking?
Author's Note: Inspired by a prompt at inception_kink that reads involves bondage, and a phone call that Arthur insists Ariadne not miss. There is sex, hints of a threesome, and maledom here folks. Just so you know!
Perhaps she should not have let herself be talked into this.
As she watches him carefully shrug off his jacket, and fold it (fold it for fuck’s sake). Ariadne realizes that he is going to tease her, torment her, make her beg.
And there is not a goddamn thing she can do about it.
When he turns his back for a moment, she tugs at her bounds experimentally to see how much give she has. His voice, with that hint of malice she had first noticed when he had suggested they call it a night, fills the room. “Tight. Too tight maybe.” He turns back to her and she can see that he has his tie off. The first few buttons of his shirt are undone and he’s working through the rest as he speaks, “You’re not going anywhere tonight.”
Ariadne shivers. She would like to blame it on the fact that she is wearing nothing but her own scarf so expertly looped around her wrists. But she knows her reaction is solely based on his promise (because she believes him no matter the circumstance).
He has finally gotten his shirt off and carefully lays it over the jacket. She thinks it is about time. She has lost her own clothes long ago. She lifts her self up as much as she can, given her position (come on Arthur). He must sense her eagerness because his hands fall away from his belt buckle and she does her best not to cry out in frustration.
Instead he seats himself on the edge of the bed. She does not try to move to touch him. He will just skirt out of range. His eyes travel over her slowly, as if taking her in for the first time. She can feel her skin growing hot under his gaze and she finally spits out, “Tease.”
He just laughs, and his fingers ghost over the smooth skin of her right thigh.
She feels ashamed that just a touch, a simple touch, has her moaning. There is amusement in his eyes as he pulls his hand away and she tries her best to meet his gaze defiantly. Instead her eyes follow his hands as they ever so slowly pull off the belt. He is careful with it, placing it over the shirt (damn it all to hell, his one goal this evening must be to torture her).
She will not tell him that he had succeeded the moment he had pulled away her cotton underwear, fingers brushing between her curls in what seemed an innocent move (far from it).
God, she wants him so badly.
Unconsciously, her legs squeeze together, a desperate attempt to relieve some of the tension she feels. Arthur, always on duty of course, notices as he steps out of his pants, clad only in a boxer briefs and the thin gold chain she had found for him. The fact that he wears it makes her feel as if she has left some mark on him. That she holds a smidgen of the control that he so easily wields over her.
When he leans over her, the chain tickles her skin.
He uses his hands to prop himself above her, a slight smile playing on his face. She wonders how he can seem so close yet so far away. She can feel his breath, surprisingly cool on her heated skin. She can feel the warmth radiating off him.
It is not nearly enough.
He wants her to beg. As much as she would like to resist, to show him that she is strong, she wants him more. Lowering herself in this case is worth it. A hand moves to her hip, his fingers almost digging into her skin.
“Please.”
Arthur’s entire body stills and he looks at her. Although he is not smiling, she can see the amusement clearly written on his face. “What was that?”
How she would like to smack him now. She makes a mental note to put him in her exact position the first chance she gets. “You heard me,” she tells him, a defiant lift of her chin.
His response is to pull back, his hand disappearing from its place on her hip. She growls in frustration, arching her body toward him. “Goddamnit Arthur. Please!”
This time he does grin, but she is rewarded for her groveling with his lips on her neck.
Ariadne wishes she could run her fingers through his hair. She wishes she can trace the skin down his back. Since she has been deprived of those things she settles for turning her head slightly so her lips can touch his temple. Her touch is gentle, his is not.
She can feel his teeth grazing along her skin, leaving a mark but never quite breaking the skin. The hand is on her hip again moving toward the aching in her center. His fingers are nimble as they explore damp flesh. She is already gasping for breath, hoping desperately for a quick release (but knowing given his mood he will prolong it, draw it out, until she is almost crying).
Or perhaps not.
She can feel her orgasm build - her breath becomes shallow, her lips parted, her eyes screwed shut. Arthur is an expert at having her come apart beneath his touch.
So close, oh so close.
And then the unthinkable happens - her phone rings.
It rips her from the moment. Her eyes fly open and she looks to Arthur, who is rising to look to the bedside table where her phone is ringing away without a care for what is going on in the room. She is about to tell him to ignore it when he flicks a finger and she gasps instead.
One hand is still firmly planted between her thighs while the other reaches to pick up the phone. A wry smile spreads across his face and then his eyes find hers. “Eames.”
“He’ll give up in a moment,” she tells him squirming a little. If he won’t move his fingers she’ll move herself around him.
“You know this from experience?” He asks.
Obviously, she has forgotten how good he is at twisting her words.
Before she can protest, he is leaning down, placing the phone to her ear and pressing a button. Her eyes widen and she tries to comprehend what he has just done. She thinks she hears Eames calling her name and Arthur is raising an eyebrow at her pause. She finally manages to speak.
“Hello…”
God, she hopes she doesn’t sound as strung out as she feels.
“Did you drop your phone under the bed again, darling girl?” Eames asks cheerfully. She doesn’t need this - not now. Not with Arthur’s hand buried in her moments from orgasm.
She knows Arthur plays dirty. But this is a whole new level for him.
“No,” she says quietly watching Arthur closely. She hopes to read him, to anticipate his next step, and to counter it best she can. “I was…I was sleeping.”
“At this hour? When did you become a little old lady?” Eames asks. “Do I have the stick in the mud to blame for this? He hasn’t gotten you on a strict diet of bread and tepid water has he? You just say the word and I’ll be there with the greasiest thing I can find.”
“It’s been a long day,” she counters and has no choice but to bite her lip when Arthur moves his hand lower so a finger can trace her opening. On their own accord her hips raise and she prays that does not give herself away.
“I won’t argue with you on that. I am still at the warehouse myself,” Eames tells her. “Which is why I called. I was going over the blueprints for my layer and I have to admit I am a little confused.”
Oh Christ, this is not going to end easily.
“Can we do it in the morning? When I can see the blueprints too?” She asks (God, Eames, please understand. Please help me).
“A clever girl like you has the thing memorized. The start date for this thing is coming up fast and I think the sooner I have this aspect under my belt the sooner I can work on transforming myself into a gorgeous raven haired beauty.” Arthur’s fingers are still circling, moving dangerously close and Eames’ voice suddenly sounds so far away. “Be a sport, love, and help a gent out.”
“All right.”
And of course Arthur chooses that exact moment to twist his fingers inside of her. She can’t help but hiss.
Loudly.
“Are you all right, Ariadne?” Obviously he has heard her and now he sounds concerned (just lovely).
“I stubbed my…toe,” she explains, wishing she could get out an entire sentence without her breath hitching. Arthur knows exactly what he is doing, pumping her carefully. She is moving against his fingers, though she knows better.
“Graceful as always.” Eames is back to his normal self and she wishes she could say the same. “I just have a few questions.”
Of course he does.
“Okay,” she keeps her voice low and quiet. As if that is a solution. She realizes that perhaps she both loves and hates Arthur in this moment. He is grinning as he holds the phone to her ear and moves his hands in precise movements.
“Although I have always admired you ability to twist architecture into many intricate shapes I worry that we have made this one too complex. Time is rather short in this game. Even if I have the entire thing memorized I worry that I won’t navigate it before the deadline,” Eames explains.
To her it sounds like garble.
“Um,” she begins as Arthur finds that one spot inside of her that has her sucking in air and lifting her hips clean off the mattress. “We can change it…” She has to keep the job in mind. Making decisions in a lust fueled haze will only compromise their hard work. “…but only slightly. If it is too easy, the mark won’t get lost.”
“Of course,” Eames concedes. He seems happy with her answer and she hopes that is it (oh please let that be it). “My next worry is with the second floor office. The safe is just sitting there in the open. Isn’t that a bit strange? Won’t Dudley get a bit suspicious?”
She hears the question but pleasure rules her body, striking her dumb. Arthur has a look of intense concentration as he continues to drive her closer and closer to the edge. She has her bottom lip caught so tightly between her teeth that she thinks she tastes blood.
“Ariadne?”
Eames. She can’t forget Eames. “Right. Arthur…” A mere mention of his name and he is grinning again, his fingers curling inside her just right. She can’t hold back the gasp. She turns her head as much as she can away from the phone before pulling herself together. “…did the research and discovered that is in fact how Mr. Dudley has his safe.”
“Bit arrogant don’t you think?”
Ariadne thinks she disguises her moan as a murmur of agreement.
“Okay.” Ariadne thinks she is about to be released in more way then one. But then Eames launches into an explanation of why he thinks the color scheme will be so important and Arthur pulls his hand away.
She is filled with the intense desire to kill them both (slowly, painfully).
She levels what she hopes is a death glare at Arthur, who is paying her no mind. In fact, his fingers are disappearing between his lips and she is left slack jawed. It is then she realizes that there is silence in her ear and Eames has trailed off.
“I’m sorry. What?” She asks in hopes of remaining the cordial co-worker.
“Ariadne, you aren’t paying attention to a word I say,” Eames trails off and she knows he is thinking. What if he is putting the pieces together? Her face already grows a little hot at the thought. “Are you drunk?”
She could cry in relief.
“No…yes,” she corrects quickly. “I may have had a glass of wine earlier. It may have gone straight to my head.”
“Lightweight,” he says just as Arthur uses his free hand to pull himself free of his boxers. He is already fully erect and he levels Ariadne with a gaze as he slowly strokes himself.
She could cry in frustration.
“As always,” she agrees, hoping to sound as if she is giving him the attention he deserves. Although her eyes are glued to the scene before her. Arthur has his closed and his head falls back slightly as he moves.
“I would make my point again but somehow I don’t think you will understand it any better the second time around,” Eames tells her with a sigh (oh how right he is). She can’t help but feel a little insulted.
“I am sorry, Eames,” she says again. “I promise to sit down with you tomorrow and go over everything.” Arthur’s hand is moving faster now. Surely he does not mean to bring himself off and leave her aching.
“That sounds like a better plan,” Another pause and Ariadne expects him to sign off. Instead he says, “Is he fucking you yet?”
“What?!” Her voice is laced with shock she feels. Arthur takes this moment to shift her legs with his one hand, and buries himself deep inside of her. She is so overwhelmed that she can’t hold back the cry.
“There’s the answer to my question,” Eames says. And he chuckles. He actually chuckles as Arthur bottoms out and stills.
She is breathing erratically already, trying to wrap her head around the situation. Eames knows exactly what is going on. Eames is listening as Arthur fucks her. “Oh God…”
“He’s good, isn’t he?” (Good Christ, is he speaking from experience?)
Further contemplation doesn’t seem possible as Arthur pulls back only to thrust forward again. He is looming over her, one hand still pressing the phone to her ear, the other bracing himself as he moves, controlled as always.
Even as she tries desperately to piece together everything, her body is reacting. Her legs move around his waist in attempt to trap him inside of her. Her back arches, her head tilts back. She makes one noise and she has Eames’ voice in her ear.
“How wonderful does it feel?” Another thrust, another uncontrollable moan. “You don’t have to tell me. I already know by the sounds of you. He is precise in everything he does, our Arthur.”
Ariadne’s only answer is another incoherent noise.
She wishes she had just one vestige of control.
“Is he moving fast? Or slow?” Eames asks.
She doesn’t know why but she is answering him. Her voice sounds sluggish. “Slow…”
“But you want him to go fast, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she says.
“Hard.”
“Yes.”
It is almost as if Arthur can hear Eames’ side of the conversation because he is doing as she wishes. She no longer feels the need to hold back. She screams her pleasure for Arthur’s actions, tugging at her bonds. She wishes she could sink her nails into his back for encouragement.
“Are you close with him buried so deeply inside you?” Eames asks, and for the first time she notices the husky tone his voice has taken on. She wonders if he is truly seated in the warehouse or if he is somewhere more comfortable taking care of himself just as Arthur is taking care of her (Oh God, it feels so good).
“Arthur…” she manages.
“Arthur,” Eames echoes. “You must be close. Do you want to come?”
“Please.’ Ariadne isn’t even sure who she is speaking to anymore. Her eyes are focused on Arthur, his gaze pinning her as he fucks her into the mattress. She is moving against him as much as she can, feeling the pleasure build once again.
This time she better not be denied. She was will destroy him if she is.
Eames is whispering words of encouragement in her ear, degrading at a rapid pace to something akin to filth. He is own breathing mirrors her - irregular short gasps. There is no denying that he is doing now. The visual plays behind her eyes only to be shattered when Arthur pulls out of her completely, leaving her empty and wanting.
She meets his gaze, trying to keep her face passive. She moves her hips slowly against him, trying to entice. “Don’t you dare,” she warns.
How she would like to wipe the smile off his face.
He doesn’t tease her too long. He manipulates her body, splaying her legs at an almost obscene angle before plunging backside her. She shouts her approval and the phone is almost forgotten as Arthur reaches for one of her legs, his hand wrapping around her ankle. He lifts it up, holding it against his chest and Ariadne knows it is not long.
For any of them.
With Eames encouraging her, she in turn encourages Arthur to finish her off. He moves quickly and she finally gets the outcome she has longed for since her had glanced her way through hooded eyes hours before. She feels the orgasm work through her body, starting at her center and moving outward. Her back is arched; her mouth open but little sound is making its way out.
Finally she falls slack against the bed, a soft sigh falling from her lips.
“Christ.”
Whether it is Arthur or Eames who spoke she does not know. Nor does she have time to ponder because Arthur is moving again, with little regard to pace or timing now. Like she once was, she suspects he is now desperate to get off. A few thrusts and he achieves his goal. With a stifled groan, he drops her leg, his body falling against her.
She turns her head against him, kissing his temple once again as a silence fills the room.
Feeling worn but sated, Ariadne closes her eyes, content to rest with him still on top of her. But that is not to be.
“Call at seven, he says,” Eames sounds strained as well. “Nice to know that he can keep a schedule in all aspects of his life.”
She raises her head to meet Arthur’s gaze. His thumb dances across the button and the phone dies. She narrows her eyes and gives her a lopsided grin. “You’re not mad, not really…”
“Don’t be too sure,” she tells him between clenched teeth. She pulls at her bonds, this time with real purpose.
“Oh no,” Arthur tells her runnin a hand up her arms to ensure that the scarf is still tightly held in place. “I meant what I said earlier - you’re not going anywhere tonight.”
She wants to curse him out. She wants to be angry.
But it is so hard with him moving down her body, his lips seeking out her most sensitive areas.
Instead of being angry, she finds herself crying out his name as he buries his head between her legs (and remembering that revenge is a tiny architect with a drawer full of scarves).