shewaswarned | (no subject)

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eames

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These really aren't ideal walking shoes Ellen's chosen, but then again, she didn't exactly anticipate walking up the side of what could legally be termed a mountain - and she's a lawyer, after all, she's rife with legal terms. Somehow, by the grace of something (she stopped believing in higher powers a long time ago, especially after everything that happened to David), she makes it up with little incident, even if she has to bemoan the state of her shoes upon their arrival at the very top. Glancing over at Eames, he seems used to the whole trip, though she can't picture him making it multiple times every day. Maybe that makes his appearances among the general island population all the more appreciated. The giant V catches her eye and she hides a smile to herself for the most part, until the ground finally levels out and they're standing in front of the rather impressive home. The exterior alone doesn't exactly seem suited to a man of his taste, but the square footage alone looks pretty significant compared to the other huts scattered around the island.

"The view'd better be good," she says, but she's only mildly out of breath, cheeks flushed slightly as she smooths both hands over the front of her dress, adjusting the hem. "Really, if I'd known we were going to be participating in a good climb I would've packed some better shoes for this." She tilts her hips to one side, glancing back over one shoulder and lifting a foot to examine the mud caked on the bottom of her heels. When she sets her foot back down, she narrows her eyes at him, but there's no malice behind it, only playfulness. "And I might have to insist on you finding me replacements for this pair."

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"I don't know what size your feet are, but I could probably give you a pair before you leave, even," Eames says with a laugh, about as close as he ever gets to fond. He's long since gotten used to the climb (and in a way, he enjoys it; though most of his physical activity was done while asleep back home, he's never done well with being still), but most people aren't, even here, where all anyone really can do is walk. Now, with her flushed and petulant, however teasingly, she looks about as close to adorable as anyone can while being sexy as hell, and he appreciates it even more. "I've got plenty left here — the friend whose place this was before me left her entire wardrobe, and as I'm sure you can probably tell, they're not really my taste." Not when he isn't a woman, anyway, but that's a complicated matter, and he isn't going to tell her about what he did back home just yet.

"Did she?" Ellen murmurs, her eyes sparkling with interest. It seems a little gauche to be rummaging through another woman's clothes, and she doesn't want Eames to have that impression of her right from the start, but the offer does sound fairly tempting. Besides, he's not going to be using any of them, and otherwise they'd simply be sitting around collecting dust, so the offer hangs in the back of her mind as she considers it, nodding after a moment. "Well, she won't mind if I snag a pair of heels for the trip back," she adds nonchalantly, although she's already considering the possibility that it may not be limited to just shoes. "Wait, hold on, I don't want to make a mess." She reaches out to brace one hand on his shoulder, balancing herself until she can slip one shoe off and then the other, shrinking a few inches down onto bare feet.

"Thoughtful," Eames says, half-teasing, shooting a grin down at her as she pulls off her shoes, waiting to toe off his own until she's done. It isn't something he'd have concerned himself with, not really, though he does prefer to keep things fairly neat and doesn't much like having to clean to do so. Usually, it's a waste of time and energy. These days, he does have a bit more company than was the case for a long time — between Neil and Lily, and hopefully, now, Ellen, there's often someone over — but he'd still prefer not to have to do it. "And no, I'm sure she wouldn't mind. Going to a good cause and all that. She had very good taste, too."

When Ellen descends back onto the heels of her feet, her hand briefly lingers on his shoulders, slipping down the length of his lapel as her fingers tuck underneath to smooth it out with her thumb, and as she meets his gaze, there's a faint smile there before she pats his chest lightly, taking a step back to put some space between them. "Any friend of yours and it seems likely she would," she agrees, lightly teasing in her own way as she prepares to start walking around, only to drop back in anticipation of his first move. "I should probably wait for you to lead the way before I just start exploring like I own the place," she adds, with a sheepish grin.

"Oh, please, don't worry about it at all," Eames says, a laugh catching in his throat, though he does start into the house proper, glancing back to make sure she's with him as if anything else seemed like an actual option. The longer he spends with her, the more certain he becomes that he's made the right call here and hasn't been misreading anything. It almost seems pointless to let this play out as if they aren't both aware of it, but she makes it interesting enough that it doesn't feel like wasting time. "Feel free to make yourself at home." Strange as it is, it isn't as if he really has anything to hide, nothing but the metal briefcase under his bed and the poker chip buried in a drawer in his bedside table.

Properties and ownership mean less here, in a place where someone could simply up and disappear between one hour and the next, leaving all their belongings behind and every memory they've made here. It's something of an eerie concept, but it also adjusts what it really means to own a home and to call it your own, when everything is just so transitory. It also serves to make Ellen want to pursue everything she's aiming to do, because she doesn't know how much time she has here, how much will be made available to her, before she finds herself back home again. "Well, I've already done the shoes part," she admits, stepping gingerly on tiptoes as she walks, too trained in the action of wearing heels to turn off the posture right away. "You could show me your favorite room," she suggests.

"Are you trying to hint at something, darling?" Eames asks, mouth pulled into a smirk as he looks at her, sparing a glance down at her feet but managing to stifle a laugh. (He's worn heels, albeit not like this; he knows what it's like. In fact, he kind of misses having an opportunity to.) All teasing aside, though, there really is only one room in contention, and it's the one he leads her towards. If it's overly forward to be taking her to his bedroom, well, it doesn't matter when she's the one who asked for it. He might be practiced in the art of lying, but there'd be nothing to gain from pretending at being less shameless here.

"Hint at something?" she asks, echoing the question and immediately following it with a shake of her head. In a way, she's thrown down the gauntlet with the question, because he could be taking her to any other room in the entire place if he so chose, but he appears to be taking the most direct route, and she can respect him for that, respect mixed with a little admiration, the way she respects a fellow lawyer when they've made a fair case. Still, she doesn't stride into the room outright, but hovers in the doorway, resting her fingertips lightly against the frame, and gently eases off the balls of her feet to rest flat against the floor. "I guess I'd only end up hinting at something if we choose to stay here," she quietly adds.

A few steps farther into the room, Eames turns to face her, smile just the slightest bit softer. Like everything else, it's curious, the way she responds, how she lingers back at the doorframe and lets her voice grow quieter before she speaks again. Briefly, he wonders if it could have seemed even for a moment like they were coming back here for something other than whatever's likely about to happen, but he doubts it. There's got to be some reason. Right now, it's just not a priority. "Well, I think that depends, darling," he says, quieter in turn, crossing back to where she stands. "On if you'd like to." It's a clear open invitation, a declaration of interest, just slightly different from how he usually does it. He wouldn't have expected so, but the situation suddenly seems to call for that.

He's not overtly forceful, but she hadn't anticipated on events playing out that way. It just doesn't feel like his style. They both seem to have a clear outcome in mind, even if they're both somewhat dancing around it at the moment, circling around each other and waiting to see who's close to making that first move, taking the step that breaks all the distance that remains. Ellen's the one who does so now, directly crossing into the room in a stride that can't be misinterpreted, brushing past him as she does so. Her hands move to rest on her hips as she glances around with her back to him, taking in the style of everything, from the walls to the bed. "It's bigger than I expected, but I'm guessing that was the original designer's intention," she murmurs. "Did you change anything after you moved in?"

"Well, it's not as if this place has much to do in the way of home decorating," Eames points out, watching her as she moves, smile curious, maybe even intrigued, each step she takes cataloged. Half the fun is not knowing what she'll do, not knowing her well enough to determine her motivation, but equally enjoyable is trying to piece it together, little things adding to the whole. She's forward without being too overtly so, perceptive rather than naïve or innocent, at least as far as he can tell; it's promising. Slowly, seemingly absently, following in her direction, he shrugs, a rare moment of honesty. "But I've never been much good at that anyway. Moved around too much before I showed up here to really know what it's like to settle anywhere."

"I guess I'm just used to New York remodeling," Ellen admits, chuckling quietly. Back home, no one would bat an eye if you changed everything about the apartment you were living in from what the previous owners had enjoyed aesthetically. It wasn't even very commonplace for someone to remodel their own living place, from knocking out a wall to completely changing out every single piece of art on the walls. "But there doesn't seem to be very many ways of doing that here, not decoratively speaking, anyway." She glances back over her shoulder at him while he shares.

"I've lived in New York almost my whole life," she replies, her arms loosely crossed over her chest as she moves toward him. "I guess I've just never known what it's like to be anywhere else - especially not somewhere as radically different as this."

Eames, conversely, is a little too familiar with places like this, if only through other people's imaginations, a fact he has yet to fully come to terms with, and one he definitely isn't going to mention now. Any lingering uncertainty he may have is a good thing, keeping him from going too crazy if he picked one and wound up being wrong, and what's more, it isn't something he needs to share. What he once did isn't as secret as it used to be, but it's still not to be broadcasted, and is far too serious a subject to share at a time like this. He can't expect every woman he winds up with to be like Emma, who dragged him off to an empty Compound bedroom as soon as he'd told her; given her own abilities, that was a special circumstance.

"It is in a class all its own, isn't it?" he asks, though the question is mainly rhetorical. Talking about the island's particulars isn't something he much wants to do, either. Instead, he makes first contact, lifting a hand to gently brush a lock of hair away from her face. "Does have its upsides, though."

"And this place in particular is definitely a class apart from some of the other huts," Ellen tells him, looking up just in time to catch his hand hovering in her vision as it moves toward her face, pushes past, nudging hair away from her face. It's a miracle she doesn't flinch; the unexpected touches are what she sometimes shies away from, the ones she has no control over. It's easier when she feels like she's the one initiating, and it doesn't leave her with that sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Interestingly, there's nothing like that here, now, and she tips her head slightly into the brush of fingertips, smiling slowly. She takes it a step further though, first by stepping forward and then by smoothing her palms over the lapels of his jacket, fingers curling around the edges until they rise up closer to the collar, before she tilts her face up to his.

"I can think of at least one right now," she admits, leaning in close, a light brush of lips on every single syllable, the heat of her mouth, the barely-there flick of her tongue when she parts her mouth against his, just enough to tease.

It isn't surprising — if anything, it seems almost inevitable — but it is very, very welcome. Eames smiles against her mouth, slow and self-assured and pleased. There's something about the rhythm to things like this, when it all falls into place on its own, like something choreographed and improvised at once, that he can't help (likewise unexpectedly, if he were to stop to think about it) but find appealing. Simple though it might be, in a place like this, there are few things better. "Mm, can you?" he asks, leaning in in turn, catching her lower lip between his own, fingers threading fully into her hair. "I was just thinking that I could, too."

She tilts her head back slightly, keeping her mouth in a tantalizingly close proximity, but the sensation of his fingers sliding into her hair reels her back in, her own curling a little reflexively against his jacket before she leans in fully. His voice is a purr against her mouth, the vibration punctuated by a nipping, a capture of her lip between the both of his, and Ellen falls, her self-resolve weakening. If this can be constituted as making the first move, she's guilty as charged, and her arms wind around his neck as she finally draws herself close to him, pressing the length of her body against him, a tilt of her hips corresponding with the full press of her lips to his, slow and deep.

It's at once relieving and maddening, satisfying and serving only to make him want more. The sensation is far from unfamiliar, but Eames revels in it even so as he holds her against him, free hand pressing to her back, over the skin left exposed by her dress. He wants to touch everything, to put his hands on every inch of her, to learn her physically in ways he hasn't yet managed to intellectually. There's something to be said, though, for not rushing, and something to be said for a good kiss, too, of which this certainly is one. They have time. Hell, as far as he's concerned, they have all night, and he means to make the most of that.

There is something satisfying in that first moment, that kiss that turns into much more than a teasing brush of mouths, as if it's what they've been building up to since the second they started talking at the bar earlier tonight, and Ellen is content to linger in it for a little longer, but it doesn't mean she's against the idea of taking things another step further, and another after that. Right now, though, she finds a way to press forward and lean back simultaneously, her hips pivoting forward into his own as she arches against the hand resting against her skin, fingers spiderwebbing over her spine. She's in no hurry, though, but she is going to start taking those first steps, hands dropping down to smooth over his chest, pushing up underneath his jacket and coaxing it back over his shoulders.

It takes letting go of her for Eames to shed his jacket, which he is, admittedly, reluctant to do, but he's practiced enough that it takes only a moment, his hands on her again even before the heavy mass of fabric hits the floor. He doesn't care about it staying there. To bring organization into play at a time like this would be pointless, probably borderline sick, and anyway, he's too distracted for that, the press of her hips against his enough to draw a faint noise from the back of his throat, muffled against her mouth as he leans into the kiss. That's the part that really matters now, the physical. Even figuring her out has been put on hold, though he finds it as curious as ever to map her speed and the steps she takes. He'll have to get her out of that dress, flattering as it is, eventually, but for the moment, he figures he still has her at a disadvantage; he'll let her even the score a little first.

One of the things that isn't going to fall under the category of complaints for her is that tiny groan he makes, stifled and almost barely audible against her mouth, but he's close enough at this point for her ears to be able to pick up on every single sound, no matter how insignificant they might seem in the bigger picture. It is somewhat tricky doing this without the presence of heels on; she feels as though she's lost a small advantage as she adjusts to resting bare feet against the floor, but she's going to find other ways to make up for the height difference, and most of that will come the second she gets him into that bed. She settles for dealing with what clothes she can remove in the meanwhile, her fingertips moving to the buttons on his shirt, undoing one at a time and slowly, as she pulls back to let her lips tease over his again, light and nipping, trying to see just how far she can go before he reels her back in again.

Eames has no intention of letting her get very far, distance defeating the very purpose at a time like this, but he isn't so needy and not close enough to desperate yet that he'll object to what's really just logical. With the slight, still not really existent space between their mouths, he lets out a low, throaty chuckle, sparing a glance away from her to where her hands are at the buttons of his shirt, watching how she goes. Even that in itself can say a lot, though he'll give it more thought later than he can manage at the moment. To focus on too much else other than her would be doing her a disservice; she's something remarkable, really, lovely and enticing, a woman who seems like so much more than meets the eye — in his opinion, the very best kind. "How do I get you out of this, anyway?" he asks of her dress, tugging absently at the fabric over her hip, taking advantage of the opportunity to bring his hand higher, over her ribs, up to the curve of one breast. "Going to need to take care of that."

The first evidence that she's enjoying this is the similar-sounding chuckle she breathes against his lips, her fingers finding the edges of the shirt as they inevitably come undone, thumbs pressing along the outside as she runs her hands back up, knuckles barely brushing over his abdomen, his chest. When she opens her eyes - not fully, just halfway, just enough to make out the shape of his face from this angle, letting his expression swim into focus. There's a precipice they're both hovering on, waiting to see just who will break, who will fall and drag the other into falling after, and the first step certainly involves determining who, exactly, is going to wind up on top when they eventually make it over to the bed. "There's a clasp, here," she admits, turning around just enough to expose the place where it closes at the nape of her neck, the rest of the dress curving open to reveal twin shoulderblades and the arch of her spine until it joins again below the small of her back. She can feel his breath on her skin, warm and anticipating, and she won't hide the shiver that rises, starting low and spiraling up until her shoulders lift and she presses backward into his hands, his body.

Eames took note of all that exposed skin back in the bar, of course, but it's different now, here in his bedroom, close and there to be touched. One corner of his mouth set in a crooked smile, too slight to be a smirk, he runs the backs of his fingers lightly down and back up her spine before finding the dress' clasp and undoing it easily. (He's always found it useful, with women, that he knows women's clothes so well; too many people fumble with hooks and buttons and hidden zippers, and he'll never have to be one of them.) Only once he's done so does he let his shirt slip off his shoulders, on the floor by his jacket, all but forgotten in its absence. "There, darling," he murmurs, sweeping her hair to one side, ducking his head to press a kiss to her neck. "You know, lovely as this looked on, I think it'll look even better off."

With the clasp undone, it would be all too easy for her to let the dress fall, nothing more to hold it up than the arms she loosely encircles over her own waist, but she turns back to him first, even as the black fabric starts to ease away from her shoulders, slipping down her arms until she can gradually ease one out and then the other. It glides down and away from her skin as she slides those arms around his neck again, palms smoothing across bare chest and rounding over uncovered shoulders, catching on her hips for only a second before she shifts and pivots to ease it down without the use of her hands, and then it's just a matter of stepping out of the silk that pools around her ankles, one bare foot at a time. Somehow, she's gone to a single article of clothing in a matter of seconds, but she's not focused on that now, on the potential self-consciousness about being so suddenly exposed, her nose nudging up underneath his jaw as she presses open-mouthed kisses to the side of his neck and down over his chest.

She's utterly intoxicating. Eames has known that, he thinks, since the day they met, that there was something particularly alluring about her, but that's nothing compared to now, watching the slow, deliberate way with which she sheds her dress, which, though it once may have looked fantastic, is all but forgotten even before it reaches the floor, the skin left exposed in its absence all the more appealing. His hands go to her sides, splayed out over the curves of her waist, head tipping back when her lips meet his skin, another faint sound escaping with the contact. There's little he can do like this, save get rid of the last of his own clothing, which would require taking his hands off her, but it's impossible to mind that with her taking this kind of initiative, and feeling so damn good for it.

She's fully willing to take some of the attention off of herself for a moment; in fact, she almost prefers it that way, prefers not to be the center of fixation when she's with someone like this, and it's for that reason among others that has her mouth descending over him, over his chest and down to abdomen, her fingers spiderwebbing across his sides as she uses her grip on him to ease herself down on her knees in front of him. Inevitably, her nose nudges the waistband of his pants, bumping the leather belt, and she sits back on her heels to give herself a moment to unfasten it, listening to the audible sound of the metal buckle clinking before she frees it. The button on the pants is next, popped open between thumb and index finger as her lips draw tight over the curve of his hip, sucking a mark into that smooth line. There's another reason for doing this, too, she realizes, as she works the material down over his hips, as she parts her lips to take him into her mouth, tasting the salt of him on her tongue. She wants to.

It isn't what Eames is expecting, and that in itself is almost — not quite — as thrilling as what she does. Typically, being taken by surprise in any way would be unsettling, when so much of who he is and what he does is centered around predicting other people's reactions, learning how they work and what makes them tick, but here in a situation like this, it's practically refreshing, or at the very least, more than welcome, making his heart beat a little faster in his chest. Not about to interfere at all — she's got this, clearly — he stands still as she undoes his belt and frees him from his pants, nails pressing into his palms and breath catching in his throat at the warmth of her mouth wrapped around him. "Oh, fuck."

There's that reason too - the sound of his groan as the words slip past his mouth - and yet somehow he manages to stay still, not shifting even as she does, adjusting her weight to a more comfortable position on her knees as her hands span over his hips, using her grip to steady the slide of her mouth, the bob of her head. Initially, Ellen wasn't sure what had compelled her to start things off this way, but now that she's here, committing the taste of him to her sense memory, she can't picture things transpiring any other way. She pulls back, just for a moment, replacing her hand with her mouth and stroking him slowly, the movements made slick from the lavings of her tongue. She even manages to get up to her feet without breaking the contact, still lightly caressing him as she finally starts to move back towards the bed even as she aims to keep her body pressed against his, her hand trapped between them while she continues to touch him.

She's good, she is really good, and Eames can't say he's surprised at all, but not even the fact that he's been getting laid again on a regular basis could ever make him less appreciative of the truth of that. Pressing shamelessly into her touch — there's really no point in pretending like he doesn't want her as much as he does when there's proof of it right there in her hand — he keeps her as close as she'll get as they walk to the bed. It isn't precisely easy to move like this, but with a hand at the curve of her waist and another slipping lower, cupping her ass, the footwork doesn't matter half so much. They'll get there, and then he can touch her like he really wants to, let her pick up where she left off or return the favor or any number of other possibilities. "You've a lovely mouth, darling."

"I could say the same," she murmurs, her smile loose and relaxed as they make their way toward the bed in something of a slow shuffle, moving together. They have to, anyway, for this portion and for what comes next. One misstep here and they'll trip over each other's feet, but something tells her that won't happen. They're taking this slowly, but not so slowly that she's impatient about getting there, although she is the one who makes contact with the bed first, leaning back and pulling away from him when the backs of her legs hit the edge of the mattress, laying out on the bed and waiting for him to follow. The temptation to shrink beneath his gaze is there. She's more exposed lying here in front of him than she was standing earlier, pressed up against him with more under his fingertips than visible to the eye, but she doesn't shy away, her dark eyes meeting his and holding his gaze steadily as she shifts back toward the head of the bed and the pillows there.

Eames does take a moment — it's impossible not to, he reasons, or, if nothing else, he would be incredibly stupid to — to look her over when she stretches out, eyes raking over every last stunning inch of her, hungry and not bothering to hide it. No matter how many beautiful women he's been with, and there are a good number (not to mention, he's been one himself before, on multiple occasions), his appreciation for someone this attractive doesn't wane, and he knows he wouldn't want it to. Someone this stunning deserves nothing less. He doesn't take any longer than that, though, before slowly climbing onto the bed as well, one knee situating itself between both of hers, weight on his palms when he leans down over her, kissing her again. It might not be the most ideal thing to do when her mouth's just been around his cock, but all things considered, that hardly matters. They were going to get to it anyway, this practically requiring it.

She's starting to lose patience - not with him, not specifically. It's more of a slowly building anticipation that's managed to reach its cresting here and now as he crawls over her, one hand keeping himself propped above her as he slides a knee between her legs and she rolls her hips down to feel him close. The heat between them is palpable, significantly felt even though there's still inches of distance hovering between his skin and hers, and she slides a hand up the breadth of his chest, over the curve of one shoulder and down along his back, fingers mapping out slight lines and smooth skin and the ridge of his spine. She's still got her panties on, and as far as logistics goes, they're going to be something of a complication in about ten seconds, but right now, she wants to feel every inch of him pressed against her, his warmth and weight covering her, and she beckons him down, mouth surging hungrily against his.

Now that he's on top of her, Eames wouldn't have needed much encouragement anyway, but that doesn't make him any less appreciative to be getting it. Leaning down over her, pressed close against her, he returns the kiss with equal fervor, more tongue and teeth than anything else. Technique isn't really what matters here anymore, though, not when she's warm underneath him and clearly wants more. Far be it for him to deny her. "Mm, Christ," he murmurs against her mouth, one hand working its way between them, smoothing slowly, deliberately over one breast and along her ribcage until he can hook his fingers in the waistband of her underwear. "Let's get these off, shall we?"

It's taken her some time to realize she doesn't shy away from a little roughness. David wasn't the biggest fan, but later on, after everything, Wes would just throw out his arms and let her take what she wanted every time she'd knocked on his apartment door late at night. She's sure his body bore the remnants of her teeth sinking in, nails scratching just enough for him to feel it, and somehow the struggle for who got to stay on top persisted, That temptation persists here, even as she wriggles underneath, shifting her hips to assist him, until the only thing hanging between them is the need that is almost palpable, desire lingering in the almost nonexistent space. "Do you have any - ?" she starts to ask, realizing it might be kind of a ridiculous time to ask the question but also recognizing that he probably would be prepared for this sort of event.

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