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."