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.