Which was really a shame. Eames had always been a fan of the bra. Ever since the first time he had seen a real girl wearing one--she had been sixteen and he had been thirteen--he had appreciated the aesthetic beauty of it. By now, he had experienced enough of them first hand to know what he liked. Not that Ariadne's breasts weren't lovely. They were, but there was something about that irrelevant piece of fabric that he quite liked.

Oh well.

He groaned into her skin, rocking back against her, breaking blood vessels with his kisses. A hand moved to cradle one of her breasts, his thumb rubbing against her nipple.

"Christ, Ariadne...if you would be so kind as to reach over into the--bedside table?" It was where he had put the condoms. He had learned after the years of casual flings--more with Arthur than anyone else to be completely honest--that it was best to keep them near the bed.