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“You’re cute.”
Arthur cringed, swirling the faux single malt scotch in his glass.
She pushed forward, one finger reaching up to trace the outside of his ear, her nearly bare breasts resting on Arthur’s arm. “What’s your name?”
“Will you stop it? Please?” He muttered, pulling away slightly. Not as far as he wanted to, but he couldn’t make a scene, he had to look like a regular bar patron for their mark’s projections.
She moved closer still, fingernails moving through his hair. She blew cool air in his ear and giggled when he tried to move away again.
She leaned forward even more, breasts heavier on his arm, and whispered in his ear “Is that a torch in your pocket, darling? Or are you just happy to see me?”
“It’s a gun, Eames.” Arthur muttered. “And your accent is off. It’s flashlight. If I had a torch in my pants they’d be on fire.” He dropped his hand from the bar so his forearm wasn’t supporting her chest anymore, meaning to lean away and lecture her about not drawing attention.
She was too fast. She, Eames, placed a hand on Arthur’s fly and raised an eyebrow. “Well, it is very hot down here.”
Arthur turned bright red and forcibly removed her hand. “When we’re clear,” Arthur let his eyes bore into the mirth filled ones Eames was wearing. “I am going to hurt you.”
“Promises, promises.” She laughed as Arthur walked to the men’s room to escape his co-worker.