Eames lets out an actual low and near guttural growl as Arthur pushes him back, his lip curling up a little in sheer irritation of having to stop. But he will give ground when it's asked of him, and Arthur won't have a hard time pushing him back.

"Who said anything about playing?" he asks in a voice that's low and hoarse and just bloody tired of talking. They get absolutely nowhere with talking. They never have.

He applies pressure to the hand on his throat, not pushing it aside at all, but pressing against it. His hands have come down from Arthur's jaw to his shirt front, down to his waist, curling white knuckled on the folds of the fabric.

"It's not hard to interpret this, is it?"