The two of you have spent the last two hours pretending. Pretending that the past year and a half didn't happen. Pretending that the awkwardness isn't right under the surface. Pretending you aren't each searching for subtext in every word, breath, glance. Pretending that the whole ordeal isn't exhausting. And all you want to do is break the tension, lay it on the line, ask if you have a shot in hell.

The "please" is what keeps you from opening the door. You hear it, not a whisper, and you have the ridiculous thought that it's powered by need and how much she's missed you. Your forehead rests against her door because the room is spinning because seriously(?) how did you get to this place? This place where everything is backward, the world is upside down, because she's begging you - she's begging you - to stay.

When "please don't go" leaves her mouth, you turn and she's closer. Close enough that you don't have to step toward her when you grab the waist of her jeans and pull her against you - even through denim, cotton and silk she's warm and you can't let yourself think about how soft her actual flesh might be.

You love her so much. So Much. Her hair is down and her cheeks are pink, and how can one person be everything? She's looking at you with wide eyes that are a lot darker than you've had the opportunity to witness before. You can't not kiss her. Not kissing her would be the most difficult thing ever.

Her lips are perfect and so soft. She tastes just like you remember.

You tug her closer and shift so that your thigh presses the seam of her jeans and the fact that her gasp and the jerk in her hips is completely involuntary leads you to turn so that her back is against her own front door. Her hands cover yours on her hips, then move up your arms. Her teeth close on your lower lip and tug.

You slide your palms between her rear and the door; once they start to travel down the backs of her thighs, she gets the idea and grasps your shoulders, then her legs are wrapped around you. Your head is spinning again because how did you get here(?) and then because she shifts and warm pressure is in all the right places. Plus, you haven't been on one real date. Until tonight, you haven't even kissed her in over a year, but here you are grinding against Pam, and it feels so amazing with two layers of denim separating you, that the real thing may just kill you.

You think about her bed, the couch, the floor, but something about this feels too right to change because you have one hand under her ass and the other braced against the door. Your hips are rocking together and her hair smells like apples. She's your Pam and she's making these little whimpering sounds and you don't think anything in the world could convince you to stop what you're doing that's causing them.

Her mouth finds yours and it's hot and wet and you can't help it when you thrust harder against her. Her gasp steals your oxygen and her hips are almost frantic. She's moving against you, begging for friction; your mouth is on her throat and you wonder how she'll cover the mark for work the next day.

You don't expect it when she pulls her shirt off and throws it behind you. Her bra is black and sheer, and who knew she owned a bra like that or could guess it's what she'd be wearing under a faded t-shirt on a random Thursday in August.

Her head presses back against the door. The sounds she's making have changed. She's groaning and gasping, whimpering and whispering. You hear "please" and "oh god" and your name and then, "Jim, oh god, Jim please." Her right hand squeezes her left breast and her nipple pushes against the bra's sheer fabric; she scrapes her fingernail across it.

Her breath is coming in pants - in that way that humans only breathe on very special occasions. You lower your head and lick the stretch of skin between neck and shoulder; she's salty. Her mouth is right by your ear, and she chants your name almost silently. Her hands are rhythmically clenching and unclenching in your shirt and her hips are moving faster-harder-faster; she's chasing it. You know she's close.

You watch her face until her head falls forward. Her legs tighten around your waist and she pushes hard against you once, twice and shudders - high-pitched gasps in your ear. She's clinging to you and you feel her heart pounding, pounding.

Her breath starts to slow; her lips press against your throat and her legs slip from your waist.

You're still hard and throbbing in your jeans and you kiss her harder than you mean to, but she doesn't seem to mind. Her hand is warm when she moves it under your shirt. Her fingernails scratch lightly at the flesh just above the button of your jeans and oh god. Then Pam's hand is in your pants. Her fingers are soft but push firm against your length and this isn't going to take long.

Your hands are braced on either side of her and she's staring up into your eyes. Her grip tightens and you grunt and thrust against her. You rest your forehead against hers. Her hair blows back from her neck because you're panting; she moves faster.

You come groaning her name and feel embarrassed because her hand and your stomach are sticky. The embarrassment doesn't last though because she kisses you and whispers "stay."