This is going to be the last time, he tells himself. She’s engaged. She’s not yours. This is going to be the last time.
It’s not like he’s using her. He respects her completely, and it’s not about just getting off. It’s not. If he could give her the same, he would. He’d give it up completely if he could just touch her once; feel her underneath him, watch her come from his touch.
He rests his palm over the tent in his boxers and his hips push into the heat.
It’s been an interesting day. He spent lunch at a dojo watching the most ridiculous fight of all time, and the afternoon in a state of panic, but it was all sort of clouded by the feel of her stomach under his fingertips.
She was squirming in his arms, her ass pressing against him through his thin work pants. For a moment, he’d been afraid that that was why she’d demanded he let her go.
It was only after he saw Meredith, wiggling her brows at him and he’d wanted to scream at her.
If no one had been there, she might have allowed him to keep holding her. Maybe not have even cared that she felt him against her back.
He presses his palm against his growing erection and bites back a moan.
Maybe she would have let him keep touching her, the smooth skin of her stomach, higher and higher. Maybe she would gasp; maybe she would have stopped fighting him.
If they’d been alone, he thinks she would have let him. Slide his hands up her shirt; he could still pretend it was an accident, his fingers brushing against the underside of her breast.
He slips his hand under the waistband of his boxers and slides him palm against his cock.
He’d set her down and she’d turn to him, pull him down to her level and growl in his ear; I need you to fuck me, Jim.
He grunts loudly, his hand wrapping around his length. He’s already all the way hard.
He’d take her back to his apartment and she’d be begging him in the car, her fingers sliding under the hem of her skirt, bucking her hips.
“Pam,” it’s a whisper on his lips. Mark is spending the night at his girlfriends, but it’s still foreign on his tongue. He’s always been afraid that she’ll look right at him and know. But this is the last time. He can give in a little, since it’s the last time.
He’d fling the door open and pull her inside, press her against the wall.
His thumb grazes over his tip and his hips move of their own accord.
He’d rip her shirt off and she’d be wearing something cotton, innocent; her nipples hard through the fabric.
His hand slips from its place and he spits in his palm, before resuming his movements.
She’d want him so badly; he would have to keep that from clouding his mind. He’d move slowly, after her shirt was off, pacing himself. Keeping her waiting.
His hand moves slowly, steadily. This has to last, the last time has to last.
His mouth would close around one of the hardened buds through the cloth and her fingers would curl against his shoulder, pulling him closer.
He lets out a strangled moan from the back of his throat. She’d be so modest; he’d have to show her. Show her that he wasn’t going anywhere, that she could tell him what she wanted and he’d do it for her.
She’d beg him to touch her; I need you, I need you, I’m so wet.
“Ughn,” his fist moves quicker, his hips jump off the bed, and he throws an arm over his eyes.
He would smile at her; not giving in to her pleads. Instead, he’d pull down the straps of her bra, one, and then the other. Unhook the claps in the back and let it slip down her arms. His fingers would brush against her back. She’d gasp.
He slows his hand, releasing some of the built up tension. His free arm falls to his side and he steadies his breathing somewhat.
He imagines she’d have tiny reddish freckles, almost invisible next to her skin. He’d kiss the dusting across her chest, down over her breast and run his tongue over her nipples.
He stops moving altogether, lost in his imagination.
He would sink to his knees and she would look worried, but he would smile at her, wrap his hands around her hips and hold her still while he kissed her stomach, as smooth on his lips as it was on his hands.
He’d undo the button on her skirt, pull the zipper and slip the fabric down her legs. She would step out of her shoes and kick the skirt away.He’d grab the tops of her pantyhose and roll those down her legs. With her heels off, she’s perfectly aligned with his mouth. He’d breathe in and smell her arousal. She’d blush pink, and he’d smile reassuringly, kiss her through the simple cotton panties.
He spits in his palm again and starts up with the steady rhythm. His breathing is rough, staccato.
Her hands are in his hair and his mouth is moving over her though the thin, damp fabric. She’d be chanting his name, pulling harder when he grazes that one spot.‘Jim, please, Jim.’
The grunt is loud and unexpected. His hips pump up against his hand.
She’d pull him up to standing and kiss him hard, her hands falling to his dress shirt, flicking the buttons open. He’d do it for her, because it was faster. When he reached his boxers, she’d put her hands on his; I’ll do that.
“Uhn, please,” it’s a hoarse whisper he barely recognizes.
Her fingers would reach under the fabric and close around him, her fingers running over his tip again and again until he’s so close he has to tell her to stop.
His fingers follow her movements until he’s so close he’s afraid he’s already lost it. But, he recovers slowly.
She’d help him step out of his boxers and then she’d slip her panties down slowly. Her hand on his cock would pull him gently towards her, she’d slide him against her opening until he was begging her.
“Oh, God Pam, please!” He doesn’t hold back the long moan that spills from his lips into the dark room.
‘Not here, not here. Your bedroom, Jim.’
He’d walk to the bed and turn around to face her, pulling her toward him and falling back so she was on top of him. She’d straddle his hips, her ass resting on his hips and she’d take him in her hands.She’d raise herself over him before sinking down quickly, and he’s enveloped in warm wet heat.
His fist pumps hard and fast and he grunts quietly with the motions. “Pam, Pam, Pam,” he’s being daring, lost in the moment.
It’s almost like she could be here with him. Almost.
She’d start lifting herself up and down over him, her breasts swaying with the movement.
“Oh God,” tiny groans from the back of his throat rumble through his chest.
‘Fuck, Jim. I’m so close.’
“Pam, please. I want to feel you,” he feels his insides start to seize up.
She’d come down hard on him and fall forward. ‘I’m coming!’ She’s shaking and pulsing around him and he lets go.
He throws his head back into the pillow and moans her name, long and slow. His hand still moves against himself, prolonging the release.
In the back of his mind, he’s fucking pissed he didn’t think to take the comforter off the bed, and he’s fucking embarrassed that he let himself say her name.
He rolls out of bed and changes his boxers and throws his undershirt in the hamper, the balled up comforter is pressed into the corner next to it.
He crawls back onto the top sheet, face down, and closes his eyes.
How can you be embarrassed about something that only you know about? Fucking grow up, Halpert!
He presses his face into the pillow and holds his breath.
It’s not like he’s using her. He respects her completely; he loves her, for christssake!
Shit.
He loves her.
Shit.
