He’s shifting noisily in his bed, and you hear him grunt quietly in frustration before he mutters, “I swear, these mattresses are made of straw.” You wouldn’t put it past them, really, making mattresses out of straw. You did spend the day shoveling manure and watching Dwight build a trustworthy and functional table (his words, not yours.) Your shoulders are actually sore from the work you’ve done.
“Maybe it’s not straw. Maybe it’s dried beet leaves,” you laugh, turning on your side to face his direction, even though it’s pitch black and you can’t see your own hand in front of your face (being in the middle of the country, away from streetlights and city sounds, is strangely unnerving, really.)
“Maybe it’s hair from Mose’s beard,” he counters, and you can hear the grin in his voice.
“Maybe it’s shredded canary legal-sized paper. Remember when he took that huge box of it home when we did inventory last year?”
Your sentence trails off a little at the end, because inventory last year consisted of you crying in the hallway and then again at home, crying until you felt like you were going to throw up.
He’s quiet for a second, and you can hear him breathing.
“Hey,” you whisper.
“Hi,” he says back. His voice has that soft quality he gets when he’s thinking about yesterdays. “Sorry. It’s just … you know.”
“Hard,” you sigh.
He’s silent for a beat, and you count down from three. You get to one just as he blurts, “That’s what she said,” and you laugh, because you’re allowed to do that whenever you want, now.
“So. Hair from Mose’s beard? How would that work, exactly? It’s a really long beard. He obviously doesn’t trim it,” you say.
“Yeah, but maybe the beets make his hair grow super-fast. Like Harry in the first book, you know? When his aunt cuts his hair and it always grows back?”
“But that was magic. Not beets.”
“Such a dork,” he replies.
“I’m not the one that brought Harry up,” you argue.
“That’s what she said?” he questions, and you roll your eyes, but it’s less fun when he doesn’t see it and respond with that puppy dog look that leads you, inevitably, to kiss him. Every time.
You’re quiet again, for a longer stretch this time, and you let yourself think about kissing him (because you’re allowed to do that whenever you want, now) and about more than kissing him, and you’re suddenly very angry and bitter towards the three foot gap separating your beds. And you must have been thinking a bit too hard, because you accidentally (on purpose) huff a breath of frustration, and you hear him turn under the sheets.
His voice sounds closer, like he’s staring right at you, as he says, matter-of-factly, “Twin beds, huh?”
You giggle, and turn onto your back to stare into the darkness that is the ceiling (complete with pipes and spigots.) “Kind of sucks, doesn’t it? Our first night out together, and we’re in separate beds?”
“Honestly, knowing Dwight, I expected him to make us sleep in separate rooms,” he replies.
You’re thinking about maybe climbing into bed with him, and maybe you wouldn’t both fit and the sheets wouldn’t cover two people. And how much you want to be in his arms (because that’s how you’ve fallen asleep for the past month plus twenty-three days, because you’re allowed to do that whenever you want, now) but he’s talking again, saying, “I’m just glad we get to spend it together,” and you really just want him.
You aren’t really thinking when your hand drifts down, under the covers and then further. Well, you aren’t really thinking about anything but him and his lips and his hands. And when you reach the spot where you really wanted your hand (his hand), you don’t try to hide the gasp that follows. You want him to know what he does to you (because you’re allowed to do that whenever you want, now) and he groans in the darkness.
“Pam, Jesus,” he breathes.
And your fingers are moving and you whimper a little and you can hear his answering breath, deep and heavy, and the sound of his skin on his skin and oh God. He’s panting, spurring you on, and you never last long when you’re with him, but there’s something about doing this that’s pushing you closer to the edge faster than you’ve ever gone. Your back is arching, you’re so close, but suddenly, you hear the swish of his covers, and the sound of his bare feet hitting the floor, one-two. And then there’s a scrape of wood against wood, and a thump as the two beds meet each other, and then his lips are moving desperately against yours as his hands slide effortlessly around your waist.
You claw helplessly at his pajama bottoms, because the ache between your legs is unbearable, but he’s grabbing your hands, pushing them away. You whimper, but then he pushes himself against you, once and then again, and fuck. He’s so hard and you’re so close and you thrust up against him without even meaning to.
He growls against your neck and, God, he’s frantic now. You both are. He pulls your pants off, but can’t get them past your feet and you don’t care because he tugs his own pants down to free himself, and ...
You don’t breathe for a moment. His lips still against your jaw, and then he’s whispering your name. You gasp when he pulls out, and then in again, your fingers flexing against the hair at the back of his neck, your legs wrapping high around his waist.
“Jim,” you moan, pulling him harder against you, “please.”
He kisses you, cupping your face like he always does, murmuring your name.
You wonder, briefly, if you’ll ever get enough of him, if you could ever be without him, and then you’re coming, fast and hard, arching up off the bed over and over and calling his name (because you’re allowed to do that whenever you want, now.) And he laughs (it’s hidden in a gasp), covering your mouth with his as he pushes into you one last time.
Your breathing slows as you tuck your head under his chin, the sheets bunched at the bottom of the bed. They always end up there when you’re done. And you always end up pulling them tight around you right before you fall asleep. And you really love being able to say ‘Always’, because it goes with ‘Finally’ and ‘Together’.
Because you’re allowed to do that whenever you want, now.
Story Notes:
Just some fluffy smut, because ... why not?
Disclaimer ... I don't own anything. Sigh.
Chapter End Notes:
Enjoy :D
falldownmore is the author of 11 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 18 members. Members who liked Whenever You Want, Now also liked 2763 other stories.
