It's nearly three in the morning as Jim lies awake in bed, eyelids heavy but refusing to close as his gaze once again winds a path from her wild curls to her delicate collar bone, from the curve of her hip to her smooth calf, disappearing between his own.
Their sweat has long since evaporated into the cool bed sheets beneath them, but the skin of her back is still soft and warm against his palm. Her cheek is heavy on his chest, her shallow breaths caressing the hair there and encouraging goose bumps to meet the moonlight on his flesh.
Sometimes at night, when they lay close together like this, she'll reach for his ipod off the bedside table. With an earbud in his ear, the other in hers, she'll scroll through a shuffle of his music, even though they both know exactly which songs they return to every evening. He'll wait for his ear to fill with the simple melody of meandering acoustic guitar; music she playfully complains about in the car, deeming it his "artsy emo music", though eagerly seeks out only for these moments.
But tonight, the ipod has long since returned to its spot next to the glaring digital alarm clock, and his soundtrack has been replaced with the hopeful tones of birds hesitant to come forward before sunrise. Wind rustles the leaves of the tree next to his window, and he instinctively pulls her closer, even though the room is coated in muggy summer air.
He finds himself, still wondering in the tepid breeze, how he had traveled such a far distance in a matter of weeks. How she had arrived next to him in his bed, beautifully bare, her leg curling around his own as she slept. Before her, he had convinced himself that these moments resided solely in film and the impossibly easy "chick lit" books he'd always seen girls carry around in high school.
He hadn't been able to watch Karen sleep for long. She had been all angles against him, her back rigid even in dormancy. She always felt alert, and it would intuitively make him less enthused about protecting her than turning to his own side.
Not Pam. She was all soft curves, fitting against him like the last puzzle piece hidden at the bottom of the box, filling in his open spaces. Her body relaxed into him as she completely gave herself over in defeat until daybreak. He felt a primeval need to watch over her as she laid herself out bare and vulnerable for only him to see.
He hated that his mind would automatically compare her to Karen, so early in their relationship. He wished that each stark contrast didn't so plainly reveal the error of his ways in the past year. Looking at Pam, he could see the graceful strength she gained as a result of their pain. It was necessary for her, and he knew that and tried to understand it. But sometimes, he wondered what the past year had really done for him, besides remind him that his heart was still being pulled by her grasp. And he'd already known that.
A small noise leaked from her mouth against him, the sound so fleeting that he might not have heard it at all. It inevitably guides his thoughts toward other noises she makes, during very different activities.
That was another difference. Where Karen has always been loud and brazen, Pam ended up being muted and gentle. Karen had been demanding; not on purpose, but the head of the moment would open a floodgate of curses and commands, screams into the darkness of an unyielding, empty room. It was certainly alluring at the time, to see her give over to lust, all for him. He'd felt needed, wanted, which was what was needed at the time.
While he'd shared several intense nights with Pam by this point, he found he now favored her understated reactions. She'd whimper his name softly against his temple, asking him "please" and shyly begging for his touch. Only at the height of it all would her decibel rise, and even then, it was always his name, uttered aloud between breathy moans and shallow gasps.
Within his thoughts and mental Venn diagram where absolutely nothing fell in the middle, he felt a twitching in his lower stomach, and the urgent desire to pull her from sleep and into him. He quietly groaned in frustration, feeling the skin of her thigh rub him there, and tried to occupy his mind with distractions. But everything returned to her.
He tries to think of basketball, but his thoughts are intruded on by the memory of Pam surprising him by showing up at one of his games, cheering him from the sidelines with a bright smile, enduring the fights between his friends just because she knew he loved it.
He tries to think of cars, but he is reminded of the way she always rests her hand over his on the gearshift, squeezing it gently as if reassuring him that she was there.
He couldn't even think about food without admiring the way they had seamlessly shared a bag of Chex Mix earlier on the evening, without fighting over the pieces. He likes the rice chex; she likes the corn ones.
"Everyone likes the corn chex. It's ridiculously predictable," he had teased her.
"Hey, it’s familiar and safe," she played along, a twinkle in her eye as she popped another one in her mouth.
Someday, he'll get her to eat the rice chex.
All this thinking about her has pulled his focus from the real thing, who he now notices is awake and blinking sleepily, eyelashes tickling his shoulder.
"Hey," he whispers, his voice rough at this hour. She smiles, and he decides that it's only Saturday, and they can sleep later.
He brings his hand to cradle her cheek, easing her face forward until he can close his lips over hers. He intends on keeping a slow pace, but is surprised when her tongue seeks entrance into his mouth, where it curiously maps the territory before finding his own. He catches her bottom lip between his teeth, drawing a loan moan out of her. It's enough for him.
He gently pulls himself out from beneath her, easing her onto her back as he hovers above. He presses his lips everywhere, starting a moist trail from her jaw to the hollow of her throat. When he brushes his tongue over one of her nipples, she threads her hands through his hair, as if she wants to hold him in place but is too tentative about being so persistent.
"Show me," he sighs against the damp skin, sliding his hands into her own.
She hesitates a moment, and he worries that maybe she's not ready for that. But then one of his hands is guided to her breast, while the other is pushed lower between them, to where her skin becomes increasingly hotter to his touch. He places a kiss in the center of her chest before pulling up enough for his fingers to wander lower.
He's always pleasantly surprised at how wet she is when he ventures here; how quickly he has this effect on her. It excites him, and he can feel himself harden when he slips two fingers easily inside her, curling in and up as his thumb presses at her center.
"Jim," she pants into his ear, but he wants to watch her face, to see it contort in time with the muscles surrounding his hand. Her eyes are tightly shut as she murmurs. "Please . . ."
"What?" he asks, sliding a third finger in with the others, twisting them, causing her hips to buck involuntarily.
"Need you . . . inside . . . now."
It's the most forward phrase he's ever heard pass her lips, however incoherent, and he quickly slips his fingers out, letting her wetness slide against her skin as he runs his hand up to grip her waist, settling himself between her thighs.
He lets the tip of his cock glide against her opening, inducing that whimper he loves as she clings to him, her arms around his back, her forehead pressed against the slope where his shoulder meets his neck. When he pushes into her, he goes inch by inch, feeling her nails on the small of his back, urging him deeper, sooner. She's hungry for him.
He lifts his hips and thrusts back into her, and she throws her head back and quietly moans. He runs his hand up her stomach as he moves blissfully in and out of her, struggling to hold himself up on one elbow. His fingers graze her breast, wrap around her waist as she arches into him, smooth the skin on the small of her back.
"Jim," she cries again, a little louder, and he can tell by the crease in her brow that she's close. His hand moves to the roundness of her bottom, pulling her hips flush against his as his hand cups the cheeks. He quickens his pace, feeling her suffocate him until she's there, her hips fluttering with the spasms. "Oh God, Jim," she nearly yells in a raw moment of inhibition, her hands sliding while trying to grip his slick back.
He doesn't know why, but when he lowers his head to kiss her, gliding his tongue over hers only momentarily before pulling away, his eyes catch a bead of sweat, following a trail down the curve of her neck to her collar bone, and it becomes his undoing. He leans down to taste it and pushes hard, spilling himself deeply into her, saying her name time and time again to remind her that only she can do this to him.
When he lays his full weight on top of her in surrender, he rests his damp forehead against hers, feeling their noses touch and their breath intermingle in the space between them. He likes the intimacy of being soft inside her, feeling her climax subside. Not wanting to crush her, he kisses her gingerly before turning onto his back, bringing her to rest on top of him, still connected.
"Shit," she mumbles, and he laughs.
It's four now, and more birds begin stretching their vocal chords in the stale night air. He finally lets his eyelids drift shut as he hugs her to himself, feeling her thighs shift on either side of his abdomen, cradling him in between.
Just before he's gone, he hears her.
"Love you," she whispers against his skin, her lips forming the moist letters on his neck as she kisses him there.
"Me too," he replies, smiling to himself. He can't even think of an appropriate comparison to this. There simply isn't one.
He wouldn't mind if they stayed like this through half of the approaching day. Maybe he'd wake her up later to listen to the birds. They could finish off that Chex Mix in his pantry, and he will dare her to eat a rice one. They'll let the ipod play their ears off.
It's already four thirty when he stops considering the possibilities and falls asleep, his hand tracing circles within the dip in the small of her back.
Story Notes:
I don't own a thing, folks.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Title comes from "Summer Skin" by Death Cab For Cutie, though I wrote this after listening to "A Lack of Color", which doesn't really fit the story at all. This was, altogether, unexpected and handwritten in a moment of inspiration.
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flonkerton is the author of 8 other stories.
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