THREE:
They come back from dinner (Olive Garden) and drinks (Cooper’s) around 11:30, both too giddy and way too tipsy to let him go home. She invites him in after a prolonged kiss outside her doorstep (soft, electric, too short). She wants to run her tongue along his teeth, wants to feel more than his bottom lip between hers. So he comes inside and they drift to her kitchen, she asks if he wants any tea, maybe cinnamon toast?
He says “yes” but the last thing on his mind is bantering over a midnight snack. But she’s standing there in her pink skirt with her pink cheeks and pink lips and pink tongue and it makes him agreeable to anything she asks. And so she opens the cabinet and reaches up for her teapot, the teapot he gave her, before she was his. For some reason that makes him quiver and need her even more; he can’t help but press up against her back, whisper her name like a question against her neck, feel her shiver and sigh before he places his tongue against the spot where her shoulder meets her neck.
She whimpers and sets the teapot down before turning around in his arms, eyes wide and dark, lips parted. She tilts her chin up and runs her hands against the front of his light blue button up shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled to his elbows.
All it takes is her soft plea, “Jim,” before he has the top of her ass digging into the counter and her head pressed against the cabinet door. When his tongue slip-slides, parts her swollen lips she moans, her arms wrap around his neck and pull him down closer to her. He tilts his head and is kissing her and oh. He grips her waist and lifts her easily onto the counter, moving between her legs and pressing, she needs him even closer, she needs him like now, more, yes. They both moan as her hands drift down his back, down over his belt, way down, pressing his pelvis more solidly against her. Bright white flashes behind her eyelids as she feels him between her thighs; her skirt rides up, pressing him hard against her. When his lips leave hers and travel down the column of her throat, she groans, wraps her legs around his waist, his name and expletives and wholehearted affirmations falling from her mouth.
He picks her up in this (manly) crazed flurry, eyes clouding and lust pumping, and his arm knocks against something. It teeters warningly and both of their eyes spring open just as a loud smash resounds throughout her kitchen, turquoise clay lying in ruins by their shoes. Pam just stares down in shock, still reeling from the intenseness of the previous situation, kicks a good sized chunk of the stem close to her foot into the sandy pile. She realizes that this dumb pot just shattered what was definitely about to happen, but she thinks maybe it also shattered what’s already happened, too.
Wordlessly, Jim sets Pam gingerly back on the counter to avoid the sharp fragments that litter her kitchen floor.
He runs a hand through his hair and heaves out a long shaky breath, closes his eyes and shakes his head.
“I’m seriously so sorry, Pam, really,” jerking her from her trance. She lifts her gaze to him, shrugs. Honestly, she’d really just like to get back to the making out or whatever they were doing (making up for lost time fits too). Pam’s heartbeat is still thumping rapidly, but she’d like to chalk it back up to erratic, please.
She takes a few calming breaths, leaning her head back against the cabinet.
“Don’t even worry about it,” she assures him, opening an eye, reaching out to slide her fingers beneath his rolled sleeves, over his forearms. “Let’s just sweep it up real quick and get back to—,” she cuts off abruptly and gulps, blushes.
Jim chuckles and the apples of his cheeks get a little pinker, too. He grins (kind of wickedly, which is hot) at her, says, “Yeah, okay,” as his fingertips drift over her thighs. She directs him toward the dustpan and broom underneath the sink and he quickly sweeps the shards off the floor, leaves the pan (doesn’t bother throwing away the remnants) on her counter before carrying her down the hall and finishing what they started in the hallway, the yellow rug at the foot of her bed. After they come down from their delirium he promises to take her to buy her a new teapot that weekend. She kissed his knuckles, his chest, his lips, and exhales “Yeah, okay.”
He leaves the next morning after breakfast (cinnamon-sugar toast) and sex on her kitchen table (next to half-eaten cinnamon-sugar toast), and after he leaves she dumps the old, shattered pot into the trash can.
Author's Chapter Notes:
1. For the record, I thought this next chapter was going to be angsty, but then I re-watched The Job and this is what happened.
2. I didn’t know I liked parenthesis this much. Many apologies on that front.
3. Um, steam. blushes
4. Standard disclaimer applies :)
2. I didn’t know I liked parenthesis this much. Many apologies on that front.
3. Um, steam. blushes
4. Standard disclaimer applies :)
Chapter End Notes:
Whew! That was my first attempt at anything really steamy (if that even counts), so feedback would be awesome. Hope you're enjoying this so far!
flowersformybrain is the author of 3 other stories.
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