While our love is good and young
But now, some ten hours later, she thinks waking up with someone is so much different (better?) than waking up alone. That it’s like, this eccentrically profound thing, to emerge from the deepest part of yourself, your subconscious or your REM cycle or whatever it is, and have someone else there too. And with him, it’s the way you both readjust yourselves in the morning, like you’re getting accustomed to reality again and it’s just so intimate.
And Pam reasons that maybe it’s intimate because he’s generally an intimate person; and in the morning? God, his voice is even deeper, like this rumbling, deep, continuous like an earthquake that make her want to rest her open mouth against his neck and feel it. In the morning, Jim is the definition of tousled: his shirt stretches sideways and taut against his chest, his boxers scrunched from sleep, his hair dripping into his eyes, lips set in a boyish pout.
And he does these things, Jim, when he first wakes up. And just, oh, Jesus they might be the sexiest things, mostly because he’s barely cognitive and she’s fascinated. And okay, there’s a list that could stretch down to the bottom of the ocean of things he does that just really get her going, but Sleepy!Jim is pretty high up there.
Around the time when Pam’s eyes first flutter open, his arm is wrapped around her, his forearm dwarfing her waist and keeping her back against his chest like one of those safety bars on a roller coaster. His breathing is even and deep and light snoring that reminds her he’s there and he’s comfortable and oh yeah, still sleeping. She’ll roll over, burying her face in his chest with his haphazard shirt and she’ll rub her bare thighs against his, exposed by his bunching boxers and sync her breathing with his.
And then she’ll feel him shift and respond, groan a little; and she’ll feel his face bury in her hair, nose first, then lips and chin and forehead. Sighing she’ll tilt her head up, palms creating a path up his chest to his jaw, stubbly and on the weekends even a little scratchy, which is majorly hot if she’s honest. But it’s what comes after the burying and the snuggling and the caressing that’s her favorite, and it’s not even something he does to her, it’s just…he does this thing and she’s instantly ready to curl up inside of him and clutch him forever and just capture him or be captured or both…
He does this thing, and it’s always after his eyes open for the first time, bleary and green, after she’ll tilt her head up and drag her hands and her arms along his torso and he’ll squint down at her, eyelashes and shiny, sleepy eyes, and lick his lips.
It’s absent-minded, she’s sure, but again it’s like oh, God. Just the tip at first, will dart out between those full, soft lips, and it’s a quick swipe, counterclockwise starting at about two o’ clock and making it’s way around: he licks his lips and she honestly can’t do anything else but clutch him in the early early morning and grab what she can of his exposed flesh (because during the summer he sometimes doesn’t even wear a shirt, she’s discovered, and those are the best mornings of the year) and groan and sigh. She’s just completely undone by him and his lip-licking, because she’s done it, licked those lips of his, so many times and knows how unbelievably delicious he is all the time. All the time with his voice and his lanky broadness and his hard chest and his arms and his legs and his goofy warmth. Honestly, she just wants to hold him to her forever until time ends and they’re just floating in space or darkness or blankness forever, in this bed, while he licks his lips and she soaks him up, into her pores and her brain and her heart, all of her just this molten, lazy solution of herself and everything he is. She wants to hug her boyfriend.
“Morning,” he whispers as she begins to trail little kisses down his bicep and she grunts in response, shifting her weight to press herself even closer to him and he folds his body around hers because they are puzzle pieces that perfectly fit, they really are. He trails his fingertips down her arm and she hums against his skin because she has this thing about arm-tickling (soft, though, not like obnoxious tickle-fight tickling) and it’s her other favorite, and also she loves him, so pretty much when he touches her she’s happiest. She nestles her nose into the curve between his neck and shoulder, running her hands down his back and lower and he moans, soft and deep and she grins and catches an inch of skin on his neck between her lips and flicks her tongue until his breathing becomes a little less sleepy and a little more hungry.
He’s trailing his fingertips over all of her body, making her tendons jump and skin shiver despite his warmth and their closeness and the blankets. Suddenly his head rears back and his eyes are smiling and his lips are parted and for a second time he’ll lick his lips.
He licks his lips and she propels her lips to his before he can say anything, before he can question or proposition her with the simple quirk of an eyebrow. She kisses his licked lips and adds her own spin to the early morning habit and runs her tongue along his teeth and okay, there’s like a tiny bit of morning breath but he’s so irresistible and adorable and good at kissing her back that she doesn’t even care. Really, she doesn’t.
She just enjoys the morning, waking up with him and gripping him and kissing his lips and his limbs. And yeah, she’d say it’s about four hundred times better than being by herself and being Fancy New Beesly with her independence and her kitchens, because she’d much rather be His Beesly and wake up pressed against the only man who’s known her so completely, loved her so perpetually.
She’d much rather wake up like this.
