On Fridays, they don't even make it to their room. It's something about summer and the A/C that never works in the office, and the end of the work week that seemed like it would never come. He peels off her clothes while he smiles against her lips, and she blushes and stretches her warm skin all over his. They end up on the couch or on the floor or against the wall or, if he's really lucky, with her on the counter in the kitchen.
When it rains, they meet slowly, but it never stays that way. She likes to pull him close to her when it thunders, when they're doing normal things. Like organizing their movie collection, or vaccuuming, or watching him try to fix the vaccuum. She likes to touch the collar of his shirt, and watch the smile form on his face when he realizes, and his eyes close as he stands, kisses her on the way up. She pulls him to someplace that's shaded from the gray skies, like the corner of his living room, and makes him beg until her mouth is on him.
On her birthdays, he teases her. He does, and she says she hates it, but she doesn't. Because she's never felt so wanted by anyone in her entire life. He slides his hand up her calf and up her thigh and brushes his fingers across her in the morning and gives her a kiss there that makes her moan, but that it's. And she pulls on him and she says things that would normally make him whimper, but he puts his tie around his neck and shakes his head. It makes her crazy all throughout the day and the birthday dinner they endure with the parents. Every year, after they've all had a little wine, he thanks her parents for raising such a wonderful daughter, and everyone in attendance gives a gentle aww, but it makes Pam feel even more tightly wound. Then there's the look in his eyes when he gets her through the door, finally finally finally and he thanks God for her out loud later.
On Sundays, they make love before the sun is even up. Before they even know who would start it, it happens, and she's almost always on top. Which he loves, but sometimes, in that sleepy moment before dawn, he rolls them over so he can be above her, feel her soft and wonderul and warm under him, and he presses into her over and over again, and watches her fists curl against the bedding. He loves to fuck her like this, when she's fresh from sleep and barely awake, and making noises and moves that make him want to cry.
On Christmas, it's a game. They're always with family, because both of them feel a little selfish for trying to have too much time to themselves on a holiday when family is so close by. But Pam loves holidays and Jim loves Pam, so there's always an insatiable look in her eye that he can't handle. No lie, there's one time that the piano downstairs is prey to a disjointed version of a carol he can't even recognize, by way of his niece. And it doesn't even matter, because he took Pam's sweater off in the upstairs bathroom, pulled down the cups of her bra, and smiled up at her in the dark.
When there's fireworks, it makes him think of Fourth of July. A certain Fourth of July, their first one, because it was only a couple of days after their first time and they wanted to see what they could do after they'd each had a couple of beers. It was the first time he'd ever been slightly rough with her, and was pleasantly surprised to be received so well. So when there's fireworks in the middle of the summer and he's sure it's just kids practicing their illegal purchases down the street, he sorts through mail when he hears her down the hall. He finds her in the bedroom and she's wearing almost nothing, looking over her shoulder as she slowly, slowly bends over and plants her hands on the bed.
On his birthdays, it's a much different process from the torture he puts her through. She worships him. In the morning, she touches his face, kisses him and wakes him up with the greeting, then slides down his frame to take him in her hand. During breakfast, she sits on his lap with her arms around his neck and moves, subtly, against him. At work, she winks and laughs, and sends him dirty messages. One year, she gets him off in the stairwell with her mouth on him and his hands in her hair. At night, when she's loud and on top, holding his hands against her breasts, he's calling out and curling his head against the pillow. She feels so good, and every year he tells her he'll stop being such an ass on her birthdays. It never changes.
When they found out about Cecelia, he took her home and kissed her for hours, touching her lightly all over and spreading his big hand over her stomach, breathing all over her skin -- until he finally decided the last way to celebrate was too perfect to resist. They smiled through everything until it was too heated to keep up and she pulled at his shoulders to kiss her during it all, and he scooped her up to sit on his lap when he finished. Tonight, when they find out about their next one, she'll cry a little, and he'll kiss the smile she wears a dozen times. They'll put their first baby to bed and talk about their second one on the way, and he'll meet her in their room, and he'll move carefully. Touch her gently. He can't help it, because every time he knows she's pregnant, she's immaculate and fragile and graceful in his hands and it all becomes an art, somehow.
During the workdays, it only happens twice. They're really not that kind of couple, but it does get away from them just those two times. Once is on his birthday. The other is during a low point for the both of them, while they're in the middle of a pointless argument that's come to work with them. By the vending machines, he tugs on her hand, kisses her on the cheek and simply says, I'm sorry. She apologizes, too, and they spend about five minutes making fun of themselves for the dramatics, and then about forty-five minutes touching each other on the roof. Just for fun, and just because it means something up there. And no one could see.
And after fights, which never really last long anyway, it always means more because he gets a glimpse of what it used to be like without her and she remembers a lonely few years of her confusion. They move together and don't say much, don't make big announcements of love or forgiveness, just breathe and moan and let their fingers find each other. She digs her heals into his back and he touches his tongue to her neck, and they both get it. They fall asleep with I love you in their ears and on their lips.
Wednesdays started out as a joke when he jumped in the shower with her one day (which scared the hell out of her) and called it "Wet Wednesday." She had said Aw, Jim in disgust, pulling him closer under the spray, and he, too, had cringed at the name. But it stuck, even with Pam occasionally pulling on his hand early Wednesday morning before the alarm had been snoozed. Now they turn the nozzle to scalding as they undress each other and kiss against the bathroom tile. When it's cool against her back and she has her head bowed to his shoulder, he plunges his middle finger into her. She shudders and he says, Wet Wednesday... hotly into her ear as he cracks a smile, and she swats, but it's no use, because she's practically halfway there.
Every year, the first time it snows, when the situation allows, Pam gets cozy in her favorite warm pajamas and settles herself on his lap. She turns down the light and puts on good music and kisses him in the dark. His hands are on her hips, his fingertips dipped under the waistband of her pants about an inch. She licks his bottom lip and says, in a tone sweet and sexy and kind and warm and Pam, What do you want for Christmas? It's the most beautiful thing about the season, he decides this early on.
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There will probably be a total of three of these chapters. About absolutely nothing. Any ideas?
Disclaimer: Nothing's mine, same as always.
yanana is the author of 39 other stories.
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