If she could go back in time, she thinks, only with wheezing gasps in between the words in her head, she would smack herself for uttering those six seemingly innocuous words:
“Hey, let's go for a run.”
With the baby happily ensconced in the arms and condo of Grandma for the day, the world was their oyster, at least until 7 p.m. And that's what she had come up with.
Running.
“Running?” Jim said, peering inquisitively at her. “You hate running.”
“Yeah, I know,” she responded. “But Cece is getting heavier and she's almost walking. Soon we'll have to be chasing her around. I need to be in shape.”
“Clearly somebody needs to start a child-rearing fitness plan,” he remarked as they shed pajamas and changed into running clothes.
“We'll patent it,” she told him, pulling her hair back in a ponytail. “Make millions. Live like movie stars. Go to Chateau Marmont and look down our noses at people.”
“Love it,” he replied, tightening the laces on his sneakers. “Sounds perfect.”
Half her hair, it seems, has frizzed out of her formerly neat ponytail. She's about 97 percent certain she's about to have a coronary. Her stupid sports bra is doing basically nothing to keep her boobs from flying up at her face with each step.
And her husband (he's so dead) is about 20 yards in front of her and running like he's freakin' Flo Jo or something.
On the plus side, his ass looks really nice in those black shorts.
“Beesly,” he calls, turning around and running backward now, “stop letting me win.”
She scowls at him. His gray t-shirt has that appropriate damp spot, not enough to be gross, but enough to show he's getting a good workout. He's a tad flushed, but nowhere near the beet red she must be, beneath his baseball cap. For God's sake, he's practically glowing.
The bastard.
“I hope you fall into a pothole,” she grouses at him and he chuckles and jogs toward her.
“Come on, babe, just two more blocks back to the house. You can do it.”
“If I puke,” she groans, “don't divorce me.”
He waved his hand nonchalantly. “Been here, seen that, seen the cause of the puking squirm her way out of your body,” he reminded her. “My squeamish days are officially over.”
Somehow, that's only a mild comfort.
Miraculously, she makes it back to the house without losing her breakfast or falling on her face in the street.
The kitchen is a different story and as she collapses on to the floor, she welcomes the coolness of the tile at her damp back and groans that she seriously, seriously needs to get back to the gym.
He pulls two bottles of water from the fridge, opens both and hands her one, gulping from the other.
“Guh,” she grunts, pulling herself to a sitting position to pour the cold liquid down her throat. She pulls at her sweat-soaked t-shirt. “I am so wet.
“That's what she said,” he quips, and as he slides down to sit on the floor next to her, she can see his chest heaving. His hair is damp and flattened from the cap, and his forehead is beaded with perspiration.
“Jim, shut up,” she whines, reaching out to swat at him ineffectually. “I mean I'm hot.”
She sees his eyes darken slightly, and when he agrees, “Uh huh, definitely,” his voice is about a half octave lower, and when he leans down and actually licks the sweat from her neck, she swears she goes blind.
Oh, God.
“Jim,” she pants, now breathless not from the run but from his unrelenting tongue. “Jim, I'm gross. I need to get out of these clothes.”
He's at her ear now, tracing its intricacies that way he knows drives her crazy and she can hear his acquiescent moan, indicating that yes, yes, she does need to get out of her clothes, and he'll be more than happy to help her with that task.
He is strong, so strong, and with some maneuver she can't be sure of, she finds herself suddenly straddling his knees, and his big hands are under her cooling, sweat-moistened shirt, peeling it up her body and over her head, leaving her in his lap clad only in cropped black yoga pants and a light blue sports bra.
“I like this,” he informs her, pushing her damp hair behind her ears and nibbling at her other ear. “You're sexy when you sweat.”
“I'm sticky when I sweat,” she counters, shifting her weight, and oh, mmmm, was he this hard a minute ago?
How is it that she's suddenly simultaneously grossed out and aroused? She rocks her hips against him and he curses through gritted teeth: “Fuck, Pam,” in that voice she knows comes from the back of his throat and the bottom of his testicles.
“Shower,” she mutters, suddenly needing to be rid of her clothes, and his, for more than simple comfort and hygiene, and now she really is wet beyond sweating.
He helps her climb to her feet, but only rises to his knees before he tugs the clothing covering the lower half of her body down her thighs and then Holy Mother of God.
“Oh, God, Jim, what are you doing?” she gasps, and he answers with his tongue, and she is soaking and sweaty, and he's there, and it's so filthy and hot and intimate, that she wants to scream, but she doesn't.
But then she remembers they are alone, and he plunges into her with two fingers, and his tongue is right there, so she clutches the counter, and screams his name and God's name, and loses herself against his mouth, seeing spots and flashes on the insides of her eyelids.
When she opens her eyes again, she is panting harder than she was on their run and he is looking smug and wanting and frankly just all kinds of fuckable, and yeah, he needs to get his clothes off now.
“You,” she gasps, economizing her syllables, “naked.”
“You first,” he counters, taking one more taste of her sensitive flesh, making her squeal as he peels her bottoms the rest of the way off her legs and works them, and her socks and shoes, off. She tugs off, with some difficulty, her own sports bra, throwing it to the floor, leaving her with nary a stitch on, and repeats her demand for his nudity, adding to it an order for him to take his feet.
Once he is standing, she points to his gray t-shirt and commands, simply, “off,” as she yanks his black basketball shorts and gray boxer briefs down his legs, negotiating the necessary large detour. Now shirtless as well, he toes off his socks and sneakers, and kicks them aside.
It's been way too long since they were naked in the kitchen at 10:30 on a Saturday morning.
And they're both still sticky with sweat.
Fortunately, the downstairs bathroom is mere feet away.
He lifts her up and she wraps her legs around him, her thighs sticking to his waist, and she knows, she knows he can feel her making his belly even more damp than it already is, but that's okay, because she can feel him at her hip, and thank every available god and goddess that they have the house to themselves today.
In minutes, they are beneath the spray, and her right foot is propped up on the side of the tub. His left arm is around her rib cage, his hand massaging her right breast. Her left arm is braced against the tile, as is his right one, and her right arm is behind her, up around his neck, pulling him down, and she twists up to meet him.
He is moving, and she is moaning, and he is kissing her, kissing her, kissing her, the water pounding down on them, until he groans the end of his control into her mouth, and he is losing himself inside her, sending her over the edge once again, the spots and flashes like fireworks inside her eyes once more.
When they finish, he somehow manages to keep them from both collapsing against the ceramic base of the tub, but lowers them both down to a prone position, she sprawled on top of him, both gasping their way back to full consciousness.
“You want to go running again next Saturday?” she asks breathlessly, leaning her head back against his shoulder.
He reaches around and runs a hand over her face, tracing her smiling lips with the tip of his finger.
“Baby, you have no idea.”
Story Notes:
I'm ashamed to admit I had Katy Perry's "Firework" in my head while writing this, because I am so sick of that song. But, yes, that's what the chapter title is from. At least I think it was the "Glee" version I was hearing.
Author's Chapter Notes:
There's something appealing about sweaty, running Jim, isn't there?
Chapter End Notes:
Your thoughts are greatly appreciated!
andtheivy is the author of 17 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 33 members. Members who liked Make 'em go "oh! oh! oh!" also liked 2858 other stories.
This story is part of the series, Let's Spend the Night Together. The previous story in the series is Lushes, lookin' luscious. The next story in the series is When she wakes me, she takes me back home.
