There are some things she wouldn’t believe if she didn’t see them with her own eyes. Like Michael grilling his foot, or holding a pizza delivery kid hostage, or Dwight doing gaaahhhh she doesn’t want to think about it, with Angela, or Dwight reading a bedtime story.
With all the voices.
“I cannot believe he actually read Harry Potter,” Pam marvels as they retire to the Irrigation Room.
“I can’t believe he didn’t kick us out when I said Voldemort,” he counters, and she giggles, but chides him softly.
“Take it easy on him. I think he really misses Angela.”
He can empathize. With Dwight. He can empathize with Dwight and God knows that is not a sentence he ever thought would run through his mind. But he can.
So he touches her cheek and tells her she’s right and bends his head and kisses her lips.
When they pull apart, he surveys the bed situation.
“This won’t do,” he says, nodding toward the twin beds, and she agrees. He carries the nightstand in between them to the corner and they carefully, as quietly as they can, move one of the beds across the room until the two are pushed together. She strips the tightly tucked top sheets and overlaps them and the blankets across the makeshift double bed.
“Wow,” he remarks, “that was very efficient, Beesly. Where did you acquire your particular bed redressing skills?”
“Didn’t you know?” she asks, with a teasing quirk of the eyebrow, “I’m a double bed agent.”
“So bad.” He shakes his head. “So…”
His voice goes rough…
“So…”
He is leaning in, slowly and yes, yes, he does notice when she moistens her lips in anticipation…
“Bad.”
And then he is kissing her, hot and open-mouthing and slow burning, like embers, his hands on her face, holding her, possessing her, because she is his.
He can have her. She wants him to have her. She gives herself to him.
Sometimes, he thinks about back then, when she was someone else’s, before he was allowed to touch her, allowed to kiss her, allowed to look at her too long. Sometimes, he can’t believe he is allowed, that she is his. Sometimes, in his darkest moments, in the haunted corners of his heart, he’s afraid she’s going to take it all away.
But then she looks at him like she can’t believe it either, and he knows that this, this is it. She’s going to stay.
When he lowers them on to the bed and sucks on that spot, just under her jaw, right over her pulse, that spot he knows, she moans, and he presses his hand over her mouth.
“Pam,” he whispers, his breath traveling by her ear, “be quiet.”
She doesn’t know if it’s the heat of his breath, or the way he’s almost ordering her, or the idea of doing this, here , but suddenly, well, she wants to make him scream.
When she plunges her hand into his pajama pants and grasps him, he nearly does.
“You’re so hard,” she growls in his ear, and the combination of her words, her voice, and her hand on his cock - and that’s the only way he can think about that particular body part right now, as his cock - makes him feel huge and virile.
The tigress inside her, the one who nobody would ever imagine lives within Little Miss Cardigan, hungers to taste him, to devour him, to control him. She all but dives down, shoving his burdensome sleep attire almost violently out of the way before taking him in her mouth. He’s warm and thick and just the tiniest bit salty, and when he groans and curses, God, it makes her wet.
“Fuck, Pam,” he gasps as she works him with her tongue and his hands plunge into her hair, tugging at the tangle of curls. She scrapes her teeth lightly along the ridge of his penis and he yells out and pulls on her hair in surprise and arousal.
It hurts, just a little, just enough to get her even hotter, and she’d think if that were possible, but she’s no stranger to his bed, his hands, his body, so she knows, she knows this is only the beginning. She lifts her head.
“Be quiet,” she insists, mimicking his earlier admonition before returning her energy to his pulsing erection. He shudders and actually bites down on the pillow, not even caring to think about where the hell it’s been.
When it gets to be too much to bear, he lifts her head up, pulls her up and flips her over so he’s on top of her.
“You little monster,” he teases against her mouth before plunging his tongue in. It’s rough and sloppy, and she lets her tongue battle his before she actually bites his lower lip, making him yelp, and tugs it with her teeth.
Her hands are under his shirt, his back warm beneath her palms, and she just wants to feel more of his skin on hers. There’s something about his bare chest, against her back, her breasts, solid beneath her head, something at once safe and seductive.
He is aware, not to mention amused, at how enamored she is of his chest, so he separates from her long enough to pull the tee shirt over his head. She rises to meet his lips again, cupping his stubbled cheeks in her palms, and he grasps the hem of her tank top as she kisses him. He is experienced enough at undressing her that he doesn’t even struggle with the built-in bra of her sleeping shirt, and the seemingly neverending kisses hardly seem to stop -- just a beat of separation while the top goes over her head and then her lips eagerly welcome him back.
Fully naked now, he trails kisses over her chin and down her throat, finally arriving at her breasts.
All highly inappropriate remarks from coworkers and bosses aside, they are amazing. Round, soft yet firm, summer peach ripe, with nipples the color of her cheeks when she blushes, and skin so soft it’s almost silky. He thinks Renaissance artists should be resurrected to paint and sculpt her breasts. Before Pam, he was a legs man.
Not anymore.
He is, however, an incredibly talented man. When his lips close around her areola, his tongue flicking the nipple, she moans and arches her back, pressing into him.
“Jim,” she whimpers.
While he works her breasts with his lips and tongue, one hand drifts down to her thighs, stroking her though the thin cotton of her pajama pants, so close but not there. She wants to grab his hand and plunge it to where she needs it to be.
Finally, the remainder of her clothing almost offending her, she pushes the pants and her underwear off her hips, and he eagerly drags them down the rest of the way for her to kick off the edge of the bed, landing haphazardly among the other discarded articles of clothing on the floor.
She’s actually so wet, she’s seeping and he can feel it down her legs. He has to reach down and squeeze himself. She notices and reaches down herself, nudging his hand away and replacing it with her own. “That’s mine,” she growls and fuck, she can own any part of him she wants to.
She wants him, wants all of him, wants his fingers and his mouth and his cock and his heart and his life. She’s so utterly, completely, gorgeously in love with him. He makes her safe enough to be dangerous, to be sexy, to spread her legs wantonly and demand exactly what she desires.
So she does.
“Fuck me, Jim, lick me. I‘m so wet for you.”
It’s not terribly often that she gets like this, lustful and libertine, telling him to fuck her and about how wet she is. But sometimes…. she gets so dirty sometimes.
He loves it.
He teases her, making her squirm.
“Tell me what you want, Pam,” he tortures her, his fingers dancing over her clit, just hinting at the ecstasy he can bring her. “What do you want?”
She digs her nails into his shoulder blade.
“I want to come, Jim. Make me come.”
When she says it, he nearly does.
But he fights it, because even more than he wants release, even more than he wants the slow, gorgeous torture of resisting release, he wants to please her. He wants to dominate her, to be submissive to her, to make sweet, slow love to her, to fuck her brains out and make her beg to come. He wants her.
He wants to taste her.
She gasps at the first swipe of his tongue, shudders at the second and moans at the third, biting her own hand to keep from making too much noise. His breath is hot against her eager skin, and it feels so good it almost hurts.
She tastes fruity and tangy, just the slightest bit smoky, and sweet and Pam on his tongue.
So fucking delicious.
He’s so hard.
“So good,” he murmurs against, his lips and breath hitting her most sensitive spots and making her squirm, “so sexy.”
His tongue continues to wander, but he teasingly avoids her swollen, desperate clitoris until she fists his hair and says his name in a way that is at once a plea and a command.
Then… then…. Oh, God.
Her toes actually curl as he circles the tiny bundle of nerves with the wet tip of his tongue. Her hands leave his hair and drift up to massage her breasts, pulling at her nipples when his lips close around her and he sucks, just a little, just enough to drive her absolutely fucking crazy.
“So close,” she whines, thrusting involuntarily against his mouth. He grasps her hips, holding her in place on the bed. “So, so close.”
When he curls two fingers inside of her, she can’t take it anymore and he can feel her clenching around his fingers and flooding his hand as he tries to hold her down, and keep her quiet, and keep on loving her with his mouth without actually getting his jaw dislocated.
“Now,” she tells him, before her orgasm has fully subsided. “I need you now.”
She doesn’t have to ask twice. He moves up quickly, lining up their bodies. “Hurry, Jim, hurry,” she pleads, and he does. Reaching down, he grasps the base of his granite-hard cock and pushes it into her.
Oh dear mother of God and all things beautiful and holy.
He is inordinately grateful to the inventor of the birth control pill, because those pamphlets in the student health center at college, the ones that said sex with a condom feels hardly any different than sex without a condom, they were lying.
The feeling of being buried deep inside her, nothing between them -- not clothing, not latex -- is the closest thing to a religious experience he’s ever had. It’s been a long time since he’s actually seen the inside of a church, but he’s pretty sure sex with Pam is proof of God’s existence.
Miraculously, he manages to not think about the fact that Angela would actually set him alight herself if she were to hear that thought rattling about in his head, say on a Tuesday, because thinking about fucking Pam is just so much more pleasant than expense reports.
“Oh god, Jim,” she moans, fighting to keep her voice to a whisper, “I’m going to come.”
He reaches down to stroke her, to help her along, but she pushes his hand away. “No,” she whispers through gritted teeth. “You first. I want to feel you.”
He’s close, so close, but he can feel her clenching with resistance and he doesn’t want her to lose it.
“Don’t hold back, baby,” he murmurs, kissing her face as he thrusts into her. “Let go.” She relaxes, letting the heat build inside her. He reaches between her legs, stroking her with his fingers. “You’re so sexy,” he whispers, “so beautiful…” So close. So close. “I want to feel you come all around me, Pam.”
Ohhhhh!
She is fireworks in the night, waves crashing on the beach, thunder bursting the clouds, and he presses his mouth to hers to swallow her screams.
She contracts and flutters around him, hot, soaked, pulsing, milking his swollen, burning erection until he can’t hold back anymore and he is coming, coming deep inside of her. The feeling of him shooting powerfully, hotly, manfully into her sets her off again and she thrashes underneath him, spilling swear words and his name and calls to deities out of her mouth.
Finally, spent, exhausted, she collapses into the pillows. He kisses her lips and slips carefully out of her, knowing she’s too sensitive right now for him to stay put. He rolls off her and on to his back, gathering her to him, laying her head on its coveted spot on his chest. He combs his fingers through her hair, just slightly damp at the roots, and whispers that he loves her.
She traces the lines of his bicep with her fingertip and tells him she loves him too.
“Hey,” she murmurs, propping her chin up on his chest. “You don’t think Dwight has surveillance cameras in here, do you?”
He covers his mouth quickly to keep from actually guffawing at the thought.
“God, I hope so.”
Story Notes:
I do not own anything related to "The Office," other than a calendar and some DVDs
Author's Chapter Notes:
She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean...
andtheivy is the author of 17 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 25 members. Members who liked The walls start shaking, the earth was quaking also liked 2747 other stories.
This story is part of the series, Let's Spend the Night Together. The previous story in the series is When she wakes me, she takes me back home. The next story in the series is Nothing, nothing without a woman.
