You bring the phone to your head as you walk into your dorm room (Jesus, it still feels so awkward to say that), and note the red light on the top beeping like mad. He's called seven times in the last two hours, and the damn cell is about to die because it never charges correctly, and all you want to hear is his voice in your ear, saying words that you miss so badly that you can taste them in your mouth.
The phone rings once - maybe less than once, but you're struggling with the door and the key that always sticks in the summer heat and can't pay that much attention, and then he's there, saying your name like a revered prayer.
"Babe, I'm sorry I couldn't call. Dumb computer in the lab wasn't printing my graphic correctly, and last I checked, robin's egg blue is so not eggplant purple, and I'm reall.."
He cuts you off mid-stream with a guttural "Pam", his voice heavy in your ear, rough and deep, sending vibrations from the top of your head to your feet.
You finally push the door open and fall into the room gracelessly, books tumbling to the floor, as his pained words slide through you like a finger in the air.
"Get on your computer," He requests quietly, and you can feel the somber texture of his tongue and your heart falls deep into your stomach.
"OK," you whisper, immediately finding yourself in front of your Mac, turning it on.
"Open the iChat application." You tremble at the emotion behind the words that he's spoken.
The screen whirls to life and your hands stumble to find the mouse to click on the icon that you've placed on the very bottom left of the monitor, used often enough to have a place of honor.
Then he's facing you on the screen, his hair in disarray, his lips tight, his eyes panicked. He sees you and it's like a cartoon how his facial features soften, and he breathes out a sigh of relief that it sounds like he's been holding for days.
"Jesus, I've missed your face." He whispers, his eyes circling over you, remembering, committing the memory to the back of his mind.
It's been nine days since the last time you've seen him in real life, and 23 hours since your last virtual dinner date. But it feels like months and years and decades, and all you can think about seeing him on the monitor is how criminal it is that he's there, and you're here, when you could be together anywhere, holding each other and kissing and laughing and making love.
You need him like air, because every breath is of him and every taste is his essence and every sigh is a caress.
You stare at him, registering the anxiousness in his pose and you feel scared.
"What happened, babe?" You ask quietly. You've gone more than 36 hours before with not seeing each other, and he's never acted like this.
He swallows, and you watch his Adam's apple bounce up and down.
"Nothing," He replies, but his jaw twitches and you know he's holding back. "I just miss you so much. I came home today and needed to hold you and you're not here, and I just... Jesus, I just needed to see your face again."
You look behind him at the scenery he's left, the door to the bedroom open, the covers of the bed strewn about, boxers and towels tossed casually on the floor.
Jim's not a messy man. This is unusual.
You press your fingertips to the screen, running your nail gently over the lines of his face and into his hair. He sighs and relaxes back into his chair.
"I wish you were here to do that in person."
"Me, too."
You spend soft moments staring at each other, drinking each other in, desperately holding onto phantom smells and lingering kisses.
"I'm coming home to you," you whisper, and his eyes shoot up from his gazing at your lips to meet yours, crinkling at the corners.
"Not soon enough."
You smile and lean back in your own chair, and inquire about his day. He grimaces and looks away, and tells you to start.
You tell him the frivolous stories of your morning, from your happy mistake on the potter's wheel that turned a lovely vase into an even better bowl, to your lunchtime debate on whether of not all of O'Keefe's paintings are reminiscent of vaginas (you're on the yes side), to how frustrating it is to have to print at the computer room's printer because the ink is always messed up.
And then he's looking at you with hunger in his eyes and your entire body warms with his stare.
"Take your shirt off," he murmurs, his voice taking on the tone he only uses with you in the bedroom.
Your eyes dart around your dorm room, as though someone might have heard the request.
"Jim..." you question, but his eyes are trained on your face.
"Please, Pam? I need to see your body, too."
You stealthily check the room once more before taking the bottom of your shirt and dragging it over your head. You hear Jim groan.
"Jesus, your chest is spectacular."
Where once his eyes had been glued to your lips, your eyes, your hair, now they're on one place and one place only.
"Yeah?" You ask coyly. You know how much he loves your boobs. "You like?"
His head drops into his hands.
"God, yeah," he responds.
You tease him by cupping a white satin clad breast in each hand, pushing them together and letting them drop, the two bouncing against one another. You gasp, wishing it was his hands touching you.
"Oh yes babe, just like that." He whispers to you in the screen, easing a hand down his gym shorts to adjust himself.
You grin at the look of sheer hunger registering on his face. You know the power you have over him, touching yourself like this, something he loves to watch. You don't do it often - him inside you has the same power over you, but right now you're here, and he's there, and you need the scared worry in his eyes to go away.
"How about this?" You ask, grasping the satin of the bra cups and dragging them down, freeing your nipples. A.resounding moan lets you know that he likes that.... a lot.
You rub your thumbs over your nipples, then squeeze them into hard peaks. You lick your fingers and swirl the saliva over them, letting them glisten.
"You're so beautiful."
You glance up and smile, then you frown. He has much too much clothing on.
You gesture for him to remove his shirt, and it'd be comical to watch if the air wasn't so thick with the desire you have to touch him, to kiss his lips, to run your fingers through the coarse hair on his chest, down along his happy trail, and into his shorts.
He places his hands gently on his thighs, and you think about the strength in those fingers.
"If you were here, how would you touch me?" You whisper.
He licks his lips, bites the bottom one before he looks into your eyes.
"I'd be rough," he responds. "I'd remind you who your man is."
Your panties fill with moisture at his caveman reply. You love how each side of him turns you on. Sweet romantic Jim, and angry possessive Jim, and every Jim in between.
"God, yes," you hum in satisfaction, your fingers continuing their dance on your breasts. "I'd ask you to fuck me."
"i wouldn't hesitate from being inside you for a second."
Your body feels warm and heavy, like you've done one too many tequila shots. You stand and finger the button to your jeans, running your index finger over it playfully.
"Should these come off, too?" You ask. "It's pretty humid in here."
His eyes bulge at the idea. "Take 'em off."
You quickly unbutton them and slide check zipper down slowly, hearing each tooth clear metal. You stand back to watch his face as you lower your pants.
Your jeans come off your hips and his hands curl into fists. They fall past your thighs and he adjusts his obvious hard on. They touch your knees and his mouth becomes an "O". Your calves and he sneaks a hand into his boxers. Your ankles and he makes a tugging gesture under the fabric. You kick them off and he groans.
You arch an eyebrow at his jerking off under his clothing. You again request that he remove his clothing. He doesn't hesitate to drop his gym shorts, pulling his boxers down with them, his erection springing free and standing at attention against his stomach.
You lick your lips at the sight of a pearl bead of precum slick on his head. Jim sees you eyeing it with desire.
"You want this?" He asks, turning to the side so you can salivate at his length, his girth. He fondles himself, wiping over the precum with his thumb and rubbing it over his tip.
You ache to feel his body against yours.
"You know I do, baby."
Your hand slides against your own wetness, dipping your fingers inside your folds, swirling them against your clit and moaning softly.
"Your hand looks so good moving like that," he groans, watching every movement of your wrist.
"I could say the same thing," you pant as his big hand moves over himself, hard at the base and tugging at the engorged, red head. It doesn't take long for the pressure to start to build in your abdomen, the silky smooth ripple of pleasure. Your head falls back and your free hand finds your breast, pinching your nipple roughly before rubbing gently.
"Come for me, babe," he requests gutturally, the desire in his voice thick and sweet.
At his mere words, your body falls over the edge, your orgasm sliding over your entire being, shuddering in relief and pleasure and satisfaction.
When your hand finally stops moving, you lift your head to see your fiance's eyes closed tightly, his palm moving quickly, and you reach to touch the screen again. You stroke over his face, his eyebrows.
"I love you, Jim."
His eyes open to yours, relief and pleasure and satisfaction, and tighten as he comes into his other hand. His bare shoulders shake in his release and you want to kiss each errant freckle and birthmark on them.
When he looks back up at you, his eyes are soft and warm.
"I love you, too, Pam."
You grin and pull the extra blanket from the foot of your bed over yourself, cuddling it against yourself. You miss being in his arms for the cool down after sex, the romance, the intimacy. But the lingering worry is still at the forefront of your mind, and cuddling won't fix that.
You tilt your head to the side as he cleans off his hand on the towel behind him and pulls his boxers back on. When he settles in front of you again, you press your hand to the monitor. He does the same, mirroring your hand.
"What happened today, Babe?"
Jim sighs, dropping his head into his hands. Your stomach clenches at his quiet demeanor.
"Roy."
Roy? What the hell?
"What about him?"
Jim looks up at you, his eyes still aching with lingering fear.
"I saw him at the bar. I bought a round of drinks with the warehouse guys during Michael's stupid Crime Aid thing, and he showed up. I told him you spent all night out with your new friends, and he casually reminded me that he used to think that I was just a friend, and... Jeez Pam, I saw red. I just... I needed you. So bad in that moment. Christ, I drove half way to New York tonight."
Your heart drops into your stomach at his confession.
"Jim... You know full well that my relationship with you is so, so different that the relationship I had with him."
"I know that!" He exclaims loudly, standing up. "I know, and I know that he just said that to get under my skin. And I hate that he can do that! I know that you love me, and I love you, and we're engaged and I'm going to actually marry you and not put it off for three years, but it just... It just fucking sucks, babe. I miss you so much."
You let him rant and pace around the room.
"Jim, please sit." You request softly as he tugs at his hair. He flops into his desk chair, resigned.
"Do you know what I did this afternoon when I woke up after being out all night?"
Jim shakes his head no.
"After I puked my guts out, I crawled back into bed with your picture and reminded myself that I'm not 21 anymore."
The corner of his lip turns up.
"And do you know what I said last night? Sara Kaya kept telling me in pottery today that all I would talk about was you, and Scranton, and how excited I am to marry you, and how much I love you."
His turned up lip becomes a full out grin.
"You said that?"
You sigh. "Well, I can't be sure. I blacked out somewhere after that sixth mojito, but it sounded right."
Jim laughs, and strokes his screen over what you assume to be your cheekbone.
"I need you back here. In my bed. In my arms."
You press your fingers to your lips and then against the screen.
"I need to be back there. In our bed. In your arms. And I will be forever in a few more weeks. And definitely this weekend. I can't go another week without seeing you in person."
Jim exhales deeply, sounding like he'd been holding that breath in for months.
"I can't wait, babe. I cannot wait."
Story Notes:
Pam's at Pratt. Jim's in Scranton. Naughtiness ensues.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Hannah_Halpert requested a general Pratt webcam story back when I wrote "One Night in Paris", and I've been writing this in pieces ever since. I wrote it with my eyes closed, as I do with all of my other saucy pieces, because I get embarrassed and blush. Even if I'm writing in my office, alone, with the door closed. Major weirdo alert!
Chapter End Notes:
Thanks, my beautiful readers. I love you all as much as I love JAM smut. That's a lotta lovin'. Grr.
stjoespirit04 is the author of 25 other stories.
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