The One Where Pam Second Guesses Her Own Decision
It’s not that kissing him isn’t good.
Because kissing him is so, so good.
It’s just not enough.
It’s your fault, really.
You’re the one that told him that you wanted to take it slow.
It was on your second date.
Your first date wasn’t really a date date, because he’d just gotten back from New York, and you had just been on the verge of giving up altogether, and he spent a lot of time at dinner telling you what happened with Karen, and most of your words were apologies and regrets, and by the time dessert arrived, you had finally gotten to a good place, and you both just wanted to start fresh.
So he dropped you off at your door. And you kind of wanted to invite him upstairs, but you remembered him whispering, I’m taking you on a real date tomorrow night. No Karen’s, no Roy’s, just us, into your ear, and you knew that tomorrow was going to be the beginning of the rest of your life.
So he didn’t actually kiss you goodnight. It was more of a peck on the cheek that teased the corner of your lips just enough to make the rest of your body begin to startle awake, like Oooo, this is new! Where has this been all my life? But really, your nerve endings were jolted awake on that second date.
The date when, rather than going out to dinner by candlelight with flowers and chocolates and all of those cliches, he had surprised you for the umpteenth time that week, and after a walk in the park, you’re sitting side by side on a blanket in the middle of the grass, enjoying the sight of him so much more than any meal you ever could have eaten.
He was stretched out on the plaid blanket that he’d hefted out of the trunk of his car, and it was a little comical the way that his legs didn’t quite fit when he was laying down that way, all propped up on his forearms and looking over at you like you had painted the sun into existence. That was the longest you’d ever stayed in that park, because you kept coming up with more things to talk about, and he kept finding more excuses to brush his fingers against your skin or tuck your hair behind your ears, which you’d been dying to have him do for so long now. It was only when the sun that he thought you painted began to set that either of you even thought of getting up, your silhouettes imprinted on the grass by this point in the day.
You really didn’t know what had gotten into you, because he was only holding your hand on your way back to the parking lot, but your body was suddenly hot all over. Even when you reached his car and the air conditioning began to blast, fresh sweat was still pooling on your forehead and dotting your neck. You wiped your hands on your dress as slyly as possible, hoping he didn’t notice.
He was pulling up to your place again, and your thoughts were racing with the images of his hand in your hand, his lips quite possibly on your lips, and then his hands in other places. That night, leaning against his desk, when those long fingers had caressed your back and pulled you closer to him. The feel of his hair twined in your fingertips was suddenly tingling again, as you sensed him behind you, his hands shoved in his pockets as he kind of putzed at your doorstep. The words, “Do you want to come up?” whisper past your lips, and suddenly he isn’t looking at the ground anymore and his lips are in that stupid little sideways grin, except it isn’t stupid and it’s actually kind of heart-meltingly adorable, and in that moment, you can’t believe there was ever a moment in your life when you didn’t love this man.
It’s a little awkward at first, because you invited him up here with the intent to just never let him go again, but then he smiled and you really just wanted to rip his clothes off. Eventually, you realize that offering him a beverage might be a great middle ground, and as you’re pouring two glasses of wine, you have to remind yourself that This is Jim, and He loves you and You love him and Will you stop being such a spaz?!?
He’s sitting in one corner of your couch, his legs spread open like a typical man. But he’s not a typical man, and you think he looks so gorgeous with his long legs stretching across your living room and his one arm snaked over the back like he’s waiting for you (which he obviously is) and you offer him a wine glass and join him on the middle seat. You’re delighted by the fact that he’s so tall, because that means that, with his legs so wide, his knee is actually in your foot space, which you kind of more than like. Your heart rate is more than doubling its resting speed, which it hasn’t done since you were in high school gym and they made your run the mile, and you wonder how red your cheeks are as you curl your knees up under your body, your thigh resting comfortably against his.
You clink your wine glasses together with one of those cheesy toasts that is equal parts To us and To new beginnings, except it isn’t cheesy because it’s you and it’s Jim, and you barely take a sip before you really, really just want to jump into his lap. But then, the look in his eyes says that he actually wants that very same thing, and now the sweat and the heat isn’t because you want to jump his bones, but it’s this nervousness that suddenly hits you in the face like a brick wall.
But there he is. Your perfect Jim. Coming to the rescue.
“So here’s the thing.”
You’ve heard him whisper at this only for you volume before, but it’s usually just about pranking Dwight or the candy inventory at the reception counter, and until now, you’ve never really let it touch your nerve endings like it is in this moment.
“I really, really want to kiss you right now, but I also don’t actually trust myself to stop doing more than that. I need to know what you want, Pam. I want to respect you and your choices. And, for the record, I’m more than content to just sit on this couch and hold you ‘til the sun comes up. Just say the word and it’s done.”
He’s just so good, your Jim. And you can call him that now. Your Jim. He’s holding your hand, and you’re torn between wanting to sit on his lap and having him just hold you until the end of time. So, you compromise. Because you really, really want him to kiss you right now, too.
You’re smiling, and he’s smiling, and you want to laugh, but you don’t want to break the moment, so you start talking, being honest with him like he just was with you.
“I um...I really want to kiss you right now, too. But, I also haven’t, uhm...you know? Roy was my only...I just...I want to go slow, Jim.”
You’re nervous, apprehensive that you’ll scare him away, because what if this was all a fluke? What if he only wanted to smash and pass? What if, all this time, he really only wanted to get in your pants? You’re biting your lip, staring at the hands that are joined half in his lap and half in yours, so you don’t notice when his other hand is suddenly lifting your chin, so so gently, and your worried eyes are staring into his that are screaming only love, love, love.
His smile is like a breath of fresh air. You’re relaxing, because he isn’t pressuring you like Roy did back in high school, because one thumb is slowly running over the back of your hand, and the other is running so softly along your cheek, and any nervousness you thought you had pent up is literally melting out of your body.
“Okay. Then we go slow.” He’s still smiling, and it’s creeping up that one side of his face, and you can’t help but keep smiling too, no matter how much your cheeks hurt, because it’s a good hurt.
His eyes shift to your lips, slowly but deliberately, and you know what they’re asking, so you move your hand to rest on his forearm, the one that’s still attached to your cheek, and suddenly his smile is creeping closer to yours. You see him close his eyes before you close yours, but you only do because the feel of his lips against yours for the first time in over a year literally sends your eyes rolling to the back of your head.
His lips are soft, tentative at first, but you’re suddenly in the market to make up for lost time, because you tilt your head more to the side, and suddenly he’s more cautiously aggressive. So much is happening that you don’t know whether to focus on the soft feel of his lips pushing against yours, or the way his hands are now cradling your head and your back, or the fact that you’re so close that you’re almost chest to chest. Instead, you focus on the slight feel of his tongue, ever so gently wetting against your lips. He thinks he’s being sneaky, because it’s just a light flutter, but if you hadn’t felt it at the entrance to your mouth, you definitely felt it pool in your belly.
And besides, you didn’t say you wanted to take it that slow.
So your mouth is opening at the same moment that you’re shifting on the couch so that you’re facing him more head on, letting your fingers pull at the collar of his polo shirt so that he understands just how much you want him, need him right now. You’d be embarrassed by the small moan in the back of your throat if he hadn’t also grunted when your tongues finally touched, his slick and hot in your mouth, making you so dizzy that, while he thinks you’re clinging to his chest to draw him closer, you’re doing it more to keep yourself upright.
You’re surrounded only by small sounds, of his tongue painting words of every language against yours, tiny moans and sighs when your lips shift across one another. You eventually tangle your fingers behind his head and into hair that’s noticeably shorter than it was the last time you did this--or rather, did something resemblant of this. He had definitely kept his tongue to himself the last time. As he gently sucks yours into his mouth, the sensations have you thinking that, if he hadn’t, you probably wouldn’t have said I can’t.
You’re pulling him closer now, one hand tugging at his head while you bring the other against his back. It’s almost comical, how little your tiny hand spans against his broad shoulders. But you don’t care in the slightest, because he gets the hint, and suddenly, you’re somehow straddling his thigh, and it’s a whole new ballgame.
You hadn’t wanted to acknowledge that you were wet before. Because, after all, you’re only making out. What is this, high school? But sprawled across his lap, you can feel both your own arousal, as well as the beginning of his as it digs at your knee.
His hands are in your hair, tangling, and pulling just enough to make you sigh, and when you do, he takes the opportunity to pull your bottom lip between his and suck ever so slightly. It’s not a lot of pressure, because you said you wanted to take it slow, but it’s enough to go straight to your clit, and when you rock ever so slightly against his thigh, and his hands go straight to your back to hold you tighter, you’re starting to reconsider what you’d said earlier.
He feels like he’s pulling away, and you’re not ready for that just yet, even though you know he’s probably right, so when he does, you take it upon yourself to kiss his cheek, since he’s being unfair and pulling his lips away. You’re persistent, starting at the corner of his lips, moving across his soft, freshly shaven face, letting your tongue dart out only slightly as you reach the crook where his jawline meets his ear. He bucks upward this time, and doesn’t even try to stifle the grunt in his throat, as he’s possessing your lips once again. He can’t stifle the fact that his semi-hardness is now full and begging against you either, but you take pride in the fact that you did that with little to no effort, and you wonder for a fleeting moment what’s going to happen when you do try.
“I can’t have you doing things like that if you want me to take it slow.”
He’s mumbling words against your parted lips, and you can’t decide if it’s a threat or an invitation, so you just pull his bottom lip between your teeth, nip him just enough to hear that delicious groan one more time before he’s physically lifting you back to your own side of the couch.
By the time you open your eyes, he’s running his hands through his hair, and you can’t help but smile at how deliciously flushed his skin is. You’re both catching your breath, chests heaving with pants filling the atmosphere around you. You let your eyes trail, just for a moment, to where his cock bulges against his jeans, marvelling at the size of it even constricted under denim. You feel bad, you really do, because you know he’s not going to let you anywhere near him. Not tonight, anyway.
Finally, his eyes are meeting yours, and he’s smiling this smile that says I can’t believe we just did that, and yours says the same thing. Instead, his words say, “What am I going to do with you, Beesly?”
You curl into his side, letting his arm envelop you. The night wears on like that, cuddling, and sometimes going back to that teenaged way of making out and stopping because things are getting too hot. Eventually, it’s getting late, and you know for certain that he can’t spend the night, so you kiss goodbye at the door, and then against the door, and then he’s laughing that nervous laugh again, and you have to thank your lucky stars that you’re finally here.
He says goodbye with his words and you watch him disappear down the hallway.
And then, your thoughts are swimming. You didn’t say it out loud when he’d asked, but the answer to his question tugs equally at your heart and your clit as you shut the door behind him.
Whatever you want, Halpert. Bring it on.