His hands come up behind you as you stand at the kitchen counter, slicing tomatoes for the garden salad you're preparing for dinner.

"So... what was that video you were trying to buy?" He asks, his voice low and husky in your ear, his hands wandering above the waistband of your skirt. Immediately your body loosens at his words and your panties are moist.

You let your head roll back against his shoulder, allowing your cheek to fall to the side of his grey cotton t-shirt, exposing your neck. He brushes the curls out of the way before pressing gentle kisses to your skin. You sigh in contentment.

"It might have been One Night in Paris." The French city is said gasping as his lips find that spot behind your ear that makes your knees quiver.

"Mmm," he mumbles from behind you. "Not a big Hilton fan. I'm more of a Ramada guy myself."

You would laugh, but the slick satin of his tongue is being dragged along your jaw, and the only thing you can think of is being naked, right now, with him.

"Besides," he continues. "She's a blonde, bony Amazon." He cups your breasts through your blouse. "I like petite redheads, and you know much I love these."

Your breathing is heavier than you remember it being just a moment ago, and when his thumbs rub over your nipples through your thin satin bra, it catches somewhere between your throat and your brain. You definitely know your boyfriend is a breast man.

"Oh God," you moan, the pleasure of his hands on you rippling through your body.

"No baby," he whispers. "It’s just me, Jim."

You would remark in mock frustration how he could quip at a time like this, but then his lips are on yours, his tongue begging entrance. You'd make him pay, but it feels too good to be anything but free.

You turn to wrap your hands around his neck, desperate to dig your fingers into the soft tufts of hair at the base of his skull, but he's already anticipating the movement as he lifts you into his deceptively strong arms. You don't need to question where he's going; he knows he'd be a dead man if he took his horny, writhing girlfriend anywhere besides the bedroom. Well, other than those times on the couch. Or in the shower. Or that time on the kitchen table. Or the coffee table. Or when you'd stripped him in the entry way of your apartment when he'd been gone for 3 days at a conference, your first time apart since becoming lovers, and you needed him inside you so badly against the door seemed to be the best option.

The memory of that makes your already racing blood stream through your veins at lightspeed.

Finally your back is against the soft cotton of your duvet and his hands are pulling at the panties that he'd watched you dress in just 10 hours before. Your eyes closed can’t mistake the sound of his zipper sliding open, or the rustle of his pants falling down his legs, or the clank of his belt buckle hitting the pale oak wood of your floor.

His hands find you wet and slick and warm and aching for him.

"Jesus, Pam," he groans. "You're so wet for me."

His hands tug the shirt over your head and his face is buried in your cleavage, running his lips and tongue and fingers all over the exposed skin above the demi bra you'd picked out especially to drive him crazy. You know he'd love you in a mismatched striped bra and polka dot panties, but the hungry look in his eyes as he watches you dress each morning is worth every Victoria's Secret dollar.

Finally his fingers drag down a cup of that blasted bra and his lips are on your nipple, his tongue drawing circles around your areola, his teeth nipping before his lips kiss soothingly.

You’re close to begging and he knows it. He's waiting for that moment before plunging into you, the look on his face a mixture of awe, pleasure and pride. He knows after just these short months exactly where to stroke, how feather light caresses should lead into firmer, even strokes. He knows what it feels like to have you pulse around him. You know what it feels like to hold him, dragging your nails down his sweat beaded back as he empties into you.

And then you're there - the moment of begging, and he sucks one last time at your breast, rolling your opposite nipple between his fingers one last time, before grasping his cock and sliding it into you in one hard thrust.

You hold your breath each time he does. Not because it hurts (although what you'd imagined Jim Halpert to be packing was a gross underestimate) but because you still fear that one day you'll breathe in and out and your eyes will open, and all that will be there will be thick concentrated air and your own fingers.

But then he's shedding his shirt and sliding in and out in smooth movements, short thrusts because he likes you to come first, watching you. His thumb presses hard against the button between your legs and your back arches, the orgasm ripping through you like scissors through a sheet of paper. Easy and simple is lovemaking with Jim - no need for porn stars or Paris Hilton. His body and touches make you hotter than August afternoons, his lips and caresses everything more than you'd ever dreamed of.

You push him backwards after the last subsiding quiver exits your body, and when he slides up against the headboard you climb on top of him. He doesn't look down when you grasp him, wet and slippery in your hand, because you know your touch does the same thing to him. You raise yourself up on your knees and glide down onto him, spearing yourself on his rock hard erection. You reach back and undo your bra, your breasts falling into his waiting hands. His fingers tug at your nipples as you rock on him, easy swivels of your hips. You can see his breath quicken, and you push down harder on him, his cock fully encased inside you. His eyes roll as you pump up and down, and then suddenly he's grasping your hips and dragging you down, your lips locked in a heated kiss. He's shuddering beneath you and you can feel him hard and coming.

When the shuddering stops, his palms find your head, tangling his fingers in your curls. He presses your cheek to his moist chest, one hand moving to lazily stroke up and down your back. You're still sprawled on top of him, your legs intertwined, still wearing your skirt.

You glance up at him, and cock an eyebrow at his amused expression.

"What's so funny, Mr. Halpert?" You ask in confusion.

His mouth spreads to form a big grin, teeth and all.

"I get to take you to Paris someday."

You chuckle and sigh against the smattering of chest hair.

One Night in Paris, indeed.

Ever since you found out she tried to purchase a celebrity sex tape, you've been hard as a rock.

You were standing beside her, the taste of her still on your lips as she blushed and admitted she'd paid real dollars for porn, and since then you can't stop thinking about laying her out on your desk. You just sit there as she plays Sudoku at reception, imagining all the naughty things you could be doing instead of selling paper.

You briefly consider removing the problem in the bathroom, but 67% of the female population at this job already thinks you're a pervert after the she who shall not be named fiasco, and this would probably put you right up there with Dwight, so you stick to hiding your erection under the cheap wood laminate.

You can barely keep your hands to yourself when you fold yourself into her car and its worse when she slides her palms along your stomach as your undershirt gets tangled with your button down when you pull it over your head. Her fingers trail along the sparse line of hair leading into your boxers, and if you got any harder, you might actually be able to cut glass.

With a wink, she steps into the kitchen to start dinner (for the two of you - a fact that will never get old) and you plop down on the couch. Hearing your girlfriend slicing something for dinner is suddenly intensely erotic, and you decide you definitely can't wait until after the meal to get your hands and other miscellaneous parts of your body on her.

It's always pretty incredible to you that your hands together almost completely span her waist, something you'd never realized before she finally became your girlfriend. It wasn't until you'd become lovers that you got to find out how soft the skin was on her abdomen, or how that spot behind her ear, when you flicked it with your tongue, made her instantly ready for you. When you grab her hips and whisper in her ear, pressing her against you and feeling her unconsciously move her body to rub right there, you're so far gone you might as well be floating.

Then her head is tilting to the side, offering you her throat, and you're tasting inches of sweet warmth that was once so sadly unfamiliar.

"It might have been One Night in Paris," she sighs, the upward inflection of the last few syllables letting you know that the spot you're hitting? You're doing it so right.

"Not a big Hilton fan. I'm more of a Ramada guy myself," you say, but focus much of your attention on grasping her hips rhythmically.

She pants lightly as you slide your palms up to cup her chest, one of your favorite places to keep your hands.

"She's a tall, bony Amazon. I like petite redheads, and you know how much I love these," you breathe, squeezing gently.

Her breath quickens and you know instinctively that she's about ready to head into the bedroom.

"Oh, God," she groans gutturally. There it is.

You grin into her hair. "No baby, it's just me, Jim."

You know she's about to retort with something snarky so you capture her mouth with yours, touching your tongue to her lips, wanting to slide it against hers. Then she's turning towards you and you're pulling her into your arms, up off the floor. Her thighs are clenched around your hips and she's pressed against the countertop. You thrust forwards once, twice, and her fingers tangle in your hair. She's ready.

Your mouths are still connected when you enter the bedroom and you lay her down on the comforter. When you pull back, her lips are swollen and pink and you've never felt more proud to have been kissing the hell out of her.

You remember the first time you'd really kissed her, her lips soft and pliant under yours, nothing between you but the future. You remember waking up in this bed for the first time, and feeling like you were home. You remember the subsequent wake ups, and knowing how right that first time was.

You slide your hands under her skirt to remove the black panties that she'd put on that morning, wiggling her ass at you as you groaned and fell back theatrically on the bed. Your belt is suddenly way too restrictive, so you pull down your pants and boxers and step out of them.

You push her skirt up and her knees fall apart and there she is, wet and glistening for you. You run your thumb against her and she moans, her eyes closed, anxious for you to keep touching her.

"Jesus, Pam," you say. "You're so wet for me."

Suddenly she's extremely over dressed and you tug at her shirt until it slides over her head, her chest bouncing in that sinfully sexy black bra. It's been entirely too long for those beauties to have been covered up and you bury your face against them, kissing and stroking them gently.

Her back arches and you pull down the fabric to release her nipple and you bend your head to take it between your teeth, threatening delicious pain before sucking gently and kissing tenderly. You run your tongue over the silky bud, feeling it harden in your mouth.

You move between her breasts and her groans get louder and her panting gets more pronounced. Her nails are digging into your back and you need to be inside her right fucking now.

You suck one last time and remove yourself from your girlfriend’s incredible chest, then grasp yourself in your palm. You rub your tip against her, coating yourself in her slickness, and then slide into her easily.

Home.

Your shirt falls in front of you, blocking your view, so you rip it off over your head in between thrusts. Her skirt is still draped over her hips, so you pull it to one side and hold it in place, watching yourself slide in and out of her, her body accepting yours with vigor. You move in short, hard, quick movements, waiting for the moment that her body wants to curl in on itself in pleasure. She’s turning pink with exertion and she’s writhing on the bed below you, and she starts chanting, “oh God, oh God, oh God.”

You let your hand on her left hip drift lower and you press your thumb to her clit and she’s arching her back and crying your name and “yes, oh my God, yes,” and you feel like a fucking rockstar.

When her orgasm subsides, she opens her eyes, fiery desire marking her territory, and you’re so willing to be her conquest. One hand pushes on your chest as she sits up and you let yourself fall backwards. She stalks towards you like you’re her prey and you scoot backwards up towards the headboard. There’s nothing you want more than for her to take control.

She swings one leg over you and slides down easily onto your cock, tight, satin, hot and quivering. She squeezes her inner muscles around you and you know without a shadow of a doubt that you won’t be lasting long tonight. You’ve been pent up all day, feeling like exploding all freaking day, and your girl is bouncing up and down on you wanting to feel you come inside her.

When she reaches back and releases her bra, you hold your hands out to catch her waiting breasts. They jiggle with each bounce and you take her sweet pink nipples between your fingers and tug gently. Her eyes are closed in determination and her mouth is a round “O”. Her hips are circling and you can feel the pressure building in your balls, aching to be released. She digs her nails into your shoulders and you release her breasts and grab her hips, helping her pump up and down once more, twice more, three times. On the third movement, you feel your cock expand and explode, the pleasure running up through your stomach and chest and down through your legs. It’s all encompassing bliss, feeling your woman – the love of your life, your Pam - squeezing your dick inside her tight wetness.

Your orgasm settles and you pull her down to you, your bodies pressed together, sweaty and spent. Who needs porn when you have a gorgeous, sexy woman like the one who just rode you into oblivion?

Of course, now that she’s mentioned Paris, you can imagine holding her hand along the Seine, kissing her in front of the Eiffel Tower, watching her joy at the Louvre. You grin and stroke your hand along her spine.

“What’s so funny, Mr. Halpert?”

Busted. You smile wider.

“I get to take you to Paris someday.”

You feel her giggle against your chest.

France? That’s easy. You’re also going to marry her someday, make her the mother of your children someday, spend the rest of your lives together someday. You inhale the coconut scent of her shampoo and exhale, content.