He’s been staying with her for about a week, stopping back at his apartment for work clothes when necessary, but for the most part, it’s as if he’s living with her.

            It’s been a strange week, and she really does love him, but occasionally when she glances over at him, she feels angry all over again. She’s worked so hard to be this New Pam and sometimes was stricken with the thought that maybe he didn’t like her as much this way. She certainly isn’t the demure Pam he’d met all those years ago, and maybe even a few months ago she’d have let all this slide, but at this point in her life, she is done being fragile.

            For the last few nights, Pam has been going to bed late; much later than he is able or willing to stay up, but she finds that it’s easy for her with a cup of tea after dinner. By the time she slips into her bedroom after him, he’s long asleep.

            She knew he wouldn’t say anything, he wasn’t the type to ask things of her, but she also notices that it is getting more difficult for him to wake up hard and have her pretend she doesn’t notice.

            The first part of the plan was to give him a reason to want it.

            It has been an entire week and she is starting to lose her mind a little. A few times, when she was absolutely sure that he was out cold, she took matters into her own hands, slipping a few fingers inside of herself and grinding against her own hand.

            But it’s Friday night and she’s reached the point where she has to move on to the next part of the plan.

            She changes out of her work clothes as usual, but instead of sweats and t-shirt, she slips into some of her tightest jeans and silky black top (that’s supposed to be worn as a slip or lingerie rather than on its own) without a bra, which means that things are visible (let it never be said that she doesn’t know the strength of certain attributes).

            She acts like she doesn’t notice him staring at her from the sofa, his hands moving to his lap and she can see him stroking himself discreetly through his work pants.

            “What are you doing?” She asks innocently, cocking her hips to the side and watching him. He blushes, but he doesn’t stop.

            “Nothing,” his voice catches.

            “Doesn’t look like nothing.”

            “What does it look like?”

            She makes a show of dragging her eyes over him, staring steadily at his crotch. She licks her lips and pretends to consider her choices.

            “It kind of looks like you might need some alone time.”

            “No, that’s not right. Look again,” he’s stroking a little faster now; she watches his hips buck gently into his hand and he sighs.

            “It still looks to me like you need to be alone,” she runs her fingers through her hair and turns to the bedroom before walking away, calling over her shoulder that she’ll just get out of his way and let him take care of things.

            He’s right behind her, pressing her into the bed before she realizes he’s there.

            “I was thinking maybe you could help me take care of things,” he breathes in her ear.

            “Oh, really?” She’s already taking off his belt and his pants and he’s naked from the waist down in about two minutes and he’s working on her jeans.

            He reaches for her shirt once he’s got her jeans and underwear off, but she brushes him away, pushes him until he’s on his back and she’s straddling him.

            “Now, let me see what I can do to help,” she’s already dripping wet, missing this contact though it’d only been a week. He slips into her easily and she has to use all of her self control to not simply bury him into her.

            Instead, she rocks slowly against him, maddeningly slowly until his fists are clenched around the comforter and he’s digging his heels into the mattress, his knees hard on her back.

            She positions herself so that he’s hitting that one spot just inside of her, not deep enough for either of their liking really, but she’s getting more out of it than he is for sure.

            “C’mon,” she thinks he hears him hiss though his teeth and his hips bounce off the mattress looking for more. It’s been so long that it doesn’t take much for her and she’s coming over him, crying out and leaning back into his knees, still keeping him shallow.

            She sees him watching her, waiting for more, he’s kneading at the bedding and she knows that he’s trying very hard not to flip her over and take her (in the way that he means it).

            Pam rolls over and off him in one quick movement, grabbing her jeans from the floor and walking out the door, leaving him there in shock.

            The second part of the plan was to give him a reason to need it.

            Her legs are jittery still and she has to sit down on the sofa. She looks up at him when he stumbles out of the bedroom, still half naked, hard and glossy from her arousal.

            “What. The. Fuck?” He speaks slowly and deliberately and she can’t tell if he’s angry, out of breath or dazed (maybe all three).

            “What’s the matter?” She wipes her palms on her knees and stares at him

            “What are you doing?” She watches his fingers curl around himself, pulling downward and back up; she’s distracted momentarily.

            “What do you want me to be doing?”

            “Shit,” he bucks into his palm. “Fucking me,” he whispers it.

            She stands up, confident that she’s got this under her control now, and walks toward him until his back is against the wall. “How bad do you want to fuck me?” He claws at the fly of her jeans.

            “Bad.”

            “Bad enough that you’ll do what I want?” Her jeans pool at her ankles and she closes her hand around him, squeezing gently but not moving. He doesn’t answer her, just looks down at her face, his eyes a hazy question. “Jim, bad enough to do what I want?” She repeats it.

            “What do you want?” His hands close around her wrist and he tries to get her to move but her hand remains stationary.

            “I want you to fuck me as hard as you can. And I don’t want you to stop because you think you’ll hurt me. You stop when I tell you to.”

            He balks for a moment. “Pam... I don’t want--,” his eyes look worried and she feels that tiny bit of resentment bubble up. She lets go of him completely and reaches down to pull her jeans back up.

            “Yeah,” she sighs in exasperation.

“No,” he grabs her by the arms and pulls her back up. “If that’s what you want,” his eyes are almost black.

“It’s what I want,” he lifts her up by the arms, out of the pile of jeans at her feet and pushes her back into the bedroom. She falls back on the bed, her legs hanging over the side.

He pushes her knees apart and drives into her.

“Oh, fuck, Jim,” it’s the only thought her brain can form and she only just barely registers the stream of curses he’s hissing through clenched teeth. She arches toward him, moaning loudly, usually the point at which he stops, but he shoves into her again hard and deep and she can feel that tiny throbbing hurt.

He’s so deep that his body is pressing into her clit and that combined with the pressure is enough to make her come harder than she has in months, locking in around him, her nails digging into his back.

“Oh God,” is about all Jim can get out before she feels him start to pulse inside of her and she’s so sensitive she can feel every spasm as he spills into her.

They’re lying there, breathing hard next to each other, having only barely enough strength for him to pull out of her when she finally turns to look at him.

His eyes are shut tight and his hands are on his chest, rising and falling with his uneven breathing.

“Thank you,” she rolls toward him, her arm draping over his chest. He pulls her closer to him. “I guess I owe you something now?” She smiles into his skin and can hear the rumbling laugh in his chest.

“Well, you owe me more for getting up and leaving than for anything else.”

“I was trying to make a point,” she pokes the soft skin just below his ribs where she knows he’s most ticklish and he flinches away from her. “Just... I want you to know that you don’t always have to be... a gentleman.”

He turns to her, his eyebrows cocked. “Oh, believe me Beesly, I’m no gentleman.” He smiles wickedly, “no, not after that. You’ve stolen my innocence,” he tosses his arm over his forehead in fake-anguish.

“As long as you’ll still cuddle with me, I think I can live with it,” she curls up further into his side and smiles when he holds her tighter.

“Okay, just as long as we’re both okay with it.”