Story Notes:
Spoilers through Money?
Author's Chapter Notes:
Thanks to all of you who are reading and encouraging -- you've helped me get out of a very LOOOOONG writer's slump.
And comments, comments, comments . . . they make my day!
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
And comments, comments, comments . . . they make my day!
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Pam liked making Jim’s bed. Truthfully, she liked making all beds except for ones inconveniently pushed up against a wall . . . or bunk beds. But all other beds, she enjoyed making. It was similar to how she liked wrapping presents, pulling the shiny paper taut, pressing the creases carefully with her fingers, expertly positioning exactly three pieces of tape on each gift. With beds she liked stretching the sheets tightly, smoothing them with her hand, tucking them carefully under the mattress. She liked the precision of it but also the aesthetic . . . a nicely wrapped present was pretty. A neatly made bed was … tidy. Complete.
But she liked making Jim’s bed especially. Maybe because it smelled so much like him, like them. Maybe because as she made it she would remember all the things he’d done to her there, all the times he’d loved her, kissed her, breathed her in and made her feel worthy of . . . more. When she made his bed, she’d often lift his pillow to her face to hide her blush, her smile, even when no one else was in the room.
The first time they had made love had been in his bed, on his light blue sheets. They had been on exactly three and a half dates.
Date one was the date he had made that day at work while she sat in the conference room trying to convince the cameraman, trying to convince herself, that she’d be fine without him. She had felt brave that day, it was true. She had felt hopeful. But the day before, when she watched Jim leave the office with Karen, knowing they were spending the night together in the city, she had that same falling sensation she had felt when Jim first came back from Stamford and she saw Karen rub his back. Like a sudden drop in altitude in an airplane, or a dip on a roller coaster. Something gave out from underneath her. So even though she acted brave in front of the camera, she knew there would always be the feeling of loss, the missed opportunity, the too little too late. But then Jim had interrupted, asked her if she was free for dinner, called it a date. She felt high. Woozy. Drunk.
The date had been dinner at Francesca’s, a new Italian place that held no memories, good or bad, for either of them. They had been friendly, only slightly awkward. They didn’t broach scary subjects – Karen, Roy, Casino Night, their feelings about their time apart. They just joked. Ate. Sneaked glances at each other. Even though she liked his new haircut well enough, she couldn’t get used to it. It was like she was having dinner with a stranger who sounded an awful lot like Jim. But it had been nice. The beginning of something more.
When he dropped her off, he walked her to her door.
“Well, Beesly. Surely this one counts as a first date?”
She tilted her head, not understanding.
“The night on the roof? The grilled cheese? The fireworks?”
Pam blushed, looked down, sort of sad that he had brought up a night she had gone home to Roy, a night that she had later corrected him about, hurt his feelings about. But Jim’s voice was light – he wasn’t holding anything over her head. So she nodded.
“Definitely. And don’t call me Shirley.”
He shook his head at her. “How old is that joke?”
She shrugged, smiled.
They looked at each other for a long minute, neither sure what to do next. God, she had wanted him to kiss her, wanted to kiss him herself, but she was too timid. Too scared. So instead he had given her a smile and she had given him one back, and she watched him walk away with his hands in his pockets.
Date two they had gone miniature golfing. Pam had laughed when Jim suggested it.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“What? It’s golf, just . . . smaller.”
Pam laughed. She was game.
He wore cargo shorts, and she realized she hadn’t seen his legs since that basketball game so long ago, when she had secretly stolen glances at him as he ran up and down the court. When they stood next to each other, waiting for the group in front of them to move on to the next hole, his leg brushed against hers. God, she loved the feel of a man’s leg next to hers, the hair tickling a bit. She shifted so they bumped again, her hip kind of leaning against his.
His hair was still uncharacteristically short in the back, but he had brushed the front of it down on his forehead so he looked more like the Jim she recognized, the Jim she missed. And he acted more like him, too.
“Now Pam. I have to warn you. I could have gone pro back in the day.” He tossed the blue ball he had picked into the air and caught it.
Pam watched his hand. The ball looked so little in it. “Pro? Miniature golf pro?”
Jim nodded, seriously. “If it weren’t for my injury . . . and that unfortunate windmill accident…”
“Okay. First: injury?”
“I pulled a hamstring trying to climb up and put my ball illegally into the ‘free game’ hole.”
Pam laughed. “And the windmill accident?”
“Pretty self explanitory.”
They had done a lot of flirting that day, from leaning against each other and touching each others arms when they talked, to joking about Jim’s blue ball. (“At least I’ve only got one blue one,” he quipped.) He had kissed her goodnight on that date, but just once, a kiss somewhere between her kiss at the Dundies and his at Casino Night. But she went to bed, touching her lips with her fingers, remembering.
Date three they had watched a movie on Pam’s couch. She had sat there so still, feeling his leg next to hers, his shoulder touching hers, and she couldn’t concentrate on anything else except the hard heat of him, like a sidewalk in summertime, radiating against her. Halfway through the movie he placed his hand on her thigh, palm up, inviting her to put her hand in his. She took it as sort of a sign that he would meet her halfway. He wasn’t going to do all the work. He was gun shy, and she couldn’t blame him. So she slipped her hand into his, their fingers lacing together. His thumb rubbed hers, his fingers brushed her palm, and just that small motion made her breath catch, her heart flutter. Later she looked at him, the dim light of the TV making it hard to see his face. But he sensed her watching him and turned. Then she leaned in, and he leaned in the other half and they were kissing and it was like Casino Night all over again only Pam didn’t have fear and guilt screaming in her head – only the thought don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t ever stop. He didn’t. He kissed so perfectly, so expertly, his mouth sliding over hers, his tongue a part of the kiss but almost not. Like a hint of a breeze on a hot summer afternoon. He kissed her jaw, her neck, the place where her jaw and neck met just under her ear and Pam bit her lip to keep from moaning. She kissed him back, feeling the slight roughness of his face under her lips for the first time, the surprisingly silky skin of his neck, the velvet of his ear lobe. His hands didn’t roam other than to hold her face, tangle in her hair, slide around her back to pull her closer. Kissing is all they did. Lots of kissing and Pam’s lips felt puffy by the time the movie ended and Jim tore himself away from her and said he should probably go home. She wanted him to stay, wanted him to kiss her more … in more places, but she became shy again and watched him through the window as he drove away.
Date four, though . . . that was the one. He had invited her over for dinner. He was cooking for her, and just that alone was enough to make her feel a little soft and warm inside. But when she showed up at his house and he answered the door, she nearly stripped naked on the spot. He was wearing old jeans – jeans that looked so good on him they should have been illegal – and one of those baseball shirts, the kind with the white body and the sleeves of a different color, and it clung to him just enough to hint at the curve of his chest, the flatness of his stomach, the broadness of his shoulders. And he wore an apron. A simple canvas apron looped around his neck and tied around his narrow waist. Pam had never seen anything so sexy in all her life.
“Well, hey, Betty Crocker,” she teased when he opened the door wider for her to come in.
“What? I’m secure enough in my manhood to wear an apron.”
“As you should be.”
She followed him into the kitchen, her eyes glued to his tight, denim-clad ass, the ties from his apron dangling, tempting her. Yep. His manhood was secure.
She managed to keep her hands to herself for the first part of the night, while she sat at the counter in his kitchen, sipping a glass of wine and watching him cut up vegetables for a salad. Before he’d start on a new one he’d hold it up to confirm that she liked it.
“Tomatoes?” he asked, and she nodded. She watched his hands, fascinated by them as they cut up the tomato.
“Peppers?” She nodded.
But then came the cucumber.
“Cucumber?” He held up the largest cucumber she’d ever seen.
“Oh my God. That’s huge.”
He cocked his head, smiling. “That’s what she said.”
Pam rolled her eyes, laughing. “You set me up.”
Jim shrugged and wagged the cucumber in front of her face. “You walked right into it, Pam.”
“What, did you shop around for the most ginormous cucumber you could find? Just for that?”
“Yep,” he answered proudly.
“And you weren’t at all embarrassed when they rung you up?”
“Why would I be embarrassed of my ginormous cucumber?”
She rolled her eyes and reached out, grabbed the cucumber from his hand and spun on her stool so she was facing away from him.
“Hey, I need that for the salad, Beesly.”
“Nope. I won’t let you maim this beautiful cucumber.”
He came around the counter and tried to grab it from her hand. Pam started giggling, trying to play keep away.
“C’mon. This has got to be a record of some sort. Call Ripley’s.”
She held it behind her back and Jim wrapped his arms around her, trying to reach it. God, he smelled good. He managed to grab the cucumber on either end, but Pam still had a good grip on it in the middle and they tugged it back and forth. Holding onto the cucumber kept her hands behind her back, almost trapped. She was surprised by how much she liked being trapped by him.
Their playfulness reminded her of another time they had sort of wrestled, back at the dojo when Jim had wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the floor and she had laughed, had forgotten that she wasn’t allowed to enjoy another man’s arms around her like that. But she had loved every minute until Meredith turned around and then Pam had felt embarrassed and . . . guilty. And she had punished Jim for it.
“Leggo my cucumber!” Jim’s mouth was by her cheek, his face brushing against hers, snapping her out of her memory.
“I’ll bet that’s the first time you’ve ever said that.”
Jim paused, his arms still wrapped around her, their hands still gripping the cucumber. He looked at her, smiling. He nodded thoughtfully.
“Pretty sure it is.”
They stared at each other for a moment, their smiles slowly fading into something else. Something hot and serious. Suddenly Pam let go of the cucumber and slipped her hands around Jim’s neck, up into his hair, and she pulled him down to kiss her. Screw this meeting halfway shit. She was going for it. She heard the thud of the cucumber dropping to the floor and felt Jim’s hands on her back, low, by the top of her jeans. Then they slipped up, under her shirt to the skin beneath.
They had been almost frantic, she remembered. They had stumbled to his room, a tangle of groping hands, open mouths. He pulled off her shirt and seconds later she pulled off his, anxious for their bodies to touch, to relieve the heat burning under her skin. He had unhooked her bra so quickly that it fell off her shoulders before she even realized what he had done. She shrugged out of it and his hands immediately cupped her breasts, his thumbs grazing her nipples. She reached to unbutton his jeans, her knuckles brushing against him, feeling how hard he was, and the sensation made her fumble with the button in her haste to get it undone. He dropped his hands to unbutton her jeans as well and they wiggled them down to each other’s knees and then they each took over taking off their own from there, too impatient to struggle getting them over each other’s feet. He kissed her, hard and hungry and she returned it the same way. They almost fell onto the bed and in minutes she was tugging down the waistband of his boxer briefs. She wanted him closer. Immediately. She felt like a dam was about to burst inside of her and she needed him to staunch the flow. He helped her get his underwear off the rest of the way and then she lifted her hips to help him remove hers. She wouldn’t let herself think about what she was doing and with whom she was doing it or she knew she’d get embarrassed, shy. She just listened to the resounding need of her body.
Looking back, she realized that Jim had tried to slow down, tried to reign in his passion a bit but Pam hadn’t let him. She didn’t want his hands on her as much as she wanted him inside of her. Extensive foreplay was not something she needed at that moment. She was ready, hungry, desperate for him. So he had followed her lead.
When they were both naked and pressing against each other so that there was no space, no air between them, he whispered, “Do I…”
Pam shook her head, knowing what he was asking without him having to say it. She had never gone off the pill after Roy, but only for practical reasons, never because she had anticipated this. “No, I…” but then his fingers – those long, sexy fingers – dipped into her and she forgot the rest of her answer. Forgot her name, even.
When she thought about how brazen she had been, it still made her blush. She had grabbed him, grabbed the round tightness of his ass and pulled him into her and she knew she had groaned with the sensation of feeling him all the way in, deep inside. He stilled for moment and Pam writhed underneath him, thinking he was teasing her, toying with her. But then he said, again so softly, his voice rough and throaty in her ear, “Pam.”
She knew he was on the edge and she didn’t want it to end yet, so she waited, the stillness eating away at her, like an itch she couldn’t scratch. And then he started moving, slowly at first but then faster and Pam pulled him deeper, grabbing his lower back with both hands, lifting her hips towards him. She didn’t care if she came – she rarely came with Roy and didn’t even expect it anymore – she just wanted to feel him come, feel him bury himself in her over and over and over again. And then he was saying her name like a prayer and she felt his release and she was just so happy. So happy to give him something of herself.
That had been the first time.
Afterward, when Pam’s shock and embarrassment at her own wanton behavior had worn off a bit, they got up and ate the slightly overcooked dinner Jim had made, smiling at each other constantly. They fell asleep on the couch together watching Saturday Night Live, spooning so that Jim’s arms were wrapped around her and she could feel the steady rhythm of his heart against her back.
She awoke a couple of hours later. The TV was still on, an infomercial of some sort blaring rudely. She shifted a bit, afraid she was hurting Jim, but he stilled her with his arms. And then his mouth was on her neck, his tongue. His breath in her ear. His hands sliding across the skin of her stomach, her breasts, lower, under the edge of the boxer shorts she had borrowed from him so she didn’t have to put her jeans back on. She gasped, surprised at how quickly her body responded to his touch. He reached for the remote and turned off the TV with one hand, the other still stroking, still hypnotizing her. In the new silence she could hear her breath coming faster. She sensed he was trying different things, gauging her pleasure by her reaction, her breathing, her unintended gasps. And he was a quick learner. Within minutes he had her writhing under his hands.
When Roy had tried to touch her like this she had always gotten impatient. He never paid attention, never asked what she liked, just did what he thought men were supposed to do, what he saw in the porn movies he liked so much. And Pam had always felt frustrated and too afraid of bruising his ego to tell him how to touch her, so she had either faked a climax or just directed them on to sex, where at least there was an end in sight. Roy preferred sex to trying to please her anyway. But Jim . . . God, he was on a mission. She arched towards his hand, trembling, breathless. And then she was coming and oh, the heat, the heat traveled through her body and left her shaky, raw.
But he wasn’t done yet.
He unwrapped his arms from around her and gently flipped her onto her back. She was too weak to help. She felt how hard he was against her and smiled to herself. It made her so thrilled that he wanted her. He dragged down the boxers she was wearing, the boxers he was wearing, and then he slid into her. This time following his own pace, not her rushed enthusiasm. But she was still so hot, so sensitive that within moments she was close again.
“God, Jim,” she gasped in his ear.
He didn’t answer but ducked his head and seemed to be concentrating. Then she was coming again, louder than she ever had and when he heard her it seemed to snap something inside of him and he gasped “God, I love you” against her neck. She wanted to say it back, but didn’t want it so seem forced, reactionary. So she just ran her fingers through his hair and held on.
The third time had been the next morning. Jim had pulled her into the shower with him and suddenly she felt timid, naked in the daylight.
“Sure. Now you’re shy.”
She laughed. “It’s just so . . . bright in here.”
So Jim had turned off the light in the bathroom and left the door open a crack so the light from his bedroom would filter in more gently. Pam stole glances at Jim’s body, although he didn’t seem shy at all. He had felt so good the night before, but she hadn’t realized how good he looked.
They tried to focus on the necessary cleaning that was supposed to be done in the shower, but all that slippery soap, all that sweet smelling shampoo just was too much. Jim turned off the shower and tugged Pam, dripping wet, into his room and onto his bed.
“I’m getting your sheets all wet.”
“I hope so.”
Pam blushed at the double meaning of what she had said. But then, in the brightness of the bedroom, she was exploring him. The unexpected hair on his surprisingly developed chest, his smooth, hard stomach, his pale thighs, his . . . she wrapped her hand around him and he sucked in a breath. She didn’t know what he liked, but she’d figure it out. She did what he had done – watched him for signs that he was enjoying how she touched him. And she touched him everywhere, kissed him everywhere. She did things she had never done with Roy, never wanted to do with Roy. She climbed on top of him, the brightness of the room no longer intimidating her. She felt sexy. In control. She moved over him, watching him as he watched her. And for the third time – more times than it had happened in the many years she’d been with Roy – she felt herself falling into that pure pleasure that had eluded her for so long.
After, she lay on top of him while he stroked her back.
“I love you,” she whispered.
She felt his smile against her cheek.
“Good.” Again, that voice. It unhinged her every time.
Pam remembered each of those first times as she pulled the sheets off his bed – the soft, blue sheets that they had rumpled together so frequently during these first few months together. After those first three times, she lost track. She remembered other times – the first time in her bed. The first time on the floor of his living room. But the other times in his bed blended into a haze of happy memories, like childhood.
“Hey, I’m out of coffee,” Jim peeked his head into the room. He saw her changing his sheets. “Don’t do that. I’ll do it later.”
“It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
He shook his head, smiling. “I don’t do it right, do I?”
She grinned. That was the one and only area where Jim was like Roy – making the bed was not his forte. “I like doing it.”
He shrugged. “Whatever floats your boat. I’m gonna’ run to Starbucks. Do you want some tea?”
She nodded. “And one of those muffins, please.” Jim stepped into the room to kiss her goodbye. He never left her without kissing her. She stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Hey, it’s getting colder at night. Do you have any warmer sheets?”
“You mean, like flannel?”
“Exactly like flannel.”
Jim pointed to the closet. “Somewhere on the bottom shelf. You want me to find them?”
“No, I’ll do it.”
Then he pulled her in for a kiss. She’d never get tired of his lips. Ever.
“I’ll be back.”
She waved a hand and kicked the sheets into a pile. In the closet she found the flannel ones where he had said they would be. They were soft, beige, folded sort of sloppy but . . . well, at least folded.
She shook out the fitted sheet and flicked it over the bed so that it floated down. She started stretching the corners over the mattress, but when she had done three of them, she realized that something was caught under the sheet. She unhooked the third corner and reached under. Something was stuck with static cling to the sheet – a sock or a drier sheet, something. She grabbed the offending article and pulled it out. When she saw what it was, she sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly breathless.
It was a pair of lime green panties from Victoria’s Secret.
Chapter End Notes:
Oops, forgot to mention . . . the angst is coming next. Stay tuned....
