On a Wednesday, they get wasted.
He loves, absolutely loves, her for letting his wisecracking, C+-in-freshman-lit-class self into the Finer Things Club, but tea and finger sandwiches are not going to cut it, no matter how cute she looks with that scarf thing on her head.
“I need a drink,” he informs her in a low voice as they clean up the real dishes together. “Many, many, many drinks.”
Her day, she knows, has not been nearly as trying as Jim’s, but it has involved her boyfriend being kidnapped to go visit his ex and Michael’s desire to make sure their office always has a middle aged black man with sass, a big butt and bigger heart on staff, so yeah, a drink sounds absolutely perfect.
Forty minutes, two car rides (each driving their own), two changes of clothing, and one cab ride (from his place; it‘s closer) later, they are cozily ensconced in a high-backed wooden booth, each with a shot glass in one hand and a lime in the other.
“To…” he begins, raising his shot and waiting for her to do the same. He searches his brain for an appropriate toast, but one doesn’t come. “Ah, screw it.”
“Screw it,” she agrees, and they throw the shots back.
An hour later, he is eight shots and four beers in, she is right behind him at six and three, and the horrors of the day are well on their way to being exorcised.
“Dwight peed in a Sprite can,” he complains, pouting at the memory, because truly, that is not something anyone, even a Sprite can, should be subjected to.
She wrinkles her nose in a way that makes her look extra cute, like a bunny, or what’s-her-name, from “Bewitched.”
“Ew,” she says matter-of-factly, “where?”
He has just told her, not more than a second ago, and she’s very, very, very cute, but he thinks maybe she has Alzheimer’s, or else she’s just quite rather drunk, because really, she ought to remember.
“I told you,” he reminds her, his voice tinged with exasperation, and really, he doesn’t have to be so hoity-toity about the whole thing. “In a Sprite can.”
He’s very, very, very cute, and tall, she likes that, and his mouth is… well, thinking about his mouth gives her a little shiver up her spine… but she wonders if maybe he’s missing a few of his marbles.
“No, where? she emphasizes.
“Oh! In the car.”
This strikes her as exceedingly unseemly and she gulps down more of her beer to… well, she’s not sure why, but it seems appropriate. A horrifying thought crosses her mind and she leans across the table, gesturing to Jim to lean in so she can speak to him in confidential tones.
“Did you see his… you know?”
“Oh my god!”
There is no such thing as drunk enough for that question, but he grabs the tequila the waiter has been so kind as to leave on their table and slugs directly from the bottle anyway.
“Pam,” he begins slowly, after a few merciful swallows. “That is a topic which of we will never speak.”
Something about what he said seems off to both of them. She figures it out first.
“Of which we will never speak,” she corrects, and he raises the bottle in toast to her, then pours them each another shot and raises his to her, because he loves her and because she‘s so pretty and so smart and she doesn‘t know it yet, but he‘s going to marry her someday.
“Pam,” he says, in the same voice one would say “Cheers.”
This is, she decides, a thoroughly good toast, and she reciprocates in kind.
“Jim,” she announces happily, and drinks to him, the tequila burning a bit on the way down.
“Anyway,” she continues, pointing her finger at him. “I had to see Michael’s. Tit for tat, Halpert.”
He has recollections of her face, horrified and beautiful, in the kitchen of their office.
“Excuse me, Beesly,” he counters, “aren’t you the one who wanted an eyeball transplant?”
She had, and possibly a brain one as well; he is right. The topic at hand, however, has reminded her of something else, and she wants to pay him a compliment.
“Roy’s was really small,” she confides, smiling because Jim is not small in the grand (very grand indeed) scheme of things, and by comparison to her ex, he is like, whoa. He will, she’s fairly certain, enjoy knowing this.
But apparently her implication goes over his head, because his face is one of horror.
“I want to know about Roy’s…” he can’t even say the word, “even less than I want to hear about Dwight’s. Oh my god, here, wash your mouth out. Are my ears bleeding?”
He hands her the bottle and she lifts it with both hands, taking an obedient gulp as she peers at his ears. No blood. But clearly, he needs things explained to him.
“No, I mean, like….” she wipes a hand over her face, trying to find her words. “Okay, it’s just, you’re like the biggest I’ve ever seen,” she informs him. “Ever.”
Okay, that? That he likes.
Thirty minutes later, the concept of walking in a straight line seems to elude her, so he escorts her to the bathroom, like a gentleman, and waits in the dark, narrow back hallway, leaning against the wall in a way that looks casual, but is also functional.
She’s taking an awfully long time and he’s debating sitting down on the floor, which is sticky, and he’s wearing his dress pants, but he’s also starting to think this whole standing up is really very overrated when he hears her call to him through the door.
“Pam?” He calls back. “Are you okay?”
“Are you there?”
He’s just answered her, with her name, so yes, of course he’s there. Silly girl.
“I’m here,” he responds. “Are you okay? Are you sick?”
“No. Can you come here a minute please?”
It takes him one step to reach the door of the ladies’ room, but when he tries to open it, the knob won’t budge.
“Pam,” he calls, “unlock the door.”
“Right!” she cries like he’s said something brilliant, and he hears stumbling, fumbling and faint cursing before he hears a click and the door opens a crack, her slender, pretty hand reaching out and closing around his wrist, pulling him into the lavatory.
It reeks of too much peach air freshener, and the door slams and her lips are on his before he quite realizes what’s happening.
“Pam,” he mumbles into her mouth, “what are - Guh! God!,” he moans as she snakes her tongue across his jawbone, “what are you doing?”
He’s a little slow on the uptake sometimes.
“I want you,” she pants, sloppily licking the shape of her name into his neck as her hands fumble to pull his shirt out of his trousers.
The alcohol has somehow enhanced his sense of touch, and the sensation of her hand brushing the front of his pants, the softness of her cotton shirt and the weight and malleability of her breasts in his hands beneath it are intense, and his body quickly reacts, despite the copious amounts of tequila in his system. He’s been blessed with a certain advantage in that he’s always been able to get erections when he’s drunk, but this is probably the fastest it’s ever been.
When she reaches, unceremoniously, down his pants and finds him almost completely aroused, warm and masculine, she lets out a cry of delight that even she knows is too loud, and she claps her free hand over her mouth.
“That was loud,” she whispers, looking chagrined, her cheeks flushed and her hand still down his pants, squeezing him lightly.
“It was,” he agrees, as he hardens against her palm. Her hand feels amazing, and he ducks his head down to kiss her deeply, opening his mouth and swirling his tongue around inside hers, not bothering with the delicate, soft kisses that usually accompany the beginnings of their love making sessions, as he pushes her skirt up around her hips.
She wants to be wild and wanton and sexy for him. She loves how he feels and, God, she just wants more of him. The tequila has made her feel swirly and sparkly, and the feel of Jim’s hands and mouth on her, and her hands on him makes her feel French vanilla scented and melty, like liquefied wax in the center of a burning pillar candle.
He lifts her on to the sink clumsily, tugging her stockings and underwear down her legs as she undoes his slacks, dropping them to the floor and pushing his boxers down after them.
When he is revealed to her, she stares in blatant, hungry admiration. What she’d said before, at the table, about him being the biggest she’d ever seen? So true.
“Now,” she whimpers, wrapping her legs around him and pulling on his tie. “Now, Jim.”
He can feel her trembling as soon as he is inside her and he knows it won’t be long, for either of them.
“Beautiful girl,” he kisses into her neck as he supports her back with one hand and his body with the other, his right hand holding on to the sink to add stability to his half-jellied knees. “Amazing, sexy, perfect, wonderful girl.”
He sucks on the spot just below her ear, the spot he knows is her weakness, and she is gone. He follows her and they press their mouths against each other’s shoulders, leaving damp circles on cotton shirts, to stifle the sounds of their groans.
Later, when they are seated on a bench outside the bar, waiting for a cab, his arm around her, she turns to him.
“Was Karen wild in bed?” she asks.
“What?” And it dawns on him. “Is that what that was about, back there?”
She shrugs. “You don’t have any regrets, do you?” She knows, she knows Jim loves her, but she also knows what Karen looks like. That body, maybe in lacy lime green lingerie? She had to have been a tigress.
“Actually,” he informs her, “it was a little boring.” It had been too. Sex with Karen had seemed almost rehearsed; she’d used the same moves every time, liked him to do the same thing. He could almost set his watch by the 14 minutes of foreplay leading to missionary style intercourse.
“Besides,” he continues, “even if it had been…pornish, it still wouldn’t have been as good as with you. I love you.”
He stresses the word to tell her he loves her and only her, has loved only her, will love only her.
She closes her eyes, feeling hazy, and she knows how lucky she is. “I love you so much,” she whispers.
“And no,” he murmurs, trailing light kisses along her cheek. “I have no regrets. Not about that.”
She turns her head, letting his lips move along her cheek until his mouth slides on to hers and they kiss woozily until the cab comes.
She falls asleep on the ride home, her head on his shoulder.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Title from "Wasted," by Paranoid Social Club
Chapter End Notes:
All thoughts are, as always, deeply appreciated.
andtheivy is the author of 17 other stories.
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This story is part of the series, Let's Spend the Night Together. The previous story in the series is Why wait any longer for the world to begin. The next story in the series is Make 'em go "oh! oh! oh!".
