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.
Author's Chapter Notes:
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.
Written for all you sweet pervs who like smutty JAM as much as I do. ;)
Written for all you sweet pervs who like smutty JAM as much as I do. ;)
Chapter End Notes:
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