Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

April 18, 2015.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” he rasps.

His brown eyes examine your body’s luscious shape: everything, from the slight curve of your breasts, to the wide and smooth arches of your hips.

Never before have you felt so desired, so admired, and so wanted in all your life. 

And you can’t deny that you want him as much as he wants you.

Because God knows how many times you’ve dreamed about him ever since that cold and rainy Monday in February, 2014 — a little over a year ago.

It was your first day at 30 Rock, where you're now working as his personal assistant.

And now, fourteen months later, here you are: alone with him in his apartment, throat tight with inclination, just aching to give in.

“You know,” he says, drawing closer, “I’d love to kiss you right now.”

His hands shake, and the luster of his wedding ring oddly catches your attention.

And sure enough, it reminds you of the repercussions of choosing to sleep with a married man.

And not to mention, how fucking wrong it was.

He whispers, finally, “Will you allow me to?”

His large, rough hands secure themselves onto your waist, pulling you in even closer. So close to the point where your breasts meet his broad, soft chest. Immediately, you tense up, wishing to break free from his tight grip.

But you know that his strength is too great for you to even try. 

He repeats, “Will you let me?”

You feel the heat of his breath sweep against your neck. It’s dense and moist and has the lingering smell of the Budweiser he just drank. Or chugged, rather.

You look up at him, eyes wide. “I can’t.”

The whisper is just as faint. 

* * *

His eyes lose their sensuous smolder, only to regain their helpless, child-like flare. Although you’re surprised by your use of self-control, you can’t help but to sympathize with the defeated man, whose hands slowly release you from their grasp.

“I, uh, apologize,” he mumbles, looking down. “I shouldn’t have touched you like that.”

Fuck. This is more than I bargained for. 

You begin to wonder if you made a mistake, if this was all worth it, and if you only made things worse.

Yes, you hated the thought of being with another woman’s husband, but you also hated seeing Jimmy, the happiest man you’ve known, with a long face. Especially since he’s always gone out of his way to make others smile and laugh. Including you.

So you decide to throw your conscience aside, doing what you know best.

* * *

“No, Jimmy.” You place his hands, slowly, back onto your waist. “It’s all right.”

Right then, you take the chance to study his body, just as he’d done yours: the thin, satin fabric of his black button-up fits loosely around his tall, average build, the hem ending at the waistband of his black Levi’s jeans. He stands, simply letting his hands stay on your waist. And you can’t help but to admire the brown-eyed stud that stands before you, his beauty seemingly unreal and effortless.

“And you think I’m the gorgeous one,” you scoff, continuing to eye him up-and-down. “Have you even looked at yourself?”

He sighs. It's clear that he's weary of all the lollygagging. 

“Whatever you want me to do ... I’ll do.”

His eyes return to their hungry, seductive look. “How about you spend the night with me?”

At his request, you do something bold, something you thought you’d never do in a thousand years. Also, something you know that your parents would definitely not be proud of: “If you want me,” you say, undoing the buttons of your blouse, “then you can have me.”

* * *

Chapter Text

Your blouse drops to the floor, a thing of delicate silk surrounding your feet. Next, your bra joins the pile, and now, you’re completely vulnerable and exposed. His eyes linger over your brazen toplessness, and quickly, his urges prove to be unbearable.

“Shit,” he purrs. “I need you. Right now.”

“What’s stopping you?” Your fingers start to work on his button-up, eventually peeling it from his smooth, broad shoulders. “I’m right here.”

With eyes latched onto his, you take backwards steps into the spacious, dark bedroom of his fancy Manhattan loft. All the while, he’s moving forward, holding you tight so that you wouldn’t bump into anything. Ultimately, you hit the bed, landing on your back, with his weight pinning you down — but not enough to suffocate you, thankfully. 

He's much stronger than he claims to be on TV. Always putting on a show for the cameras.

“Where’s Nancy?” you breathlessly ask. “She’s not coming here, is she?”

“No need to worry.” He is barely in his jeans at this point. “She’s at our house, in Upstate. She won’t be in the city ‘til Monday.”

Next, he disrobes you of your tight pencil skirt and your underwear, and you impatiently step out of them.

***

Oh, God. He's rock hard.

You feel him — from his fingers to his hot, swollen tip — push up against you, hinting at taking the final step, at entering you. And when he will, you assume that he’ll do it slowly. Gently. Without haste or hesitation. He places a hand onto your right breast, and runs the other through your hair.

“You’re soft,” he says, breathlessly, as your fingers playfully tread upon his stubble.

He kisses you; the first time, softly.

As he begins to deepen the kiss, you suddenly quiver, wordlessly pleading for him to make it known how much he craves you. 

Without question, he does.

***

He does it.

Slowly and gently and without haste or hesitation.

Just as you wanted.

With each thrust and each stroke and each bump, you’re filled with an ecstasy so great, and so euphoric, that you feel you could die from it.

And while you’re sprawled out across the bed, helplessly pinned underneath his weight, legs hoisted up on his strong shoulders, he assures that you’re well taken care of — in more ways than one.

“Did I hurt you?” He halts his movements until he’s certain that you’re not hurt.

At least, just for a little bit.

“No. Don’t stop.” 

He slides in. Then, out. 

He's in so deep.

“If I am” — a moan suspends the flow of his words — “just tell me, okay?”

In. And out. Goes in even deeper.

“I will.”

His meticulous, snail-paced movements are starting to bore you. You need something a little more rough, a little more dynamic. He knows it, too. At your command, he picks up speed, no longer restrained by his fears. He thrusts, over and over, acquiring a euphoria that not even the sting of booze could help him achieve. Never in his life has he felt so free.

A few tears spring to your eyes, and you cry until your throat becomes raw. 

Nancy is lucky. Most women are stuck with unimpressive one-minute men for the rest of their lives.

You don't know much about Catholicism. But you know one thing, at least:

Jimmy will have a lot of explaining to do when he confesses to the priest.

“Forgive me, Father. For I have sinned.”

***

"Oh, fuck," he grits out, through clenched teeth.

His cries build, gracefully, into a crescendo. And, with a stomach coiled in pleasure, he braces himself, until the anticipation finally ends with a loud grunt:

"Ah!"

He desperately grabs hold of the bed-sheets, his short, frantic gasps filling the whole room. He’s just filled you — and you assumed that all of Gramercy Park could hear his loud, blatant cries of relief and pleasure. Meanwhile, you lay there, exhausted, with unruly strands of hair stuck to your hot face. 

I'll be sore as hell in the morning, no doubt.

With one or two more slow, weary strokes, the fanfare dies down, and his body retires at last. 

He comes down from his peak, finally, and buries his face into the the length of your hair, only for a while, before coming back up. "So, uh," he pants, his body still in a rush, mind still in a high, "I have, uh, a couple pages of new monologue jokes I've written down on a notepad somewhere. Would you care to write them up on cue cards for me on Monday?"

So, you fuck me, and then discuss what I have to do for the job afterwards? Only Fallon would do something like this.

You laugh a little, though he doesn't notice.

"Absolutely."