Title: Maybe I could watch you?
Word count: 1795
Summary: Pointless smut. Really. Pointless.
Disclaimer: I don't own them. But I really love Cory. I want him to come home with me. I really do. He's adorable.
No spoilers - could be set anytime
Rachel Berry wakes up to the brush of fingers along the sensitive curve of her neck and the deep even breaths flowing through the air from the boy behind her. The skin below the flowery comforter comes alive cell by cell, vibrating at an intense frequency (causing a longing pull between her legs). She wants to slide her fingers down to press just there where she feels all the tension, or turn around and see if she and the boy in her bed can re-enact the dream (the recurring dream filled with hands touching, lips sliding, hips grinding together in a strange and wonderful dance) she's just woken from. Most of all she doesn't want to spoil this moment.
She wonders if he even knows what he's doing to her. Is he even awake?
His fingers slip from her neck down a bare arm, inch by inch, until his palm covers hers which rests upon her stomach. Fingers flex and relax on hers before sneaking in between them, thumb against thumb, index against index. She shifts backward into him and his body conforms to hers.
She remembers vividly how this happened, how they ended up sleeping together in her bed. Remembers him knocking on the door late last night, letting him in, sitting with him, listening to him, finally bringing him up to her room like she has only once before and falling asleep to the heat of his body and the sound of his heart beat against her ear.
But morning always brings an awareness, a harshness evening never does.
Her dads are away (a romantic weekend in Columbus that they won in some kind of draw). They'd asked if she wanted to go along, but she has a test on Monday that she needs to study for so she politely declined.
She knows what the consequences might be even as she turns in his arms. Bright brown eyes met hers as she shift his hand to the bottom of her tank top. She moves her head closer to his on the pillow until it becomes the most natural thing in the world to press her lips to his. And even the months and all the drama between them fades away. She deepens the kiss, gliding her tongue against lip, then teeth, then his tongue before retreating. Just a sample of him is never enough. Never enough.
She moves his hand so it grips the fabric and pulls up over her head before she helps him throw it on her floor.
His smile is so light, it's infectious and she gives in to the laughter that rises from her belly.
She's all about even playing fields so she reaches for his t-shirt, stripping it off him before allowing her hands to explore his body.
He has all these wonderfully contradictory places on him. Soft along the line of his neck, but hard along his chest. There is so much of him to explore and enjoy (and she's too preoccupied with the slightly salty smell of sleeping in an overly warm bed, or how the dampness of his body seems to accumulate at the back of his neck just below the hairline or the small of his back, where he's a bit ticklish).
When her eyes have scanned and memorized every visible inch of him she looks back at his face. He hasn't touched her at all since she took off her shirt. She wonders if maybe something is terribly wrong with her.
He's still smiling, a tremor running down his spine and her (innocent) fingers slide along it. His eyes are dark and focussed but his lips don't falter.
Finally his hands touch skin and she can't help the tiny gasp that leaves her mouth when he begins at her shoulder – skimming his flesh along her (a quiet breath).
Shoulder to blade.
Blade to spine.
Spine to hip (Oh God).
Hip to Stomach (a brief trail around her belly button and she understands why people have that pierced).
Stomach up through her breasts until he traces one nipple watching it intently as it hardens (whether by his gaze or his fingers she doesn't know), then the other.
She moves to lie half on top of him keeping his hands where they are (between them) before kissing him gently. Giving her attention to his top lip first, then the bottom one. She hopes he can feel how her muscles dance under his hands, rising and falling with her movements, rippling without her consent as his fingers skim along her skin.
She pulls away from him and her fingers work at the button on his jeans then the zipper. And all the while she can feel his eyes on her face and the heat move up to her cheeks. His pants are open but he refuses to help her take them off, so she stops and looks up.
"I think we should talk about this now, before..." (rather than after – hanging in the air unspoken).
She rolls off to lie on her side again, pulling the sheet and blankets up to cover herself (she moves to wrap it securely under her arms). It is her shield now.
"It's just that... well, I don't quite know how to put this... Okay, so I've never actually, you know... before." His eyes clench shut and she sees the embarrassment flush his face. She doesn't think she's ever seen anything so adorable before in her life.
"Neither have I," she says with quiet confidence. "Maybe we could start out small." Her voice shrinks even more, become timid as the question she never thought would leave her lips does. "Maybe I could watch you? You know, like a demonstration before a big lab or
His eyes fly open. "Watch me do what," he asks. Her eyes stray down the covers before looking back up at him. "Seriously?"
She nods as she bites her lower lip. "Maybe you could, you know, explain as you do it, so that I'll know what to do, what you like and what you don't."
He has this incredulous look on his face, like he can't believe she's the one asking these questions, like he can't believe anything about their situation. She understands that at least.
She grabs his hand taking his index finger and brings it to her lip – dragging it across once before sliding it inside her mouth and coating it with gentle strokes of her tongue. His eyes never leave hers but his pupils dilate and she wonders if he's seeing anything at all (and feels powerful with the idea that having his finger in her mouth could make him lose himself so fast). She slides the finger out, giving it a wet kiss before slipping the next one in, and the next, and the next until his hand is moist with a delightful mixture of sweat and saliva.
"It's easier that way, isn't it?" She asks the question innocently enough because she really does want to know the answer, but she licks the salty taste of him off her lips and his eyes follow her tongue. She smiles as she grabs her shirt off the floor and sits in front of him, pushing the blankets to the side.
He turns so that his back rests on the pillows, propped up in a half sitting position. She sits on her knees eagerly awaiting her first instruction.
"You're sure about this," he asks her. She only nods and shifts forward slightly with anticipation (it pools between her thighs, hot and wet).
He breathes deeply and his hand dips quickly and quietly under the elastic waist of his boxers. She watches the rippling movement of his arm as his hand slides back and forth beneath the fabric. She watches the muscles of his stomach clench slightly before she speaks again. "Take them off. I want to see." She really is fascinated. She inches forward, wondering if he'll do it for her.
She needn't have worried. His free hand pushes the cloth down and she studies fixedly the way his hand grips, slides, and twists around his erection, like a ballet beautifully choreographed. Rhythmic and precise.
He makes a small sound and her eyes finally return to his. His eyes are open, he's been staring at her, imagining her, and she feels so powerful so she leans forward and kisses him while covering his moving hand with hers. Mimicking and learning.
Instantly his rhythm changes and his moments become frantic. He hardens then, as their fingers lace and dance along him, he pulses sticky on them and her sheets. Her tongue dips into his mouth, trapping his groan, feeling it vibrate through her body.
She kisses him again and again until long after his body has begun to recover.
As they break apart (more for air than anything else) she wonders if he sees the awe on her face. He hands her one of the Kleenex she keeps beside her bed and she wipes at her hand, then the sheet. He cleans himself off (throwing the tissues in the garbage) and pulls his boxers back up.
"My turn now?" He pulls her shirt back off, brushes his palm against one breast, then the other. He pushes her so she's leaning against those same pillows and he's sitting back. He slips his fingers into the sides of her pyjama bottoms, gliding them down inch by inch. She tries to cover herself with her hands, but he stops her, pushes her hands aside and whispers, "You're beautiful, Rachel."
"Do you need..." he starts, but she doesn't, she doesn't need anything, watching him she trails her fingers down, skimming a hip, spreading her legs apart, keeping her eyes on his. The smell of sex permeates the room, as her fingers circle then press her clit.
Oh God. Too much.
She slides one finger in and out, then two fingers. Hooking them she presses hard, slides them out, then back in again. Out then in, out then in. She shifts to press her thumb to her clit while her fingers move tenderly. Her legs spread wider as his fingers brush her upper thigh, outside first, then along the inside. And her entire body tenses, her walls contract around her fingers but she keeps pushing them in and out, in and out, until she sighs with release.
It's never been so easy before, she thinks as she wipes her fingers on her sheets, pressing her legs together.
And it finally occurs to her what she's done.
"Like this?" His fingers brush along her leg, and open them before re-enacting some of her movements, circling, dipping, circling.
And his lips cover hers. It's everything she ever imagined it would be.