Rachel hesitates in the doorway to her bedroom, playing with the hem of the robe that covers her. It's the beginning of July and that means it's hot in her room, but when she thinks about what she's about to do a chill leaves goosebumps on her bare flesh.

No, she wants to do this. Finn's been gone for almost two weeks, and she misses him, misses how wanted and desired he makes her feel.

With a deep breath Rachel crosses to her desk where she set her phone. Her hands shake as she looks around, glances at her closed door before pulling at the tie to her satin robe.

It drops in a pool around her as she feels a sensual heat at her actions, and leaves it there. Actually, she likes how it looks, makes her feel powerful and she turns to her floor length mirror.

Her make-up is minimal, just some eyeliner and lipgloss, and her hair is carefully curled and tousled around her bare shoulders. A thrill runs up her spine as she takes in the sight of her bare breasts, flat stomach, the apex of her thighs.

Rachel feels sexy, standing like this when she's about to actually go through with this idea. She tilts her head and bites her lip, liking that face, before she sits down on the end of her bed.

She knows her four-poster bed is girly, but she leans back against it, her right arm curling around the post above her head and baring her chest moreso.

By the time she gets herself positioned, her head leaning against her arm above her, tilted, her knees planted on the bed spread, her thighs slightly apart and her ass hovering above her feet, she can feel a steady pulsing between her thighs.

Doing this is risky and thrilling and she is undeniably aroused by the sheer thought of sending Finn a nude photo of herself. It's so unexpected and daring of her that she thinks he might just have a heart attack when he sees.

She bites her lip and lowers her eyes so her long lashes flutter closer to her cheeks, holding her phone out to take the picture.

Rachel can barely breathe until she hears the click and flips the phone around to look at it.

Discard. She's managed to only get some of her face in, and she has to try again. It takes a total of eight more pictures before she's found the one, and she gets butterflies as she presses the send as txt message button.

Her thumb scrolls the screen of contacts to send to until she nears F, when she hears a noise outside. Her dads aren't supposed to be home yet, but she clicks the screen quickly and drops her phone face down on her bed while it loads the next screen.

She runs to her window and sees her dad's car pulling up, so she quickly opens her drawer and pulls on panties before slipping her pink heart pajamas on and grabbing a book from her shelf.

As the car door slams she lays down on her bed, flipping open to a random page and picking up her phone.

The message screen is up and she types a short message quickly before she waits for the message sent sign to come up. It's still sending as she hears her dads' footsteps downstairs, and her heart is racing so fast.

Finally it illuminates and she stuffs her phone under her pillow, before leaning back against her headboard and staring down at the book. Rachel can hear her dads talking as she hastily braids her hair into two pigtails, and by the time they call her name she's finished.

"In my room, daddy!" She replies, and she wonders if her face is bright red.

Footsteps are getting closer and she flips the page, starting to actually read the book as she hears, "What are you doing, sweetheart?" as her dad opens her door.

Rachel nudges the pillow over her phone with her elbow and smiles.

"Just reading, daddy."

Will's summer is being pretty dull, to be honest. He's got some small things to do for prep that he's slowly working at, but for the most part he's really just bored.

Bored and really wishing he could talk to Emma. But they're working on rebuilding their friendship, and he's trying not to rush her, really.

His phone beeps beside him and he wonders if, maybe, it's her, but when he looks at the screen it reads Rachel's number. He has all the kids' numbers, had put them in his phone for their trip to New York, but he'd never actually called or texted any of them. Those numbers were in case of an emergency.

With a rush of panic he opens the text, and promptly drops his phone.

It's a picture message, of Rachel, naked. He wonders if it was an accident, if she meant to send it to someone else, so he quickly scrolls down to read the message, and ignores the part of the picture he can still see, the curve of her hips.

He tries to ignore it, at least. But then he reads the message.

I know this is unexpected, but things have never been typical between us. I guess this was a long time coming ;) I just wanted to tell you that I can't stop thinking about you. About us, together…

Will's swallowing harshly and breathing through his nose and trying desperately not to scroll back up. He leaves it at the bottom, though, and rereads her message several times before he convinces himself to close the message.

Finally he does, and drops his now blank phone next to him on the couch, leaning back until his head is resting on the back cushion.

It's almost six in the early evening but Will's had nothing to do all day, and his third beer is sitting in front of him on the coffee table.

He blames the barely-there haze of alcohol when he realizes he's hard beneath his jeans.

A flood of guilt flows through him and he closes his eyes, pulls at his jeans trying to ease the pressure without touching himself. Because even though that message was meant for him it's wrong, and he shouldn't be aroused by the thought of his sixteen-year-old student naked, touching him, kissing and tasting him.

But also, God, damn it, he's not a fucking superhero, and he's been alone for months; closing that message had to count for something, right?

He presses on his pants again, trying so hard, but also getting a little pissed because Rachel has been doing this kind of thing since day one, he realizes. The long looks, the bitten lips, the short short skirts. He'd felt guilty every single time he thought about them and realized he was perverting innocence into something else.

Except that he wasn't, he isn't. Honestly, he's surprised it's taken her this long to make such a bold move. And he's grateful that it's now, when he's alone in his apartment and can think this through because he honestly doesn't know how it all would have gone down if she'd just attacked him in his office or something.

His cock is still straining against his jeans, hasn't gone down, not when he can't get that damn picture out of his mind.

He realizes that he's more than pissed at Rachel. He thinks about the gorgeous teenager, no, young adult, in the picture, and he realizes that he's angry because now he can do something about his attraction to her. He's angry because he wants her badly and now he has to live with that knowledge, that he will forever know that he had extremely inappropriate feelings for his student.

Will lets out a low growl at the knot his thoughts have formed and presses the heel of his hand to his crotch once, slowly, before finishing his beer and heading for a cold shower.

Finn doesn't text her back immediately and that worries her. What if he's changed his mind about them? What if he doesn't want her again? Honestly, given their history she's been sort of waiting for this moment.

The rest of her night is spent on her bed, reading the book she'd pulled (which turned out to be a rather-boring and over-the-top vampire novel that Brittany had loaned her for the summer), and glaring at her phone.

A few chapters from the end and she realizes that it's almost ten o'clock and no response. She drops her book to the ground in frustration and throws herself back on the bed, her hands coming to rest on her stomach.

With a sharp gasp she covers her face in embarrassment. What if it's her body? No one had ever seen her naked before, but she's never really seen anyone else naked, either. She's fit, of course, she knows that, but what if there's something gross about her body? What if Finn's disgusted by her?

Rachel feels terrible as she tries to reassure herself and fails. She quickly puts her phone on her nightstand and turns her light off, burying her face in her pillow until she falls asleep.

His cold shower helps, at least a little, but when Will walks back into his living room and catches sight of his phone his efforts seem wasted. His body feels hot, and he stifles a groan as he thinks about that picture, again.

Damn it, Rachel. Honestly, he wonders if she thinks this is some fun game, teasing him, if maybe she's noticed him cracking before he himself had.

He's reaching for his phone before he quite realizes it, but tells himself all he wants to do is check the message, that he's going to scroll right past the majority of the picture (but he can't be blamed for the part of her thighs or the curve of her hip that are still visible as he reads).

Will thinks the words will help him, soothe him, somehow, like maybe he's misread them. He hasn't. And rereading them just serves to frustrate him, make him hard again, and this time he just walks into his bedroom, phone in hand.

It lands on his bed forcefully when he throws it, before he tugs at the towel he's left around his hips. He's so fucking hard, and it's all Rachel Berry's fault, for not leaving well enough alone.

He's biting his lip to keep from touching himself, knows that his reaction is beyond his control, that she's attractive and offering him things and as long as he doesn't actually do anything about it he can still be a good teacher, a good man.

But Jesus, he can't unpicture her flat stomach, the curve of her breasts, or, mostly, the soft, sleepy way she looked into the camera. Like she'd just woken up, sated and content in his bed. Like she was very much an adult, and not a high school junior.

Well, senior, now, he thinks, and it's not helping, it's just making everything worse and more confusing because every time her title changes he can't help but feel like it's all just that much more OK to be imagining the curve in her back or the soft way she would moan under his tongue.

Will clenches his jaw and lets out a hard breath before he takes the towel off and drops it on the end of the bed by his phone. His head is pounding and he's so hard but he pulls out a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt to put on.

He's trying to ignore everything, trying to focus on pulling his waistband up and getting the shirt on but it's all over too quickly and he's thinking again, thinking about the gorgeous way her hair fell around her like she'd spent all day with her head against his pillow.

He can't do anything, not while he's this aroused, and he starts to tell himself that he just needs to get it out of his system—he's hard right now because it was unexpected and once he climaxes he can delete the message and just forget the whole thing.

He's committed, now, and his guilt is there but suppressed, because it's not like he's going to look at her picture or anything. That's a line he won't cross, can't cross.

But he sits on the edge of his bed and hesitates, holds his hand over his crotch for a second and closes his eyes, licks his lips, before taking his cock out of his sweatpants, and holds himself in his hand.

Will groans, then, breathes harshly through his nose as he palms himself quickly, anxious to get Rachel off of his mind.

It's the picture, it's just the fact that she wanted him badly enough to take that damn picture, and it's driving him insane. He thinks about the body that he only let himself get glances of, wishes that he would have looked longer, but knowing that he'd be finished if he did. Just the quick image is burned into his brain, he'll have a hell of a time forgetting as it is, and he thanks God that he didn't, actually, take her all in.

His hand's moving faster now, his jaw is twitching and he's cupping his balls with his other hand, massaging and wishing it was her small hands, wishing that she was in front of him now with those dark lined eyes and full lips.

The picture is still up on his phone and his phone is just a foot away, he can reach it if he wants to, and he wants to. But he can't touch himself, run his fist over his length and thumb the head of his cock while he actually looks at her.

The thought alone is so wrong but he wonders if that was her intention, if that's what she's imagining him doing right now.

Wonders if she's touching herself, imagining him and wishing she could see him as bare and open as he's seen her, now.

It's the realization of how much she must trust him to do this that is his undoing, and he's coming with the image of her sultry eyes behind his own.

His sweatpants are damp and he sheds them, wipes himself off with his towel and drops them all in his hamper as the guilt and shame bite at his stomach.

Trust, he thinks, and it's the cause of his arousal and his shame and he slips on a pair of gym shorts instead of sweats and starts to look for his running shoes.

He wanted to get her out of his mind, but he realizes now it did the opposite and he powers down his phone but doesn't delete the text and it's a mistake that he knows he has to make because the alternative hurts him more.

Will leaves his phone on his bed and heads to his bag to get his iPod. He can't delete the picture, and it's wrong, he knows, so he decides he can run away from it, at least until he thinks it through, thinks about what he just did.

Rachel's sleep isn't great, and she knows if she remembered her dream it would include Finn rejecting her, judging by the familiar ache in her heart, her stomach.

Her shower is quick, familiar as she goes through the motions and thinks too much. She has nowhere to go, exactly, but she still puts on a sun dress and curls her hair before she goes down to eat breakfast with her fathers, since it's Tuesday and they both go into work late.

She smiles at her dad as he says good morning, handing her a plate of fresh fruit and toast before sitting down next to his husband.

Rachel takes the seat across from them at the table and sets her phone next to her plate. Her dads are talking about something work-related, she catches the word meeting several times as she picks at her cantaloupe and illuminates her phone.

It's an effort to talk to them this morning, only because she can't stop glancing at the small screen beside her plate. Her dads notice, of course, she's always been comfortable talking to them and her behavior is strange.

"Is everything OK, Rachel?"

She looks up and nods, looks down bashfully and pops a grape into her mouth. "You keep looking at your phone. Expecting a call?"

Rachel shakes her head but looks up. "It's just, I texted Finn last night and he still hasn't replied."

Her dad shrugs a shoulder and bites into his own toast before picking up his plate and setting it in the sink. "He went on a cruise, didn't he? With his parents and Kurt?" Rachel nods and he continues. "Your dad and I had terrible reception on our own, sweetie. I wouldn't worry. Give him a little more time."

Rachel shakes her head. Of course, how could she have been so silly? She finishes her breakfast quickly and says goodbye to her dads as they pick up their keys and leave.

Will's sleep is terrible, and he's grateful he doesn't remember all of his dream at the same time it's killing him not having the missing pieces. As is, he only remembers parts: Rachel at school, Rachel taking off her sweater, Rachel biting her lip as he takes of her skirt.

Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. He knows if he had the rest of the dream it would be more of the same; story-less and scorching and him surrendering to the painful urges he's feeling. The urges he's been suppressing for years.

He feels terrible when he wakes up, and skips his shower to go straight to the kitchen, still wearing his gross t-shirt from running (miles, that weren't far enough).

He slips a piece of bread into the toaster, just one, because he knows he can't eat too much right now, not with this knot in his stomach.

It's never been this bad, his guilt. He's thought of her, before, if he's being honest he's thought of his students before, but it had always been fleeting, nothing serious.

Except he's realizing that this time it might be, that maybe it's always been a little more serious when he's seen a flash of plaid skirt or animal sweater in between thoughts of Emma's knee-length skirts and matching jackets.

He eats his toast slowly, thinking, and starts to feel the guilt ease, though he's not sure if it's because he's making excuses for himself or just starting to get used to the feeling of being a horrible teacher, a bad man.

Will steps into the shower after that, washes his body quickly, though he sees her picture for a split second before he picks up the shampoo and washes his hair.

When he gets out he still kind of hates the way he's feeling as he dresses quickly in jeans and a t-shirt. He thinks that he should take a walk, maybe go to the park or to store or a million places to get Rachel off of his mind but instead he finds himself in front of his liquor cabinet.

It's mid-morning since he's slept in, and the image of his mother with a glass of wine at 9 am makes him pause. But then his phone vibrates on the table where he'd left it, and he pours himself a glass of scotch before picking up his phone and sitting on the couch.

He takes a drink before he opens his phone. When he sees Shannon's name he breathes a sigh of relief but also feels a stab of disappointment.

Less worried, Rachel spends her day working on a few songs in the basement, singing and tinkering around with another original song. It's about Finn, of course, a love song she's trying to write, but it's a lot harder than she expected it to be.

Eventually it's late afternoon and she decides to go to the library, take a break and hope that Finn will message her back. Really, it'll be the perfect encouragement when he texts back how gorgeous she is, how much he loves her and wishes he could be there with her.

Her drive to the library is quick, not very far away and she gets out of her car in the near-empty parking lot. It's summer and she figures that not too many people go to the library as it is. The quiet is welcome when she steps into the cool air-conditioned building, and she heads to the music section on instinct.

She peruses the sheet music, and looks at some biographies, some theatre books. Before she realizes it an hour is gone, and she has an armful of books to read. It's nice, she's looking forward to the relaxation they'll provide, the way they'll take her mind off of waiting for Finn to text, waiting for him to come back home to be with her.

Still, when her phone vibrates in her purse she almost drops them in her haste to check the message.

Will's day is too damn long. He spends his time watching bad TV and picking at food he has no appetite for. In between it all he makes no effort to leave the apartment, though his legs are twitching with an urge to run again. Instead he pours himself another glass of scotch and tries to stomach TLC or MTV or something like that.

And in between all that he thinks about Rachel, about teaching, about honor and being a man, and mostly, Rachel. His mind is on an endless loop and by the time the clock reads five thirty he's decided that he won't be able to will thoughts of her away.

He's fucking angry at her, really. But more than that he's angry at himself, he's angry at cell phones, at texting, at cameras and beautiful teenage girls and social stigmas and Terri for lying to him and controlling him and leaving him and he's angry at Rachel.

It's all full circle, he's been here before and the alcohol isn't helping keep his trains of thought on their tracks.

He's not drunk, not like he'd been the last time he went out with Shannon. He hasn't been that drunk since Sue played his humiliation for Emma to hear, for the school to hear, for Rachel to hear. He wonders what she'd thought then, how she hadn't been so disgusted by his behavior to not send him a picture of herself.

He wonders how she can be attracted to him, when no one else is.

He's pissed at her, sure, but he's also kind of grateful. Because it's wrong and he's using her and all that crap about boundaries from every teaching seminar he'd never gone to because he wasn't that guy so why did he have to listen?

Grateful, he has to come back to himself with a shake of his head. He's grateful because Terri wouldn't let him touch her, even before the fake pregnancy and Emma still won't let him touch her, and Holly chose fucking Cleveland and French over Lima and Spanish and him.

But Rachel, Rachel has seen him through all of this and she still wants him, still trusts him and maybe even loves him.

The last thought alone is reason enough to delete the text, to toss his phone in the river, or something, because if it's true he can, in no way, lead her on.

Except he isn't leading her on, he's just not replying yet.

Yet. Because, if he's being really honest with himself (really fucking honest) he thinks by the end of this glass his phone will be in his hand, because he can't remember if she has a mole on her stomach or if he was imagining that or if her bed is brown or white or if there was a scar on her left hip or her right hip and he kind of wants to find this all out by asking, but more than that he wants to learn for himself, and he doesn't mean a picture.

By the time his glass is drained his cock is straining at his jeans and he thinks it's a joke he put them on anyway when all he's done is sit in his apartment pretending that he wouldn't pick up the phone that's in his hand now.

Pretending that he wouldn't open the text again or look at the picture or look at her gorgeous face or any of the other things he's doing right now.

He stares at her picture for what must be several minutes. For the first few seconds he feels guilty, that same shame is there, and he reaches for his glass only to find it empty and the scotch across the room. So instead he just looks at her, traces the curve of her hip with his eyes and gulps when he sees how hard her nipples look, imagines how turned on she was when she took this.

And then he's thinking about how wet she'd be, how she'd moan if he traced the curve of her hip with his tongue instead, stopping to press a hot kiss at the scar on her right hip.

He's palming himself through his jeans, rubbing like some crazed teenager and he knows the thought should bring more guilt and he moves his hand away from himself because it doesn't. Except with nowhere else to put his hands his fingers land on his phone, and he's texting her back, sending a message he knows he'll regret later, when he's less tipsy and more concerned with his job, his life, his soul.

Rachel sets her books on the empty space of the shelf quickly and opens the message, knowing it must be from Finn; Kurt is away, too, and the rest of the club texts her infrequently enough that it must be Finn.

this is wrong rachel. we arent supposed to be like ths. but i cant stop loking at ur pic; ur so gorgus

The message is messy but she's used to that. To be honest, she's actually impressed that Finn used a semi-colon correctly. Mostly she's just relieved that he's attracted to her, that he wants her still.

That all of her worrying was for nothing.

And he's right, of course, it was wrong to do it this way; she'd been waiting for the right way forever, for the first time he sees her naked to be as he undresses her slowly, with candlelight and gentle music and rose petals.

But, also, she's getting sick of waiting, of this tug-of-war relationship and all the uncertainty. Finn always sets the pace for them and without him here she needs control, she needs to be the one to pick the step they take next.

And she wants to text him back, to make that next step now, this.

Will stares at his phone for minutes, swallowing repeatedly and sobering quickly. Well, not really, but there is adrenaline coursing through him, so he's getting there.

He sexted his student. His underage student. Well, 16 is the legal age of consent in Ohio but that shouldn't fucking be an argument because he sexted his student.

His phone vibrates and he thinks it's so much worse because she's sexting him back.

I'm glad you think so ;) I was getting nervous since you haven't texted me back. I was thinking maybe you didn't feel the same way anymore. And that would be a shame, because I can't stop thinking about you putting your hands on me.

God damn it, Rachel Berry shouldn't be allowed to text him that, not when he knows that's exactly what he was hoping she'd want.

And how obvious has he been? He's been trying to suppress his attraction, has been doing it, lying to himself since she joined glee in that too-short skirt. What did she mean by anymore? When did she think he was attracted to her? Did he slip around Jesse, at Jean's funeral, in New York?

He'd tried, honestly, he'd taken almost every suggestion Jesse made despite the fact that he had a near-constant desire to punch him in the face. He'd hugged her after "Pure Imagination," after the funeral, but he'd hugged them all, hadn't he? Most of them, at least. Half, for sure. And he'd been out of the New York hotel as much as possible, kept far away from her bedroom, her bed, her pajama-clad body.

Either way he realizes it doesn't matter, not when she knows, and now he doesn't even have that to hide behind because he just wants her, and now she knows, it's confirmed and that means he's fucked.

In every way, but mostly morally because all he wants to do is text her back that he wants his hands on her, too.

He hesitates, thinks that maybe if he quits now it's enough; that this text was mostly to question the sending of her own, and now that he knows and his curiosity is satisfied that he can just have another drink and pass out on his bed.

Only his curiosity isn't satisfied, not the part that wonders what she tastes like, or smells like, or what her legs would feel like wrapped around him.

He pours himself that next drink and sets it, untouched on the coffee table as he picks up his phone.

She waits, hesitant and nervous and excited in the empty aisle, her hands glued to the phone. She wants to sit down, or something, but she also wants to stay until she hears back, until he tells her that he'll follow her lead, take this next step with her.

Her phone buzzes in her hand and she jumps, opening the message when her thumb slips.

i cant stop thinking aobut that eithr…im trying i swera.

Rachel grins at the message, feeling playful and powerful and like she has no use for those books, not anymore.

She sits down, leans her back against the flat post of the support beam between the shelves behind her and pulls her knees up as she texts back.

I don't want you to think about anything else. I can't. I just lie in bed at night and think about you, and things we could do.

His hand flies to his jeans and he pushes down hard, but it doesn't matter, he's so hard, too far into all of this, and he types back a response quickly.

She looks around as she presses the read text button not paying attention, and breathes a sigh of relief that she appears very alone as she reads his message.

what kinds or things?

Rachel licks her lips and lets her knees fall just slightly apart, feeling sexy and dangerous as she types back, her panties getting damp as she thinks about his reaction to her texts, about how hard he must be and imagines him muttering mailman over and over.

Things like you setting me on the piano in the choir room, kissing my neck and putting your strong hand on my thigh. Not quite under my skirt, but teasing the hem, teasing me.

He's so turned on right now that he can't even process thoughts on how Rachel learned to text like this, to send him such messages. Honestly, he doesn't even care right now because all he wants to do is lower the zipper to his jeans and take himself into his hand.

Instead he grunts, his eyelids heavy with the effort to not touch himself again, and texts her back.

how long do itease u?

Rachel swallows, her heart pounding and she feels so exposed, so vulnerable in the library at the same time she feels safe and secluded in this little world she's made for them.

Not long, she thinks as she sighs, reading the text again before replying.

He's sitting on his couch, very still, just breathing as he waits for her reply. It's starting to sink in, again, what he's doing, and he's feeling grimy again as he realizes what he asked her, what he's asking for.

The vibration startles him and he presses one hand on his knee hard as he opens and reads her response.

Not long, I can't take it for too long before I need your hand on me, under my short skirt. I keep wearing them, keep hoping you'll do this to me. But you never do, never in public.

Of course not, he thinks, of course he can't touch her like he wants to in public, and he thinks it says something about him that she's surprised.

He thinks about her in Spanish class, how she makes Mercedes sit with her in the front seat and he wonders if that's the reason, if she's been testing him since day one.

Wonders if he's passing or failing and which one is which.

The wait is long for his next text and she starts to wonder if his reception is gone again, if he's going to leave her alone in the library, if he's going to leave her forever.

She's always waiting for that other shoe to drop and it's getting exhausting, but she just breathes and grips her phone tightly, prays for a response.

When it comes she nearly throws her phone as a rustling a few feet away startles her. It's just a kid, his mom running behind him, and she thinks that this isn't the place to sext her boyfriend.

Sext. The word is what it's meant to be, sexy, and she feels so desirable, so adult and playful and sexy just thinking it. The feelings are new and she likes them, thinks she's starting to understand Santana and Brittany, even Quinn to a lesser extent.

is that y u sit in the fr ont 4 spanihs? u like to tease me like tht? i cn see u sometimess, ur panties wehn u wear those skirts…

What? The last text gives her pause; Finn isn't in Spanish with her, wasn't ever.

Sit in the front

Oh God. Rachel's heart starts pounding and she backs out to her inbox, looks at the name at the top of the list.

Gary, not Finn. No, no no no no no no, she did not make this mistake.

Her heart is pounding as she stands up, leaves her books where they are and wonders if she's hyperventilating as she passes the librarian. She doesn't return the smile or wave, can't, not when she's made such a terrible mistake.

This, this humiliation is what her stupid naïve crush gets her, the stupid urge she had to save his number in her phone. The stupid decision to put it under a code name, fearing reactions of her friends if they saw her phone, saw that she'd saved his number way back when he'd given them that damn drinking contract.

Why, why had it been Gary, so close to "F" for Finn and why had her dads come home early? Why had she sent that message, not double checked it, waited until her dads went back downstairs?

Damn Gary Puckett and the Union Gap, and damn herself for thinking it was clever, the name for a teacher that sang her the song, sang to her like he only sort-of meant the words and damn him for texting her back.

For sexting her back, she realizes with a start as she opens her car door.

It's not like he got scared, got nervous and embarrassed and scolded her gently like he did all those months ago. No, she realizes, that he texted her back, is texting her back and playing and meeting each challenge she sends to him because, and this is the most important part, he wants her, too.

Her drive home is slow and quick all at the same time and she knows she must be on autopilot as she rounds one of the last streets before her house.

There's a smile on her face, tentative but there because she knew it, knew the way he looked at her, looks at her isn't quite the way he looks at the rest of them, that he yells at her more and looks at her less but more and longer but shiftier, like he's been fighting himself for as long as she's been fighting him.

When she steps out of the car bookless she starts to feel light, kind of free, like these messages have been something independent of everything, and not the territorial move with Finn she'd thought, she'd intended.

And she's a little disappointed that Finn doesn't know, isn't aware that she's calling the shots now, but she figures she can always let him know later, she can text him again.

Oh my God, Mr. Schuester has a naked photo of me, she realizes and drops her house keys. It's embarrassing and her cheeks heat, but so do other parts of her as she realizes that he called her gorgeous, that looking at her naked body turned him on enough to do something about it, and that is enough to make her pull her phone out once she's upstairs in her room again.

She's been texting him back quickly, and when no reply comes he starts to sweat, get nervous. Because he brought up class and admitted to thinking about her like this during, and maybe that's a line he wasn't supposed to cross.

Except he doesn't know this stuff, he's never done this and he's sorry and just wants her to text back so he can apologize, blame alcohol and beg her forgiveness, beg her not to hate him and be disgusted by him.

He reads over his message, thinks about the fact that it's blunt, a little crude, even, and wonders if he did that to scare her off. If it was his last ditch effort to end this.

He gives her five minutes, five of the longest minutes of his life before he takes out his phone and sends another message.

She drops her purse on the bed next to her and opens the message from Mr. Schuester, Will, Gary, she isn't sure what to call him anymore.

Rach, god i'm sory. please, i'ms o sorry.

She realizes that she didn't text him back, so she sends a message quickly, because looking at his apology, desperate sounding and rushed, is making her sick.

I wear the skirts for you. I know you love them, love how they spin in rehearsal. I can feel your eyes on me, on my legs.

Her messages are making everything worse because she keeps saying she knows, and he's terrified about what that means for the rest of the club, terrified that they all know what a creep he is, and it takes away the sharp edge of arousal for a second, until he pictures her spinning, so close to him sometimes that he can reach out and touch her smooth thighs being revealed to him little by little.

But they're also making it all better, because she's responding, she's telling him that she wants this as much as he does now, and that shouldn't make it better but it does, makes it all feel a little OK that he wants to do what she's saying, wants to reach out and feel her toned thighs beneath his hand.

The image is too much and he can't do this anymore, can't fight it and he's got his zipper down, his cock in his left hand and his phone in his right as he texts her back.

Her message is different from the ones meant for Finn, she knows that immediately. When she texts him back she's putting on a show, she can feel it, like she's trying to act sexy rather than just feeling sexy a few minutes ago.

Only she does still feel sexy, too, in fact she feels even more powerful and confident. She's wanted by her teacher, by an older man that sees teen girls every day, and he's texting her back that he's been thinking about her, thinking about touching her and that alone is too much reason to keep this going.

There's a part of her, though, a small part that feels strangely about doing this. Because she's been attracted to him for two years, but he's been off-limits, safe and a sure-fire route to rejection as Suzy Pepper had pointed out.

But he's not rejecting her, he's asking for more and that is scary; she doesn't do more well, it ends in heartbreak and crying and singles sleepovers.

And it's also a little disconcerting, that this man she's looked up to is capable of doing this, of not being the strong moral person she's always seen him as since her sophomore year.

She thinks about that crush, that rejection from him not so long ago and thinks that maybe his divorce has been harder on him than she'd realized, than any of them had realized if he's fallen like this.

Her phone buzzes and she opens the message.

u hav gorgeus legs, rach. its not fair u do this to mee

She isn't sure if he means the texting, or the short skirts or the twirling, but she likes how powerful it all makes her feel. That she's doing this to him, and he has no control, she's making him lose control.

It's not fair that she's making him want her. He knows he did, now, want her even before he got that picture, saw her naked, and he knows, knows that he's wanted her for a long time.

And that's her fault, he gets to blame her because if she hadn't texted him he could still be a good teacher, but now he's not, now he's sexting his student and fucking getting off on it, because he's got his hand wrapped around his cock like the night before, like he's a teenager that can't control himself.

What am I doing to you? Tell me…

Her message only spurs him on, and he gives himself a long stroke before he stops, breathes out harshly before he picks up his phone again.

He's at a crossroads, now. This hasn't been appropriate by any definition of the word, but to actually tell her this, to admit to the embarrassing state she's reduced him to makes him take pause.

He wants to, he realizes, as he considers closing his phone, taking this final offer to save his morality, his sense of self.

ur drivng me crazy, rach. i cant stp thinnking about u, abot u straddling my lap. aabout how i wish itt was ur hand on my cock rihgt now…

The image of her teacher like that, because of her is too much and Rachel closes her eyes tightly as she bites her lip. There's been a pulsing throb in her body since this all started but his words are the next step, she's no longer making that call because this isn't Finn, this is Mr. Schue, and he's in charge in this moment.

She looks to her door, making sure it's closed before she reaches down to the front of her dress and presses the heel of her hand to her crotch, through the layers of panties and dress.

It's nice, but not enough and she looks at his message, at the sporadic letters she'd so readily assigned as Finn's handiwork.

Her teacher isn't stupid, isn't ineloquent with words, really, though her own vocabulary is more polished. Still she finds it strange, and she wonders if it's because of his age, if maybe he isn't used to texting like the rest of them.

Do you have MSN or Yahoo or Aim messenger?

He has no idea—he doesn't use the computer that much, he doesn't really talk to anyone but his computer is on the coffee table so he flips it open, looks, and feels his hand shaking when he finds MSN installed.

He doesn't know exactly what this is, doesn't know exactly what she's asking him, offering him. But if it's what he thinks he can't refuse—he's too far into this now and all he wants to do is find out if she's touching herself like he is, if she's touching parts of her body he wants to touch, to taste.

He texts her back quickly, that yes he does, and her own response is fast, too fast, when she tells him her email, tells him to send an IM.

Will's not touching himself anymore, can't until he knows what's happening, but it really won't matter as long as she doesn't leave him, as long as she still wants this he can't feel bad, not yet.

His fingers are trembling as he types, but the adrenaline is killing the haze of alcohol just a little and the keyboard is a much bigger target than his phone, so he thinks he can do this, be coherent.

Rachel's in front of her computer, now, her pink laptop sitting on her desk and she glances at the clock, sees that her dads shouldn't be home for two more hours, and is so grateful that it's Tuesday and they work late.

She wants this more, now, wants to talk to him more intensely than when she thought he was Finn, and she isn't quite sure why but she thinks it has to do with the taboo and the rebellion, and a hundred other things that make her realize that this is seriously dysfunctional.

She knows at some point she'll think this all through, realize that she's kind of cheating on Finn right now to top it all off, but right now he's sending her a message and her legs are shaking from excitement of the unknown.

wjschue: Rachel?

She lets out a deep breath and types back, quickly.

bornforbroadway: Hi.

wjschue: Hi.

His response feels shy and awkward and juvenile, but he isn't sure how you go about talking like this to your student.

Of course, the answer to that is obviously that you don't, but he refuses to accept that, lets that voice get quiet and waits for her response.

bornforbroadway: Imagine I'm there, straddling you…what would you do?

She's feeling bold like this, with him there but not in front of her and she thinks she's starting to understand the concept of rebellion if it's that dangerous fluttering in her stomach, that adrenaline rush that's leaving her a little dizzy.

wjschue: Kiss you, your neck,, and put my hands on youyr thighs..i can feel you, pressing against me

She always knew it could be like this between them, she thinks that's why she dropped her crush so quickly, so harshly, because if she pushed them down this road they would become what they are now, and she's just realizing that all of her efforts were wasted, are wasted because now this is all they are.

His words are a rush, she's picturing his mouth on her neck, imagining that his lips would be sneakier, more skilled and less aggressive than Finn's and she doesn't know if it means better but she realizes that she's barely had different, and that's a little disappointing.

It hits her quite suddenly that this, an illicit affair is just the fodder she needs to write emotional, epic, Joni-Mitchell-Carole-King songs, and that isn't why she sends what she does but she won't ignore the fact that it's a great life experience to draw from.

Because even know she knows this won't end well.

bornforbroadway: I can, too, I can feel you pressing against me, my…

He chokes out a breath at the thought and knows what she's trying to say, knows that she's asking how to say it.

wjschue: your pussy, Rachel, you can feel my hard cock presssing against ur pussy, canrt u?

He can get the beginning of sentences out before he gets too focused on everything and loses sight of his keyboard. He still manages to get it out, holds his breath as the window lets him know she's typing.

bornforbroadway: Yes, I can, it feels good.

He wishes he could see this, could see her like this but that's the line, that he can't cross as he focuses on one sin at a time.

wjschue: are you wet, Rachel?

She has to be, if this is even a fraction of what it is for him.

bornforbroadway: Yes, I can feel myself through my panties when I touch myself

God damn it, she must be trying to kill him, he can't take this and he increases his speed, grips his flesh harder and lets out a shuddering breath as he types one handed.

wjschue: wht r u wearing,, Rach tell me

Her fingers are pressing at her clit hard through the material, and it's not enough pressure or friction but it's better than nothing. The message in front of her sends a jolt through her, and she thinks it's the command at the end more than the content, the question.

bornforbroadway: A green sun dress.

He's seen it before but she doubts he knows the one, men aren't into these things, she knows, but she kind of hopes he does, hopes he can picture her, just like this. If she could bear stopping the conversation she thinks she might consider sending him another picture, remembers the way it made her feel so sexy and dangerous.

The way she feels now.

wjschue: under that, what r u wearing

She blushes, partly at the blunt question and partially at the obvious need he has for knowing. But her own need is mounting, she's feeling the familiar tension in her low belly and she's so excited to see where this goes.

bornforbroadway: Grey cotton panties.

The word usually makes her blush but now she doesn't, now she just wants to know what he's going to say about it, what he's going to think about her, her obvious confidence in the easy way she says these things.

wjschue: no bra?

He could just imagine it, either way, but accuracy seems oddly important to him right now as he thinks about the mole on her stomach and the scar on her hip and tries to figure out where her desk was in the picture of her bedroom, or if she's on her white four-poster bed.

bornforbroadway: No, I can't with this dress.

He thinks it's a shame he's not there because it would be so easy now, for him to just reach under her dress, pull the strap down her arm and put his mouth around her nipple.

He can picture her, mostly, but he needs more from her if he can't actually put his mouth on her body. He's tensing, the sensations are getting to be too much as he moves his wrist, strokes his cock, and he stops to type again.

wjschue: are you in your bedroom?

bornforbroadway: yes

Rachel bites her lip, thinks for only a split second before adding more.

bornforbroadway: and I'm home all by myself.

She's pressing her fingers against herself, rubbing the damp cotton and wishing it was more, wishing she could see the effect she's having on him for herself.

wjschue: are you on ur bed?

bornforbroadway: no, my desk.

Her typing is getting sloppier, she's not capitalizing letters but this is more important, she realizes, and she can't focus on it all.

wjschue: go sit on ur bed

The command is what does it again and she feels a jolt of heat as she does what he says. The thought is startling, she never does what he says, she fights him in glee but now she finds it all oddly freeing. She's stumbled into this thing with him and she doesn't quite know what she's doing but she trusts him and he's leading her through it and that's what a good teacher does, she thinks as she sits on her bed.

wjschue: on ur bed?

She wishes she could see him, could see his face as he asks her for these things.

bornforbroadway: yes, I am.

wjschue: Rachel….

wjschue: fuck

wjschue: take your panties off

She's not sure which causes her to moan out loud, the expletive or the final message, but she's sort of panting as she does as he says.

Her computer dings with a new message and she looks down as she reaches beneath her dress and drags them down, off of her legs and drops them on the floor.

wjschue: are they off?

He seems impatient and that, on top of it all makes her lean back on her bed and close her eyes a second before she responds.

bornforbroadway: yes

It's killing him now, picturing all of this and not being able to do anything more than grope himself and think of her doing the same. He wants this, her, like this, but what he really wants is more, is her in front of him, so he can see the passionate look in her eyes, the slight flaring of her nose when she gasps for breath as he brings her to orgasm.

He messages back to her again, takes himself in one hand and gives her another order.

wjschue: leave your dress on

To be honest he's surprised she's listening to him, that she's not ending this still, that she didn't end it the first time he told her to do something.

Bornforbroadway: yes, Mr, Schue.

He groans at her response, chokes on a breath because he should tell her to call him Will, if they're doing this, if they're going to do this he shouldn't remind them both of what he is to her.

But he can't, not when seeing those words, hearing her voice in his head when she says them makes him feel this feverish. It's probably the reason for the delirium of continuing this but he can't be bothered to care, not when he can see it, now, her panting his name as he pounds her into his desk.

She wonders as she sends the message if she should have called him Will, if she should have just avoided his name at all. It's tricky and his response will tell her more than she wants to know about him, about how he's reacting to this, but at the same time she thinks it makes it all hotter, that she's undeniably wetter at the thought of calling him Mr. Schue as he takes off her dress, lays her out on her bed and leans over her.

He's not typing back yet and she's a little worried, but not really. Because this isn't Finn, this is Mr. Schuester, and he doesn't leave her, not like Finn does. He won't do this to her.

bornforbroadway: are you wearing jeans, mr. schue?

She wants to picture him, too, wants to imagine him on his couch, or in his room, in the apartment she's visited more times than is normal. She knows the way, knows she could surprise him at his door and he wouldn't be able to turn her away, not when they're both so invested.

wjschue: they're around my ankles

wjschue: with my boxers

She knows what that means, what he's really telling her, and she moans out loud at the image of him stroking himself, of thinking of her and holding himself in his hand, wishing it was hers.

Still, if she isn't going to cross the line, surprise him and do this for real, she wants him to say it, to tell her like he made her tell him.

bornforbroadway: are you touching yourself, Mr. schue?

wjschue: yeas

The typo and quick response make her smirk, make her picture him, eyes closed, trying to message her back. Except that she's reduced him to this, that he wants her so badly he can't even type one word.

Bornforbroadway: Is your phone there? Look at my picture

She feels a thrill at her own directive, but it feels incomplete. She's blushing when she adds more, but at the same time she thinks about his reaction, and bites her lip.

bornforbroadway: Look at my naked body while you touch your cock

He doesn't know how she can be saying these things, the prim student that was in celibacy club.

Oh God. She was in celibacy club, he's having cybersex with a student that has made a vow, or a pact, or whatever the hell it is you do in those clubs.

The guilt is back suddenly, and he's warring with it until he thinks about Quinn, about how she was the president of the celibacy club and she had a baby last year. He thinks that maybe these clubs are just ways for these kids to lie to themselves, if maybe Rachel has been trying not to do this for months now.

The idea that she's been harboring this repressed sexual desire, these urges to do this, with him, stays in his head as he stumbles to pick up his phone, open her picture.

It's what she wants, him, imagining her, and he knows that she doesn't feel desirable, knows she struggles to see how sexy she is, and it's never been his place to assuage her fears until now.

He's devouring her picture with permission, he's memorizing the dark peaks of her nipples, the plump full lower lip between her teeth, and the gentle dip of her navel. He looks lower, can't help but stare at the shadow between her thighs, mostly hidden due to the angle of the picture.

He strokes his cock harder, pictures her small fingers between her thighs, her skin wet and slick and knows that she would taste amazing.

wjschue: yeah, Rachel, I'm right now…

wjschue: imm picturing u, ur fingers bwtween ur thighs like this

He hesitates, thinks he takes it too far and adds another message.

wjschue: is that what you want?

bornforbroadway: no, I wish I was there, instead

All he can think is fuck because that's exactly what he wants, too.

And that is what she wants. She wants to be there, watching him lose control over her, not a picture of her, not her hastily typed words and the hesitant pauses between their IMs.

wjschue: me too

wjschue: are you touching yourself

wjschue: ?

She is, she's touching herself quickly and trying to type and that's the worst part about all of this because she doesn't want to have to make sense, she just wants to feel.

She's been close for a while now, her tension is mounting, has been since the library, but the constant let down while she types is getting to her. She starts to think that if she doesn't come soon she'll snap.

Rachel keeps rubbing circles on her clit, types her response with her free hand.

bornforbroadway: yes

wjschue: tell me, rach

Ugh, she's so close, she doesn't want to stop but more than that she doesn't want to disappoint him, not like this.

bornforbroadway: I'm touching myself, rubbing my clit, and wishing it were you, that you would touch me like this

wjschue: r u fingering urself?

This question does make her blush, she wonders if she should lie, if that'll make it hotter for him. But lying like this feels worse, and she types quickly.

bornforbroadway: no

wjschue: do it, slidde ur finger in ur pussy for me, imaginee its me

She doesn't do this often but his command makes her want to, makes her want to do everything he says right now, and she slides her pointer finger into her heat, her head falling back against her pillow until the computer dings.

wjschue: r u doing it? u have ti tell me

bornforbroadway: yes, im touching myself, my finger

bornforbroadway: im fingering myself

bornforbroadway: i wish it were you, i want it to be ur figners

He's going to hell, he knows that for a fact now, but that's what he wants, too.

wjschue: i want to, i want that too

He's been so close this entire time but her typing, the fact that perfect Rachel Berry is so fucking turned on right now that she can't type full sentences or capital letters or punctuation is what's driving him over the edge.

He doesn't really know the etiquette of this, of how this is supposed to end, but he thinks she must be close, too, if he can't get her over the edge then he can follow her before he breaks.

wjschue: i wante to se u on ur bed,

wjschue: spsread u out on mmydesk , too, bury my face in your pussy, taste youas u com apart

Her heart is pounding and all she's thinking is that she wants that, too, she wants that so badly and why isn't she going over there again?

Boundaries, or some crazy thing that made sense before.

bornforbroadway: I want to feel yu, too

She's still stroking herself, her circles are getting tighter on her clit, she's getting closer, and she hopes he knows how they do this because she's new to this, to all of this, but she knows that she wants him to fall over this edge with her.

bornforbroadway: i'm close mr. schue, i dont think i can hold back

She keeps touching her clit, her fingers sliding on her wet skin as she waits so long for a response.

wjschue: me too

She's trying to hold on, trying to guess when she should be letting go, but a computer screen can't tell you that, and she wishes, so badly, that she was with him right now.

But his response is short for all the pause in between, and maybe that means he's close, too, that he's waiting just like she is.

wjschue: it's ok, come on rach

He's telling her it's OK, that she can come, and she strokes herself harder, tries to build again as she types back.

bornforbroadway: are you coming?

She's so close now, so close, and she can't hold off any longer.

bornforbroadway: mr. schue? i ohj

Her mouth is dropping open as her eyes slide closed. Rachel can see him, his expression mirroring hers as she leans her head back against her pillow.

He wants to respond but he can't, he's so close and he just keeps stroking, harder and faster until his balls tighten under his hand and his back straightens as he drops the phone to the couch next to him, leans back.

He's coming and he can't look at her, not in this moment, but he thinks about her, thinks about her doing the same in her own home, splayed out on her bed with her fingers where he should be.

Will comes down after a moment, his shirt and hand damp from his release and he looks at the computer screen.

wjschue: yes, rach

It's not an elegant answer, but their pauses in typing tell their separate actions better than their words do, and he hesitates when he thinks about what he asks her now.

bornforbroadway: Mr. Schue? Are you OK?

Her typing is back to perfect and that confirms what he knew. Her question makes him feel awful, the guilt is back full force and he's exhausted from his orgasm and the drinking and the effort to defend his actions. Mostly the latter.

wjschue: Yeah.

He pauses a moment before typing more.

wjschue: Are you?

It's a loaded question and he kind of hopes she doesn't respond because if she says no he has no idea what to do. And if she says yes he thinks there's a good chance that he'll want to do this again.

bornforbroadway: Yes. I'm just a little flushed…

bornforbroadway: ;)

Her emoticon is meant to soothe him, he knows, reassure him that she's alright with what they did. But the very fact that she has to say she's alright, that the situation is what it is, is what makes the guilt rage in his empty stomach.

bornforbroadway: I have to go, now. I'll talk to you later?

Her quickness to get offline is expected but unwelcomed, though he wouldn't know what to say to her now, anyway. He swallows around the lump in his throat and types back.

wjschue: OK. Goodbye, Rachel.

bornforbroadway: I'll talk to you later?

Her repetition worries him but he understands that they cannot just pretend this didn't happen, as much as he wants to.

wjschue: Sure, Rachel.

bornforbroadway: Bye.

Rachel's response is short, and she bites her lip as she logs off. She doesn't regret it, she doesn't, but she knows this will change things. She knows she can't look at him again and assume he isn't interested, that she doesn't have a shot of ensnaring the model teacher, the upstanding glee director.

She feels like she's blaming him but she isn't. Honestly, she's just trying to accept the fact that he's a man, that he gave into a desire he had and that doesn't make him a bad person. It just changes her view of him. He's so much more of a person to her now, less of a fantasy of teasing looks and more a reality of graphic terms tossed between them.

Rachel looks at the clock and closes her computer, logging herself out of messenger and picking up her panties to drop in the hamper on her way to the shower.

bornforbroadway is unavailable.

Yeah, Will scoffs, I know.