For my dear friend dirtypiratepimp, who formulated this idea, and practically begged me to write it.
POV: Rachel. Broken into four parts, just to save some time.
Set during Rachel and Quinn's senior year; however, for the sake of simplification, pretend that all the drama between Quinn, Shelby, and Beth never happened. (Shelby is kickin' it out in San Fran, if you will.) Therefore, Quinn's edgy style from episode one remains, quite perfectly intact—with a few minor tweaks, for my own personal benefit—and, in terms of time, this would take place right around late, late November/early December. It was designed to be smut, so, be forewarned, the later parts are somewhat graphic; though, I did try to be tasteful about it.
Also, as the summary says, this is a G!P fic, so, if you're not into that sort of thing, it would probably be best just to retreat now. However, if you are into this sort of thing, by all means, read ahead, and I hope you all enjoy!
As I scan the dense, populous hallway of William McKinley High School, searching the throng of milling teenagers, longing for a glimpse of one face in particular, it is becoming increasingly obvious to me that I, Rachel Berry, am a masochist—and I'm enjoying all of this far, far more than I should.
I shift minutely on my feet, uncomfortable, leaning further into my locker to screen the movement; the material of my pre-emptively selected blue jeans is coarse, abrasive against my skin, unfamiliar to me, a perpetual source of friction against areas that aren't usually subjected to such pressure. I couldn't be sure if the torturous artifact that prompted my sudden wardrobe alteration would make its appearance again today, or if I would even see her today at all, but I had to be prepared, just in case. After two days in a row, having been reduced to a helpless, speechless mess, I've decided that I can't take the chance of wearing a skirt.
Searching for the elegant, goddess-like figure I've been waiting for, I survey the crowd around me, but there is no sign of her appearance. As time continues to tick by, the blonde is nowhere to be seen.
What are you doing? I sigh to myself, with a shake of my head, pressing my eyes closed briefly as I shield myself under the pretense of rummaging through my locker. This is bordering on an obsession. It's unhealthy. Despite my rationalization, I can't help stealing one last glance over my shoulder to look.
For all my efforts, I receive nothing; Quinn and her fascinating new accessory elude me.
My fixation on this accessory—flustered enough to specifically wear jeans in order to disguise my reactions to it—is humiliating, even in the depths of my own mind. It's only a collar, for heaven's sake.
She first wore it on Tuesday. I hadn't seen her at all that morning, a common occurrence, since she rarely decided to attend her earliest classes, one of which we share, yet, later, on my way to fourth period, I caught my first glimpse of her. It was a vision that burned itself into my visual memory, that nearly brought me to my knees on the unforgiving, checkered linoleum: Quinn Fabray, in the sexiest thing I have ever seen in my ephemeral life, the flawless, silken skin of her throat encircled by a dark, lustrous leather collar.
I'd been so enthralled, so captivated, that, staring after her as she passed by, I walked straight into Santana, who was, in an uncannily affectionate mood, playing a game of string, Cat's Cradle, with Brittany. The moment was broken, of course, and she'd hollered profanities after me as I scurried on to my class.
I spent the rest of the day relying on habitual mechanisms just to function. I was dazed.
On Wednesday—Was it really only yesterday?—I'd been standing here, at my locker, gathering a few things for an upcoming test, when I happened to spare a glance over my shoulder, catching sight of her once more, threading through the crowd of people behind me. I was fortunate that she didn't look my way; before I could help myself, or even try to avert my gaze, a vivid flush had risen beneath my skin, coloring my face crimson. I could tell by the magnitude of heat that I was lit up like a Christmas tree—fitting for the holiday season, but uncomfortable and unflattering for a Jew. My throat had grown impossibly tight.
The most inane thoughts had passed through my mind, and I dreaded the notions that anybody had been given an opportunity to notice my reaction. I'd quickly buried my belongings in my bag, careless as to what I was taking, eager to disappear, and closed my locker, headed swiftly for my next class, only to bump directly into Noah as he approached me. Quinn had gotten delayed just ahead, and, from where we stood, I could just glimpse the back of her neck, the subtle sheen of the leather—and though, as usual, Noah had the most inappropriate joke at the ready, teasing me for our proximity, eventually, he followed my gaze over to Quinn, just beyond us, and his mischievous nature led, inevitably, to teasing of another sort entirely.
He'd grinned at me, tilting his head in Quinn's direction and raising his eyebrows. "Hot, right?"
I'd been so flustered, so shaken—so ineffably turned on and so desperate not to be talking about it, with Noah Puckerman, of all people—that I'd only been able to babble in an attempt to conceal my arousal.
In fact, merely to preserve what little dignity I still possessed, I outright lied to his face.
"It's—it's—degrading, that's what it is. It's demeaning, putting on something so—it's a symbol of ownership, of control—it's— Not to mention the innocent cattle that had to be slaughtered in order to—"
He'd begged me to stop talking the moment I mentioned the slaughtered cattle.
The bell had rung, Quinn had disappeared, and Noah led me to class. Even though the ordeal was, for the moment, at least, over, then, I was far from comfortable. As aroused as I was—only from catching a glimpse of her—I felt exposed. My modest, plaid skirt did nothing to stifle my body's reactions, and I spent the rest of the day shifting, tugging at my skirt, fidgeting in my seat, paranoid, like anybody could take one look at me and know intuitively that I was suffering, fighting the urge to lock myself in the girls' bathroom.
I'd, therefore, decided to wear jeans today—but, despite the fact I'm less exposed, the fitted fabric, hugging my skin, provides another problem, offering a subtle, persistent friction against my most intimately guarded spots, which does nothing to curb the desire that still haunts me. If anything, it's intensified.
Still, there's no reasonable excuse for me to linger here, dawdling at my locker, hoping to see her, especially given the fact that those brief glimpses of her are already permanent images in my memory. This can't be even remotely healthy. Pining over Quinn for nearly three years in silence is one thing—waiting in the hall, searching each and every face in the crowd, just for another glimpse of that torturous collar of hers circling her pale neck, is another thing entirely, one that I can't help but feel is bordering on pathetic.
Frustrated with myself, I retrieve a notebook from my locker and close the door. I abandon my ill-chosen stakeout post and navigate my way through the hall. My pace quickens incrementally as I move.
I don't even know what I was thinking. Why would I actively seek her out, when I know—?
My feet carry me to the library, following a familiar path along the worn linoleum, treading over a milieu of scuffed black and speckled white, but relief isn't forthcoming. The thoughts continue to haunt me, even as I move onward, leaving the treacherous halls behind. A flash of silver against, pale, pale skin…
Even now, secluded, I hear her voice in my head, echoing. "Rachel…" I try to shake it off.
The joys of being a senior include free periods, one of which, for me, happens to be the first of the day, during which I spend my time hidden away in the back of the library, studying, reading, or pretending to do either of the two, while, in reality, fantasizing—guiltily—for the entire fifty minute block.
Like that's ever going to get me anywhere…
As I'm about to take my customary seat, a hand closes around my arm, soft fingertips meeting my skin, sensitive, at the pivotal junction of my elbow, and I jump, my heart lurching into my throat. "Berry."
Startled, I whirl rapidly on the spot, but I realize, too late, halfway around, that I know that smoky voice, that soft mezzo-alto—and when I've turned to meet it, there she is, in all her glory, eyebrow cocked, hazel irises burning with their easy, inherent fire, lips—God, those lips—and that tantalizing collar circling her neck, thick, burnished, the coarse strip of leather hugging her slender throat like—
"Permission to enter Dreamland?" she murmurs, her voice low, rumbling, light—teasing me?
What? My eyes snap back to hers, searching the verdant depths. She— Oh, God, she— How—?
With a subdued grin, she raises her hand to wave something leisurely before my eyes.
I blink compulsively, rapidly, attempting to redirect my focus and struggling to identify the papers in her hand. The motion confuses my flustered mind; the small, printed text across the whitened face of the paper blurs, dynamic and indistinct. I can't discern the words, nor can I glean any significance from them. I finally have no choice but to reach out and still her hand, as flustered as I am, in order to concentrate.
Suddenly, I pray that she can't feel how badly my fingers tremble against her skin…
Even stationary, it's difficult to comprehend the accumulation of text before me. Though my eyes scan the words, the signals firing, my brain is slow to process them. For a long moment, I stare at the words blankly, and competent interpretation eludes me entirely. Is it—? Wait, this— I blink. A referral?
Beyond the paper suspended between us, I can just glimpse Quinn's grin fading, softening, almost as though she's realized that this task—for a reason unknown to her—is inexpressibly difficult for me.
"You said you would sign it," she reminds me, tempering her tone, studying me carefully over the vague obscurity of our hands, still connected, between us. I meet her gaze, if only by accident, seeking any sort of clarification I can find, and her eyes bear deeply into mine, cautious. "Figgins needs it today."
Oh. The— Right. Last week, a nameless assailant had taken up the arduous challenge of tagging an anatomically correct replica of a Barbie doll—labeled 'Kinky Kelly'—across the cafeteria's windows, and, with Quinn's revamped image fresh in the mind of every authority figure on McKinley's campus, suspicion immediately fell upon her; Principal Figgins had called her into his office for interrogation upon hearing of the incident, immediately, and she'd spent the rest of the day in detention, incarcerated before anybody else could offer to provide her with an alibi. It wasn't until the next day that I found out about the ordeal. Quinn had already been assigned a week's detention, but I made it my mission to clear her name, because painting graffiti in the cafeteria was something she couldn't have possibly done. She had been with me, volunteering in the library, when the offence had supposedly occurred. I saw Figgins and agreed to vouch for her, so she wouldn't get suspended—and the papers in her hand, I realize, must be the formal dismissal documents.
It had all been fresh in my mind on Monday, but once she began wearing that collar, I'd forgotten.
"Oh," I breathe, finally. My enervated brain begins to regain conscious awareness, thoughts again making sense, following logical patterns, the pieces of the puzzle locking into their rightful places. "Okay." I blink, once, twice, clearing my head, and as I extract the referral from her hand, I try to ignore the texture of her skin, warm, silken against my sensitive fingers, suddenly magnified, intensified, by my awakening—and I push the fact that I've practically been holding her hand from my mind. "Sorry…"
I turn towards my table, forgotten, until now, behind me. Extracting a pen from my bag with faint, fumbling fingers, I unfold the papers and smooth them out against the lacquered wood. A brief statement is required, along with my signature, prompting me to take an oath. While I should be exerting my efforts into something convincing, I scribble a quick excuse on the indicated lines, unsure what exactly the pen beneath my hand is spelling out, and, lacking my usual flourish, I endorse the statement with my name.
For all I know, it could read, 'She didn't do it. In the library, with me. So hot. Rachel Berry.'
When I cap my pen, struggling to steady my tenuous nerves, trembling beneath my skin, and I turn away from the table to face Quinn, her virescent hazel eyes, directed downward, shift, rising, to meet mine. Under different circumstances, in my fantasies, I would most likely suspect her of taking the opportunity to check out my ass—but, right now, it all seems too unrealistic, too much like wishful thinking to be true.
"Here you go," I mumble, barely audible, even to myself. I raise my hand to offer her the papers.
I notice, after a brief delay, that she has moved, having changed positions while I was turned away from her. Leaning, now, against the bookshelf at her side, with one arm propped against the wood, her hand braced against a high shelf for balance, her presence is amplified, imposing, enchanting. I feel trapped, lost, caged between her body and the unyielding table behind me. Nervous, my temperature begins to rise.
Quinn drops her gaze, focusing instead on the papers in my hand, and gently works them from my nerveless fingers. Folding them again, dexterously, with one hand, she conceals them in the back pocket of her frayed, artfully destroyed jeans, the fabric worn and threadbare, dyed a deep, dark grey, nearly black.
I follow her movements with my eyes, watching her elegant hand disappear behind her back, but I return my gaze to hers as swiftly as I can, afraid to be caught staring at the entrancing region of her angular hips, where a thick, studded belt wraps around her slender waist, and her jeans, though fitted loosely, betray the toned physique beneath them. Soon, I begin to rethink the benefits of my decision; it seems that looking into her eyes may have been a bad idea after all. Her verdurous eyes are deeper than the Aegean, and hotter than hydrothermal vents in the seafloor, alive with the sentience of silent languages I can't comprehend.
She tilts her head as she studies me, flawless golden brows drawing together almost imperceptibly, and I swallow against the sudden thickness that pervades my throat. This look, directed at me, is dangerous.
Her gaze softens, imploring. "What's up with you?" she asks. Profound sincerity laces her words.
Though I want to answer her, to encourage this sudden concern with which she regards me, I can't formulate a response. Her words linger softly in my ears, resounding, echoing. My mind is slow to progress into anything further than adoration; I could drown in her voice alone. I've lost my voice somewhere in the midst of the moment—yet, even if I could force myself to speak, I wouldn't be able to answer her honestly.
What's wrong with me? You are what's wrong with me. I've been weak at the knees since Tuesday morning. I've been searching for every glimpse of you that I can get. Right now, I could literally just—
I shake my head, trying to dismiss the thought from my mind, but I hope that it serves the function of providing an answer to Quinn's question as well. "Nothing, really," I find myself saying. "I—"
She cocks her head, raising a single brow, and I'm immediately silenced. "You're lying, Rachel."
At her words—her stern, yet concerned tone—I falter. I've never loved anything as much as I love the sound of my name on her lips, even when she's reprimanding me—maybe even especially so…
"Really, Quinn," I protest weakly, trying to assure her, yet cursing the breathy quality of my voice, faint, and not at all convincing. "I'm—I'm fine. I just— I-I have a lot on my mind lately." I try to compose a confident smile, for her benefit, but my lips tremble, and my eyes drift subconsciously to her collar.
Her eyebrow inches higher, its defined arch steepening. She must see the pained look on my face, the reaction I try desperately but ultimately fail to suppress or disguise. The way it hugs her flawless skin—
My eyes jolt to back hers, swiftly, guiltily. I nearly choke on my heart, which has lurched into my throat once more, pounding violently in my esophagus. When I speak, my voice is strained. "What?"
Her expression implies that I should know what she's talking about. The corners of her lips rise in a subdued grin, willing to humor me. "Don't worry, Rachel," she says, the airy timbre of amusement easing the concern from her voice. She raises her hand to the defunct silver ring that lays against her collar, where any form of embellishment or adornment might be hooked, if necessary, and traces it with her forefinger.
Panic seizes tightly in my chest, stealing the shallow breath from my lungs. Oh, God. She knows—
Looping her finger through the ring, she tugs it playfully. "No animals were harmed in the making of this collar," she assures me, quiet laughter rumbling in her chest—but my attention is elsewhere, focused instead on her hand and the way her collar moves, grazing her skin, tensing, releasing, tensing, releasing…
I want to be the one tugging on that collar.
My fingers twitch, nerves misfiring, at my side, longing to touch it. I can almost imagine the satin, velveteen finish beneath my fingertips, its smooth, tantalizing texture, and the coarse, rugged edges, where, once, it had been cut, fashioned into its simple, beguiling shape, given its purpose. The scintillating steel of its perfunctory ring would be cool to the touch, sleek, a chill seeping from the very tips of my fingers down to the column of my spine. Even as I imagine it, my shoulders quiver, and I tremble at the thought.
Quinn's lips begin to move, but her voice is slow to reach my ears. "See?" she murmurs. "Faux."
It takes me a moment, but, suddenly, I realize that I'm not imaging touching it—I am touching it. I must have lifted my hand in the midst of fantasizing, because my fingertips are currently tracing the rough, unfinished edges of the material, just a hairsbreadth away from the silken expanse of her skin beneath.
My hand jerks away, abruptly, fingertips seeking refuge against my palm, almost as if I've burned myself. I search her eyes wildly, anxious for any sign of anger, annoyance, or ridicule, only to find none.
Under her steady gaze, viridescent eyes trained intently on mine, I wet my dry lips. "So it is," I say quickly, rushing the words, forcing them, as though reaching out to touch it was only done to assure myself that it is, in reality, fake. I retract my hand from the void between us, returning it to neutral territory, where, rubbing my damp palm against my jean-clad thigh compulsively, I can't embarrass myself any further.
Oh, God. Oh, God. Say something!
Weakly, unconvincingly—in what is probably the worst performance I've ever given in my life—I compel my throat to work and my vocal chords to produce laughter. "Oh, what a relief!" I exclaim, seeking the illusion of alleviated fears, but, even to my own ears, the tone is skewed, hysterical. "I'm so glad to hear that, Quinn." The words pour from my lips, unbidden, quick-fire and desperate, bypassing the useless mass of neural tissue that composes my brain entirely; in effect, my inhibitions and logical revision processes are conquered. "So many people nowadays just don't realize how horribly those animals are treated…"
Far too late to redeem myself, I realize that this pitiful performance is only reasserting the fact that there is, indeed, something wrong with me. My words are on par, but the delivery is pathetic.
I really shouldn't have said anything at all.
Though I plead with my frantically moving mouth to stop, my lips continue to form words. "Even with all of the available documentaries, so many people still pretend that they have no idea." I make a futile attempt to silence myself, only to fumble over the words that escape me, regardless of humiliation. "But—but thank you for assuaging my concerns, Quinn. Now that I know it's faux, I can breathe a little easier."
Once the deluge has come to an end, I feel sick. My stomach turns uncomfortably. Why—?
Quinn's eyes search my own, never penetrating, but inquisitive, tentative, her soft, virescent irises, bright, natural, in the midst of the garish fluorescent atmosphere. I don't know what she's looking for—the truth; whatever it is I'm trying to hide, or why I'm trying to hide it—but, in the end, it's all buried beneath a wall of shame and mortification so vast that even her keen, imploring eyes can't reach it.
Inhaling, a slow breath, she shakes her head once, softly, dropping her eyes just for a moment, and I can't help but think that she appears disappointed, like, despite my attempts to hide it all, she can see right through me, like she knows that, at this moment, my frantic call to action is synthetic, insincere.
When she begins to talk, her gaze is directed at the floor. "Look…" She seems to collect herself as she lifts her honest, verdant eyes to mine. "About the referral—I just want you to know that I appreciate it."
Taken aback, shaken by the genuine gratitude so obvious in her voice, I mishandle what should be a simple sentiment to return. "You're—you're welcome, Quinn," I whisper. "It was… no trouble at all."
The corner of her lip twitches upward, the faint ghost of a half-smile. "I'll see you later, Rachel."
As she eases herself away from the bookshelf, balancing herself evenly on both feet, she moves to leave, but holds my gaze for a moment longer, stepping backward, sure and practiced, elegant, and she lifts her lips in one final, spectral smile, before pivoting, rounding the corner of another shelf and disappearing.
The reality of the moment hits me like a wrecking ball, crashing into me, suffocating—and by the time I've finally found my voice, I'm whispering in a high, strained pitch to an empty room, "Later…"
By third period, I've all but forgotten my humiliation. Of course, I'd been mortified with myself in the library, sitting, frozen, at my little table, barely breathing, for the remaining forty minutes of the period, fretting over my encounter with Quinn, to the point that I'd nearly hyperventilated, and I'd only managed to leave the comfort of my seclusion to attend my second class of the day by sheer force of will—but from the moment that I stepped past the threshold of my third period classroom, met with the vision of Quinn Fabray slouched lazily in her customary seat in the first row, fourth chair from the front, offering me a friendly grin as I passed by, all thoughts of just how many lines I'd crossed in the library have slipped from my mind.
My lingering discomfort had dissipated incrementally as the minute slowly wore on, familiar heat in my stomach replacing it instead. Faced with her again, with that torturous band of faux-leather before me once more, my recollection of the events in the library began to shift, until my fingertips had begin to tingle with the memory of its dual textures, and, instead of reliving my horror, I began to wonder what might have happened if I had found the courage to pull her closer to me instead of pulling away…
For a moment, I'd envisioned her studded belt retooled for much more practical purposes.
Now, in the midst of a World Cultures lesson that I haven't the slightest clue about, I can't seem to focus on anything else. Having finally felt that satin-smooth material beneath my fingertips, looking at it is twice as torturous as it was before. Seeing it now, after just a taste of touching it once, only makes me long for her more, to an even greater degree, so much so that she is the object of every single coherent thought in my mind. Though I should be trying to focus on the lecture, taking notes, or at least allowing some of what Mrs. Andrews is saying to filter into my clouded brain, I can't keep my eyes off of her.
Warmth is prevalent in my veins; my face is flushed deeply, the blood beneath my skin heated and thick, pulsing, a subdued rushing in my ears, yet it all inevitably flows downward, where, beneath my jeans and the moderate discretion they provide, it pools the thickest. Anybody in the classroom who happened to look over at me right now would very clearly be able to see the effects of my arousal, coloring my face, but I'm too fixated, enthralled, captivated, by Quinn's swanlike neck, fantasizing about taking advantage of the collar fitted, so perfectly, around it, to care that I'm being obvious about my desires. Shifting forward in my seat, I find that, leaning into my desk as I am, propped up by my elbows, as I watch her, one of my hands is unconsciously tracing a horizontal path around my own throat, aching so badly to return to hers.
The sensation of my own fingers against my neck causes a reaction that I'm not proud of. My face reddens further, igneous and rubescent, and I find that the jeans I had so presciently, pre-emptively, decided to wear today aren't helping at all. In fact, the friction that they provide only heightens the desire for more, and I have to cross my legs, forcing myself to keep still, to keep from squirming in my seat.
Sitting here, gazing at her, uninterrupted—I don't know how much longer I'll be able to resist.
I look desperately to the clock nailed above the door, searching its impassive face, only to find that there is still half an hour left until the period is over. Half an hour? Honestly, I don't know if I'll survive.
My gaze wanders, drifting away from the clock and finding its way, inevitably, magnetically, back to Quinn. As if she can sense my gaze on her, intuitively sentient of the fact that she has my rapt, undivided attention, she shifts lower in her seat, sighing listlessly, seemingly bored by Mrs. Andrews' lusterless voice; she raises her hand to her neck, nudging the collar an inch or two higher as her fingers begin massaging the delicate muscles of her throat, just where it would begin to ache from remaining still for so long.
Riveted, I can't help following the movement of her fingers with my eyes, but my vision threatens to fail me, dimming, blurring. The once grand capacity of my lungs narrows, tightening until the breath that escapes my lips is quick and shallow. When Quinn's hand skims to the back of her neck, gripping the curve of her shoulder, tensing, shifting, seeking to ease some unknown pressure, I have to force my eyes closed.
Oh, God. I can't do this. Thirty minutes longer? How—? There's no way that I can—
I should know better than to open my eyes, or at least to look in her direction, but, before I have an adequate amount of time to remind myself just why I've got my eyes pressed tightly shut in the first place, I find my gaze drawn back to Quinn's neck, following the curve of her collar around to the gleaming metal at its center, where, just beneath, her hand rests, lazily, on her chest, her thumb idly tracing the bottom edge of the faux-leather band above. With a stifled groan of frustration, I finally find the strength to avert my gaze.
Lifting my hand high into the air, though there is nothing I can do to disguise the fact that my arm is trembling, I inhale once and hold my breath, my bottom lip drawn between my teeth to silence any latent sounds that might attempt to escape. Though she detests interruption, I will Mrs. Andrews to heed my call.
Glancing at me over the top of her rectangular spectacles, her eyes narrowing, the stern line of her lips thinning, she pauses momentarily. She huffs through her nose, nostrils flaring, her annoyance plain. It's not surprising that, when she addresses me, her tone is anything but pleasant. "Yes, Miss Berry?"
While I would usually apologize for intervening, today, right now, I can't be bothered.
"May I be excused, please?" I ask, unable to mask the tremulous quality of my voice—though, the effect may, in fact, be beneficial, helping to bolster my poor excuse for leaving. "I'm not feeling well."
Her wiry jaw tightens. She nods sharply, turning back to the board. "Straight to the nurse."
I reach instinctively for my bag, propped against the leg of my chair, down by my feet, and I work, futilely, at returning my unopened notebook to its rightful place, before abandoning the attempt altogether.
Apparently, Mrs. Andrews isn't done with me yet; as she begins scrawling the indistinct names of ancient cities and their landmarks on the blackboard, she adds, "I'll be looking for you in the clinic log."
Was that really necessary? My voice is weak, but audible. "Yes, ma'am."
I steady myself on my feet, clutching my notebook tightly to my chest, and l ignore the cautiously turned heads of my classmates as I make my way to the front of the room, my attention devoted, mainly, to making sure that I don't collapse halfway to the door. Not only am I weak, but I can feel Quinn's eyes, like a wave of heat, following me, tempting me, imploring me to look back—and I exit the room as quickly as I can manage without endangering myself, forcing myself to keep my eyes directed ahead of me, refusing to allow them to be drawn back to the magnetic gravity of the verdurous, iridescent irises awaiting mine.
Simultaneously, guilt and relief swell within me as I reach and pass through the classroom door. It kills me that she might think I'm ignoring her on purpose—even though I am—but I know, inherently, that, if I would have looked back at her, all of my resolve would have vanished, and I'd be back where I started.
Most likely, I would have ended up slumped against the door or seated like a pet by her feet.
Once I escape the classroom, stumbling into the hallway, my temperature begins, incrementally, to decline, dropping by slow degrees back to normal levels, and my lungs begin to expand, drawing in oxygen greedily, as though I've spend the last twenty minutes underwater; I feel like I can finally breathe again.
My weak limbs grow stronger, reinvigorated by the cold metal beneath my palms, where I trail my hand against the endless row of lockers beneath that line the wall. Still, the tremble within remains.
While I'd much rather lock myself away in an unoccupied bathroom stall or in the dark anonymity of the auditorium for the remaining half hour, passing the minutes before my next class in solitude, to make the greatest effort I can at overcoming this foolish obsession of mine with Quinn—or, at least, attempt to—now, due in large part to Mrs. Andrews' relentless suspicion of teenagers and their motives, I've committed myself to thirty minutes in the nurse's office instead, where I'll have to pretend that the flush of my cheeks, the heat of my skin, and the quiver in my voice are the result of a failing immune system, not desire.
Breathing deeply, nearly to the full capacity of my lungs, I follow the strips of garish Titan red and speckled squares of black and white linoleum far, far away from my desires, to the nurse's office instead.
I've only ever been to McKinley's clinic twice—once, during the first week of freshman year, the very first time that I had ever gotten a Slushie thrown in my face, because I'd honestly been convinced that I was going to go blind; and, the second time, only last year, when Finn accidentally broke my nose. It isn't at all surprising to me, therefore, that, when I pass meekly into the quiet, soothing atmosphere of the clinic, peering over its high counter, Mrs. O'Russell, McKinley's nurse of fourteen years, is shocked to see me.
"Well, call me a clover," she gasps, leaning forward and gazing down at me. "It's Rachel Berry."
I flush lightly at her salutation, embarrassed, and I struggle to suppress the swell of guilt that rises within me. Why am I even here? I'm not really sick; I'm just wasting poor Mrs. O'Russell's time…
Abandoning the stack of paperwork that she had been looking through, the kindhearted Irish nurse who befriended me three years ago, helping me wash frozen corn syrup out of my hair, props herself up on her elbows against the high countertop, and looks me over from head to toe, appraising me in the analytical, yet compassionate, way that only a nurse could. She searches my flushed face. "What's wrong, dearie?"
Quinn Fabray is wearing the sexiest strip of faux-leather known to the human race…
With a mild frown—sincere, if only for the fact that I feel so horrible about lying to her—I shuffle closer to the counter, clutching my notebook tighter to my chest, and I try to make my voice as plaintive as I can. "I'm not feeling very well, Mrs. O'Russell," I confess quietly. "I think I may have a fever."
She nods, her gaze warm and compassionate, as though she'd been able to deduce that much from my pathetic appearance herself. "You do look a bit flushed," she murmurs. Her attention returns to the pile of papers before her on the desk, briefly, as she shuffles them, urging them into a neat, uniform stack, with a paperclip added to the top for good measure, before she trains her attention on me once more, nodding her head in the vague direction of the window. "Take a seat over there," she commands softly, calming me with a gentle smile. "I've got a quick job to be done. Wait for me, and I'll be with you in just a moment."
With one last smile, she stands, papers in hand, and disappears into the adjoining room behind her.
I do as I'm told, wandering timidly toward the window, and, with a mild degree of embarrassment, I allow my bag and my notebook to fall into the seat of a small polycarbonate waiting-room chair, and then clamber up onto the raised, cushioned examination bed pinned in the corner, perpendicular to the window.
Mrs. O'Russell's voice filters through the open door of the adjoining room, accompanied by a low shuffling and one other voice as well; she must be delegating her current task to her nurse's assistant.
The guilt suppressed in my chest sinks, but it's far from dispersing, and it settles uncomfortably in my stomach instead. You are a horrible, horrible person, Rachel Berry, my subconscious informs me—like the sickness and nausea playing tag in my intestines isn't enough to convince me of the fact. I wish that I'd just told Mrs. Andrews that I was going to the bathroom instead. My hormones and their reactions to Quinn and that torturous collar of hers are no excuse to usurp half an hour of Mrs. O'Russell's precious time.
I shift against the cushion beneath me, and as the material of my blue jeans follows my movement, grazing the intimate places I really wish, at this moment, that I did not have, I'm reminded, yet again, why I wore jeans today to begin with, and my shame intensifies exponentially.
This has to be the most humiliating situation I have ever found myself in; all the Slushie facials in the world couldn't compare to this, locked away in the nurse's office, gushing over a strip of leather.
No. Quinn Fabray in a strip of leather; a strip of leather fitted to her tender throat, teasing—
Exasperated with myself, and with my vivid imagination, I shake my head, a vain attempt to clear my mind, drawing in a prolonged breath. Turning my eyes about the room, I search for anything to distract attention from my lustful imaginings. I trace the linear junctions of the walls, where they meet at the ceiling together and where they reach the floor; I follow the horizontal plane of the counter that serves dually as an adequate work desk for Mrs. O'Russell; and, finally sweeping across the room, my gaze is drawn inevitably out the window, where the vast fields of McKinley's front lawn stretches out to the nearest main road.
Trees and branches quiver in the breeze, their liberated leaves dancing through the air. Occasional strings of cars pass by, streaks of color and light. Along the sidewalk, a woman is walking her dog.
Upon first glance, my eyes trail from her swaying ponytail, down to the thick neoprene sleeve around her upper arm that secures her iPod to her bicep, and, eventually, my gaze drifts further downward, sinking to the level of her hand, noting the strap of the leash grasped within it, wrapped around her wrist, and where it leads playfully to the broad collar that it's attached to, circling the furred neck of a beautiful golden lab—and, immediately, helplessly, my thoughts are drawn back to the blonde I left behind in World Cultures.
I force my eyes away from the window, from what should be an innocent scene, a woman walking her dog, but the damage has been done. Quinn's elegant neck and that cursed collar flare through my mind.
Concupiscent visions pass before my eyes, unbidden, ineludible. I can't help imagining her on her knees, by my side, my fingers dipping beneath the coarse, rugged edge of her collar, grasping it in my hand and tugging, exerting the slightest pressure against her throat, urging her to follow, leading her— Or on her knees in front of me, the gleam of that silver ring teasing, just barely glinting beneath the deep, scintillating hazel fire of her eyes, her graceful, elegant hands working delicately at the button of my jeans—
"Alright, dearie, let's see how you're doin'."
I jump at Mrs. O'Russell's voice, startled out of my fantasies by her abrupt return, and I search the room rapidly, unable to discern exactly where she is. Her innocent, assuring smile is the first thing my eyes are able to recognize, followed by her softened aquamarine irises; my face burns, skin flushing with shame.
I can't help feeling like a guilty child who has been caught with their hand in the proverbial cookie jar—or, more accurately, like a lustful teenager who has been caught gaping at online pornography.
Mrs. O'Russell raises her hand to my forehead, presumably to feel my temperature, and it requires all the willpower I have within me not to shy away from her touch. "Sweet giblets, dearie!" she exclaims in her hushed Celtic accent. The back of her hand is cool against my heated skin. "You're burning up."
I force a weak smile, avoiding her eyes. My body is on fire—but it's not because of a fever.
She retracts her hand, and works instead at preparing something, a small object, held between both of her hands, that my brain is too hazy to recognize as anything important. A faint beep sounds after a short moment of silence, and she lifts the object to the level of my mouth. I blink, attempting to focus, searching, grasping for any signs of significance, but I can only stare at her hand, confused. What—?
"Open up," Mrs. O'Russell commands with a chuckle.
Oh. I obey, allowing my trembling lips to part.
She smiles kindly at me. "There's a good lass."
The thermometer—that's what it is, the object; I realize that now—is cold beneath my tongue, like a smooth, quicksilver D-shaped steel ring bound, attached, to the satin surface of a black, leather—
A second beep sounds, muffled, nearly muted to my ears. Mrs. O'Russell extracts the thermometer from my mouth and gazes down at the small, electronic reading that it displays expectantly, though, soon, I can discern that the numbers are not at all what she expected. Not high enough for a fever, no doubt.
"Well, I'll be tickled," she mutters. With one hand balanced on her hip, she hums under her breath, bemused, and then lifts her eyes to mine, ready to offer some sort of explanation—yet, already, I know that it won't be the correct one. "I think my thermometer's broken, love." She chuckles under her breath. "Says here you're only point-two degrees above normal, but your skin's a ragin' fire."
Raging—yes. Raging… God, that collar—
"I know for certain that something's off here," Mrs. O'Russell continues. "You just rest there for a while, dearie." Her tone is gentle, and her free hand, withdrawn from its place on her hip, grazes against my shoulder in—what should be, at least—a gesture of comfort and compassion, a small pat of encouragement. "I'll get you some water, and you can stay here until you think you're up to leavin'."
I lift my head to smile weakly at the kindhearted woman. "Thank you, Mrs. O'Russell."
As she bustles away for the water that she promised me, I drop my gaze to the scuffed linoleum at a great distance beneath my feet. My hands tremble against the cushioned seat, and I draw them into my lap to soothe their listlessness. My breath is shallow once more, though I breathe slowly, deeply, as though the oxygen that passes through my lips somehow bypasses my struggling lungs, a chemical malfunction. Today was supposed to be easier, but as thoughts of Quinn, glimpses of her neck, begin to seep into my mind once more, I decide that it hasn't been any easier at all, and I know that it's going to be a very long day.
By some miracle, I've managed to survive the past four hours with little incident.
I haven't seen Quinn since third period, since I'd lost my nerve—and nearly my self-control—and fled the classroom, throwing myself into the sanctuary of Mrs. O'Russell's office. The bell signaling fourth period rang as scheduled, and, only after assuring my attentive nurse that I was well enough to attend, I was released from her care, but I didn't catch so much as a glimpse of Quinn in the hallways. Class, afterwards, was spent, admittedly, with my mind on other things, though my fever began to fade as time wore on.
As usual, the object of my fervent desire was nowhere to be seen in the cafeteria at lunchtime, and she skipped sixth period, the only other class that we share this year, altogether. Without her there, I'd only found myself throbbing and squirming in my chair once—but the persistent thoughts of her never receded.
Glee Club helped clear my head. While I wasn't quite as enthusiastic as was expected of me, I did participate; my voice was present with the others in the canons and harmonies, and I listened—for the most part—to Kurt and Blain as they performed their duet, and I laughed along with the group as Noah and Sam convinced us to reproduce the theme song of a popular primetime comedy show. By then, I had even found enough presence of mind to vehemently deny all suggestions to perform "Sexy and I Know It" at Nationals, and to make a somewhat coherent attempt to assure Kurt that my strange behavior was temporary and that I was only feeling a little under the weather. My decidedly uncharacteristic outfit was harder to explain…
Still, that being said, ever since my trip to the nurse's office, my day has been rather uneventful.
The last block of the day, seventh period, is my final free period, the time that I usually reserve for extra practice in the auditorium, but, today, I find that, even sitting in front of the piano, my fingers tracing the ivory keys, sounding notes, reciting the few melodies that I know, my heart isn't in the place to do so. I sit listlessly, staring at the patient pages of sheet music laid out before me, and while, like always, I'm awed by the form and the flow of each note across the page, I can't concentrate long enough to read them.
I've been grateful for Quinn's absence these past few hours; having a moment to myself helped to allow me the opportunity to take some control over my day—but I've also been disappointed not to see her. Even if I were to disregard the overwhelming sexual attraction I feel towards her, I would still be saddened, disheartened. Beneath my lust for her, there's always been something more that drew me to her, something genuine. Part of me has been in love with Quinn Fabray from the moment I met her. My physical desire for her came much later; really, it was only intensified, I think, by the fact that, just beneath, there was more.
So, while I sit at the piano, playing plaintively at its indifferent keys, part of me is relieved that she hasn't been in my direct line of sight—where, after years of relying on my fantasies to satisfy me, I seem to lose all rational thought to my sex drive—another, greater part, is melancholy, and, honestly, dismayed.
I miss her the most, it seems, in Glee, in the midst of melody, where her hushed, mezzo-alto voice no longer rises, distinct and unmistakable, from within the harmony of others to reach my ears…
"I thought you'd be rehearsing."
My heart flutters; a gentle alto, soft, inquisitive, seeking answers but never forcing them. Quinn.
Swallowing the tension that condenses, warm, thick, in my throat before I acknowledge her, I will myself to remain calm. There could be no greater time to make a mistake than now, here, alone with her, in an empty auditorium. It's guaranteed that I'll slip up at least once, but I try to subdue the emotions that rise within me. I was, finally, just getting to a place where my attraction began melting back into affection, and I'm desperate to keep it that way, because, even if she doesn't know, she's worth more to me than a fantasy or even the most wonderful dreams. I pray that my guilt will be enough to remind me.
When I finally dare to glance over my shoulder and meet her eyes, she begins ascending the stairs at the opposite side of the room, joining me beneath the magnified theater lights that illuminate the stage.
For a moment, I'm dumbfounded by the way that, even in the beaming intensity of the light above us, her features remain soft, gentle, almost as though her face itself is able to subdue its intensity. Her hazel eyes seem to shine, their luminescence infinitely profound, stellar, sidereal, like distant, verdant stars.
It occurs to me, momentarily, that she's still waiting for my response—her voice, before, had been searching, intrigued, more surprised that I wasn't practicing than stating that I was—but her gaze is patient, allowing me adequate time to collect myself and formulate some semblance of a response. She slows at the cross-T of masking tape that marks center stage, and I wonder, briefly, if she's trying to give me space, if it is so obvious how she affects me that she's keeping her distance just so I can continue to function.
Even at a distance, she still moves me. My tongue is tied. "I, uhm—" I swallow once, perfunctory, ensuring that my throat still works, and I take a slow, calming breath before I try again. "I was just—"
Once she begins moving again, easing nearer to me, I forget all that I was going to say; my gaze is riveted to her face, the curves of her cheekbones, the defined angles of her jaw, the natural arch of her brow above lustrous, verdurous hazel irises, the perfect contours of her nose, the lush, silken blush of her lips…
Shaping words, the lips that have captured my attention begin to move. "Still not feeling well?"
My eyes flicker briefly back to hers, seeking to gauge her reaction to my ardent attention, before I allow myself to continue studying the magnificent contrast of softness and strength in her features. My gaze follows its natural progression downwards, tracing the arc of her chin, and, finally, led by the column of her throat, finding the faux-leather band that has been torturing me all week. Upon first glance, familiar warmth diffuses through me, from my fingertips to my shoulders, from my thighs to my calves and to the tips of my toes, from my face, my cheeks, to my neck, to my spine, warming each and every vertebra individually as it goes—but the spread is slow, merciful, tender and tempered. Though my fever has returned, it has softened, losing its torturous intensity in favor of something serene and untroubled, almost like acceptance.
I lift my eyes to meet her gaze, relieved. My voice is audible, but breathy. "You could say that…"
"O'Russell said you had a fever," she informs me, her hazel eyes trained on mine intently. Just for an instant, it almost looks as if she shuffles from one foot to the other, debating the idea of drawing nearer.
How did she—? The shock—at both her words and her demeanor—must show clearly on my face, because she lifts one shoulder in her casual half-shrug as I deliberate. Was she—was she worried about me?
"Andrews had a conference," she explains. "She needed someone to check the nurse's log."
My voice, a mere breath, escapes as I exhale. "Oh." I nod, my stomach sinking with a vague sense of disappointment. Of course. It was just an obligation. I feel myself beginning to close off, shrinking down into myself, before I can help it, and my eyes fall from hers, wandering, eventually settling on the slick coat of lacquer that gleams atop the wooden stage beneath my feet, illuminated by the garish lights above.
In the absence of my gaze, Quinn shifts, stepping forward, gravitating nearer to me, and, with her unfaltering grace, her effortless elegance, she slips her bag from her shoulder and takes a seat next to me on the piano bench. Settling beside me, she leans back, relaxed, bracing herself against the polished antique.
Her voice, when she speaks again, is lighthearted, insouciant, nonchalant. "I volunteered."
The steady rhythm of my heart skips, missing a beat. I may be reading too far into it, but, for some reason, it seems as though, implicitly, she's trying to suggest that she did it specifically for me. At the easy, subtle quirk of her lips, our eyes drift apart, and as I study my hands, laying listlessly in my lap, I recognize the tug of a smile on my own lips. I have no idea what I should say, if I even should say anything, but as we allow the moment to pass, it doesn't seem to matter, because Quinn tilts her head upward, wistful, gazing at the myriad of rafters over our heads, her gaze wandering, surveying the empty auditorium around us, and, if she wants an answer, she doesn't demand one. Both of us are silent, allowing a quiet hush to settle.
Sitting here, with her, Quinn Fabray, the girl of my dreams, the girl I've been in love with for what feels like forever, three years, just sitting, silent, not even talking—I've never felt so inexplicably content.
Even now, the smile on my face has yet to fade, persistent and untiring. She volunteered—for me.
"You know," she murmurs beside me, easing the spell of silence, "I kind of miss this place."
When I lift my eyes to look at her, a reflective, nostalgic grin curves her lips, her starry eyes bright and untroubled, directed across the stage, towards the thick, velveteen curtains secured by a loop of braided rope to a hook on the far wall. She's gorgeous, breathtaking, her body relaxed, at peace, serene, almost as if she is genuinely content to be here with me, in an empty auditorium, reminiscing about the past.
Captivated, spellbound, my cautious prudence dissolves, and, before the decision to reply has even been endorsed by my clouded brain, my lips are parting and I'm whispering back, "I miss you."
Quinn's eyes shift once again, capturing mine, searching, countless questions poised within them.
Oh, God. I just said that out loud. Faltering, I flush deeply, and the interminable, searing heat that I've grown accustomed to suffering returns. "In Glee, I mean," I amend myself quickly. "We all miss you." Before her face has even begun to reveal her reaction, I decide that I can't let this moment become a repeat performance of my humiliating solecism in the library. I have to be honest with her, at least to some degree; I'd probably burst into tears if I had to confess everything that has been plaguing me lately, but I need to do whatever I can in order to preserve this moment, because it's too perfect, too precious, even with all of this trepidation, to ruin. Steeling myself, I force the words. "I-I—I really wish you would consider returning."
With another lazy smile, the patented half-curve of her lips, she chuckles and shakes her head, her virescent eyes dancing. "Not that you did before," she says, "but I really don't think you need me now."
I do, Quinn. I do—I need you. Logically, I know that she means 'you' in the collective sense, as in 'all of you,' all of the members of Glee Club, but my hazy mind insists on taking it personally. I need you.
Still, I have to answer her, and, even though the frown that pulls at my lips is directed, to a greater degree, at myself, it's still sincere, and still applicable to her comment. Careful to select the correct pronoun when I speak, I assure her, "We do, Quinn." I wet my dry lips, searching for something, anything that could possibly convince her—because, despite the fact that my mind is wandering and I'm focused more intently on the curve of her lips and the depths of her eyes than our conversation, I really do want her to come back to Glee. I take a breath, fighting the urge to sigh. "Glee is… a family, and you're a part of that family."
Though her eyes soften, her grin remains. "Somehow, I don't think they'd be welcoming me back with open arms," she murmurs. For a moment, her breath slows, uneasy. "Things have… changed."
My frown deepens. She's right, of course; things have changed a great deal since we returned from summer vacation. Ever since our senior year began, from the very first moment she stepped into the halls of what used to be her kingdom, with her dyed hair and her new, dynamic wardrobe and her determination not to change, there has been an importunate, impenetrable swell of tension wherever Quinn is concerned, both within the protective confines of Glee and in the general population of McKinley. Even so, once she'd been able to establish her position, her attitude had mellowed, the rough edges softening, and, now, though other people might not see it, she finally seems comfortable in her own skin, at peace with herself.
Holding her gaze, I find myself, not for the first time, disappointed with the people that we believe could ever deserve the right to be our friends. A friend would see in her what I see in her: happiness.
I shake my head softly, finally finding the words to answer her. "Is that really a bad thing?"
Her discomfort, betrayed by the tension of her shoulders, eases away, and a genuine smile pulls at her lips. Virescent hazel eyes burn into my own, suddenly alight, alive, as she murmurs, "You tell me."
Tell you? There are so many things I could tell you, but— Wait. Are we—? Is she—?
Struggling, I fight to keep my eyes on hers, to hold her molten gaze, but my weakened resolutions fail, and as the baseless, incredulous thought that she may be flirting with me crosses my mind, my eyes are drawn, inevitably, downward, to the confident, mesmerizing curve of her lips—and eventually even further, straying down to the sleek, half-moon shape of the silver ring gleaming against the black band of her collar.
I'd been doing so well avoiding it ever since she approached me, but, now, as my heart pounds an erratic, inconsistent rhythm in my chest, my nerves thrumming beneath my skin, excited by the mere notion that Quinn and I are treading the boundary of flirtation, I can't suppress the return of my earlier arousal.
Finally, I force my lips to move, shaping a response, but my voice is strained and unsteady. "No."
"I guess that makes two of us then," she says, with another grin, hazel eyes luminous, brilliant and dazzling, as they bear into mine. She holds my gaze for a moment longer before looking away, her lips still sporting the same thrilled, satisfied smirk, even as she chuckles and shakes her head, once, softly.
Though I intend to take the reprieve to rediscover my truant lungs and remind them how to breathe again, my eyes drift once more to Quinn's collar in the absence of her gaze; immediately, my rational mind is lost in a deluge of remnant, inappropriate fantasies, and all attempts at composing myself are forgotten.
A small noise issues from my throat, unbidden, and it catches Quinn's diverted attention.
Turning back to face me, her eyes, still lit with satisfaction and amusement, soften, her expression growing concerned, brow furrowing, the upward curve of her lips reversing direction, drawing into a subtle, uneasy frown. "Hey," she murmurs, leaning closer to me, searching my face. "Are you feeling alright?"
Fever, I recall vaguely; that's what Mrs. O'Russell had decided, anyway.
"Just… a little lightheaded," I breathe, hopefully in a somewhat coherent manner.
Quinn's frown deepens, her restless concern evident in the depths of her iridescent eyes. Reaching out gently, raising her hand to my face, her fingertips graze my skin; she brushes the bangs, damp with sudden perspiration, from my forehead. When she presses her cool wrist to my heated flesh, my eyes flutter, vision blurring, closing. A shallow breath escapes my trembling lips. She's touching me, and, even though I feel as though I might fall apart at any moment, everything—the atmosphere, the silence, the fragility, the tension, the smooth, silken skin of her wrist soothing away my fever—feels so inherently right.
Her eyes are still fixed intently on my face when I finally find the strength to return her gaze; I feel as though I could drown in the deep, viridian sea of subdued emerald and lustrous flecks of caramel…
With her knuckles pressed gently to my febrile skin, she whispers, "You're burning up, Rach."
She guides a loose lock of hair tenderly behind my ear, and this—this—this is all I've ever wanted from her, to feel like she cares, to have her look at me the way that she's looking at me now, like our stilted past has vanished, like, despite everything that has happened since she walked into my life, I actually mean something to her—and, right now, gazing into her hazel eyes, with her feather-light fingertips mapping the curve of my jaw, I don't have the strength to restrain myself any longer. I lean into her, and I'm kissing her before either of us can pull away, my trembling hands rising to the back of her neck, holding her to me.
Her lips are soft, ineffably so, lush, and far hotter than I'd expected, meeting mine swiftly, without hesitation, searing my own. The delicate pressure of her fingertips against my jaw has melted away, and the pressure has shifted towards the base of my neck, where her fingers have sunken into my hair instead.
My entire body burns; liquid fire surges through my veins, nerves firing rapidly beneath my skin. I can't withdraw my lips from hers long enough to acquire the oxygen that my lungs desperately crave. As an insistent, unrelenting pressure begins to condense within me, low, deep, building, until a rapid throb echoes from my swiftly dampening core, I realize, shamelessly, that I could throw myself at her right here.
Something, finally—the coarse, rugged edges of her collar beneath my fingertips, maybe, eliciting the most pitiful whimper to escape my throat—alerts me that this isn't just another of my indulgent fantasy moments, and that, in reality, my hands are buried in silken, golden hair, and I'm kissing Quinn Fabray.
Oh, my God. I'm kissing Quinn Fabray. Quinn Fabray, the girl of my dreams, the—
I all but freeze against her, stilling, suddenly, mortified, and, as it all finally sinks into my clouded, asthenic brain, I retract my hands, my mouth, and I lurch away from her as quickly as I can.
Pressing my eyes closed tightly, I will myself to disappear. Oh, God. Oh, God. The fact that, even so undeniably incognizant, I was certain that I felt her kiss me back slips my mind. Blooming arcs of colors and light play behind my eyelids, pressed so tightly closed that the stress deceives my optic nerves. Rachel, what have you done? You just— You can't just— Oh, God. Now, she's— Now— Oh, God.
My voice is high, rushed, strained and tremulous with fear, but, even as I speak, the remnant thrill of her mouth on mine tingles against my lips. "If you could just—just f-forget that ever happened, I—"
"You want to get out of here?"
Quinn's voice startles me, as close as it is, as relaxed, as confident as she sounds, but the meaning of the words, once my taxed, overloaded brain has a chance to process them, nearly knocks me to the floor.
I wrench my eyes open, searching her eyes—which return my gaze without fail, bearing into mine with the same, familiar confidence and, perhaps, even satisfaction—and though my mind races with endless strings of fervent, flustered questions, I can't find the words to voice them, absolutely speechless.
"You—what?" My mouth produces garbled, unintelligible sounds. "I—but— Quinn…?"
She smiles and grasps my hand in hers, urging me to stand. "Come on."
Once Quinn and I had made our way off campus, her hand gently wrapped around mine, her warm, silken skin against my trembling fingers, we followed the cracked, narrow sidewalks lining several of Lima's main streets, until, eventually, we came to a standstill, just bordering a public bus stop. Quinn had dropped my hand by then, reaching into her back pocket for her wallet, and, standing next to the battered roadside indicator for Lima's Public Transit system, with Quinn Fabray at my side, mellow, serene, smiling to herself as she selected money for our fare, I was anything but calm.
I nearly shook on the spot, quivering, nervous, and I remained nervous for the majority of the ride, until, as we neared our destination, Quinn took the time to urge me to relax, and the soft, indiscernible intensity of her verdurous eyes finally broke through the shroud of my anxiety. I began to breathe easier, and, even as the rumbling machine beneath us began to slow only moments ago, signaling the end of the trip and the beginning of something altogether different, I only hyperventilated for a moment.
When we finally step off of the bus, I realize that Quinn and I are in a part of town that I'm, surprisingly, vaguely familiar with. She takes my hand briefly, urging me to follow her down a wide, worn concrete path along the road, flashing an easy smile over her shoulder. Though my stomach quivers with what feels like a thousand butterflies in a furious, fluttering frenzy, the curve of her lips consoles me, and I follow after her.
As strange or as irrational as it may seem, after all this time, I honestly do trust her.
The walk isn't long—not long enough for a conversation, anyway—and, before I know it, she and I are approaching a sleek, modern villa, large enough to be notable, but quaint enough that it doesn't come across as immediately ostentatious. The design is beautiful, and it seems like it fits very nicely into Quinn's new lifestyle, but I know from experience that this isn't the home she once shared with her parents.
As if she can read my mind, she catches my eyes. "It's my aunt's," she says easily, waiting for me to join her on the driveway. "It's empty until she comes for the summer, so she's letting me stay here."
I wonder vaguely what exactly happened between Quinn and her mother, but her hand finds my wrist again, and the thought slips from my mind. She leads me up the drive, with another smile over her shoulder, and pauses at the door to fish her keys from her back pocket before unlocking it. Holding it open for me, she gestures for me to enter. I comply, stepping past her, a surge of tension waking the butterflies in my stomach, and they flutter uncomfortably, like a mob of crazed moths seduced by a distant flame.
Oh, God. I'm in her house… This is… Oh, my God.
Quinn follows me inside, her presence the warm wisp of a wraith at my back.
The further I advance, the more I find myself stricken by the quiet ambience of the house. It's dim inside, the lights unlit, and the windows are veiled with fabric, but, through the cerulean curtains, light from the afternoon sun filters in, azure, aquatic, in color and atmosphere, and the temperature kept within each of the house's walls is cooler, thick with just the slightest chill. It feels like being all alone in some forgotten aquarium, like Quinn and I have stepped out of the real world and into an underwater snow globe.
With an easy glance in my direction, she takes the lead, guiding me through the spacious foyer and into the expansive living room. Slipping her backpack from its haphazard perch on her shoulder, she lowers it to the floor at the foot of an armchair—and I take the moment, being behind her, to study the thick band of faux-leather that lays against the back of her neck, tempted, teased by the short, downy tufts of blonde at the nape of her neck. A familiar degree of unbidden warmth returns, starting in my cheeks and drawn down by the pull of gravity and the magnetic tension gathering against the seam of my jeans.
She turns to face me a moment later, and, though I panic briefly—Should I take my backpack off too?—she plans my next move for me, extending a hand. I urge my shoulders free of the straps, and, God, it shouldn't surprise me, but even that incites the fire burning beneath my skin to intensify. Swallowing, I offer Quinn my backpack, and I hope that she doesn't notice that my hands are shaking. If she does notice, she doesn't say anything; she only takes my bag with a small smile and places it in the chair beside her.
Without my backpack, suddenly, I feel exposed. The chill of the room assaults my bare back, and I resist the urge to shiver. I smooth my damp palms against my thighs, hoping that the resistant material of my jeans will calm me, but it only fuels me further. I try to smile, but I feel my lips tremble.
Is this it? I wonder. Now that we've—are we—? I mean—is she—? We're—
The answers aren't forthcoming from my mind, but, searching Quinn's eyes, I find that my tension begins to ease, soothed by the gentle affection that meets my gaze. "You look terrified," she says softly.
"I—" Despite the urge to speak, I swallow my words. Part of me feels like it's terrified, but when I think about it, I know that it's really not. I'm not afraid—not of Quinn—at all. I take a breath, laughing to myself faintly, hushing my hyperactive nerves. Finally, I shake my head. "I'm just nervous," I admit.
She offers me a warm, reassuring smile. "You don't have to be," she says. "Not with me."
I swallow again, pushing apprehension aside, and my own lips turn up; I revel in the tenderness of her smile—yet, the sweet moment comes to an end, sudden, when her hands rise to the hem of her charcoal Henley. Her hands work deftly, drawing the material up, higher, along her stomach, over her ribcage, past the slight swell of her chest, and, finally, over her head. I watch, captivated, with rapt attention as the thin, lightweight tank top she wears beneath rises with it, exposing the smooth, pale plain of her toned abdomen.
Humiliatingly enough, my first instinct is to fall to my knees and worship her. My fingertips ache to touch her, longing for the downy silk of her skin; my tongue begs to taste every swell, hollow, and divot. The pinprick of sweat assaults my lower back, condenses in the depressions below my shoulder blades.
Shirt removed, Quinn's eyes meet mine, sentient, psychic, and I search desperately for something to distract myself from the urge to— "You've started working out again," I note, my voice high, strained.
She shrugs, as if to dismiss the comment, but flashes me a grin, the perfect picture of nonchalance as she slings the now defunct shirt over her shoulder. "Gave me something to do in juvie."
The color beneath my cheeks suddenly drains away, rushing immediately downward, pooling like heavy molasses in the depths of my groin. My mouth has gone dry. Since when was she—?
"Ju—?" I can't verbalize the word; arousal swells thickly in my throat, restricting my voice.
Quinn laughs, the amusement bright in her verdurous eyes. "I'm kidding, Rachel," she murmurs.
With a slow, soft shake of her head, she takes a step closer. In my current state, it's one of my first instincts to flee, to run as fast as I can in the other direction and bolt for the door, but the affection showing through in her gaze stills me, soothes me; it implores me to remain in place until she reaches me, and I'm at her mercy. Close enough that her minty breath caresses my face, she lifts her hand, gentle fingertips, warm, like silk, tracing my jawline, and my body betrays me, my legs beginning to quiver, my knees unsteady.
My gaze drifts helplessly downward, settling, fixed, on her pale, pastel lips. It must be the cue that she's been waiting for, because her mouth captures mine in an instant, like supple, pliant fire, molten, and a tremulous breath escapes me, masking the mewling whine that's collecting in the hollow of my throat. Heat envelops me, head to toe doused in flames, my cheeks burning, blazing, stomach home to a boiling sea, my sex throbbing in time with the rapid, hammering rhythm of my heart. Already, I'm wet, aching for her.
Suddenly, it hits me. I followed her, left with her, allowed her to lead me here—even if I didn't get it then—all for this, and, once I've come to accept it, my anxiety disperses. I'm no longer nervous here, not when every nerve in my body is pulsing, neurons rapid-firing, synapses short-circuiting, lungs failing.
With one last torturous kiss, she pulls away. For a moment, she's silent, until I blink my eyes open to look at her, watching her, lightheaded, through my lashes, lips swollen, head, heart, pussy throbbing.
My panties are completely soaked—but I can't even find the decency to be embarrassed.
She waits until she can be sure that I'm focused, really listening to her, before she speaks. "Relax, okay?" she murmurs, stroking my cheek with the pad of her thumb. The subdued intensity of her iridescent gaze prompts a response, and I force myself to nod, assuring her that I understand, albeit hazily. She smiles, and whispers, "I'll be right back." Pressing a final kiss to my lips, stealing my breath, she backs away.
I track her movement with my eyes as she navigates her way down the hallway, and, as she goes, I swear I can see—and hear—the buckle of her belt coming undone, and then the zipper of her jeans.
A jolt of arousal races down my spine, and my groin seizes, contracting tightly.
God—as she rounds the corner into the first bedroom down the hall, I catch sight of the waistband of a pair of powder-blue, pinstriped boxers beneath her unfastened jeans, and I have to force myself to look away, assuaging my desire so that I don't abandon all self-control and follow her into the bedroom.
I train my eyes on safer things, mundane pieces scattered about the living room, to cool my heated body. The room, as a whole, looks as if it hasn't been lived in for some time, except for random items that I recognize as belonging to Quinn—an open textbook on the coffee table; a stack of DVDs by the TV; what I speculate to be an early-generation Gameboy in the opposite armchair. The room is bare, but there really is an essence distinctly reminiscent of Quinn, especially the dense air, this nebulous, sapphire atmosphere.
Before I can take the time to take in anything else, let alone explore the room, soft footsteps sound down the hall. Quinn's traversing the hallway again, her footfalls hushed, like she's lost her shoes, barefoot now, and when I turn my head to look, I notice that she's traded her frayed jeans for a loose-fitting pair of dark sweatpants, Abercrombie printed in bold white letters down her right thigh.
A twinge of arousal twists in my stomach. The sweatpants rest low on her hips, her boxers peeking out, just enough to tease me—and I watch her hand disappear under the hem of her tank top for a moment, possibly to scratch an itch. The slow warmth of lustful excitement seeps from my sex; my face burns hotly.
"Sorry about that," she murmurs. "Sometimes, I just can't wait to get out of those things."
"It's okay," I assure her, ignoring the patch of skin above her hip that I can still see where her shirt has risen. I make a gesture that's directed around the living room instead, trying to distract myself. "This is a really nice house." My diversion appears to be effective, or, sincere, at least, because she smiles easily at me—even though I'm certain that she can read me like a book, and I'm fumbling horribly. "It's so… blue."
She chuckles. "Believe it or not, I picked out these curtains when I was six."
Briefly, I'm taken aback. In all the years that I've known her—known of her—she's never devoted much time to talking about her earlier childhood. I shift on my feet, searching her eyes. "Really?"
She nods in reply, silken fingertips brushing my elbow, trailing down my forearm, eliciting a full-bodied shiver that I fail to disguise, as she moves past me, padding towards the sofa and settling in the thick cushions. "I love this place," she admits, smiling fondly, her luminous eyes scrutinizing the expansive room around us. Her gaze returns to meet mine, and my heart throbs at the curve of her lips. "It's my sanctuary."
My lips lift of their own accord, returning her smile. I realize that, no matter the initial reasons she brought me here, this place means something to her, and I'm extremely lucky to be here. "It's beautiful."
"You're beautiful," she counters. Immediately, I feel the deep burn of a flush on my cheeks. Even in the dim light of this low, thalassic atmosphere, where everything glows in hues of blue, it must be visible to her, because she gives me her charming half-smile. Holding my gaze, she murmurs, "Come here."
The sound of her voice, its mezzo-alto timber dipping in pitch, straying into a range that I've never heard from her, causes a reaction that I'd be humiliated to confess, coiling low in my stomach. It takes me a moment to unglue my feet from the floor, swallowing against the sudden arousal that collects heavily in my throat, heavy, thickening my tongue, but I manage, somehow, and, though I start out rather slowly, I make my way toward the sofa. My knees tremble when they touch hers, stomach flipping as our eyes meet. With as much grace as I can rally, I draw in a lengthy breath—which, honestly, does nothing to steady me—and, bracing my hands against her shoulders, balancing myself, I settle my knees on either side of her waist.
Hands on my hips, she helps me find my balance, but gazes up at me with a crooked grin. "I meant the couch," she says, her voice low, dancing in the allure of lilting undertones, "but this is fine with me."
Halting abruptly, mid-motion, unable to settle, I hastily try to backtrack. "Oh, I'm sorry, I—"
"No," she pleads. Her grip on my waist tightens, fingers flexing against the waistband of my jeans. "Stay." Though my heart fumbles uncomfortably, her eyes are sincere, and I sink down again, helpless. I'm already drowning in her, settling on her lap like I could melt into a boneless heap at any second. Her hands, still locked on my waist, finally relax and her thumbs graze my hips instead. "I just wanted you to know…" she continues softly, and her eyes search mine, but I begin to lose focus, distracted by the low circles of her thumbs on my skin. "We don't have to do anything. I didn't bring you here to have sex with you, Rachel."
I blink, forcing my way through the haze to study her more intently. "You didn't?"
She shakes her head, affirming my confusion, the same lopsided half-smile on her lips.
"Oh." I swallow tightly. "You're not going to—to dope me up and—uhm—bury my body parts in your back yard, are you?" Uncertain now, my joke doesn't go over very well, but she chuckles anyway.
Her grin, so thoroughly amused, is the iceberg that sinks my Titanic anxiety. "Definitely not."
My pulse flutters weakly beneath my skin, dancing through the veins that map my sensitive wrists, draped across her shoulders. I can recall this feeling, early memories of the first times I'd ever seen Quinn's smile. Despite the familiar stirrings of my earliest, innocent attraction to her, reminiscent of my sophomore year and the rare moments we spent companionably together in Glee, I can't keep my curiosity at bay.
"Why—why did you bring me here?" I ask her, finally finding my voice.
"Honestly?" She searches my eyes, as if to check, and I lose myself in hers.
This is the most honest Quinn and I have ever been with each other. Actually, it might be the very first time we've truly been honest with one another to begin with. I've dreamt about moments like this with her, and now—all that matters is that things are suddenly changing, and I don't want this to end.
I nod silently, pleading for her to continue. My mouth is suddenly dry.
She takes a breath, her lips flexing, easy grin shifting in a quick, nervous quirk, before easing back into its former contour, like she's shy about what comes next. "I just wanted to talk to you," she murmurs.
For a moment, I wonder why we couldn't have talked at school in the auditorium, but I silence my rampant thoughts. Even in the auditorium, reserved for me at that time of day, there still would have been a chance that our conversation could have been interrupted—and while, admittedly, I feel a strangely skewed sense of disappointment, a twinge of embarrassment, that I've been on a completely different wavelength, I find that I'm glad she decided to take the conversation somewhere less accessible to prying ears.
Whatever she wants to talk to me about must be at least somewhat important. "About what?"
It doesn't even take an instant before she's cocking her head to one side, a single golden eyebrow rising, baiting me, endlessly enticing, as if to say, 'You know what, Rachel,' and an all too familiar spark of attraction ignites in my stomach, spreading, a slow burn, searching out my limbs, tingling in my fingertips.
I wet my lips compulsively. The kiss. She wants to talk about the kiss. I should have known. "Oh."
For a moment, she surveys me, hazel eyes deepening, cloudy with a sudden distance, and I ache to bring her close again, back to me, as soon as they do. Her brow twitches, drawing together, briefly, almost imperceptibly, like she's thinking something over, deliberating. Finally, she asks, "Was it a mistake?"
Startled, my limbs quiver with the urge to spasm out of sheer surprise. I look hard at her, and I can see that, even though she keeps her face carefully relaxed, she's actually bracing herself for rejection. How is that even possible? This girl, this amazing girl beneath me, guarding herself like everything she has ever cared about is on the line, about to be taken—she's Quinn Fabray. Granted, she's Quinn Fabray without the numerous titles she'd once held, but she's still the hottest thing to ever have graced the rude, ill-mannered halls of McKinley High School. Who, in their right mind, would say that kissing her was a mistake?
I shake my head, pacifying my restless fingers by playing at the soft seams of her tank top, tracing them along her shoulders. I can't breathe deeply enough to draw the familiar power through my diaphragm, and when I finally admit, "I've wanted to do that for years," the tremulous sounds originate somewhere in my throat instead, low and breathy. The first inane thought to pass through my mind is that my vocal coach would kill me—and my first instinct is to duck away, but the soft, sudden curve of Quinn's lips calms me.
She holds my gaze for a long moment, and I count the pixie-dust flecks of russet that gleam in her hazel eyes. So close—I've only ever wanted to be so close, and now, here I am, in a dark, ultramarine room in her house, settled on her lap, looking into her eyes, finally comfortable and, finally, close enough.
Her lips flex, their curve steepening, deepening, before relaxing once again, and the contemplative depths of her eyes grow playful. "Well," she says, teasing, "now that we've talked…" Her hands, resting on my hips, squeeze gently, suggestive, but the wide smile that conquers her lips, and the goofy way she raises both eyebrows betrays her; she's only joking, and it's so adorable that I have to laugh along with her.
I clip her shoulder, without force, mirroring her mood, and settle my arms again around her neck.
She raises a hand to brush the hair from my face, settling into her quiet composure once more, and presses the back of her hand to my cheek softly, testing for my temperature. "How are you feeling?"
Though it could mean anything, the way she feels for the heat of my skin reminds me that she still thinks I had a fever earlier, and, after all that we've already admitted to each other, I can't lie to her now.
My skin burns, the heat beneath my cheeks intensifying as I admit, "I wasn't really sick…"
She cocks her head, but her playful brow stays put, and her eyes search mine for an explanation.
"I was hot, yes, but…" I trail off, searching for the right way to continue, before drawing in a slow breath and, finally, finishing, "not with a fever." I laugh helplessly, my fingers fretting over the neckline of her tank top. "'Hot and bothered' is more like it," I murmur, a familiar throb echoing through my body.
Her eyes bear into mine, earnest, fervent, darkened by what I pray I'm not imagining to be arousal.
I swallow against the thickness that suddenly begins tightening in my throat, dropping my eyes for a moment simply to collect myself. Though there's a very good chance that I might spontaneously combust if I continue, something—the way she stares so deeply, so intently, searching—urges me to continue.
Finally, I find my voice, hiding somewhere low in my chest, and I murmur, "It was this…"
My hand drifts from her shoulder to her neck; I touch the rough edge of her collar gently, allowing my fingertips to play over the thick material in a way that I couldn't permit myself to earlier. Nerves fire all at once, the coarse consistency of the faux-leather seductive, enchanting, and Quinn's eyes, ever so intently focused, so profound in their strange mix of radiance and depth, drop from mine, drifting down towards my wrist, focusing there, because my hand is a bit too far beneath her chin for her to be able to see it.
"I—it—" Breathing slowly, I try again. "It sounds silly of me, but… I really like it."
The gleaming steel of the collar's perfunctory D-ring, lustrous, like a loop of cerulean quicksilver, is cool beneath my fingertips, smooth and beguiling to my skin, and the subdued chill travels the circuits of my nerves until it navigates a route to my spine, tingling, wrapping thickly and trickling all the way down. I fight a tremulous quiver, the seam of my jeans suddenly too close, too torturous to my throbbing core.
When I try to speak again, commanding myself to finish what I started—even though I feel like, at any moment, I'll either start grinding myself shamelessly against her or just have a spontaneous orgasm on the spot—my throat is tight, and the pitch of my voice sharpens. "When you started wearing it, I…"
I honestly considered running for the ladies' room, just to—
Trying again, I change tactics. "Today, having touched it, I just…"
I almost threw myself at you, then and there, in the library…
With a sigh, commanding myself to be honest, I finally admit, "It was driving me crazy," and even though I'm relieved to get it off my chest, I can't help feeling a small degree of shame. This fixation I have, a fetish for something so small—I feel foolish, juvenile. I press my eyes shut briefly, suffering beneath the deep, burning heat of indignity. The last thing I want is for Quinn to think that I'm so sexually naïve that—
Soft, ghost-like fingertips trace the curve of my jaw; murmured words find my ears. "Look at me."
The familiar rush of arousal, so quick to return whenever she instructs me to comply, coordinating my actions, orchestrating my reactions with only her dulcet, honeyed commands, is muted under the shroud of my embarrassment—but it's still there, still swelling heavily, low, deep, in my stomach, nonetheless.
Drawing in a last, carefully measured breath, I obey, opening my eyes to meet her gaze.
Tenderly, she strokes my cheek. "Don't be embarrassed," she says, and she emphasizes her words, soft as they are, with a similar shake of her head—then a subtle, ludic grin. "I've been wearing it for you."
Me? Confused, I can feel my brow contract, drawing together. How could she have known—?
"The first day," she begins, eyes averted, her voice low, "it was on a whim," and, soon, her gaze is rising to meet mine, virescent, luminous, and pervasive as she murmurs, "but when I saw your reaction…"
Her eyes darken, verdant irises shrinking behind blown pupils. Heat begins to pool in my stomach, a deep-reaching fire that spreads rapidly from my core to my limbs, rushing skyward to color my face.
"You—but—" I fumble helplessly. "So, you were wearing it all this time to… tease me?"
She knew? She knew what she was doing to me, and she—she was doing it on purpose? She—?
At her low, smoky laughter, the tips of my ears burn, blood pulsing, thick, in my veins, my heart's rhythm hammering in my eardrums, threatening to deafen me. My fragile composure weakens, caving.
Deft, skilled fingertips sweep from my jaw to my throat, a tiptoe trail downwards, accommodating the curve of my shoulder, feather-light, torturous, flitting from my jejune, undeveloped triceps to my biceps and downward further—and I'm trembling beneath her touch, praying that she doesn't notice, until, finally, her busy hand joins the other at my waist, and they both trace a burning path down to my knees.
"How you do think I've felt seeing you in those skirts for three years?" she murmurs quietly.
My face flushes hotly, but not due to modesty. "That's different," I gasp. "They're just skirts."
She shakes her head, masking a faint smile, before her eyes fall from mine, her gaze directed down to settle on her hands. "With these legs?" she says, almost rough enough to sound rhetorical. Her fingertips trail blazing paths up my thighs, even through the thick material of my jeans. "They're torture, Rachel."
I swallow thickly, a dense, mewling breath escaping my parted lips, heat flaring, blistering at each point of contact between us and echoing directly to my steadily throbbing, thrumming core, translated from degrees into liquescent fire, until my arousal threatens to consume me, my pussy begging for release.
Quinn's hands stray further, higher, nearing my hips, thumbs grazing my inner thighs, and, before I can even try to stifle it, a desperate groan escapes me. Helpless, my eyes roll closed. "Oh, Quinn…"
A wave of estrus fervor betides me, warming my already heated body to an insufferable degree. It hits me hard, dense and striking, jolting, a clash against the cool air, and as goosebumps rise along my skin, I can feel the tension in my groin tighten, my nipples stiffening against the unforgiving material of my bra.
"You are so beautiful…"
At her words, the same phenomenon recurs, and I grip her shoulders tightly, biting hard on my lip. If she continues any longer, one of two very humiliating things will occur. My body trembles at her touch; I can barely breathe; the throbbing in my pussy begs for reprieve or release—and I try to find the words, I try to recall their sounds, how to make them, how to verbalize anything, but eloquence fails me. "Quinn—"
A soft groan echoes my own. Unable to fully open my eyes, I can just see through the obscurity of my lashes that Quinn's head has fallen back against the back of the couch. Her hands grip my waist tighter, the muscles of her throat working against the leather collar, a light flush rising from beneath it.
The sight triggers a familiar jolt of arousal, yet I have no idea what I did to elicit such a reaction.
"You'll have to be careful about that, you know," she mumbles, allowing her hold on me to relax a fraction of its original intensity. Forcing my vision to focus, I fix my eyes on hers, seeking answers, only to exhale a small whimper when I find a kindling hazel fire within them. She breathes steadily, tongue darting out to wet her lips, before she continues, in a tone reminiscent of my erotic fantasies, "When I hear you say my name, it—" Her lips quirk upward, sporting a wry smile. "Let's just say, I might forget my manners."
Oh, my God— The depths of her eyes smolder with a buried passion, dousing me in liquid desire. I want nothing more than to crush her lips to mine, to grind my hips down into her, searching for release, but, despite my inexorable arousal—obvious via the warmth diffusing across my cheeks, my perpetually parted, swollen lips, and my rapidly oscillating diaphragm; not so obvious, yet palpable, via the painfully stiffened nipples beneath my bra, the slick heat collecting between my thighs, the throbbing of my pussy—I find that I'm laughing quietly to myself instead, empathizing with her quiet confession. Her voice does unspeakable things to me, even if she doesn't realize it. I offer her a tremulous smile. "I know what you mean…"
Gazing down into her eyes, I consider my predicament, and I really don't know what, exactly, I'm supposed to do now. She's already assured me that we don't have to engage in any form of intercourse, but now that I'm here, so unbelievably ready, I realize that I will be severely disappointed if we don't.
Kissing her in the auditorium—at the time—had felt like a mistake, but only because I had no idea what I was thinking, or what I was doing, and because I had no idea how she would react. I couldn't surely tell myself whether or not I would even survive the ordeal without breaking down due to severe humiliation and shame—but being here, in this dark, vaguely blue apartment, on her lap, with her hazel eyes locked on mine, none of this feels like a mistake. All of the silly, preconceived notions I used to hold about "the right time" for everything seem, suddenly, even more like frivolous, insubstantial fantasies than they did at first. As far as the right time goes, I can't envision a better one than this; I can't imagine a time that I would feel any safer, more content, or more comfortable than I am here, now, sharing time with her in this moment.
I don't know if she can see it on my face, this abrupt bout of enlightenment, this sudden epiphany, but the way that she regards me begins, by degrees, to change, her eager, inquisitive gaze searching deeper, alight with the soft, glistening specters of curiosity. "Where did you go just now?" she asks, at a volume so low that I almost miss it entirely. Her thumbs massage soothing circles into my hips over my jeans, grazing, just barely teasing the sensitive stretch of skin above my belt loops, dipping beneath the hem of my shirt.
It seems inappropriate, somehow, telling her that, honestly, I'll be disappointed if nothing happens between us—even though I've already admitted to her that I had been under the impression that it was quite literally the reason we came here in the first place. Instead, I try to divert my attention, reigning in my stray thoughts, and, in the midst of my distractive techniques, my eyes are drawn down to her lips instead.
Juvenile as it may sound, I want to kiss her so badly…
My mouth starts moving before I collect myself, words betraying me. "I was just—" I say quietly, but I lose myself somewhere in the middle, unconsciously trailing my hands along her shoulders. "I just…" I can't draw my gaze from her velvet lips; I speak again on a breath, low, swift. "Can I kiss you again?"
A half-smile tilts her lips, charming as ever, and my stomach lurches with familiar attraction.
Shaking her head, she assures me, "You really don't need to ask, Rach."
I expect to feel awkward, gazing down into her eyes, permission to proceed granted, but unsure of how to continue—yet when I rationalize it to myself, I'm comforted by the reminder that this isn't our first kiss. The first hurdle has already been vaulted; I've already swallowed my pride and kissed her, and she has done the same. Now, I'm sitting here, close in a way that's increasingly intimate, and she wants me to, and I want to—God, do I want to—and I'm determined not to let my apprehension get the best of me.
My pulse quickens. It's remarkably easy to track my fingertips from her shoulders up to her neck, catching my breath, leaning down to close the delicate distance between us—easy because one of her hands still rests on my hip, her thumb playing along the waistband of my jeans, teasing my skin, while the other is trailing up my arm, a feather-like touch raising goosebumps in its wake, fingertips caressing my cheek for a moment before following the curve of my jaw down to my neck, rounding, slipping into my hair; and when our lips finally meet, her warm breath, hot tongue against mine, it's just as electric as it was the first time.
It doesn't take long before the sensation of her lips melding into mine, heated, eager, meeting each desperate kiss with fervent ardor, induces each of the latent, lecherous thoughts that I've harbored for three years to come to mind. The faux-leather against my fingertips, with its coarse, tantalizing edges, only urges me on, my desire for her growing exponentially each profound, breathtaking instant, with each brush of her swollen lips against mine—and when her hand glides up my back, following the arc of my spine, fingertips splayed between my shoulder blades, I can't restrain the lewd, unseemly sound that escapes me. "Quinn…"
Her hand on my hip tenses, grasp tightening, before it relaxes completely and releases; circling her arm swiftly, securely around my waist, her warm, toned forearm presses close against the small of my back, and her hand dips beneath the fabric of my T-shirt, teasing, thrilling against the heated flesh of my stomach, tracing shapeless patterns up my side, fingertips searching, memorizing. I groan helplessly into her mouth.
My body aches, suffering under the feverish fervor of familiar heat, and I realize that I'm trying to press myself closer to Quinn, longing to feel more of her, but there's too much distance between us, a void between our hips. The only available contact I can secure is chest-to-chest, urging forward to meet her, and, while, when I meld into her, my nipples ache against my bra, the friction torturously sweet, I need more.
I try to shift closer, to straddle her hips instead of her thighs, searching for any merciful pressure I can find, only to have Quinn's gentle hands fall once again to my own hips, urging me to keep my distance.
Before I have a chance to question myself, to wonder what I've done wrong, or if I've crossed the line, or to grow embarrassed about my obvious desperation, Quinn raises her hand, grasping the back of my neck and pressing a deep, hot kiss to my lips that literally steals my breath. Her voice escapes her through a harsh, breathless pant. "How—" She steals another kiss, and several more, intermittently, as she continues, voice low with subtle difficulty, "—versed are you in the—the, uh—mmm—the gossip mill lately?"
The familiar pinching of my brow returns, and the tug of a frown commandeers my lips, but, even so, I can't keep them from returning to hers, quickly finding myself addicted to her mouth.
"What do you mean?" I ask, rushing it out on a single breath.
"It's just—" When my tongue traces her bottom lip—dear God, I've dreamt about doing that—she stops speaking completely, forgoing the attempt at all, her hand once again finding its way into my hair and pulling me close, crushing our mouths together in the fiercest, hottest kiss that I've ever imagined receiving from anybody, let alone the girl of my dreams. She groans into my lips, her hand loosely grasping my hair, breathing heavily through her nose, humming once more, before pulling back. "It's just—lately, there have been some—" I can't let her finish speaking without kissing her again. "Rumors," she says. "Rumors about me, and, uhm…" She pauses, pulling back, breathless, but, suddenly, focused, to look into my eyes. "About me and a… condition," she says, taking time to choose her word carefully, "that I may be suffering from."
I force myself to still, urging my desperate motions to cease, because I can tell this is important to her. The sudden intensity of her eyes, brow furrowed, her muscles tensed nearly to the point of anxiety, and the tightness of her jaw betray her. Her hands, on my hips, are still, gaze begging a response.
There have been rumors about her; numerous allegations, most of which are just the fabrication of baseless gossip that, really, has no actual significance—but the rumors spread fast and I have heard them. It certainly doesn't matter that Quinn was once revered as the queen of McKinley; people are just as quick to destroy her as they were to venerate her, and even those who worshipped the ground she walked on have an eye for blood. The Cheerios are the most wholly responsible for it all. Despite the fact that Quinn had once protected them all, they linger in the hallways now as she passes, muttering, tittering back and forth at each other, performing crude gestures and aiming their dirty gazes—murmuring about her abnormality.
Quinn's body is tense beneath mine, in a way that I desperately wish to remedy.
I sigh, exhaling her name, lifting my hand to caress the downy skin of her face, following the soft, yet defined, curvature of the heated, rubescent skin cushioning her cheekbone. "I, of all people, know quite well how much damage a rumor can do," I murmur, unable to keep myself from shaking my head, because it's so painful to see that she's still uncertain, still anxious. "Why would I ever listen to one about you?"
She doesn't hesitate before speaking, but her voice is hushed. "Because this one's true?"
Hazel eyes burning into mine, she shifts subtly beneath me. Her hands, still resting vaguely on my hips, tense, flexing, the muscles in her arms contracting just enough to bring me closer, drawn flush against the full heat of her body. My own body flushes a deep pink, quivering, at the mercy of her skilled hands on my waist, persuading me, directing me, controlling me. Finally, I'm given the pressure I've longed for, ever since I saw her this morning. Her hipbones are keen, insistent and unyielding beneath my inner thighs, and, between them—the source of all the rumors, buried beneath the velveteen fabric of her sweatpants, but just as prevalent nonetheless, inexpressibly hard, thick, and pressing ardently into the seam of my jeans.
Part of me can't help myself from thinking it. She's hard for me… Oh, my God, she's—so hard.
I groan shamelessly, wanton, at the sultry friction her erection kindles against my eager, throbbing sex. "It doesn't bother me," I gasp, my hands searching for the defined planes of her shoulders and gripping the toned flesh tightly, helpless; and I can't help myself from rolling my hips into hers, stoking the fire. Her hands tighten suddenly on my hips, her breath escaping her swollen lips in short pants—but I can't find the strength to force my eyes open to look, drowning in the midst of a thrilling, exhilarating swell of arousal.
The only coherent thoughts that circulate in my mind have to do with the fact that after three years of wishing, I'm, somehow, incredibly, living out my most coveted wet dream—Quinn's cock, hard for me.
I've dreamt of this moment for three years, countless fantasies spanning each day, each week, each month, ever since I had inadvertently stumbled upon her secret. Maybe it's the fact that I need to express to her just how long I've been waiting for this, for her, or maybe it's the fact that my inhibition and rationality have abandoned me, lingering somewhere far, far from my conscious thought as I grind my hips downward against hers—I don't know exactly what possesses me to say it; the words slip from my lips before I have a chance to think them through, or even to consider the fact that I might need to censor myself, and, through a heavy, labored breath, my mind on other things, I admit, "I've—I've known since sophomore year."
While her hands have been trained tenaciously, persistently on my undulating hips, matching their rhythm, urging them onward, to continue, the breathy sounds of pleasure rumbling from within her chest as we moved—now, she stills, breath catching, movement ceasing altogether. Her voice is hoarse. "What?"
Paralyzed, my body seizes mid-motion. Oh, God…
I force my heavy eyes to open, frantic, searching for her gaze with mine, and the blank expression that I'm met with makes me regret speaking. "I…" My voice abandons me, vocal chords stricken, still with dread. Rapid breaths pass through my lips, catching the airy strands of pink and blonde that frame Quinn's face, and they dance against her skin, but her impassive countenance remains unchanged.
Rachel Barbra Berry, what have you done…?
"I'm sorry." The words escape again, pouring from my lips without resistance. "Are you—?" The look on her face is absolutely unreadable, inscrutable and unresponsive. "Quinn, I—" I try to swallow back my infectious angst, compulsively seeking anything that might assuage her. "I-if you're mad—"
Her voice silences me, the lifeless tone like a knife to the chest. "You knew?" she asks, finally.
I did know. I found out on accident, completely by chance, in September of our sophomore year. I cringe; it seems like every quivering muscle in my body contracts, like fear suddenly condensing, pulling in on itself from somewhere deep inside of me, threatening to crush me. "Yes, but I— " I shake my head, lost, unable to find the words to make her understand. "Nobody else knew, Quinn," I vow, holding her tightly. "I swear to you." Gazing down into those hazel eyes, I finally see the flicker of something behind them, just a hint of a deeper recognition—yet I can't say for sure if it's a good thing or not. "I never told anybo—"
Molten lips smother mine into silence, fierce, like fire, and intense. I gasp into her mouth.
Oh, God. Is this going to be some misguided round of angry sex? No—no, this isn't how it—
My harrowing thoughts fail to reach their conclusion; her mouth, so hot and so sensual against my own, electrifying, titillating—turning me on, despite it all—melts away swiftly. "You're amazing."
Before I can begin trying to comprehend the causes and implications of her sudden confession, my center of gravity banks hard to the right. Vertigo descends; the world tilts, and, suddenly, a plush resistance gives way beneath my back—Cushions? The sofa?—and the toned, firm heat of Quinn's body covers mine. One of her hands is braced at my side, above my shoulder, sinking into the sofa below, the other entwining deft, delicate fingers through my hair, threading from the base of my neck upward, drawing on it softly.
Her lips sear my own. Her stomach, taut, defined, is level with mine, seeking contact, unrelenting; her hips are warm and deliciously hard, nearly sharp, buried deep between my thighs—but, even now, she's being careful, centered too low, too far away for me to feel her arousal the way I'm sure she can feel mine, pressing insistently up against her, demanding friction, when her feverish lips stray to my jaw, my neck…
Suddenly, I don't care what makes me so "amazing." The only thing that matters is the quick throb of desire emanating from the tempestuous heat of my core, surging outward to every nerve in my body.
What little breath I have flees my lungs as she teases my pulse with her tongue. "Quinn…"
As her teeth dip close, digging deep into the skin overlaying my jugular, the sting sultry, sharp, the sound that issues from my trembling, swollen lips is nothing short of a desperate whine.
My hands—which had been uselessly clutching her decidedly insubstantial tank top—finally wake from their paralysis, and, aching to feel more of her, to feel all of her, I slide them down, drawing along the toned ridges of her obliques, grasping impulsively for her hips. I can barely murmur, "Quinn—I—oh, God, Quinn—I want to feel you," as she works on my neck, before I wrench her up, closer, into me, desperate.
Finally, the pressure I've longed for returns, her stiff cock straining against my jeans, and my eyes roll back, followed by an unintelligible whimper that, at any other time, any other instance without Quinn's erection grinding down into my pussy through our clothes, would be humiliating; yet, right now, nothing is humiliating. I couldn't care less about the sounds I'm making, anesthetized by my desire—and, maybe just a bit more by the deep, breathless groan that Quinn directs into my ear, mumbling, "Fuck—Rachel—"
My weakness—another wet dream; her gentle, mezzo-alto voice rough, rumbling with profanity… In my fantasies, there's nothing sexier than her voice and the things she says to me, and it proves true now.
I breathe heavily into her neck. The textile design of my blue jeans is too tight, uncompromising in their shape, restrictive and inhibiting my movements, and I detest them far more now than before, because I can't feel her as fully as I want to. I'm haunted, exasperated by my prescient decision to forgo a skirt.
Though I could literally curse myself for my decision—for being so intuitive, I certainly didn't see this coming—swiftly, her lips are on mine again, drowning out my wayward thoughts. The hand that was in my hair has traveled lower, teasing my skin as it goes, before coming to a resting place against my hip, and pressing intently into me. I realize rather suddenly that, in my delirium, I'm arching my back away from the cushions beneath me, pushing myself up and into her, trying, futilely, to feel more—and she's trying to stop me, to dissuade me and stifle my movements, not very effectively, by bearing me down into the sofa.
Our lips part, lungs burning, laboring, seeking oxygen; harsh, dense drafts of carbon dioxide from each of our mouths coalesce into heated vapor between us—but I don't breathe. I force myself to speak.
"What's wrong?" I gasp, gripping her tank top to steady myself. "Why are you—?"
Her body is taut above me, but she softens faintly, leaning close to press her forehead against mine gently. "Trust me, Rach," she murmurs, her heated breath bathing my face, "I want this." A vague sense of dread begins to swell in my chest, and I brace myself for the pitfall, waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop—but her eyes open, lifting to meet mine, and the hazel depths are warm with genuine concern, sincere despite their igneous intensity. "I just want to be sure that you've really thought this through."
My heart throbs, and, if my mind wasn't so deeply immersed in other things, I'd hug her.
Even now, when I can feel her body trembling above and against my own, muscles quivering from the exertion of restraining herself, she's more concerned about protecting me and keeping me from making a decision that I may, in theory, regret. I could crush her into an embrace for being so thoughtful, but shake my head instead. What she doesn't know is that there is no possible way, there are no unforeseen outcomes, that could ever make me regret giving myself to her. Whatever happens afterward—let the consequences be damned. If my certainty is the only thing that she's worried about, then there's no point in stopping.
"I have." Wetting my lips, I steal a breath before I continue. "I have thought it through," I promise her, and I draw my hand up, grasping the back of her neck for leverage as I tilt up to kiss her. My hips slant upward of their own accord, unintentionally, seeking out the lost friction that I've been denied, and, though she tries to remain still, her body twitches into mine. It takes a considerable amount of effort to speak. "I—yes, Quinn, please—you—oh, you have no idea h-how many times I've thought it through."
I've thought it through nearly every day for the last three years. I've thought it through each of the one hundred and eighty days of the school year, gazing at her during class, watching her face contract over puzzling mathematics; in Glee, watching her flit about the room like she was born to perform. I've thought it through lying in bed each night after our rehearsals, her voice lingering in my ears, echoing in my mind. I have thought it through in the shower, in the car, all over Lima—and, now, there is no room for doubt.
Still, she resists me. Despite my wanton confession, she hovers above me, refusing to give me the contact that I crave. Her hips angle themselves out of my confined reach, centered low once again.
I try to lift myself to reach her, even just for a kiss, only to fall short. Letting myself sink back into the cushions beneath me, I feel childlike, small, like, despite my certainty, she isn't taking me seriously.
Despondent, I search her impenetrable, verdurous eyes. "You don't believe me?"
Subdued laughter issues from her lips, but it's strained, directed inward and disparaging. "I believe you, Rach," she murmurs. "Trust me—" her eyes drift downward to her loins discretely, where the material of her sweatpants is taxed, overextended, and I follow her gaze, helpless, wetting my suddenly dry lips, "—I believe you." Her eyes return to mine, imploring me to understand. "I just have to be careful."
At a loss, missing something that's obviously very important, I try to clear my head. "Why?"
"Because if you tell me you're ready—honestly ready, Rachel—there's no telling what I'll do."
Oh. I swallow audibly, compulsively, my heated sex seizing, clenching tightly at the thought.
No telling what she'll do— "What if that's what I want?" I ask breathlessly.
Exhaling a slow sigh, she allows her head to drop, hiding her face. "Rach…"
The last thing I want to do is frustrate her, but I have to make her understand what I mean.
"Quinn…" I close my eyes, just for a moment, before lifting my hand to her face, trying to get her to look at me. Her eyes meet mine reluctantly and, too soon, search for a reprieve, but I urge her to hold my gaze. "I'm—I'm serious about this, Quinn," I assure her, my voice low. "I know this may seem—well, it is sudden, but I-I… I want you so much." My heart squeezes, a sharp pang. "I have wanted you, for so long." Despite being sure of my intentions, the proper words elude me. "Obviously, this… I want—I know you—I honestly have no idea how you feel, if you feel anything for me, but—" I nearly roll my eyes at myself; I'm doing a spectacular job of making absolutely no sense. "Yes, I do want more than this. So much more, but, Quinn, I swear—I'm not usually—but if—if we don't do something soon, I'll have to do it myself…"
Oh, God. I nearly choke on my humiliation. I just said that. Why did I just say that?
Her reaction is not the one I'm expecting. Instead of giving me a small, awkward smile, or—best-case scenario—jumping my bones, her eyes dilate, pupils distending to conceal her viridescent irises.
Face flushed with heat, she shifts lower still and adjusts herself vertically. "Do it," she breathes.
My cheeks burn, a furious fire breaking beneath my skin. "Quinn—?" Is she serious?
"Please, Rachel," she murmurs. Her hands grip the cushions, knuckles whitening. "Please—"
I reach compulsively for the button of my jeans, popping it open and urging the material an inch or two lower to allow myself some room. A small part of me can't believe that I'm going to do this—that I'm about to touch myself in front of Quinn Fabray, the girl I've been crushing on from the moment I met her—but the larger, irrational part of me doesn't care about modesty, limited to acute details, like my entire body throbbing, and Quinn looking at me like she's going to rip the sofa apart with her bare hands.
My breath catches when my hand brushes the bare skin of my stomach; my shirt has risen a couple of inches due to the struggle I had with my jeans, and the sudden contact is jolting. Already, my chest rises and falls with fervor, heaving like my lungs have given out, and I haven't even reached the elastic band that secures my mini cotton boyshorts around my hips. I swallow and push my hand past them quickly, too hot, too desperate to tease myself any further, and Quinn's eyes, fixed, dilated, burn into mine, hazel fire, when my fingertips first sink into the wet heat between my thighs. I moan helplessly at the meager contact.
Masturbation isn't foreign to me. I've been touching myself to thoughts of Quinn ever since I was fifteen. Even still, throughout those years, I have never been as thoroughly drenched as I am now.
I have to force my eyes closed, just for a moment, because it's so good just to feel something, after all the teasing that I've suffered—but I can't intentionally keep myself blind for long, not with Quinn above me, watching me. When a groan escapes her lips, one hand having found its way to my thigh, her fingertips flexing, grasping tightly, I can't refrain from searching out her gaze, groaning when I meet it. "Quinn…"
Under the intense scrutiny of her eyes, my body burns. My fingers circle my clit rapidly. I need to feel her—God, I'm actually doing this in front of her; I need to feel her. I need her lips on mine. My mouth is dry, parched from the sheer amount of oxygen that I'm gasping into my lungs, and I try to slow the rapid movements of my fingers, buried in my boyshorts, to no avail. I grasp Quinn's shoulder with my free hand, and the muscle, toned from years of cheerleading, beneath the skin makes my knees weak. This is real.
My whole body throbs violently. I'm masturbating in front of—underneath—for Quinn.
God, how I wish her fingers were in my pants, not mine. Yet, unlike the hundreds of times before, I don't feel ashamed, because the look on her face and her swift, shallow breath promise me that it's okay.
Holding onto her shoulder isn't enough to satisfy my longing for her skin. "Kiss me," I gasp.
She complies without delay, leaning down swiftly, pressing a hot, eager kiss against my lips, and I can't help myself, arching up into her, using just that much more pressure against my intemperate sex. The technique is uncontrolled, my fingers slippery, imprecise, but, even so, even rushed and inexpert, I can feel the familiar build of a climax low in my stomach—and I still can't believe that Quinn is going to witness it.
A vague, keening sound reaches my ears, and I realize after a moment that it's me. I'm making the most pathetic sound, all but whining against Quinn's lips as I touch myself, driving myself toward the edge of release—but, suddenly, her mouth is gone, and I can only feel her breath on my face, short bursts of heat that only torment me further. "Qui—" I break off into a heady sigh. I can't even concentrate long enough to say her name. "Quinn, please." I search for her lips—I need to feel her; as close as I am now, I still can't let myself come without feeling her—and she presses her mouth quickly to mine before slipping away again.
I mewl into her mouth, searching for something else, anything else, to use as leverage, in hopes of convincing her to return her mouth to mine so that I can— I whimper, "Stop teasing me, please."
She obeys; a fleeting kiss. "Rach—mmm—" Another kiss. "I want—I can't—I want to see you."
Though I flush deeply, I can't satiate the urge to feel her with intermittent kisses that disappear far too quickly to linger. "Please," I beg. Right now, I'll beg without complaint. "Later, I'll let you—Quinn—"
Growing desperate, I search even more fervidly for an advantage; the only thing readily accessible to me is the course band of faux-leather clinging to her elegant throat. I don't have time to think over all the possible repercussions—my covetous subconscious takes control, and I grasp the leather in my hand, using the thick resistance of the collar to pull her down to me, more vigorously than I'd expected, for a kiss.
Our lips meld together, molten with a sudden deluge of passion. Her resistance dissipates, and she forgoes any attempts to fight me. Instead, a torturously slow, elongated breath escapes her, exhaled through her nose, and her hips surge forward, meeting mine, exerting their own tremulous stress against the back of my already furiously working hand, doubling the agonizing pleasure of pressure against my swollen clit.
In the midst of the moment, I lose myself completely, groaning, convulsing, whining—and when I come back to myself, fighting my way to the surface against the sultry flare of desire, I realize that my hand has wound its way to the back of Quinn's neck, the rugged strip of her collar still grasped in my trembling, nerveless fingers, and I'm tugging sharply, unknowingly, drawing it tightly against her sculpted throat.
Shocked, I almost let go, but Quinn's eyes bear into mine, neutralizing the reflex; a low, rumbling growl escapes her, choked off at her throat, but emanating from deep within her chest. "Pull harder."
The perfervid, lustful combustion that diffuses deep within her virescent, hazel eyes is liquidizing, unnerving, sensual and absolutely maddening. Swallowing against the narrow contraction that encompasses my own throat—solely the result of desire, lacking any physical pressure—I comply, tightening my grip on her collar and pulling harder, diligently, roughly, while my other hand works frantically against my clit.
She swallows, the action labored, difficult against the pressure, the muscles of her throat straining against the rugged material. A guttural reverberation emanates from her chest; a hot efflux of raw, irregular gasps catching and rushing against the torrid, rubescent flesh of my face. Oh, my God—
I feel like I could come at any second, but I realize, too late, that I don't want to do it alone.
"Touch yourself," I gasp, and I couldn't care less that I've lost what little tact I possess. "Please."
Quivering, her face and neck flushed deep crimson, Quinn lowers her hand to the waistband of her sweatpants and fumbles briefly before she pushes it shakily inside. A hoarse groan issues from her lips, and my clit pulses violently beneath my frenzied fingers. Oh, God. I desperately want to see exactly what she's doing, to memorize every technique that makes her tremble and moan, but I'm already hurtling too quickly toward the edge, just watching the vague, steady motions of her hand through the shroud of her sweatpants, feeling the igneous heat of the back of her neck against my fingers, watching the deep, roseate flush spread from her throat, into her cheeks, burning in the tips of her ears. It's almost embarrassing how quickly I feel myself coming undone beneath her—but her rapt attention on my face makes me feel perfect, beautiful.
My body tenses with each successive circle around my clit, desperate, to the point that I arch away from the sofa, my hips canting up from the cushions to meet my fingers, shuddering with each thrust. I lock my eyes on Quinn's, watching the color drain and bloom across her face, our eager hands grazing another.
I ease my hold on the collar, releasing the taut pressure against her throat, unsure how much is too much. The sound that escapes her, once the compression dissipates, tears through me, a harsh, throaty salvo signifying a sudden liberation, the deepest groan I've yet to hear come from her lips; her shuddering breath and the instant, unintentional lurch of her hand within her sweatpants elicits a tidal surge of pleasure to rush through me, jolting, abrupt—and, suddenly, my nails are digging into Quinn's shoulder, and I'm struggling to keep my eyes open, studying the endless depths within her blown pupils as they watch me fall apart; and the pressure inside reaches deeper, deeper, until it shatters through a breaking point and I come hard against my clumsy, disorderly fingers, my head rolling back into the couch, my eyes torn from Quinn's, into black.
I collapse. The aftershocks tingle, synapses sputtering in remnant echoes. Blood rushes in my ears, nearly deafening in volume, intensity; the only other thing I can still hear is Quinn breathing, rapid, shallow intakes through her trembling lips vaguely above me. The faint and tremulous heat of her body is just out of reach. Warm skin against my hand—my fingers are wet, immersed in sultry, humid fire. My body quivers.
Oh, God. Quinn Fabray, girl of my dreams, just watched me fuck myself—while I choked her?
Of the two, I don't know which is the more embarrassing: the fact that I came so ridiculously hard in such a short amount of time, or the fact that, in actuality, I came at the sound of her voice…
I swallow my heart—pulsing thickly in my throat—and shudder against my twitching fingers.
Soon, I realize that I'm breathing heavily, almost as heavily as Quinn is, and when I blink my eyes open, the first thing I'm met with is the arm of the sofa, but I find the strength to urge my gaze downward. I meet Quinn's hazily. Her verdant eyes bear into me so intently that I'm stilled by erogenous shock.
Her hand has been withdrawn from her sweatpants, but the deep, burning flush lingers beneath her skin, her eyes lit with a fire that I have only ever dreamt of having directed at me. I make a futile attempt to regain the oxygen that I've lost, my body doused with an unreserved wave of heat, even though I just came explosively seconds ago—because that's just what she does to me, how fluently she affects me—and when she lowers her eyes ever so slowly, until they reach the general area of my hips, fixating on my hand, which is still buried in my underwear, her own hands rise ever so slowly to my waist, her labored breath audible; she takes my unfastened jeans into her hands and begins to drag them, torturously slow, down my legs.
Her blunt fingernails sear lingering tracks into my thighs as they work down my jeans. I groan, but I force my precariously placed fingers to remain still, fighting the urge to continue pleasuring myself.
With my jeans only halfway down my thighs, Quinn's breath catches.
The general outline of my hand, beneath my plain cotton boyshorts, is obvious, and while I should feel a little ridiculous, I'm finding that the look on Quinn's face is just about lecherous enough to make me ignorant of my self-conscious distress. There isn't much room for her to draw my jeans any lower, because, kneeling between my thighs as she is, she can't get them off, but she bypasses that problem easily, lowering her hand to my exposed, quivering stomach instead and focusing on a different object altogether.
Fluttering fingertips and the sheer heat of her palm against my skin have me groaning again, under my breath, and her hand begins to trail lower, torturously, tracing a burning path downward, but I can't take any more teasing, even though I've gotten to relieve some of the tension, and, before I can stop myself, my previously occupied hand, swiftly withdrawn from my saturated boyshorts, is covering Quinn's, pressing it harder into me. My fingers are glossy, slippery, and, ultimately, a mess, and it's hard to get a good grasp on her hand, but if the way her fingers tense beneath mine, digging harder, is any indication, she doesn't mind.
"Fuck," she gasps, in that same guttural tone that I've fantasized about; my eyes flutter closed. Her other hand grips the cushion beneath us to brace herself as she leans into me. "You're so wet, Rach—"
I could laugh—she doesn't know the half of it—but I'm too painfully turned on for humor.
"You should—" I take a moment to swallow my arousal, speaking around it. I guide her hand into my boyshorts without hesitation, urging her lower, desperate. "Feel for your—" Her fingertips sink into the molten pool that my sex has produced, and my head rolls back. "—self-f-f—fu—oh, fuck, Quinn…"
The sexiest auditory note I have ever heard graces my ears, then, "My God—so fucking hot—"
It takes my faint, nebulous mind a moment to process the fact that she's really touching me.
My God—Quinn—Quinn's hand is—her fingers— Oh, my God.
A warm pressure meets my shoulder, stunted but heavy, and I can tell by the sudden volume of her breath, loud, fortissimo, next to my ear, that it's Quinn's forehead, damp with just the slightest perspiration. Her breath condenses in hot bursts against my neck, my chest, heated moisture drifting beneath the collar of my shirt. Her free hand has moved from the cushion to the arm of the sofa above our heads, and in the brief flashes of clarified vision, I can just see the muscles of her bicep straining as she braces herself against it.
Her hand works deftly, nimble, between my trembling thighs; her fingers circle my clit with all the uncertainty of a new lover, but the skill of someone who knows intuitively how to push my every button.
I don't want to think about the fact that she may have been with other girls, so I don't ask.
Instead, I grasp helplessly at the strong arc of her back with one hand, the other still locked around her persistently working wrist, buried in my underwear—and though I could literally lose all brain function, my rational mind reduced to a central receptor for overwhelming pleasure, I realize that I want to touch her. I need to touch her. Three years of wanting her, fantasizing about her, everything from her silken hair to her sculpted hips, to her perfect breasts and her stiff, unyielding cock, has me desperate and impatient.
Releasing my hold on Quinn's wrist, I withdraw my hand from my underwear, fingers still coated with my arousal, and search blindly for the thick, elastic waistband of her sweatpants. Flustered, I misjudge the distance, my fingers finding contact with her bare stomach instead, low, by her hips, where her shirt has risen. I track my hand lower, aching to feel her, spurred on by the quivering muscles at my fingertips.
As my hand strays lower, her circles quicken, and I gasp. She groans. "Rach, what are you—?"
I don't have an answer. I can only push my hand past the weak resistance of her sweatpants, and I have to extend my shorter arm as far as I can just to reach her, but it doesn't matter, because, once I do, and the firm length of her erection, ineffably hard, warm, is within my grasp, she thrusts hard into my hand with one of the most erotic sounds I've ever heard tumbling from her lips, a sensual compound between a groan and growl, so sexy that I have no choice but to return the favor, arching into her, mumbling incoherencies.
In any other situation, this would be uncomfortable. Her hips are still low, angled away from mine so she can work at the magic she's performing between my thighs more efficiently, and my arm is extended further than I'd once thought possible, but, now, I can't find it in me to care. I found enough research in my sophomore year to know that, without any kind of lubrication, masturbation is difficult—even for typically male anatomy—but, thankfully, I'm wet enough for both of us, and my slippery hand works well enough, it seems, because Quinn is struggling to keep her breaths even against my chest, and every now and then, her hips jerk forward abruptly, as if her body is out of her control, and I can't help but revel in the fact that I'm touching her and she's touching me—God, we're touching each other—and no amount of masturbation has ever been anywhere near as satisfying as this, no matter how deeply immersed I was in my fantasies.
It doesn't seem to matter that I have no prior experience; my unpracticed hand, working diligently against her shaft, elicits the groans, gasps, and mumbled words that I've always imagined slipping from her lips. I can just reach the base of her cock, my grasp tightening, and her hips jolt, lurching into my hand.
"Rach—" Her breath catches in her throat and she has to try again. "Rachel, wait—"
Her hand—the one that had been performing such erotic magic between my thighs, like mine now, wet, coated with my arousal—locking around my wrist stops me, ceasing my movement, and I legitimately find myself on edge, vague fear blanketing my body in a sheen of perspiration. What did I do—?
"What is it?" I ask, breathless, suddenly anxious, searching for her eyes. "What's wrong?"
My first instinct is to draw my hand away, but Quinn braces her free hand against the sofa, gazing down at me, and she fashions her lips into an unsteady smile, stilling my retreating wrist with the hand that has joined mine beneath the waistband of her sweatpants. "Nothing, Rach," she assures me, her voice shaky and low, rasping. "You're—you're perfect. I just—" She pauses, drawing in a long, slow breath. She closes her eyes briefly, but they return to mine moments later. "Can I take you to my bedroom, before—?"
My heart squeezes painfully; this has to be one of the sweetest things she could have asked me.
She swallows slowly, still trying to catch her breath. "I just want to—"
"Yes," I breathe, before she has a chance to finish, and I gently tug my wrist free of her grasp.
She exhales a relieved sigh. The tension of her body eases as she offers me a sincere smile.
I watch her hazily as she steadies herself into a kneeling position, gracefully navigating her way to the edge of the sofa, next to me, and I squeal loudly when I'm hoisted into her arms, bridal style.
Giggling helplessly, I secure my arms around her neck as she chuckles softly into mine.
I feel a bit silly, suddenly bashful as she carries me, my jeans still drawn halfway down my thighs, my boyshorts completely soaked through—but the fact that I can feel the firm, resilient pressure of Quinn's erection distinctly against my lower back with each fluid step she takes down the hall makes me feel better; and by the time she's nudged open her bedroom door with her elbow, crossed the room, and then collapses on top of me, heated, hard, and just heavy enough to remind me that this is real, on a mattress that feels like a downy cloud sent from heaven itself, the only thought I have about my jeans is that I want them off.
Her lips are on mine again, her dry hand in my hair—for my benefit, presumably—and, as close as we are now, I can feel the stiff insistence of her cock against my thigh, nearing where I want to feel her the most, but still so torturously far. As soon as I realize that the skewed fabric of my jeans is the only obstacle keeping her from settling between my thighs, where I need her, I begin desperately trying to kick them off, while simultaneously losing myself in the mind-numbing kisses Quinn continues to press to my lips.
Catching on, discerning the intention behind my frantic movements, she allows a last kiss to linger against my lips before she pushes herself up onto her knees, locking eyes with me briefly, and then helping me out of my jeans, tugging off my shoes with rapid, incomprehensible grace in the process.
She folds my jeans in half and deposits them at the far side of the foot of the bed, which is actually a great distance away from us, considering—but my inane thoughts dissolve when her tongue glides briefly across her bottom lip, hands settling gently on my bare thighs, beginning a delicate ascent, trailing upward.
Even without my jeans, I feel like I'm still wearing too many clothes—and, definitely, so is she.
My eyes drift from her face, breaking our gaze and pursuing the contours of her body downward, a quiet groan escaping my lips as my gaze settles on her hips, where her erection is visible through the fabric her sweatpants, extending the tensile material. I can't tear my gaze away, thrilled at the notion that, beneath that insubstantial barrier of thread, she's so aroused, her cock so obvious, so hard, because of me.
All worries of being indelicate or rude slip my mind. "Can I—" I wet my lips. "C-can I see you?"
For the first time today, Quinn appears mildly bashful. A light flush rises beneath the thick leather of her collar—God, that collar—her cheeks glowing, sanguine, the color flaring lightly to her ears.
With her eyes locked on mine, she must see something that she's been looking for—which makes me so giddy I could almost cry—because the corners of her lips lift into a subdued half-smile and she drops her head for a moment, huffing out a self-directed, conciliating sigh, threading her fingers through her hair.
"I'm taking it as a good sign that you touched me without running," she murmurs, "so… I'll gamble."
I want to say something, to assure her that all of the things the Cheerios are saying about her being a freak aren't true—but something tells me that this isn't the time, and when she tilts her head back, the soft grin on her face and the faint luminance of laughter in her eyes promise me that she's really only kidding.
My pulse flutters beneath my skin. Despite my arousal, fond devotion weakens my knees.
Her hands drop to the thin hem of her tank top, and, abruptly, the scales tip, and arousal clouds my mind once again. My stomach and my inundated sex contract simultaneously as, inch by inch, the gorgeous abdomen that I've secretly fantasized about worshipping for three years is revealed. She pulls the tank over her head swiftly, depositing it down at the foot of the bed with my jeans, and I barely have time to savor the sight of the pale, toned flesh of her stomach before her bra is unclasped and discarded, following suit.
Nearly salivating, eyes fixated, I gaze, enchanted, at her perfect breasts—petite, delicate, but by no means any less breathtaking, any less beautiful. My lips ache to kiss the small freckle that frames one of her flushed, piqued nipples; my palms tingle, nerves firing, longing to knead and caress her supple skin…
When her graceful hands drop to the waistband of her sweatpants, my eyes follow, and my mouth is suddenly devoid of moisture. My tongue darts out to wet my lips, but the sight keeps me breathless.
"Just so you know," she murmurs evenly, pausing until I've reluctantly torn my riveted gaze from her groin, meeting her eyes, before continuing. "Even after this, even if we end up completely naked…" An affectionate smile tugs at her lips, viridescent irises softening. "We still don't have to do anything."
Again, a steady throb emanates through my chest. I can't help melting at her words; promising me that we can stop at any time is about the sweetest thing I could wish from her. Still, I need her to know that I don't have the slightest doubt about my decision. As far as we've come, I wouldn't survive turning back.
"If you keep saying that," I breathe, trying vaguely to convey some humor, "I'm going to develop some sort of complex, or start thinking that—I don't know—that, maybe, you don't really want me."
A low, short burst of laughter emanates from Quinn's throat. She directs a pointed gaze downward to her hips, where her hands rest on the waistband of her strained sweatpants. "Really, Rachel?"
I try to stifle the grin that tugs at my own lips. At her words, a swell of pride heightens my arousal.
Before I realize that I'm speaking, my lips are forming words, escaping on my breath. "Show me."
Her eyes shift, darkening, perhaps at the heady desperation that's so obviously pervaded my voice, but her mouth curves upward into another innocent half-smile—or it would be innocent, if she wasn't about to reveal something to me that is decidedly very naughty and one of the farthest things from innocent.
I swallow tightly as her hands, with her thumbs tucked into the waistband of her sweatpants, begin to inch downward, lower and lower still, dragging the elastic with them, exposing the sharp indentations of her abdominal muscles, which cut deep, carving downward, seeming to go on forever. My heart hammers a violent rhythm against my ribs. Once the fabric begins to resist her movement, one hand leaves its post and slips beneath the elastic to take hold of what I know to be her earnest hard-on—which I have only ever seen once, vaguely, from a distance, two years ago—and I grow increasingly desperate as time ticks by.
Finally, she pushes her sweatpants down past her groin, though her other hand effectively conceals her erection. Her pants rest loosely around her thighs, suspended midway, much like my jeans had been just minutes ago, but my view is still impeded. A whine of frustration begins to collect in the back of my throat, and I'm just about to say something, when her lips twitch into a sly smile. She removes her hand.
My mouth is dry; all the moisture in my body surges south, flooding my pussy. I burn.
Quinn Fabray, the girl of my dreams, kneeling before me in nothing but a thick faux-leather collar, the silver buckle gleaming, aroused beyond belief, sweatpants pooled around her thighs—God.
Her face is careful, her eyes trained intently on mine, watching me, and I lick my lips, my face hot with lust, stealing one last glance at her tremendously hard—and, strangely, beautiful—cock, standing erect between her hips, still glossy from my wet fingers, before raising my eyes to hers and catching her gaze.
I have no idea what I should say—there are too many things going on in my mind to verbalize the right thing. I want to say something soothing, something reassuring, something with empathy and affection, to let Quinn know that I'm being honest, sincere, but the only thing that passes my lips is, "Mine?"
I should be humiliated. My face should be on fire.
I should be covering my mouth with my hands, horrified at myself, ashamed—but as a grin passes across Quinn's face, tugging at her pale lips, swollen from kissing, I find that I'm not embarrassed at all.
"Yeah," she murmurs with a chuckle, nodding. She presses her hand to her stomach, gazing down at her erection in what looks to be almost wistful acknowledgement. Her eyes return to mine. "Yours."
At that, I do flush, and my entire body seems to contract. My boyshorts cling uncomfortably to the slick heat between my thighs; my nipples strain against my bra. Mine. The thought resounds in my head.
Quinn— Flawless skin, toned body, perfect breasts, leather collar, beautiful cock— Mine.
I'm stricken by the compulsion to return my hand to my throbbing sex, but I desperately want it to be Quinn toughing me instead, so I try, with severe effort, to restrain myself, grasping the bed sheet. Before my struggle becomes too apparent, I notice the reticent depth of Quinn's eyes, and I focus on that instead.
"Would it be rude to say that you're overdressed?" she murmurs quietly, assuaging my confusion.
Absolutely not. I swallow against my sudden breathlessness. "Not if you plan to undress me."
She smiles, shifting forward on her knees—graceful, even inadvertently—ignoring her sweatpants, still suspended at her thighs, for the moment, and she allows her hands to settle on my hips, before her light touch flexes, tensing, and her biceps contract as she uses her tighter grasp to draw me closer to her.
The faint, fleeting breath I'd managed to amass in the interim rushes swiftly from my lips. God— I would let her bend me over her knee, over the side of the bed, as long as she kept her hands on me…
Her smile persists as she fingers the hem of my T-shirt, as if to ask permission, and I nod, to signal that it's okay for her to remove it. The curve of her lips steepens. She begins to urge my shirt upward, those feather-light fingertips grazing my skin, eliciting a shiver that I can't even hope to conceal, as goosebumps rise in their wake. The pressure intensifies until, somehow, using incredible strength, her hands, still lifting my shirt, draw my back up and away from the mattress beneath me, guiding me to sit up at the same time. I allow her to direct me, melting into her hands like sculpted wax, and I raise my arms obediently, at only the slightest shift of her gaze, the barest fluctuation of her smile, so she can pull my shirt over my head.
My top joins the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed, and while I expect my bra to go next, Quinn takes her time, her palms, delicate, warm, pressed against my ribcage, verdant irises trained on my body.
I feel exposed under her gaze, but pleasurably so, almost like a work of art, admired by its creator.
"You're so beautiful, Rachel," she whispers, evoking a deep, searing flush beneath my skin.
Her hands sweep lower, gentle, across my stomach, then skim higher, palms kneading the swell of my ribcage, and, weakened by her touch, I fall back onto my elbows. My chest rises and falls rapidly, lungs heaving. Delicate fingertips dance over the curves of my breasts, over my bra; a hushed groan builds in the back of my throat, and I have to fight just to keep my eyes open—entranced, spellbound by the transparent arousal, admiration, so obvious in her dark gaze—but when she dips her head to press her hot, moist lips to my chest, just below my collarbone, I arch backward helplessly and a whimper issues from my lips.
A soft salvo of successive kisses sears my skin and I search, blindly, with one hand, grasping, just to steady myself, at the nape of her neck, the soft, downy tufts of hair between my fingers. "Oh, Quinn…"
Her kisses become more insistent, trailing upward, towards my neck and I sink further into the bed beneath me, the arm that had kept me balanced collapsing as I melt into her. Desperate, mewling sounds fill my throat, escaping without my intention, but I can't even begin to feel embarrassed by it. I close my eyes, letting myself fall into the feeling, and I tremble at her tender caress, shuddering when her gentle fingertips urge the straps of my bra off of my shoulders, so that she can kiss along my collarbone uninterrupted.
Swift, shallow breaths flee my lungs; both of my hands wind through the fair, satin, silken locks of her hair as I gasp and pant beneath her, searching futilely for oxygen. Her hands caress my arms, almost as if showing her appreciation, before transferring again to my abdomen, then slipping beneath me. My spinal column arches at the sudden stimulation, fingertips awakening neglected nerves; she uses the opportunity to undo the clasp of my bra, following the path of the loose material with her hands, drawing it along slowly.
Abandoning my bra for the moment, she concentrates instead on her lips, which are working hotly against my shoulder, tongue and teeth teasing my skin. She presses one last fiery kiss to the junction of my neck and my shoulders and slips away, drawing my bra away from its place gently by the straps, and at the combination of her dusky, verdant eyes and the material of my bra grazing, torturously, across my straining nipples and eager flesh, I whimper quietly. My listless arms follow her lead, allowing her to remove it.
Her lips are moving, soft, murmuring tones falling from them, dulcet words that sound something, vaguely, to my inoperative ears like, "How are you so perfect?" but I can't find the words to argue with her, or even to provide an answer at all, because her agile hands are brushing the outer curves of my breasts and I'm suddenly on the verge of losing consciousness altogether. Before I can regain my breath, her hands are gliding downward over my trembling abdomen, toward the only remaining article of clothing on my body.
I swallow hard, my nerveless fingers wound tightly in her hair, and force myself to lift my head, in order to see her, to meet the impassioned, yet tender, searching intensity of her gaze.
With her fingertips just dipping beneath the elastic of my boyshorts, she whispers, "May I?"
She smiles that lazy half-smile, and I can't help a compulsive look down at her tenacious erection, still incredibly stiff, ready, completely bare to me except for the forgotten sweatpants pooled at her thighs.
Feverishly, I nod, all but begging her to continue. "Then you," I breathe, half gasping as I speak.
I have only enough presence of mind to respond; she nods, once, in agreement, and as soon as her fingers sink further beneath the waistband of my tiny boyshorts, beginning the torturous task of tugging the material down over my hips, her tongue darting out to wet her pink lips, I start losing myself again.
Her hands glide lower, circling beneath my body, blunt fingernails hedging my backside, and once the material passes over the minute swell of my flesh, her nimble hands round again to the top of my thighs and, drawing the material lower, finally expose my heated, glistening sex to the cool air of her bedroom.
I fight the reflexive urge to shiver, not only at the sudden, tantalizing chill, but also at the gaze that Quinn has trained intently between my hips. Darkened, hazel irises have been swallowed by endless depths, overcome by her blown, inky pupils, and she can't seem to look away, eyes riveted to my pussy; even when she draws my final undergarment down the length of my thighs, passing my knees, over my calves, and off, throwing them at the edge of the bed—her gaze never strays, black, starless, a ring of verdant fire burning.
She shifts closer, and the look on her face—God, it's almost reverent. I swallow compulsively.
"My God, Rachel…" Her voice is little more than a whisper. She braces herself on one arm as she leans forward. "I've thought about this— You have no idea how many times I've imagined—" Her hand on my thigh, the heat of her palm, has me quivering, her voice, her words, sinking into my skin, praises I don't deserve—but I melt beneath them, regardless. She shakes her head, almost as if it escapes her notice. "God, I never—" Heavy, rapid breaths pass her lips, while barely any escape mine. "Such a beautiful pussy."
I gasp audibly at her words, heat flaring through my body, a torrent of liquid fire surging, rushing, cascading into each and every vein, but my spine bows sharply, back arching off of and away from the bed, an involuntary moan, full-throated, resounding, pouring from my lips when, immediately following the soft utterance of her voice, the pad of her thumb traces the weeping cleft of my sex, from my swollen, throbbing clit down to my quivering entrance. "Quinn—" I grasp the bed sheets desperately when her thumb makes a return trip, following the same path in reverse. "F—" A faint groan issues from her lips, mirroring my own.
Oh, God, please. Please, please, please—
I try to ignore the fact that I'm spreading my legs for her, as obviously anxious and eager as I feel.
Quinn's hand disappears abruptly, and, painfully distressed at the loss of contact, my eyes wrench open, and I search wildly for the reason, only to find that she's following through with our prior agreement, pushing her sweatpants and boxers down her pale, sculpted thighs and then tugging them off completely.
Her eyes are still fixed on the apex of my thighs, wet and uncomfortable in the cold air without her familiar heat, and her movements are quick, unrefined and graceless, distracted. Settling on her knees once again, she rubs her hand absently across stomach—seemingly refraining herself from straying any lower—shaking her head softly to herself, a short, subdued rumble of pained laughter drifting from her lips.
"God," she breathes, stilling her tensed movements, "I don't even know if I'll be able to do this."
Something contracts in my chest, but I try not to jump to any conclusions. "What do you mean?"
"I'm so hard it almost hurts," she admits quietly, but her voice is light with an incredulous, nearly awed, tone of humor. A tinge of pink coloring her cheeks, she lifts her eyes to mine. "I'm fairly certain that I won't last very long." Swiftly, a darker shade of scarlet descends across her face, as if she's spoken out of turn. "If we even—well—if we were going to, uhm—you know—really—in the first place…"
As adorable as her rambling is, and as easily, rapidly as my heart flutters, my arousal demands that I focus, instead, on the task at hand—specifically her stiff, twitching cock, suspended between her thighs.
"Do you—" I swallow. It's difficult to find my voice, drowned somewhere beneath the liquescent, full-bodied heat of my desire, but, with a flush, I manage to ask, "I mean, can you come more than once?"
She lifts one of her shoulders into a brief half-shrug, color blooming beneath her skin, the warmth diffusing from the tips of her ears down to her neck. "Sometimes, I—" Her lips twitch upward. "Uh, yeah."
The compulsion to lick my lips—in anticipation, excitement—proves too strong to resist.
"I—maybe I can help you r-relieve some of the—the tension," I murmur, inadvertently stealing an instantaneous glance downward, following the sharp cut of her toned abdomen between her hips, further, to her erection, where my gaze settles, fixed, for a moment, as I swallow down a groan. I lift my eyes to meet hers again, fumbling over my words "I mean, I've already gotten to—once, and it's only fair—and—"
I want to. There are very few things, in this moment, that I could honestly say I want more.
The corners of her lips curve upward, lifting into a soft, dulcet smile, but she raises a single golden eyebrow only a second later, feigning her witty, lighthearted bravado. "What are you suggesting?"
"Everything." Anything. Whatever you want me to do. Just, please, let me touch you…
Her smile quivers, sharpening, her jaw straining, and her cock twitches almost imperceptibly.
Suddenly, I don't care about revealing how desperate I am. She wants me.
I find the strength to push myself upward, vertical, into a sitting position, wetting my dry lips with my tongue, and rise to settle on my knees. Quinn's eyes follow my movements, tracking from my quivering thighs, up my body, until they follow the reminiscent path of my tongue along my lips, and her irises shrink even further behind the profound, magnetic depths of her distended pupils when I raise my hand, guiding a stray lock of hair into its rightful place behind my ear, twirling the ends between my fingers nervously.
Though her body seems to proffer the answer, I have to ask, just to be sure, "Do you want me to?"
At my words, Quinn's abdomen tightens, the latent muscle beneath her skin suddenly defined, and she sucks in a breath, dropping her head as she pinches her eyes closed, her golden brow drawing together. "Fuck, Rachel…" Her hand moves instinctively to her cock, grasping, urging herself to calm down. "Yes."
Before I can take the time to talk myself out of it, to remind myself how naïve and inexperienced I truly am in regards to pleasuring anyone other any myself—let alone Quinn, with her stiff, beautiful cock—I shift closer to her, lifting my hand to push gently at her stomach, urging her down to the bed. "Lay back."
Her eyes widen, but she complies. "Are you really—?" She falls to her back with a small oomph.
Straddling her thigh, I adjust myself above her, dropping my gaze to her sizeable erection, covered by her hand. Even though I can't see the whole length, it really does look, as she'd said before, painful.
While I can feel her gaze, fixed, riveted, on my face, her eyes searching, I'm, suddenly, too deeply enamored with her cock to offer a definitive answer to her question; my lips move and shape the words, but they're not the appropriate response I'd hoped for. "In my fantasies," I murmur, my voice low, escaping on a shallow breath, "you practically can't help yourself, and you come in my mouth like I'm—"
Quinn groans and drops her head back to the bed, with enough force that the mattress dips beneath her, stomach twitching, her hand tightening its grasp on her cock as she murmurs my name rapturously.
A surge of arousal sears my veins, weakening me. My knees tremble, buried in soft, silken sheets; my arms, my hands, bracing my weight, are unsteady. I inhale a shaky breath, trying to collect myself; but I don't bother trying to finish my previous sentence, suddenly shy, devoid of my gossamer confidence.
"Still," I say quietly, reticently, almost as if trying, in some way, to retract the inappropriate things I've just said, "I've never actually done this, in practice, so… just… try to bear with me, okay?" Even though my face burns, my bottom lip drawn between my teeth, a small, wry chuckle escapes me as I settle my hand on her thigh to help steady myself. I'm not nearly as nervous about doing this as I should be.
Quinn's hoarse laughter sounds above me, tight and thin in her throat. "Are you kidding me?"
Her unhinged, desperate tone of voice piques my interest. I lift my eyes, begging an explanation.
"Rach, I—" She swallows, regrouping, her viridescent eyes pleading, yet, still, somehow, seeking to reassure me. "God, I'm so there that all you'd have to do is breathe on me and—"
Sweet, ever-loving— My body flushes hotly, contracting. "Really?"
Taken aback, as though she can't believe I'd even question her, she blinks. "I—yeah." She takes a breath and offers me an honest, innocent smile, even though her pale, flawless skin warms, coloring deeply. "No one else has ever made me respond like this, Rachel," she says, holding my gaze intently. With a shake of her head, she continues. "The first time I—" Embarrassed, the tips of her ears glow. "It was you…"
Me? The first time she—what? Somehow, not knowing exactly what is even more of a thrill.
I want to take the time to process all that she has just said, to appreciate the true significance of her confession—perhaps, to let it sink even further into my swollen ego—but the stimulation rushes directly to my eager, tumescent clit instead, and I realize that, at this moment, with Quinn's body practically vibrating beneath my fingertips, aroused beyond words, it's not the time to dwell on sentimentality, and though there are countless things I want to confess myself, right now, my mouth would be put to better use not talking.
Disregarding my urge to speak, I allow my gaze to drift downward, falling again to trace the sharp, defined cut of her hips, the paths leading to her groin. My eyes settle on her erection, still shaded mostly by her hand, which circles the swollen tissue in a stifling, smothering grasp, as if to subdue its enthusiasm.
Gazing down at her, still, for the moment, in awe, I almost feel guilty that she has been exerting so much effort to control herself. Her enthusiasm is something I certainly don't want her to subdue.
Softly, I urge her hand away. "Let me," I murmur, glancing up just in time to see her eyes flutter.
With a muted shiver, she complies, her trembling fingers relinquishing their hold on her erection.
From the very first moment I discovered Quinn's secret in sophomore year, I've always wondered what it would be like, just to feel her, to touch her, to have the freedom to explore her body. I've spent days fantasizing. What would she like? What would make her moan? Whimper? Say my name? It's always been my deepest, most insatiable wish to find out—but I never truly expected that I would get a chance. Looking down at her now, part of me can't believe that the opportunity has arisen. Still, I know that now's not the time to wade in nostalgia. Right now, it's time to procure the answers to the questions I've had for three years.
As softly as I can, I caress the heated skin of her hip with my palm, easing my way to her cock and circling it loosely, light, tender pressure, so that my touch doesn't surprise her. At the warm, stiff resilience of her cock in my hand, a harsh breath escapes me, my body throbbing—I touched her earlier, but now that I can see what I'm doing, now that I can control my actions and actually take the time to feel her, I burn just that much more—and at the warmth of my hand encircling her erection, her abdomen tightens, the muscles rippling, defined, beneath her skin. I wet my lips, panting, as I draw my hand upward, adding pressure, into one, slow stroke. With the slightest movement, a soft groan escapes her lips, and I know it's more about the fact that she's so hard, so ready, than any skill of mine, but the titillation of arousal still reaches my ego.
Starting a slow rhythm, I watch in awe as the very tip of her cock begins to glisten; she breathes in deeply above me, labored, one hand grasping the sheet beneath her tightly, her pale knuckles blanching.
Directing my gaze upward, settling on her face, studying her knitted brow and flushed cheeks, the light sheen of perspiration glossing her skin, I can't resist teasing her gently. "I thought you were there?"
Lip drawn between her teeth, she blinks up at me. "I'm trying really, really hard not to—"
When my thumb grazes the head of her cock, collecting and spreading the scintillating preseminal fluid that's gathered there until it coats the silken surface of her glans in its entirety, she shudders, and I can only imagine the way that she'll respond once I replace my hand with my mouth…
I make sure to keep my hand busy, continuing the steady rhythm that I've started, leaning down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the curve of her hip. Her skin is hot beneath my lips, and her muscles quiver beneath the skin. I string kisses toward her erection, softly, repressing my fervency, the warmth of her flesh increasing beneath my mouth the nearer I am to reaching my destination, so much hotter than her hip, and I brush my lips against the base of her cock, rendering a small, damp semicircle of moisture around one side.
Her voice, breathy and faint, sounds from above me. "Rach…"
As I steal a glance at her face, searching, learning, noting the sharp tension that strains her defined jawline, I begin to kiss my way upward, allowing my tongue to dart out, tasting her smooth, saline skin.
The pitch of her taxed, tremulous voice raises an octave. "Rach…"
My body responds intuitively to her call, skin warming, fibers contracting, and my pussy throbs in a rapid, desperate rhythm, aching for her; and it's all I can do to keep my hands on Quinn, denying the urge to touch myself, to subdue the agony, ignoring my pussy in favor of the stiff, swollen cock beneath my lips.
I circle the soft head with my tongue, watching Quinn intently, and her voice cracks. "Ra-ach…"
The moment I take her into my mouth, her head digs deeper into the mattress, spine bowing subtly up and away from the bed, and though her hips jump beneath my touch, she does all that she can to bear her body down into the bed rather than up and into me. Her hands, both of them, relinquishing their prior holds on the sheets beneath her, search blindly, grasping instinctively for my hair, but, even once they've located my loosened locks, spilling over my shoulders, drawn downward by her magnetic gravity, teasing her skin, she's careful not to tug or pull, her fingers gentle as they thread and wind their way through, soothing me.
An unintelligible moan escapes her lips—and the distinctly jarring tone of a cell phone sounds.
Groaning, with a much higher pitch, the familiar frequency of frustration, Quinn withdraws one of her hands from my hair and rubs it warily, shakily across her face. She draws a deep breath, lifting her head and gazing down at me briefly, as if to apologize for the fact that, even though I've just started, I'll have to stop—but I'm not intent on stopping any time soon, especially when her stomach clenches and her eyes roll back, a short, helpless cry torn from her throat, as I begin to suck on the moist, silken skin of her glans.
The phone continues to ring. Quinn nearly whines out of sheer exasperation, irritated at the tireless interruption, and she reaches hastily for her forgotten sweatpants, searching the pockets with frantic hands.
"God, Rach," she groans, her fingers trembling as she struggles to reach her phone. Finally, after a moment of fumbling with the fabric, she manages to wrestle it free, and I train my eyes on her face as I take her further into my mouth, laving the satiny underside of her cock with my tongue. She breathes insistently through her nose, her darkened, dilated eyes blinking rapidly, blown pupils contracting, fighting to focus on the screen before her. "Rach—" Her breath cuts short, silencing her voice. "Rach—Rachel—it's my—"
She swallows a groan, her jaw tight; her hand, still buried in my hair, grows heavier, insistent, and it's obvious that the call is important, that she's trying to get me to stop so that she can answer it, but, short of her fisting my hair in her hands and pulling her cock from my mouth herself, I'm not going to stop.
"It's my— Oh, my God, Rachel Barbra Berry— It's my aunt, Rach— I gotta—I've—"
Finally, she must realize that I'm not going to give up—already addicted to the way her cock feels in my mouth, hard, firm, and ineffably warm against my tongue, teasing my lips—because she whimpers to herself, hastily tracking her thumb against the screen to accept the call and pressing the phone to her ear.
"Hello-o?" Her voice cracks on the last syllable.
She exhales a slow breath through her trembling lips, verdant eyes closed tightly, concentrating on steadying her voice, almost as though she's trying to ignore the fact that, two feet below her ear, my mouth is on her cock. Her cautionary measures have little effect; her sculpted throat labors against the faux-leather that encircles her neck, and when she speaks again, affirming her salutation, her voice is weak. "Hey…"
Her fingers thread slowly, arduously through my hair, her hand heavy with just the slightest bit of pressure, and, even though she's so obviously struggling, fighting to remain calm, it only encourages me to continue, because it's so hot, just watching her, listening to her trying to restrain herself, that I can't help it.
"I'm—" Breath catching in her throat, she swallows before trying again. "Yeah, I've been… good. I've been good." She pauses, most likely to listen to the response, and I attempt to take more of her into my mouth, sucking lightly, adding pressure. A whimper builds in her throat, but she stifles it. "Mmhmm."
Involuntarily, I begin sucking harder as another surge of heat blooms through my body.
"Actually, I—" She falters as I tighten my gentle grasp on the base of her cock—which, until now, has, unfortunately, remained stationary while my concentration was directed elsewhere—and I raise it in an upward stroke, prolonging the pressure until my knuckles brush against my lips, and my mouth follows the movement of my hand back down, taking her deeper. "Dear God—" She lurches violently beneath me, hips thrusting helplessly away from the bed, seeking deeper entrance into my mouth, and I don't mind it at all.
"Aunt Chelsea, I, uhm—" Her voice is tight, heightened by thinly veiled arousal. "Actually, I have to go. I'm—" When I draw her from within my mouth and trace my tongue from the base to the very tip of her cock, a strangled noise issues from her throat, one that she can't disguise. She hurries on hastily, trying in vain to end the conversation. "You r-rem-remember-r-r that, uh—the girl I told you about?"
God, she was talking about me? The thought ignites a deeper fire, low, burning inside, and, before I realize exactly what I'm doing, I'm swallowing the entirety of her length, down to the hilt.
"Rachel." The sound of my name escaping her lips is somewhere between a pained, frustrated yelp and a groan of reckless abandonment, caution thrown to the wind. Her chest heaves, diaphragm contracting, perfect breasts rising and falling as she fights to regain her breath. "Yeah, Rachel. Rachel Berry." She grips my hair tighter in her hand, winding it through her fingers. "Well, I'm— No, of course I'm not— I just—"
When I shift my weight, lifting my hand from the bed and bracing myself instead against Quinn's lower stomach, balancing my weight at the soft spot between her hips, allowing her to slide deeper into my mouth, until the swollen head of her cock brushes the back of my throat, she nearly crushes her cell phone.
"Aunt C, I really—" With a growl, a sudden, unrelenting authority, she concludes, "I have to go."
There is a brief pause, during which she allows her aunt to respond—all the while, her fingers still wind through my hair, surer now, certain, the same authority in her voice extended to command me, and the thrill of being under her control throbs violently in my pussy—before she breathes swiftly, "Done."
A faint beep signals the termination of the call, and Quinn's luminous, viridescent eyes, which had been pressed resolutely closed during the ordeal, wrench open to meet mine, widening, irises shrinking.
Her free hand returns to join the other in my hair, both urging me to continue. "God, Rachel—"
Gazing back at her, working slowly on her cock with my mouth, I can't remember why I was even nervous before. I may not have any experience, but Quinn certainly seems to be enjoying it nonetheless.
Cheeks burning, flushed a deep, pervasive crimson, color spreading down her neck, into the tips of her ears, her lips swollen from where she's been biting them to silence herself, the luster of perspiration lit, glistening, across her collarbones, she looks thoroughly flustered, distraught. Arousal overrides my guilt.
Her tongue traces her lips, wetting them against the swift, shallow breaths that pass through. "You have no idea how much I—" She swallows harshly, throat working laboriously against her collar.
I suck softly one last time, prolonging the intensity of the contact as I draw my lips upwards along her shaft, sucking harder, briefly, at her swollen glans, before removing my mouth from her cock entirely—reluctantly. While I take a moment to catch my breath, reacquainting myself to the emptiness I'd felt before I'd taken her into my mouth, I continue stroking her with my hand, slowly, but with greater pressure.
Curious, eager to hear the words that failed to pass her lips, I find myself asking, "What?"
She doesn't answer me. Instead, her hands, still winding delicate paths through my hair, fall to cup my face, her fingertips like flames dancing against my skin, and she uses her leverage to urge me up, away from her cock, drawing me closer to meet her lips as she pulls me into a fierce kiss. Unstable, off balance, I have to—very reluctantly—remove my hand from her erection as well, just to keep myself from collapsing on top of her. Though I brace myself, my hands poised at the level of her shoulders, one of her hands glides down my back, feather-light, searing, nearing my waist, where her touch grows firm, insistent, and she uses the advantage of her finesse and considerable strength to guide my hips downward, crushing them to hers.
Her erect cock slips perfectly between my parted thighs, as my knees buckle, and as I cave against the hard warmth of her body, the head of her unyielding hard-on nudges my pulsing sex—reinvigorated by her brief power play—evoking a whimper from deep within my throat. The sensual, carnal contact between us lingers, extending, intentional; I moan into her mouth. My hips shift, closer, rolling against her, into her.
Oh, God— I'm so eager, so ready that it feels like I could come spontaneously at any second, with just the slightest additional friction, ineffably wet, practically dripping for her—and, even though there is a small part of me that wants to be embarrassed, my inhibitions are smothered beneath my arousal. As far as I can tell, Quinn likes it; a deep groan rumbles in her chest and she thrusts up briefly to meet me, the head of her cock aligned fortuitously enough to caress my swollen, impatient clit as we move together.
I tremble violently against her, crying out, and I grasp desperately for any part of her to hold on to.
"So… hot…" she breathes into my lips, gripping my hips tightly, drawing me harder against her.
I can't tell if she's speaking literally or if she means something else, figurative, but I decide that it doesn't really matter; the length of her cock caresses my pussy, the tip teasing me, from my clit all the way to the quivering flesh of my entrance—where I need her the most—the extent of my pleasure controlled by each calculated motion of her hips, and the insistent pressure against my clit begins to build into something greater far too soon for my liking. My fingers dig helplessly into her shoulders, clinging to her, incapable of much more. One hand finds her collar again, nerveless fingers wrapping around the thick, rugged leather.
She groans, breathless, her lips at my neck, drawing the skin between them and sucking deeply.
"Rachel, I have to tell you something," she says, just roughly enough to get it all out in one breath.
At this point, I'm so far gone that nothing she wants to tell me could get me to stop, but, even so, I have to acknowledge her request for my attention; if it wasn't important, she wouldn't have said anything.
With my lip tightly between my teeth, all I can manage is a whine, mewling into her neck. "Mm?"
Exhaling, her moist, heated breath caresses the shell of my ear. She wets her lips. "I'm—"
At a particularly good angle, the head of her cock nestles just the slightest bit further, dipping into the weeping entrance of my sex briefly, before either of us truly realize it, and we share a collective moan.
"Unh— God, Rach—" Her arm, still pressed into my lower back, clamps tightly around my waist, crushing me against her, tethering me to her, restraining me, stilling the helpless, involuntary movements of my hips, and she abandons her thrusting to grind fervently against me instead, the base of her cock pressed hard against my clit. My head drops to her shoulder, body collapsing, unable to bear my own weight as the friction between us brings me closer and closer to the edge; I gasp, wheezing, panting into her damp skin.
"Rachel, I'm—" The sharpness of her voice, strained to an even greater degree, makes me wonder if she's close too. Words rush from her lips in a rapid torrent. "I don't have any condoms, but—if you want to do this, I'm clean and I'm—I'm—fuck—it would be impossible for me to get you pregnant—"
Too late, I realize that there is something she could say to stop me—if only due to surprise.
Pregnant? Impossible? Wait, she's—? The fact that she doesn't have condoms slips my mind.
I push myself up onto shaky elbows, trying futilely to steady myself, in an effort to see her clearly, searching her eyes, but she continues to grind into me, her sculpted abdomen contracting beneath me, fiery skin grazing my own, tantalizing, and it's hard for me to focus on anything other than the friction.
"You're—?" I grasp blindly; the appropriate term to accurately express my confusion eludes me.
She nods, the motion vague, distracted, both of her hands clutching at my hips. "Sterile." Her eyes flutter briefly, brow pinching, jaw clenching, and a fresh surge of liquescent lust overcomes me, just seeing her reactions—even though her response should induce the opposite reaction in both of us. I force myself to concentrate as her verdant eyes open once more and return to mine, unable to mask the silent questions that await her in my gaze. She wets her lips briefly with another nod. "It's all really… complicated science, and I'd love to explain it to you sometime, but—I just—" Her voice breaks as she grasps my waist and thrusts, once, hard, into me, earning a moan from my lips. "It's up to you, if we— I just need to know what you—"
What I want? God, there is nothing I want more than her.
I cut her off before she can continue any further, capturing her lips with mine, kissing her fiercely. Familiar heat condenses low, thick, titillating my molten core, as her hands abandon my hips to explore my back, her fingertips swift, insistent, bearing into me. Finally—finally—it feels like all the teasing is over.
Part of me isn't exactly sure where I find the confidence, the shamelessness, to say it; all I know is that she's asking me to tell her what I want, and my compulsion to be honest wins out over my inhibitions.
Stealing one last kiss from her gorgeous, swollen lips, I find my voice. "Fuck me, Quinn."
The sexiest growl my ears have ever known rips through her throat and, suddenly, every muscle in her body tenses, and, before I know what's happening, the world around me tilts; my ass is digging into the bed, vestal sheets beneath me, cool, untouched, teasing my igneous skin, the ivory ceiling arcing celestially above me, and Quinn's hands on my body are agile, eager, guiding my thighs further apart—and that image alone, the vision of Quinn Fabray, the girl of my dreams, kneeling above me, her cock hard, ready, glossed with the evidence of my own arousal, a light sheen of perspiration glistening on her skin, her nimble hands on my thighs, urging one of them up and over her hip, her hazel eyes burning with ardent fire, lips swollen, hair loose and tousled, framing her flushed, gorgeous face— God, I could come right now, just waiting.
One hand moves to her cock, gliding smoothly over the length of it, all with the help of my natural lubrication. Steadying herself, slow, concentrated strokes, she searches my eyes. "Tell me you want me."
Faced with the intensity of her gaze, I know that her question has more to do with the fact that she wants me to be sure that I'm ready, and less to do with the possibility that she's trying to tease me further.
I stretch my hand out in search of an angular hip, drawing her closer. "Please, Quinn," I whisper, a subdued plea. My fingertips tingle, nerves livened, electrified by her silken skin, and my pussy throbs once, a deep, resounding pulse that echoes throughout my entire body, tremulous, lingering. "I want you."
A harsh breath escapes her lips and she drops forward, down onto one arm, bracing herself, and all pretense of teasing or easing into things vanish, dissolving; genuine, untempered passion is all that remains as the head of her cock, as graceful and as elegant as Quinn is herself, dips into my waiting pussy and sinks into my wet heat, burying the entire length of her inside me with one smooth, steady stroke. With one thigh drawn upward, my knee hooked around her waist, it stretches me tighter than I expected, and finally having her, feeling her so deep, so hard, inside me has me clutching helplessly at her hips, writhing, whining.
The rush of blood is evident beneath her cheeks, whether from exertion or arousal, and she groans through deep, heaving breaths. Her hand returns to my quivering thigh, steadying me, pulling me closer.
"Rachel—" Her eyes, so dark that nearly all of their verdurous color has been swallowed by black, rise to meet mine as she withdraws and pushes inside me again, but I can barely focus, vision faltering, my eyes fluttering in a state of limbo between open and closed, submerged in the deluge of pleasure. She gazes into my eyes regardless, features almost pained, incredulous. "You feel—fuck—like heaven."
Having her inside me is all I've wanted for the past three years, and now that I've finally gotten it, I'm left a mass of incoherent thoughts, trembling flesh, and surging, firing nerves, completely at her mercy.
I can only groan in response, articulate only enough to whine as I roll my hips into hers.
As ready as we both are, skirting the edge already, it's clear that neither of us are going to last very long. This—us—being together—has all been a long time coming, and we're both far too excited to make it much further without finding any sort of release; even so, I can't find it in me to care that our first time will be brief. She's been hard for far too long, and my clit has been throbbing relentlessly ever since I kissed her in the auditorium, and now that she's finally inside me, all I want is for both of us to come together.
Even through the dense haze of lust and pleasure clouding my consciousness, I can tell that Quinn is being careful. She thrusts into me carefully, touches me carefully, watches me carefully. Her rhythm, the movement of her hips, is slow, measured, and I sigh and moan, helpless, beneath her, aching for more, for a taste of whatever she's holding back, because, dear, sweet mother of mercy, she's so deep, and she feels so good, her body molded perfectly for mine, but it's obvious that she's steadying herself for my benefit, and I clutch desperately at her hips. I want more; I want all the fast, rough, chaotic passion that she can give me.
Gasping, mewling, I force my swollen lips to shape words. "Ha-harder, Quinn," I beg. "Please…"
Her lips are on mine, a guttural sound filling her throat, echoing my plea, before I can think to say anything else. Her hips begin to move faster, plunging deeper, harder, giving me everything that I want.
She adjusts herself briefly, deftly, for better leverage, pushing until she's upright, hands taking my waist in a tight grasp, lifting me up to meet her thrusts, her hips working into me like greased pistons, and I can barely keep my eyes open to watch, but I try, because she's so sexy, exerting so much effort, her lustful gaze trained on the junction of our bodies, where her cock sheathes itself in my pussy—and just being able to watch her pushes me that much closer to the edge, so close that the slightest touch would drive me into a spiraling oblivion. With each thrust, her cock reaches a place within me that I have never been able to reach myself, and, each time, I cry out beneath her, tensing, arching, losing myself in her.
"Please, don't stop," I beg, under my shallow breath, though she shows no sign of doing so, just to encourage her. I reach faintly for her abdomen; the muscles twitch and contract beneath my fingers.
Tightened, the angular cut of her jaw is even more ruggedly defined. "God, Rach—" Pristine teeth close around her bottom lip before she allows her head to fall back, her eyes closed, blind, plunging into me with abandon, her fingers digging into my hips. Frantically, I fight my approaching orgasm. When her eyes drop back to mine, the deep flush of her skin has spread down to her neck and into the tips of her ears. "I've wanted this—" she gasps, but pauses to amend herself. "You—I've wanted you for so long."
My entire body throbs at her words, but, for once, my heart overpowers my cunt. "Quinn—"
"Will you—?" Oxygen rushes through her lips, a harsh exhale, panting. In the midst of fucking me senseless, her breath is short. "I mean, do you… mmm—m-maybe want to go out sometime—with me?"
Vaguely, I wonder if she's joking—if she really just asked me out, when her cock is buried deeply in my pussy—yet, despite the fact that, in any other situation, it would be considered bad etiquette, the only thing answer I can conceive, the only response simple enough for me to articulate, is, "Yes, Quinn, yes."
The smile she gives me in return is nothing short of radiant, even as she continues driving her hips forward, thrusting into me, breathing heavily. The muscles beneath her skin tense and contract, abs working with fervor, her perfect cock imprinting itself in my pussy's sensory memory, and as she beams down at me through the chaos, for a moment, I realize that this moment is one to remember; Quinn is literally the girl of my dreams, and, right now, even though we're already a couple steps ahead of ourselves, she just asked me out on a date. I can't fight the smile on my own lips; gazing up at her, I fall in love with her all over again.
She leans down to kiss me, hot mouth melding against my own, as if sealing the deal, and I clutch helplessly at her shoulders, my fingertips sinking into the golden tufts of silk that tease the nape of her neck above her collar. My heart feels as though it's about to explode from sheer happiness—and lower, a similar sensation builds, growing each moment, but for another reason entirely. Our kiss quickly deepens, our heat intensifying; Quinn must feel it too. The fervency of her thrusts escalates, nearing a fever pitch, and though I really can't do much, pinned beneath her, I arch up and away from the bed, raising my hips, spreading my thighs further, in an attempt to contribute somehow, and soon we're thrusting together like a singular body.
Rational thought slips once again from my grasp. Submersed in the thick haze of arousal, lust, joy, and content fulfillment, rapture overcomes me. My hands, once lost in her hair, wander, and the next thing I know, my fingers are wrapped around the coarse faux-leather of her collar—God, that collar; the thing that I should bow down and worship for starting all of this—and I'm tugging, not enough to cut off her oxygen, but enough to apply pressure, and her eyes open, gazing intently into mine, watching my every reaction.
Staring up into her iridescent hazel eyes, even though she's pounding into me like my life depends on it—and, really, I think it might—I find that there is a real affection buried within them, the affection that I've only ever wished she might ever possibly return. I swallow against the sudden tightness that collects in my throat, allowing one hand to loosen its grasp, tracing my fingers over her soft, yet angular, jaw; her eyes flutter once, just for a moment, before returning, resolute, to mine, holding my gaze. Each successive thrust of her hips reminds me that my dreams are coming true. The sharp nudge of her hipbones into my thighs is real; her hand in my hair, caressing the skin of my neck, her thumb stroking my cheek, her miraculous cock so deep inside me that I feel like I could lose myself completely beneath her—it's all really happening.
A sudden, searing jolt of pleasure rips me from my thoughts, surging viscerally through my veins, dousing my body in heat, as Quinn's thumb finds its way back to my clit. She circles her thumb slowly, and the combination of having her deep inside and rubbing my clit simultaneously nearly rips me in two.
Oh, God— My back bows sharply, unintentionally, my hands grasping at anything they can find.
"Come for me, Rach," Quinn murmurs, her voice raspy, strained, filtered through heated breaths.
Though I know intuitively that I could, in fact, come at her command, especially under her skilled, elegant hands, an abrupt burst of panic diffuses through my chest. I can't— Not now, now without her—
I shake my head. "With you—" I gasp, managing only that much, nearly tipping over the edge as I speak. "I—ohh— No, not—not yet. N—oh, my God—" The words issue from my lips in a rush, but they're not the ones that I'm looking for. I writhe beneath her, helpless, bucking into her hand; coherence continues to elude me until, finally, I lock my body tightly against hers. "Quinn, I—I want you to come inside me."
Her hips lurch forward. "Fuck—" Breathless, she searches my eyes, her sculpted jaw tight, golden brow furrowed, as if she's trying desperately to restrain herself. "Inside—are you sure?"
I nod rapidly, weakly. "Please, Quinn." I won't be able to wait for her much longer. "Please."
She crushes her lips to mine in a fierce kiss, without any further affirmation, and she thrusts once, twice, hard—and, by the third thrust of her hips, I'm holding tightly to the strap of leather at her neck, more pressure behind my grasp than before, curbing her supply of oxygen, and my other hand is against her back, my nails digging into her shoulder, and with her breath catching, heated, shallow, against my face, with her thumb rapidly circling my clit, my sex gripping her cock tightly, we both start to tumble over the edge.
The first deep contractions, echoing through my pussy, begin just as Quinn tenses once, groaning, "Fuck—me!" She punctuates her words with a harsh thrust for each, before picking up the pace and driving her hips into mine swiftly, intent on bringing us both over the edge. "Oh, f-f-fu—fuck, Rachel!"
"Quinn—unh— Don't—don't stop, please, please." I don't care that I'm begging. "Oh, my—"
Her hips collide with mine one last time, suddenly jerking forward, a ragged cacophony of groans, grunts, and shallow breaths choked off as I pull on her collar, whining, mewling, moaning her name.
A thick, warm pressure releases somewhere deep within my pussy. Oh, God. She just—
Color bursts in magnificent flares of white-hot and rainbow behind my eyelids; I arch into her, off of the bed, seizing, holding her to me desperately, trembling against her, and I bury my face into the hollow junction of her neck and shoulder, contracting, convulsing, drowning in a torrent of pleasure until I collapse into a quivering mess, melting into the mattress beneath, and Quinn slumps forward against me.
Oh, my God. Oh, my God. That was— Oh, my God.
It takes a moment for my vision to clear, for voluntary functions to return, but when I finally open my eyes, I'm met with wisps of downy blonde hair strewn across my face, warm, salty skin at my lips.
Quinn breathes heavily into my neck, murmuring groans escaping her lips with each heavy exhale. Her cock is still buried deeply inside of me, and, each moment, I can feel it soften, less resilient, but part of me never wants her to move. I could lay like this, with her sprawled on top of me, inside of me, murmuring incoherent syllables into my skin for the rest of my life, it seems, and never tire of feeling her here.
As I catch my breath, finally soothing my aching, labored lungs, I realize that I'm almost saddened that this moment has come to an end. The magic of the moment, of thinking without reason, is gone, and an opportunity for disappointment is on the horizon; she could realize that this has all been a mistake. Yet, I'm comforted as I remember, suddenly, that, even hazy and lust-ridden, she asked me out on a date—an honest to goodness date—and my mood immediately brightens. My heart swells in my chest; I smile into her hair.
Though her voice is low, muffled by my skin, I just make out my name on her lips. "Rach?"
I can only hum in response, grinning lazily, content; I don't have the energy for anything else.
She mumbles something indistinctly.
I angle my ear towards her lips, inhaling the faint, rainy scent of her hair. "What?"
Repeating herself, she raises her voice, though it's only a low murmur. "Be my girlfriend?"
I smile widely, unable to help it. I realize now that I'm still holding to her collar, and, abruptly, an idea strikes me. "Christmas," I say, out of context, unable to explain myself any further. I tug the leather. "Jingle bells."
She chuckles softly into my shoulder. "Deal."
Some parts were pretty rough, I know. Soon to be edited, I promise. Just had to get it up before Christmas was over. :P
Also, I'm pretty horrible at smut. I know that. It's not my forte. In fact, just to write smut, I had to add an additional 15,000 words, just to make myself feel better, and to convince myself that Rachel and Quinn weren't sluts for immediately jumping into bed with one another on the day of their first kiss. Issues, I know. Furthermore, this is my very first attempt at writing a G!P fic, so, please, please, be gentle with me. Lol. I'm quite terrified of your responses, but reviews are welcome.