Come When I Call
Title: Come When I Call
Prompt: To help pay her way through school Rachel becomes a sex phone operator. Puck is her best customer. Left at the meme by kimmy_77 .
Chapter: 1/1
Warning: Bad words.
Character: Puck/Rachel
Word Count: 6,200
Disclaimer: Don't own.
A/N: Let's all ignore the fact that Rachel would never take this job and Puck would most likely not need to call for phone sex. It's AU, okay? ;)
The first time it happens, it's totally a mistake. He's drunk, alone and bored, and the number flashes across his TV screen, and he's picking up the phone because the chick on the commercial has huge tits and lips that remind him of the girl who blew him in the bathroom at the pub two weeks ago.
So yeah, he dials.
He knows the kind of women who operate these things. It's not the sexy vixen on the screen with her thong hanging out the back of her jeans while she rolls around on her bed. It's like, some big girl in an office who gets paid by the hour to talk to lonely dudes.
Whatever, though. He's got a good imagination and he thinks dirty talk is like, one of the best things about sex.
"Hi there."
Yeah. Already a hot voice talking to him.
"Hey."
"What's your name?"
He shouldn't give his real one - he's probably not going to get one in return - but he says, "Noah," anyway, because it's not like he's the only one and no one'll ever find out anyway.
"Noah." She giggles a little, totally hot. "I like that. I'm Rachel. How old are you, Noah?"
"24."
"Mmm. Nice and young."
Okay, this woman's voice oozes sex. Kind of the idea, he knows, but shit. She's flirty and he definitely knows she's going to be able to get him hard. He's already getting there.
"How old are you?" he asks. He leans back against his couch and turns on ESPN, mutes the sound.
"Noah!" she giggles again. She could totally keep saying his name like that, please. "You're not supposed to ask a lady her age."
"You sound young," he points out. It doesn't fucking matter.
"I am." She pauses for a second, which gives him a chance to slide his hand over the front of his pants. "So tell me, Noah, what are you doing tonight?"
He grins. He should feel pathetic and fucking stupid, but he's kind of turned on and feeling like this chick is totally gonna get him off, and hey, an orgasm's an orgasm.
"I don't know, Rachel. Why don't you tell me?"
"You're very direct and to the point," she says. She sounds amused, like she doesn't get dudes like this often. He doesn't want to think about that. "And I'm sure we could come up with something to keep you occupied, don't you think?"
Yeah. He thinks.
... ... ...
When she took this job, she loved the anonymity of it. No one has to know who she is or what she does, what she gets paid rather well to do, since her voice is 'sultry' (according to her boss) and her verbosity keeps men on the line longer. She gets bonuses every so often for having the longest calls logged on her line. Maybe it's sad, but she's oddly proud of that. And she needs the money. The hours are flexible and she's safe in the office surrounded by other women in cubicles. There are four security guards on at all times. It's really not a terrible job, if you can get past some of the depraved things these men say and 'do'. And it's just acting, and she's fantastic at that.
She's rarely ever affected by a call she gets. Men are just men, and they aren't 'suitors' when she's at work. When she's at work, they're just customers and she does her job (usually while watching television in her cubicle) and that's it.
But then last night, this guy called and his voice was like water over gravel (if she was forced to describe it) and it certainly wasn't his first time speaking to someone that way. He'd told her (she'd asked) if he'd ever called one of these numbers before (she's not supposed to break character, but she was curious) and she believed him when he said no. Then he'd said something about wanting to...Well, it involved...
She hates that she had to get up to use the washroom after he'd hung up. She knew he'd finished (but he wasn't obvious and gross about it like most men) but the truth is, there wasn't much acting involved in that call. He was sexy and she played well off him, which was a nice change from having to put in all the effort.
Still, a client has never left her wet before, and she feels a little slutty for it.
... ... ...
He kind of has this picture of her in his head that won't go away. He knows she's got brown hair and eyes, and apparently a natural tan or whatever. He asked her what her best feature was and she said it was her legs, so he's stoked on that. Yeah, even if she weighs 200 pounds, that's definitely not the image he has in his head. The woman he has in his head is totally the kind who'd go down on him and touch herself. And he's not just saying that because she 'did'.
He calls back.
He doesn't know what the fuck he's doing. He got laid yesterday. This chick who's a regular at the bar he stops in for beer after work sometimes has been all over him since the fall, so he let her take him home and fucked her on her futon. It wasn't bad. He's had better, but whatever.
Bottom line is he shouldn't have to call this line, stone cold sober on a Tuesday night at 8:00.
"Hi there."
Same greeting. It weirds him out.
"Hi, Rachel."
She takes a little breath. "Noah?"
She remembers his voice. Fucking hot. He doesn't know how many other guys she talks to in a night or week or month, but he's thinking that her remembering his voice after a week and a half is probably a good thing.
"Miss me, baby?" he asks. Whatever. He's already on his bed with his jeans undone, so he figures he can get straight to the good stuff.
"I didn't think you'd call back again." There's a little too much honesty in her voice. He doesn't know if he likes it.
"Why wouldn't I?" he asks. If he closes his eyes, he can picture her on his bed. "Last time was fucking perfect."
"You think I'm perfect?"
"Mmm. I'm already fucking hard for you. How is that even possible?"
(Really. He wants to know.)
She laughs a little bit and he breathes in deeply. "I don't know. Have you been thinking about me, Noah?"
"All the time," he admits. Fuck, he wishes he was lying. "It's kind of pathetic."
She's laughing at him again. He should be pissed but he's not. "I think it's sexy," she tells him, voice slipping back into her usual velvety...Whatever. She sounds like sex. "I'm sure you have ideas, don't you?"
"So many," he tells her. He chuckles at himself this time. "You'd probably be freaked out."
"Oh, I doubt that. I want to hear them."
So he tells her.
... ... ...
As soon as she gets home, she drops her things and heads to her room, strips off her clothes and lets her wet panties fall to the floor. This is disgusting and kind of shameful, but all she can think about is his voice telling her he wants to fuck her hard and slow until she's chanting his name and begging for more. She comes thinking how her name sounded on his lips when he let go.
She vows never to let that happen again. Never. It's just that one man and one time, and she's leaving it at that.
Someone calls her a whore.
It's something of an occupational hazard. She knows this because everyone's had it happen once or twice before. But it's usually just name calling then a hang up, and you brush it off and ignore it.
This time, the guy actually has her talking. It's a routine call and she's polishing her nails fire engine red as she talks to him. She's just explained how she'd like to make him come (upon his request) and he says it. It's not like she gets sometimes, where it's just a part of the dirty talk. He spits it through the phone line and it hits her hard. So hard she's stunned into silence. And he keeps going, calling her names until she ends the call. The thing she can't let go if is the fact that treating her like that probably actually got him off.
She can't stop thinking about it, even when Linda, her shift supervisor, tells her to brush it off.
She's still rattled when Noah calls. This has been happening at least once a week for about a month, him calling, specifically requesting her. It's flattering, in a way. He's calling her the best and she likes to think she is, even if he's admitted to her already that he never called one of these numbers before the first night he called her.
"Hello," she says. She knows she's not herself.
"Rachel?" He sounds confused.
"Hi. How are you?" She slips back into character and picks at the skin around her nails, tidying up her manicure.
"Good now."
"Now?"
"How're you?" he asks instead of answering. "You sound weird."
He's not supposed to be able to tell. It's not right how much she likes that he can.
"I'm fine. I was thinking about you earlier." It's a subject change, but it's also the truth. Not to mention, talking to him is lifting her mood. (It's so, so wrong of her to let this happen.)
"Were you?" She can hear him grinning. "Dirty things?"
She laughs and raises her brow even though he can't see her doing it. "What other things are there?"
"Tell me?" She loves that he's asking, not insisting.
"You teased me to the edge, Noah, with your hands and your mouth," she says. She's remembering this morning, before she had to get up to get to class, thinking of him and letting her hand drift down her body. (Yeah, that promise to only let it happen once was broken within 24 hours.) "But you wouldn't let me come."
"No?"
"No." She should end her entire interaction with him, but she doesn't want to. "Why not, Noah?"
He lets out this little growl. She knows exactly how hot it is that she's letting him finish out her fantasy for the both of them.
"'Cause I want you to come on my cock, baby," he tells her. She moans. A real one. Dear god. "Fuck, I want you to so bad."
"Me too."
It slips out before she can stop herself. This is very wrong and it's definitely crossed about five lines. She's not allowed to interact with these men outside work; this isn't a prostitution ring. She shouldn't be dying to know if he's as handsome as he says he is, or as good in bed. She most certainly should not want to see him naked and actually play out some of these things they talk about.
She squeezes her thighs together (subtly, so none of her coworkers will notice) and their call doesn't last long after that.
... ... ...
He's fucked, 'cause he's never met this girl and she's fucking ruined him for other women. He sleeps with Stacy, the hot chick from work, and ends up kind of playing with her (brown) hair and smiling against the pillow until he realizes he's in her fucking girly apartment and her name isn't Rachel. So yeah, he bails. She's pissed and calls him a slut, but he doesn't care. It's not like she didn't know what she was getting into when she invited him to her place. His reputation isn't exactly squeaky clean.
And then his boss is up his ass about a comfortable working environment or whatever, 'cause obviously Stacy's a fucking psychopath who wants to get them both fired and told the guy, and Steven just tells Puck to keep his dick in his pants and out of his coworkers and gives him the shittiest shift ever as punishment. No one seems to care or understand that she's the one who fucking initiated the whole damn thing. Whatever. Fuck her.
Then there's this chick he meets and she's all telling him she wants to blow him, so he lets her and she's pissed when it's not her name he says when he comes in her mouth. Oops.
"You're getting me into trouble," he says the next time he talks to Rachel.
"Am I?" she laughs. "The good kind?"
He scoffs. That last girl's teeth were a little too close to his dick in that situation for it to be any kind of good.
"No," he says. She makes this pouty little noise. Fuck, he thinks she's adorable sometimes. She's a phone sex operator and he thinks she's adorable. How is this real life? "I said your name." He shouldn't tell her. He knows he shouldn't tell her. "With another woman."
"Oh my," she giggles. "Sweetie, that's terrible."
She calls him shit like that all the time. He kind of hates it 'cause he knows she probably calls everyone else that, too. He likes to think he's different. He's probably not.
"Yeah, she wasn't too happy about it."
"I bet she wasn't." She's still laughing. "Were you pretending it was me?"
"I always pretend it's you," he tells her. He's fucking stupid. It's the truth, but he's fucking stupid. "It's kinda killing my game."
"Oh, I don't know, Noah," she says, all sultry. "I think your game is rather remarkable." Who the fuck even says shit like that? "Why don't I make you say my name right now?"
He's gotta give it to the girl, she's good at what she does. He's got the phone bill to prove it.
... ... ...
She's sitting in the Starbucks around the corner and down the street from her apartment, her laptop open in front of her and her text book perched on her lap. She's in jeans and an NYU sweatshirt, hair in a ponytail and just mascara on. She's got a huge amount of research to do for her thesis and her apartment is far too distracting. She'll just practice instead, or watch television, or bake something. She can't just burst into song in the middle of a coffee shop, so she's much safer getting her work done here.
She's just looked up from her text, stopped to take a sip of her decaf house blend when the door swings open and two men in uniform stroll in. One of them holds the door open for a couple of older ladies, gives them a smile. Rachel grins to herself. She loves that chivalry is not dead. She has some doubts, most of them stemming from her line of work. But again, she's working on her thesis, so it's not like she's making a life-long career of listening to these men talk.
The men get their coffees and sit next to her along the bar by the window. She tries not to be nosy, but sometimes she can't help it. And a distraction is a distraction, and she feels like she needs one right now. This sexy EMT whose shirt is stretched deliciously over his back and shoulders will do just fine.
"I'm so sick of fucking car accidents."
She freezes and she's positive her heart falls down her body and onto the floor through her feet; that's what it feels like.
She knows that voice. She knows that voice far, far too well.
She turns her head and it's the more attractive of the two who is talking. Of course. He's damn near perfect. His fingers curl around his coffee cup, then he picks at the seam of the cardboard sleeve, folds the top corner down. She's thinking of all the things he said he wanted to do to her with his hands.
Dear god, she may have to let him.
"Honestly, it's just a little fucking rain, people. Get your heads out of your asses and pay attention," he grumbles. She wants to laugh, but she knows it'll give her away.
"Just be glad it's not like last week, okay, Rookie?" the other guy says.
Rachel looks over just to see what Noah's reaction will be to the nickname. She didn't know he was an EMT, but she can't see him being a rookie one. He certainly doesn't carry himself like one. And she remembers last week, when they talked, him telling her he'd had a rough few days. She wants to ask what happened, what he saw. It's none of her business, she knows. That's why she didn't ask at the time.
"Yeah, okay, fine." He sips his coffee. "And stop calling me that."
"Dude, I tell you Sarah wants to get married?"
Noah laughs. "Well, you did give her a ring. The fuck'd'you expect?"
Rachel is half listening to their conversation. She's trying to pay attention to her work. It's not fair that he's right there, sitting next to her with his body turned mostly away, and she can't do anything about it. He looks incredible - better than she expected or dreamed - and she can't reach out and touch him or tell him...anything. She can't let him hear her voice right now.
She drops her pen because she's distracted, and he picks it up, smiles at her (a little wider once he really looks at her, and she's got no doubt he's exactly the womanizer he makes himself out to be). He sets it on the table next to her laptop, gives her a quick wink, and turns around again. She has to remind herself not to say thank you.
Her arm brushes his as she packs up her things. She needs to get out of here. She can't be near him right now. His body is warm when she touches it through his shirt. She didn't mean to touch him, but she's glad she did it. How could she not be?
When she stands from her chair, she slides past him, brushes against him in the process so her breasts graze his back. She smiles at him through the window as she starts down the sidewalk, and he watches her the entire time, brow kinked just enough to be sexy as hell without being obvious to everyone.
She wonders if he'll see that she left her cup there on the table with her name and drink order written on the side.
... ... ...
He doesn't call her for a couple days. Or like, a week. He's busy and there's a 12-car pile up at the end of one of his shifts and he ends up pulling a double because they need as much help as they can get. Saving a couple lives (legitimately) takes precedence over calling a fucking 1-900 number for phone sex with a woman he's never met and never will.
Then he thinks about that too long and ends up vowing never to call back 'cause he feels pretty fucking pathetic. What the hell is he doing? He's young, hot and wears an FDNY-issue uniform. He's practically rolling in pussy. Seriously, he could go to any given bar in the city and find at least three willing women to take home. Possibly at the same time. Point is, he doesn't need this.
He's really fucking surprised when he starts thinking he might need Rachel.
So he's had a bit to drink and he decides to call her and tell her he's fucking done with her unless she's going to suck his dick for real.
"Hi there."
And so that plan changes.
Fuck, he loves her voice.
"Hey."
She lets out this little noise, like she's happy to hear from him. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."
He scoffs. "Yeah right." She laughs. He's so done. "How have you been?"
He's curious. So kill him.
"There was a fire at my dance studio," she says. He's trying to remember if he heard anything about that. And fuck, she's a dancer? How did he not know that? "It was scary and the fire department came, but everyone is okay."
"Shit. Good."
"Now I can't stop thinking about it. What if it was worse?" He doesn't know how to answer. "I guess we're just all lucky the FDNY is so amazing."
"Yeah, I guess so." He kind of likes this, her complimenting him without realizing it. "Any hot ones?"
She laughs again and he smiles, because he doesn't really care how she answers this question. He's not even really sure why he asked. "It must have been their night off," she says. Fuck, she's killing him, here. "I missed you. I shouldn't say that."
"I don't mind."
"That's the problem." She sighs. He doesn't like where this is going.
"Are you breaking up with me?" he asks jokingly.
She doesn't seem to think it's all that funny. "I really didn't think you were going to call again. I thought maybe you met someone or something."
"I'm not really looking." He's not lying.
"I shouldn't be talking like this," she says quietly.
"So?" he asks. "Maybe it's what I want. You like to give me what I want, don't you, baby?"
She lets out a slow breath. "So much," she admits. "It's kind of becoming a problem."
"Why?"
It's not even close to the truth, but he feels like his whole fucking life depends on her answer.
"Because I can't give it to you. We both know that."
"Where's this coming from?" he asks. This seems kind of not fair and really out of left field. It feels like a breakup, even though they're totally not a couple. "Do you have a boyfriend?"
He's never asked. Why, he doesn't know. (Maybe because he didn't want to care enough. Or maybe because he was at least a little afraid she'd answer honestly and it wouldn't be what he wanted to hear.)
"No," she answers. "No, Noah, but I want one."
His heart's beating so fucking hard.
This is so not right.
"Want me?"
"It's not fair." Holy fuck. She wants him like he wants her. "We shouldn't do this any more."
Fuck that.
"Why not?" he asks angrily. "Scared you'd actually like me if we met in person? Or the opposite? Goddamn, Rachel, I'm not one of the fat, married losers who normally call you."
"I know!" What the fuck? Is she that trusting, or... "I know you're not. I know what you look like."
"How?"
He's fucking freaked out. How the fuck?
"I knew it was you the second you opened your mouth," she admits, just barely talking above a whisper. "You look gorgeous in your uniform."
"Where?" he manages, even though he's fucking dying right now. "Why didn't you fucking talk to me? Jesus, Rachel."
"I can't cross that line."
"Yeah, you fucking can." He's going through his head, trying to think of when it might have been, when she saw him and he didn't see her. "I'm saying you can."
"Unfortunately, you aren't in charge of my decisions. I'm sorry." She takes a breath and he closes his eyes, braces himself. "I'm really sorry, Noah."
She hangs up just like he knew she would.
... ... ...
She quits.
He hasn't called in two weeks and she's torn between being devastated and relieved. It's not right. She shouldn't want him so badly, and she finds herself disgusted talking to other men. At least before she had the anticipation of answering the phone and hearing him on the other end of the line. Now all she has is the disappointment of knowing it's not going to be him and trying to humour someone else with words that feel too hollow and a voice she stopped having to use with him.
So she hands in her notice and her boss is sad to see her go, but hands her an envelope with her last paycheck and bonus inside, hugs her and tells her she never wants to see her again. Rachel laughs and nods her head, hopes she's never this desperate for money again.
She gets a part time job behind the bar at this little pub near her apartment. It's within walking distance and one of the cooks lives in her building. She's known him since he moved in, and his girlfriend is a med student at Columbia, so he trusts him enough to let him walk her home at the end of her shifts. The money isn't quite as good and the hours suck, but she can at least tell people about her job and she doesn't have to worry about being called a whore, even though her uniform-issue black tee shirt is short and cut down between her breasts.
She still gets hit on every shift, at least a couple times, but now she can just laugh it off and she doesn't have to feel like she's not doing her job if she doesn't engage.
... ... ...
It's after midnight and he just got off the worst rotation ever, and all he wants is a beer, but he knows he doesn't have any of them at home. He's with a couple buddies and one of them says he knows this little Irish pub they can go to. It's really fucking far from his own apartment, but drinking with a couple people is better than drinking alone, so he tags along.
"Dude, there's'is bartender here," Derrick says as they walk through the door. "Only works sometimes, but she's probably the sexiest little thing."
Puck doesn't hate the sound of that. Derrick has pretty good taste. He's totally married and they all know he'd never cheat on his wife, but he sure does like to look.
Puck's been seeing a couple women. At the same time. Carla is this hot little latina who likes to give him massages every time he sees her, and Kirsten has the best tits he's ever had the pleasure of touching. So he hasn't been all that lonely and his wallet's a little more padded since he stopped calling Rachel.
The way he sees it, if she didn't like him enough to let him know who she was when she saw him that time, then she's not fucking worth it. And maybe she's not as hot as he assumed she is and she said she is. What the hell would a woman that hot be doing working at a fucking phone sex line?
Anyway, they sit down at the bar in this mostly empty little pub. Puck kind of likes it. Brass everywhere and a varnished wood bar, and all sorts of cool shit on the walls. He hates going out to clubs and stuff, and the beer here is probably cheaper and better anyway.
Derrick elbows him in the side as the bartender walks over to them, and holy shit, yeah, this girl is sexy. He watches her walking, and she tosses a couple coasters onto the bar before she looks up at them. She seems to freeze for a second, which isn't all that shocking; it's not like any of these guys are ugly or anything.
"Hey, baby," Derrick says. Puck laughs and shakes his head, because Derrick clearly wears a ring and has about a dozen pictures in his wallet of his wife, but he's a fucking flirt. The bartender smiles and rolls her eyes at him, tilts her head and sets a bottle of Stella in front of him. "Thanks."
"Beer. Anything," Puck says. He doesn't fucking care at this point. She looks him in the eye and he doesn't know why she's blushing, but he kind of fucking likes it. She tucks her hair behind her ear. Tonight just got interesting. "Guinness."
Andrew orders a Jack and Coke and Derrick won't let him live it down, and he can only have one 'cause his girl's waiting for him at home. Puck's phone rings in his pocket and he pulls it out. It's Kirsten, but she's been kind of all over him lately, and as much as he digs having regular sex with her, he needs to imply that there are limits to how much he actually wants to see her. Without having to say it and sound like a complete dick. Not answering her call will do.
Derrick flags down the bartender again and she looks at Puck before she looks to the guy next to him. She's totally flirting, whether she means to or not. He's always a little weary of waitresses and bartenders flirting, 'cause usually they just tease you to get a better tip. This girl's got an ass on her that...Shit, he likes it a lot. He's thinking he should tip 50% just for that reason alone.
Derrick tells her to keep Puck in line while he goes to piss and call 'the old lady', and then laughs his ass off and gets off his stool. She starts wiping down the counter and Puck's watching her tits as she does it. She's fucking sexy.
"He always come in here and harass you like that?" he asks once she's set down her towel and poured herself a glass of water. She takes a long sip and sets the glass on the counter, puts her hands on the bar and leans towards him a bit, which he does not hate.
"I've heard worse," she says, eyes locked with his. His face goes blank and he's glad he wasn't drinking anything when she opened her mouth, 'cause she'd either be wearing it or he'd be choking. Fuck, he feels like he's blushing or something. "Hi, Noah."
He doesn't know what the fuck to say. He's sitting right in front of her and she's sexy as fucking hell and he has no idea what to say. Given that their entire relationship (or whatever you want to call it) was based on talking, that's pretty fucking ironic.
"You're surprised," she states.
"You're not?" he manages.
She laughs a little (he's fucking missed that sound) and takes a deep breath. "I thought I was going to faint when I looked up and saw you sitting there." She reaches out and slides her index finger down his knuckles. "You are a very attractive man."
He grabs her hand, even if he shouldn't. "You don't want to know what I think of you," he says lowly when he has her leaning a little more over the bar.
"I already have an idea."
Derrick comes back and she winks at him (not Puck) and leaves to go take care of her other customers. Puck likes what that means for her in this job more than the other one she had.
"She's something, huh?" Derrick asks before taking a drink of his beer. "I think I'll cry if she gets a boyfriend."
Puck wants to tell the dude to prepare for some fucking tears, then.
When they're done their second beers of the night, Derrick says he has to leave and asks Rachel to print up the bill, says Puck's paying even though those terms weren't discussed ahead of time.
Derrick leans over the bar and pats Rachel's cheek, says he'll be back to see her soon. Puck shouldn't be jealous, but he is, and Rachel rolls her eyes at him, shakes her head until he's gone.
She sets the bill in front of Puck and walks away again, which really fucking sucks, since they're basically alone now and neither of them has a secret to keep. He turns over the piece of paper and there's a phone number written at the top.
He laughs and gives her a come hither motion with his hand, watches her face as she walks over. He sets his elbows on the bar and leans closer to her so he can say this quietly.
"It's almost cute that you think I'm leaving here tonight without you," he tells her.
The second they're inside her apartment, he's got her pushed back against the door. He's barely touching her, though, and he's holding his lips just out of her reach, his forearm braced against the door above her head. She pushes her hips forward and grabs onto his shirt.
"What happened to all that patience and self restraint?" he asks, smirking down at her.
"It was an act," she snaps. He brings his arm down, sets his hand on the side of her neck and strokes the skin below her ear. "I'll go crazy if you don't kiss me soon." His phone rings again (fuck!) just before he kisses her, and she reaches into his pocket (fuck!) to get it. "Who's Kirsten?" she asks with her brow raised.
He grabs her hips, pulls her against him and almost, almost kisses her. "Not you," he answers.
She whimpers into his mouth as soon as his lips are on hers.
... ... ...
He's still there in the morning when she wakes up. Actually, he's already well on his way to working her into a frenzy, His hand is moving up and down her back, fingertips gliding over her spine. She's exhausted and sore from last night, but her back arches and she finds herself moaning before she's even opened her eyes. He's barely touching her and he's drawing these sounds from her.
"You're still here," she notes. He sinks down in the bed and she realizes for the first time, in her bleary state, that they're both entirely naked. He just nods and she smiles up at him, blinks lazily. "I have a class in three hours."
He leans over, kisses her cheek, and holds her down when she tries to roll over. He moves so he's laying on top of her back and nudges her legs apart with his knee. He sucks at the sensitive skin right behind her ear, and murmurs, "I can do a lot of things to you in three hours."
They don't leave her apartment for a day and a half, until he has to go to work and she's made him promise to meet her after for dinner.
And she asks him to delete all the other womens' numbers from his phone.
He tells her hers is the only one he needs anyway.
Prompt: To help pay her way through school Rachel becomes a sex phone operator. Puck is her best customer. Left at the meme by kimmy_77 .
Chapter: 1/1
Warning: Bad words.
Character: Puck/Rachel
Word Count: 6,200
Disclaimer: Don't own.
A/N: Let's all ignore the fact that Rachel would never take this job and Puck would most likely not need to call for phone sex. It's AU, okay? ;)
The first time it happens, it's totally a mistake. He's drunk, alone and bored, and the number flashes across his TV screen, and he's picking up the phone because the chick on the commercial has huge tits and lips that remind him of the girl who blew him in the bathroom at the pub two weeks ago.
So yeah, he dials.
He knows the kind of women who operate these things. It's not the sexy vixen on the screen with her thong hanging out the back of her jeans while she rolls around on her bed. It's like, some big girl in an office who gets paid by the hour to talk to lonely dudes.
Whatever, though. He's got a good imagination and he thinks dirty talk is like, one of the best things about sex.
"Hi there."
Yeah. Already a hot voice talking to him.
"Hey."
"What's your name?"
He shouldn't give his real one - he's probably not going to get one in return - but he says, "Noah," anyway, because it's not like he's the only one and no one'll ever find out anyway.
"Noah." She giggles a little, totally hot. "I like that. I'm Rachel. How old are you, Noah?"
"24."
"Mmm. Nice and young."
Okay, this woman's voice oozes sex. Kind of the idea, he knows, but shit. She's flirty and he definitely knows she's going to be able to get him hard. He's already getting there.
"How old are you?" he asks. He leans back against his couch and turns on ESPN, mutes the sound.
"Noah!" she giggles again. She could totally keep saying his name like that, please. "You're not supposed to ask a lady her age."
"You sound young," he points out. It doesn't fucking matter.
"I am." She pauses for a second, which gives him a chance to slide his hand over the front of his pants. "So tell me, Noah, what are you doing tonight?"
He grins. He should feel pathetic and fucking stupid, but he's kind of turned on and feeling like this chick is totally gonna get him off, and hey, an orgasm's an orgasm.
"I don't know, Rachel. Why don't you tell me?"
"You're very direct and to the point," she says. She sounds amused, like she doesn't get dudes like this often. He doesn't want to think about that. "And I'm sure we could come up with something to keep you occupied, don't you think?"
Yeah. He thinks.
... ... ...
When she took this job, she loved the anonymity of it. No one has to know who she is or what she does, what she gets paid rather well to do, since her voice is 'sultry' (according to her boss) and her verbosity keeps men on the line longer. She gets bonuses every so often for having the longest calls logged on her line. Maybe it's sad, but she's oddly proud of that. And she needs the money. The hours are flexible and she's safe in the office surrounded by other women in cubicles. There are four security guards on at all times. It's really not a terrible job, if you can get past some of the depraved things these men say and 'do'. And it's just acting, and she's fantastic at that.
She's rarely ever affected by a call she gets. Men are just men, and they aren't 'suitors' when she's at work. When she's at work, they're just customers and she does her job (usually while watching television in her cubicle) and that's it.
But then last night, this guy called and his voice was like water over gravel (if she was forced to describe it) and it certainly wasn't his first time speaking to someone that way. He'd told her (she'd asked) if he'd ever called one of these numbers before (she's not supposed to break character, but she was curious) and she believed him when he said no. Then he'd said something about wanting to...Well, it involved...
She hates that she had to get up to use the washroom after he'd hung up. She knew he'd finished (but he wasn't obvious and gross about it like most men) but the truth is, there wasn't much acting involved in that call. He was sexy and she played well off him, which was a nice change from having to put in all the effort.
Still, a client has never left her wet before, and she feels a little slutty for it.
... ... ...
He kind of has this picture of her in his head that won't go away. He knows she's got brown hair and eyes, and apparently a natural tan or whatever. He asked her what her best feature was and she said it was her legs, so he's stoked on that. Yeah, even if she weighs 200 pounds, that's definitely not the image he has in his head. The woman he has in his head is totally the kind who'd go down on him and touch herself. And he's not just saying that because she 'did'.
He calls back.
He doesn't know what the fuck he's doing. He got laid yesterday. This chick who's a regular at the bar he stops in for beer after work sometimes has been all over him since the fall, so he let her take him home and fucked her on her futon. It wasn't bad. He's had better, but whatever.
Bottom line is he shouldn't have to call this line, stone cold sober on a Tuesday night at 8:00.
"Hi there."
Same greeting. It weirds him out.
"Hi, Rachel."
She takes a little breath. "Noah?"
She remembers his voice. Fucking hot. He doesn't know how many other guys she talks to in a night or week or month, but he's thinking that her remembering his voice after a week and a half is probably a good thing.
"Miss me, baby?" he asks. Whatever. He's already on his bed with his jeans undone, so he figures he can get straight to the good stuff.
"I didn't think you'd call back again." There's a little too much honesty in her voice. He doesn't know if he likes it.
"Why wouldn't I?" he asks. If he closes his eyes, he can picture her on his bed. "Last time was fucking perfect."
"You think I'm perfect?"
"Mmm. I'm already fucking hard for you. How is that even possible?"
(Really. He wants to know.)
She laughs a little bit and he breathes in deeply. "I don't know. Have you been thinking about me, Noah?"
"All the time," he admits. Fuck, he wishes he was lying. "It's kind of pathetic."
She's laughing at him again. He should be pissed but he's not. "I think it's sexy," she tells him, voice slipping back into her usual velvety...Whatever. She sounds like sex. "I'm sure you have ideas, don't you?"
"So many," he tells her. He chuckles at himself this time. "You'd probably be freaked out."
"Oh, I doubt that. I want to hear them."
So he tells her.
... ... ...
As soon as she gets home, she drops her things and heads to her room, strips off her clothes and lets her wet panties fall to the floor. This is disgusting and kind of shameful, but all she can think about is his voice telling her he wants to fuck her hard and slow until she's chanting his name and begging for more. She comes thinking how her name sounded on his lips when he let go.
She vows never to let that happen again. Never. It's just that one man and one time, and she's leaving it at that.
Someone calls her a whore.
It's something of an occupational hazard. She knows this because everyone's had it happen once or twice before. But it's usually just name calling then a hang up, and you brush it off and ignore it.
This time, the guy actually has her talking. It's a routine call and she's polishing her nails fire engine red as she talks to him. She's just explained how she'd like to make him come (upon his request) and he says it. It's not like she gets sometimes, where it's just a part of the dirty talk. He spits it through the phone line and it hits her hard. So hard she's stunned into silence. And he keeps going, calling her names until she ends the call. The thing she can't let go if is the fact that treating her like that probably actually got him off.
She can't stop thinking about it, even when Linda, her shift supervisor, tells her to brush it off.
She's still rattled when Noah calls. This has been happening at least once a week for about a month, him calling, specifically requesting her. It's flattering, in a way. He's calling her the best and she likes to think she is, even if he's admitted to her already that he never called one of these numbers before the first night he called her.
"Hello," she says. She knows she's not herself.
"Rachel?" He sounds confused.
"Hi. How are you?" She slips back into character and picks at the skin around her nails, tidying up her manicure.
"Good now."
"Now?"
"How're you?" he asks instead of answering. "You sound weird."
He's not supposed to be able to tell. It's not right how much she likes that he can.
"I'm fine. I was thinking about you earlier." It's a subject change, but it's also the truth. Not to mention, talking to him is lifting her mood. (It's so, so wrong of her to let this happen.)
"Were you?" She can hear him grinning. "Dirty things?"
She laughs and raises her brow even though he can't see her doing it. "What other things are there?"
"Tell me?" She loves that he's asking, not insisting.
"You teased me to the edge, Noah, with your hands and your mouth," she says. She's remembering this morning, before she had to get up to get to class, thinking of him and letting her hand drift down her body. (Yeah, that promise to only let it happen once was broken within 24 hours.) "But you wouldn't let me come."
"No?"
"No." She should end her entire interaction with him, but she doesn't want to. "Why not, Noah?"
He lets out this little growl. She knows exactly how hot it is that she's letting him finish out her fantasy for the both of them.
"'Cause I want you to come on my cock, baby," he tells her. She moans. A real one. Dear god. "Fuck, I want you to so bad."
"Me too."
It slips out before she can stop herself. This is very wrong and it's definitely crossed about five lines. She's not allowed to interact with these men outside work; this isn't a prostitution ring. She shouldn't be dying to know if he's as handsome as he says he is, or as good in bed. She most certainly should not want to see him naked and actually play out some of these things they talk about.
She squeezes her thighs together (subtly, so none of her coworkers will notice) and their call doesn't last long after that.
... ... ...
He's fucked, 'cause he's never met this girl and she's fucking ruined him for other women. He sleeps with Stacy, the hot chick from work, and ends up kind of playing with her (brown) hair and smiling against the pillow until he realizes he's in her fucking girly apartment and her name isn't Rachel. So yeah, he bails. She's pissed and calls him a slut, but he doesn't care. It's not like she didn't know what she was getting into when she invited him to her place. His reputation isn't exactly squeaky clean.
And then his boss is up his ass about a comfortable working environment or whatever, 'cause obviously Stacy's a fucking psychopath who wants to get them both fired and told the guy, and Steven just tells Puck to keep his dick in his pants and out of his coworkers and gives him the shittiest shift ever as punishment. No one seems to care or understand that she's the one who fucking initiated the whole damn thing. Whatever. Fuck her.
Then there's this chick he meets and she's all telling him she wants to blow him, so he lets her and she's pissed when it's not her name he says when he comes in her mouth. Oops.
"You're getting me into trouble," he says the next time he talks to Rachel.
"Am I?" she laughs. "The good kind?"
He scoffs. That last girl's teeth were a little too close to his dick in that situation for it to be any kind of good.
"No," he says. She makes this pouty little noise. Fuck, he thinks she's adorable sometimes. She's a phone sex operator and he thinks she's adorable. How is this real life? "I said your name." He shouldn't tell her. He knows he shouldn't tell her. "With another woman."
"Oh my," she giggles. "Sweetie, that's terrible."
She calls him shit like that all the time. He kind of hates it 'cause he knows she probably calls everyone else that, too. He likes to think he's different. He's probably not.
"Yeah, she wasn't too happy about it."
"I bet she wasn't." She's still laughing. "Were you pretending it was me?"
"I always pretend it's you," he tells her. He's fucking stupid. It's the truth, but he's fucking stupid. "It's kinda killing my game."
"Oh, I don't know, Noah," she says, all sultry. "I think your game is rather remarkable." Who the fuck even says shit like that? "Why don't I make you say my name right now?"
He's gotta give it to the girl, she's good at what she does. He's got the phone bill to prove it.
... ... ...
She's sitting in the Starbucks around the corner and down the street from her apartment, her laptop open in front of her and her text book perched on her lap. She's in jeans and an NYU sweatshirt, hair in a ponytail and just mascara on. She's got a huge amount of research to do for her thesis and her apartment is far too distracting. She'll just practice instead, or watch television, or bake something. She can't just burst into song in the middle of a coffee shop, so she's much safer getting her work done here.
She's just looked up from her text, stopped to take a sip of her decaf house blend when the door swings open and two men in uniform stroll in. One of them holds the door open for a couple of older ladies, gives them a smile. Rachel grins to herself. She loves that chivalry is not dead. She has some doubts, most of them stemming from her line of work. But again, she's working on her thesis, so it's not like she's making a life-long career of listening to these men talk.
The men get their coffees and sit next to her along the bar by the window. She tries not to be nosy, but sometimes she can't help it. And a distraction is a distraction, and she feels like she needs one right now. This sexy EMT whose shirt is stretched deliciously over his back and shoulders will do just fine.
"I'm so sick of fucking car accidents."
She freezes and she's positive her heart falls down her body and onto the floor through her feet; that's what it feels like.
She knows that voice. She knows that voice far, far too well.
She turns her head and it's the more attractive of the two who is talking. Of course. He's damn near perfect. His fingers curl around his coffee cup, then he picks at the seam of the cardboard sleeve, folds the top corner down. She's thinking of all the things he said he wanted to do to her with his hands.
Dear god, she may have to let him.
"Honestly, it's just a little fucking rain, people. Get your heads out of your asses and pay attention," he grumbles. She wants to laugh, but she knows it'll give her away.
"Just be glad it's not like last week, okay, Rookie?" the other guy says.
Rachel looks over just to see what Noah's reaction will be to the nickname. She didn't know he was an EMT, but she can't see him being a rookie one. He certainly doesn't carry himself like one. And she remembers last week, when they talked, him telling her he'd had a rough few days. She wants to ask what happened, what he saw. It's none of her business, she knows. That's why she didn't ask at the time.
"Yeah, okay, fine." He sips his coffee. "And stop calling me that."
"Dude, I tell you Sarah wants to get married?"
Noah laughs. "Well, you did give her a ring. The fuck'd'you expect?"
Rachel is half listening to their conversation. She's trying to pay attention to her work. It's not fair that he's right there, sitting next to her with his body turned mostly away, and she can't do anything about it. He looks incredible - better than she expected or dreamed - and she can't reach out and touch him or tell him...anything. She can't let him hear her voice right now.
She drops her pen because she's distracted, and he picks it up, smiles at her (a little wider once he really looks at her, and she's got no doubt he's exactly the womanizer he makes himself out to be). He sets it on the table next to her laptop, gives her a quick wink, and turns around again. She has to remind herself not to say thank you.
Her arm brushes his as she packs up her things. She needs to get out of here. She can't be near him right now. His body is warm when she touches it through his shirt. She didn't mean to touch him, but she's glad she did it. How could she not be?
When she stands from her chair, she slides past him, brushes against him in the process so her breasts graze his back. She smiles at him through the window as she starts down the sidewalk, and he watches her the entire time, brow kinked just enough to be sexy as hell without being obvious to everyone.
She wonders if he'll see that she left her cup there on the table with her name and drink order written on the side.
... ... ...
He doesn't call her for a couple days. Or like, a week. He's busy and there's a 12-car pile up at the end of one of his shifts and he ends up pulling a double because they need as much help as they can get. Saving a couple lives (legitimately) takes precedence over calling a fucking 1-900 number for phone sex with a woman he's never met and never will.
Then he thinks about that too long and ends up vowing never to call back 'cause he feels pretty fucking pathetic. What the hell is he doing? He's young, hot and wears an FDNY-issue uniform. He's practically rolling in pussy. Seriously, he could go to any given bar in the city and find at least three willing women to take home. Possibly at the same time. Point is, he doesn't need this.
He's really fucking surprised when he starts thinking he might need Rachel.
So he's had a bit to drink and he decides to call her and tell her he's fucking done with her unless she's going to suck his dick for real.
"Hi there."
And so that plan changes.
Fuck, he loves her voice.
"Hey."
She lets out this little noise, like she's happy to hear from him. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."
He scoffs. "Yeah right." She laughs. He's so done. "How have you been?"
He's curious. So kill him.
"There was a fire at my dance studio," she says. He's trying to remember if he heard anything about that. And fuck, she's a dancer? How did he not know that? "It was scary and the fire department came, but everyone is okay."
"Shit. Good."
"Now I can't stop thinking about it. What if it was worse?" He doesn't know how to answer. "I guess we're just all lucky the FDNY is so amazing."
"Yeah, I guess so." He kind of likes this, her complimenting him without realizing it. "Any hot ones?"
She laughs again and he smiles, because he doesn't really care how she answers this question. He's not even really sure why he asked. "It must have been their night off," she says. Fuck, she's killing him, here. "I missed you. I shouldn't say that."
"I don't mind."
"That's the problem." She sighs. He doesn't like where this is going.
"Are you breaking up with me?" he asks jokingly.
She doesn't seem to think it's all that funny. "I really didn't think you were going to call again. I thought maybe you met someone or something."
"I'm not really looking." He's not lying.
"I shouldn't be talking like this," she says quietly.
"So?" he asks. "Maybe it's what I want. You like to give me what I want, don't you, baby?"
She lets out a slow breath. "So much," she admits. "It's kind of becoming a problem."
"Why?"
It's not even close to the truth, but he feels like his whole fucking life depends on her answer.
"Because I can't give it to you. We both know that."
"Where's this coming from?" he asks. This seems kind of not fair and really out of left field. It feels like a breakup, even though they're totally not a couple. "Do you have a boyfriend?"
He's never asked. Why, he doesn't know. (Maybe because he didn't want to care enough. Or maybe because he was at least a little afraid she'd answer honestly and it wouldn't be what he wanted to hear.)
"No," she answers. "No, Noah, but I want one."
His heart's beating so fucking hard.
This is so not right.
"Want me?"
"It's not fair." Holy fuck. She wants him like he wants her. "We shouldn't do this any more."
Fuck that.
"Why not?" he asks angrily. "Scared you'd actually like me if we met in person? Or the opposite? Goddamn, Rachel, I'm not one of the fat, married losers who normally call you."
"I know!" What the fuck? Is she that trusting, or... "I know you're not. I know what you look like."
"How?"
He's fucking freaked out. How the fuck?
"I knew it was you the second you opened your mouth," she admits, just barely talking above a whisper. "You look gorgeous in your uniform."
"Where?" he manages, even though he's fucking dying right now. "Why didn't you fucking talk to me? Jesus, Rachel."
"I can't cross that line."
"Yeah, you fucking can." He's going through his head, trying to think of when it might have been, when she saw him and he didn't see her. "I'm saying you can."
"Unfortunately, you aren't in charge of my decisions. I'm sorry." She takes a breath and he closes his eyes, braces himself. "I'm really sorry, Noah."
She hangs up just like he knew she would.
... ... ...
She quits.
He hasn't called in two weeks and she's torn between being devastated and relieved. It's not right. She shouldn't want him so badly, and she finds herself disgusted talking to other men. At least before she had the anticipation of answering the phone and hearing him on the other end of the line. Now all she has is the disappointment of knowing it's not going to be him and trying to humour someone else with words that feel too hollow and a voice she stopped having to use with him.
So she hands in her notice and her boss is sad to see her go, but hands her an envelope with her last paycheck and bonus inside, hugs her and tells her she never wants to see her again. Rachel laughs and nods her head, hopes she's never this desperate for money again.
She gets a part time job behind the bar at this little pub near her apartment. It's within walking distance and one of the cooks lives in her building. She's known him since he moved in, and his girlfriend is a med student at Columbia, so he trusts him enough to let him walk her home at the end of her shifts. The money isn't quite as good and the hours suck, but she can at least tell people about her job and she doesn't have to worry about being called a whore, even though her uniform-issue black tee shirt is short and cut down between her breasts.
She still gets hit on every shift, at least a couple times, but now she can just laugh it off and she doesn't have to feel like she's not doing her job if she doesn't engage.
... ... ...
It's after midnight and he just got off the worst rotation ever, and all he wants is a beer, but he knows he doesn't have any of them at home. He's with a couple buddies and one of them says he knows this little Irish pub they can go to. It's really fucking far from his own apartment, but drinking with a couple people is better than drinking alone, so he tags along.
"Dude, there's'is bartender here," Derrick says as they walk through the door. "Only works sometimes, but she's probably the sexiest little thing."
Puck doesn't hate the sound of that. Derrick has pretty good taste. He's totally married and they all know he'd never cheat on his wife, but he sure does like to look.
Puck's been seeing a couple women. At the same time. Carla is this hot little latina who likes to give him massages every time he sees her, and Kirsten has the best tits he's ever had the pleasure of touching. So he hasn't been all that lonely and his wallet's a little more padded since he stopped calling Rachel.
The way he sees it, if she didn't like him enough to let him know who she was when she saw him that time, then she's not fucking worth it. And maybe she's not as hot as he assumed she is and she said she is. What the hell would a woman that hot be doing working at a fucking phone sex line?
Anyway, they sit down at the bar in this mostly empty little pub. Puck kind of likes it. Brass everywhere and a varnished wood bar, and all sorts of cool shit on the walls. He hates going out to clubs and stuff, and the beer here is probably cheaper and better anyway.
Derrick elbows him in the side as the bartender walks over to them, and holy shit, yeah, this girl is sexy. He watches her walking, and she tosses a couple coasters onto the bar before she looks up at them. She seems to freeze for a second, which isn't all that shocking; it's not like any of these guys are ugly or anything.
"Hey, baby," Derrick says. Puck laughs and shakes his head, because Derrick clearly wears a ring and has about a dozen pictures in his wallet of his wife, but he's a fucking flirt. The bartender smiles and rolls her eyes at him, tilts her head and sets a bottle of Stella in front of him. "Thanks."
"Beer. Anything," Puck says. He doesn't fucking care at this point. She looks him in the eye and he doesn't know why she's blushing, but he kind of fucking likes it. She tucks her hair behind her ear. Tonight just got interesting. "Guinness."
Andrew orders a Jack and Coke and Derrick won't let him live it down, and he can only have one 'cause his girl's waiting for him at home. Puck's phone rings in his pocket and he pulls it out. It's Kirsten, but she's been kind of all over him lately, and as much as he digs having regular sex with her, he needs to imply that there are limits to how much he actually wants to see her. Without having to say it and sound like a complete dick. Not answering her call will do.
Derrick flags down the bartender again and she looks at Puck before she looks to the guy next to him. She's totally flirting, whether she means to or not. He's always a little weary of waitresses and bartenders flirting, 'cause usually they just tease you to get a better tip. This girl's got an ass on her that...Shit, he likes it a lot. He's thinking he should tip 50% just for that reason alone.
Derrick tells her to keep Puck in line while he goes to piss and call 'the old lady', and then laughs his ass off and gets off his stool. She starts wiping down the counter and Puck's watching her tits as she does it. She's fucking sexy.
"He always come in here and harass you like that?" he asks once she's set down her towel and poured herself a glass of water. She takes a long sip and sets the glass on the counter, puts her hands on the bar and leans towards him a bit, which he does not hate.
"I've heard worse," she says, eyes locked with his. His face goes blank and he's glad he wasn't drinking anything when she opened her mouth, 'cause she'd either be wearing it or he'd be choking. Fuck, he feels like he's blushing or something. "Hi, Noah."
He doesn't know what the fuck to say. He's sitting right in front of her and she's sexy as fucking hell and he has no idea what to say. Given that their entire relationship (or whatever you want to call it) was based on talking, that's pretty fucking ironic.
"You're surprised," she states.
"You're not?" he manages.
She laughs a little (he's fucking missed that sound) and takes a deep breath. "I thought I was going to faint when I looked up and saw you sitting there." She reaches out and slides her index finger down his knuckles. "You are a very attractive man."
He grabs her hand, even if he shouldn't. "You don't want to know what I think of you," he says lowly when he has her leaning a little more over the bar.
"I already have an idea."
Derrick comes back and she winks at him (not Puck) and leaves to go take care of her other customers. Puck likes what that means for her in this job more than the other one she had.
"She's something, huh?" Derrick asks before taking a drink of his beer. "I think I'll cry if she gets a boyfriend."
Puck wants to tell the dude to prepare for some fucking tears, then.
When they're done their second beers of the night, Derrick says he has to leave and asks Rachel to print up the bill, says Puck's paying even though those terms weren't discussed ahead of time.
Derrick leans over the bar and pats Rachel's cheek, says he'll be back to see her soon. Puck shouldn't be jealous, but he is, and Rachel rolls her eyes at him, shakes her head until he's gone.
She sets the bill in front of Puck and walks away again, which really fucking sucks, since they're basically alone now and neither of them has a secret to keep. He turns over the piece of paper and there's a phone number written at the top.
He laughs and gives her a come hither motion with his hand, watches her face as she walks over. He sets his elbows on the bar and leans closer to her so he can say this quietly.
"It's almost cute that you think I'm leaving here tonight without you," he tells her.
The second they're inside her apartment, he's got her pushed back against the door. He's barely touching her, though, and he's holding his lips just out of her reach, his forearm braced against the door above her head. She pushes her hips forward and grabs onto his shirt.
"What happened to all that patience and self restraint?" he asks, smirking down at her.
"It was an act," she snaps. He brings his arm down, sets his hand on the side of her neck and strokes the skin below her ear. "I'll go crazy if you don't kiss me soon." His phone rings again (fuck!) just before he kisses her, and she reaches into his pocket (fuck!) to get it. "Who's Kirsten?" she asks with her brow raised.
He grabs her hips, pulls her against him and almost, almost kisses her. "Not you," he answers.
She whimpers into his mouth as soon as his lips are on hers.
... ... ...
He's still there in the morning when she wakes up. Actually, he's already well on his way to working her into a frenzy, His hand is moving up and down her back, fingertips gliding over her spine. She's exhausted and sore from last night, but her back arches and she finds herself moaning before she's even opened her eyes. He's barely touching her and he's drawing these sounds from her.
"You're still here," she notes. He sinks down in the bed and she realizes for the first time, in her bleary state, that they're both entirely naked. He just nods and she smiles up at him, blinks lazily. "I have a class in three hours."
He leans over, kisses her cheek, and holds her down when she tries to roll over. He moves so he's laying on top of her back and nudges her legs apart with his knee. He sucks at the sensitive skin right behind her ear, and murmurs, "I can do a lot of things to you in three hours."
They don't leave her apartment for a day and a half, until he has to go to work and she's made him promise to meet her after for dinner.
And she asks him to delete all the other womens' numbers from his phone.
He tells her hers is the only one he needs anyway.