Let It Come Down 3/6
Title: Let It Come Down
Chapter: 3/6
Rating: R
Character: Puck/Rachel
Summary: She doesn't mean to linger, but it happens because he seems relaxed and less tense than he has since she saw him yesterday, and if that's the case and her little peck on the cheek has something to do with it, she wants him to be able to feel it as long as possible.
Word Count: 6,900
Disclaimer: Don't own.
She shouldn't be calling him. Jose Cuervo is a terrible influence.
She got accidentally drunk with her girlfriends and they ended up at this club she's always hated. She went along because they were all having fun and the drinks were flowing and it seemed like a good idea when she had a shot glass in one hand and a lime wedge in the other. Carrie-Ann payed for dinner, Drey for drinks, and Rachel sprung for cover at the club. The music is loud and basically terrible, and there's nowhere to sit. She's hit on by at least three men within the first half hour, and another one grinds against her ass when she's trying to dance to a little Jamie Foxx. He's attractive enough (the guy; Jamie Foxx is simply gorgeous), but she's not interested. She puts her hand flat on his chest and gives him a push with her eyes locked on his and he seems to get the idea, smiles at her even. Drey gives her hell for pushing him away instead of pulling him closer, but she doesn't care.
It's not even 1:00 and she's bored and kind of tired. She's been sweating her ass off and - note to self - continuous shots of tequila do not count as hydration. She announces she's leaving, and her friends say they want to stay, so she insists she's fine on her own and that they should stay and have fun. The bouncer hands her a bottle of water on her way out of the bar and she kisses his cheek as a thank you. She doesn't know why. (Cuervo.)
She's halfway to her place in a cab ride she's lucky she can afford and she starts thinking about Noah and how it's been almost a week since she heard from him. She misses him, as stupid as it is. She's gotten used to not only seeing him sort of semi-regularly, but talking or texting at least once in a while. She doesn't know what's been going on with him this week - she isn't going to ask, because she'd hate to pry and she knows his life hasn't exactly been easy these days - but she's missed his silly and sometimes crude text messages. Not that he's been sexting her or something. He just swears sometimes, says absurd things. She's come to like it.
It's not until he's answered and she hears how quiet his voice is that she realizes that calling him on a Saturday at 1:25 in the morning may not have been the best idea she's ever had.
"Rachel?" he laughs quietly.
"It's late. I'll hang up."
He laughs again. It puts her at ease. "What're you up to?"
"Are you sleeping?" she asks.
"No," he answers. "Sitting in my basement with a beer. Sounds like I'd need about 10 more to catch up with you, though."
"There was tequila. It got silly."
"Sounds like it," he chuckles. His voice is quiet again.
"Are you alone?"
He sighs. "Yeah. She's in bed."
"I wasn't..."
"I know what you were doing. She's upstairs. Where are you?"
She realizes the cabbie is pulling into her driveway and she pulls a $50 from her clutch and hands it to the driver, thanks him and climbs out of the car, though it's difficult to do in her tiny skirt and heels. She manages okay, but then Noah says her name, laughing a little, and asks if she's okay.
"I'm okay. I'm home. I...my keys aren't cooperating. Wait, wait," she says, trying to find the right key in the dark.
"Not going anywhere," he laughs.
"I like your laugh. You should laugh more." She shoves the door open, then closes and locks it behind her and slips her feet out of her shoes. The hardwood feels a million times better than the three inch pumps.
"It's easy to laugh when you call me in the middle of the night, drunk off your little ass."
She scoffs, checks herself out in her hall mirror. "My ass isn't that little." She hears him laughing. "It's not."
"Okay," he manages. "Fine. Your ass is huge. It's disgusting really."
"I have wide hips." She heads for the kitchen and fills an entire pitcher with water, then grabs one of her tall plastic cups. She's thinking ahead to the morning when she knows she won't want to get out of bed. How nice will it be to have water close at hand? "Sorry it's late and I called you."
"Don't worry about it. I was up."
"What are you doing? Other than beer in your basement."
"Nothing," he says. She believes him.
"Wait a second, okay? Just wait." She really needs to get out of this top. It's strategically...Well, she's practically strapped into the thing. Her skirt is slightly ridiculous and he'd probably agree if he saw her in it. She bashes her elbow on her dresser as she's trying to wiggle out of it, hears his laughter ringing out from her phone as it sits on top of the bed. Once she's down to her panties (the shirt didn't require a bra) she slips into a tank top and lets out a breath. "Hi."
"You alright?"
"I'm fine. Sexy clothes are kind of hard, you know?"
He scoffs again. "No, not really."
Laying back in her bed, she giggles a little. "I suppose Quinn never was the type to wear what I just had on."
His voice drops in timbre and he asks, "What'd you just have on?"
She shouldn't tell him, and really, he should probably be upset with her not at all subtle dig at his wife just now.
Instead she details the outfit to him and laughs when he asks why she's home alone right now.
They talk until she gets really sleepy, and she makes him promise to call her in a few days, at least. He says something about coming to Cleveland soon, and something sparks in her belly when he says he'll let her know when they can get together.
She doesn't really know what that conversation just was, but it's nearly 2:00 a.m. and she falls asleep with her makeup on and a smile on her face.
... ... ...
"Oh, please. As if you know what that means."
"I listened to at least a third of what you just said."
"Noah," she giggles. "That doesn't mean anything."
"Oh, trust me. It does."
He barely ever listens to Quinn anymore. She's usually just bitching at him for something dumb anyway. He just tuned the fuck into a conversation about the quality of Cleveland theater brats and stuff, just because Rachel was the one talking about it. It means something.
"Either way, I still don't think you understand that I can't exactly just tell them to fuck off and hope it'll straighten them out."
"You just said fuck," he says, totally in awe. He's never heard her say it. How does she make a dirty word sound so damn good?
"I'm old enough to curse," she laughs. "In fact, I do it rather regularly."
"You haven't with me."
"Well, I guess I'm just comfortable with you enough now to show my naughty side," she says. He doesn't say anything for a second. Did she actually just say that? "I didn't mean...I mean, I don't have...There's no naughty side."
He raises his brow. He's glad he's home alone. Not only because Quinn would destroy him if she knew he was talking to another woman (Rachel, specifically), but because he's kind of turned on by this. And by 'kind of', he means he's half-hard in his jeans.
"No?"
"You'll never know," she says.
He laughs, mostly because at least part of him thinks that's totally bullshit.
... ... ...
She does not expect to get a call telling her that he's in town. She's still in bed and half asleep and his voice makes her feel incredibly warm and safe, which is just so ridiculous. He just says, "Hey, Rach. I'm in Cleveland," and she smiles and cuddles up in her bed with his voice in his ear.
"What are you doing here?" she asks.
"You in bed?" he counters. It sounds like he's amused. "I thought you'd have run a marathon by now or something."
"I'm tired," she practically pouts.
"Too tired to get together for dinner?"
She smiles, tugs her covers up over her shoulder. "No," she says quietly.
"God, you sound really cute right now," he says, laughing.
She should not be as happy as she is. She really shouldn't. He's a married man and she's not the woman he's married to. But she's also practically painfully single and she has a very attractive man paying her compliments. She's still a woman, so she's always going to enjoy that. Also, it's easy to forget about his wife when he never talks about her. That's an incredibly dangerous thing.
She's got feelings for him. There. There it is, out in the open. She has feelings for him and she can't ignore them. She doesn't want it to be true, necessarily, but she can't help that he's the only man in years who's been able to make her feel both secure and completely off-kilter all at once. It happened once or twice when she was a teenager and she's been searching for it ever since. It's kind of a delicious thing, to want someone so badly and to be so scared of them at the same time.
"Where are you?"
"Hotel. Just about to head out to do a store visit."
"How come you didn't tell me you were coming?"
"I'm telling you now." He sounds like he's smiling. He seems happier these days. She wonders how much of that has to do with her. "I'll text you later."
"Okay," she says quietly. She's ignoring how serious this feels, how much she feels like his girlfriend right now.
"You gonna get out of bed at any point?" he chuckles.
Smiling to herself, she looks at the clock again. "If you're lucky."
He lets out a sound, it's almost like a breath, but heavier than that. "Yeah. Lucky," he mumbles. She doesn't think she's meant to hear him, so she ignores it. "I'll see you later."
"Have a good day."
"I will."
He's never said that before. She hangs up and she's still smiling.
... ... ...
She texted him the name of a pub and claimed it was half price appie night, or whatever, not that he cares at all. Her next message had a winky face and explained that this bar always played the Cards game. He doesn't hate the Cards, and he thinks it's mostly just cute that she's so into baseball and this random team. And they always end up at some nice restaurant and he likes the idea of them being more casual. It makes sense, since their conversations are lighter these days, even when they're talking about the heavy shit, and they're past the point of just being two old friends catching up. They can be someplace loud where they have to yell over the crowd to talk and it would be annoying.
She's at a high top table when he gets there. She looks fucking sexy.
No, he really doesn't feel bad thinking that.
She's wearing these little denim shorts and a grey Cardinals tee shirt that fits her perfectly. Her hair's in a ponytail and she's got a pitcher of beer in front of her and a mostly full glass in her hand. Sexy.
"Hey," he says. If he slides his hand across her back when he gets to her, it's just...He just wants to.
"Hi!" She throws her arms around him and he ends up mostly between her knees.
Fuck.
"How're you?" He pulls away and sits himself on his own seat, pours himself a beer. "Good day?"
"It was. I did mostly nothing. I should probably feel guilty about that."
He scoffs. She fires on all cylinders all the time. "You're allowed to do nothing every once in a while. You're just too much of a control freak to realize it," he says. He makes it sound like he's teasing her, but they both probably know he's really not. She looks like she doesn't know how to respond to him pointing it out. "I finished both days of work today, actually."
"Oh," she says. She takes a sip of her beer and looks down at her menu. "Does that mean you're leaving early?"
He laughs at her. "No. It means I have a whole day to screw around tomorrow and technically get paid for it." She laughs loudly, tips her head back and everything, and holds her glass up to his.
And no, he really doesn't hate that she seemed kind of sad over the thought of him leaving town.
He's walking down a really dangerous path here. Mostly because he's married and there are vows and he wears a ring and loves his wife. Most days. Then there are the days when he's with Rachel or fuck, even just talking to Rachel, and he's actually happy. He feels like a guilty asshole for even that, for just being happy with someone who doesn't share his last name. This is a really bad idea, sitting here with Rachel. He's not going to lie and say he's not attracted to her. He's thought so many times about what it'd be like to fuck her. The only time he gets off anymore is when he's doing it for himself - Quinn sure as hell isn't giving it up - and most of the time (always, but he's scared of what that means) it's Rachel he's thinking about. The night she called him, drunk, he was so hard talking to her that he had to convince himself not to initiate phone sex.
He's married. That means something. Just because he's attracted to someone else and he's going through a rough time with his wife doesn't give him allowance to cheat.
Then Rachel puts her hand on his thigh and steals a carrot stick off his plate as she talks about the Cards' offense and he's not thinking about Quinn anymore.
That's becoming the problem. The bigger problem? He likes it too much to stop it.
He's driving, so they stop drinking after their pitcher is finished and he gets pissed at her for paying the tab before he can. He got up to go to the washroom and she took care of it. It bugs him when she does that. He really doesn't mind taking care of things.
And then when he goes to the bar to get them a couple glasses of water, he turns around as he's waiting and there's this guy standing there talking to her. He's leaning against the table and smiling at her and Puck's fucking pissed. No, she's not his girl, really, but the two of them are alone here and no one else here knows she's not his girl. The guy hitting on her currently is a fucking asshole for even stepping up to her and talking to her when she's obviously here with someone else.
Then Puck pretends he doesn't see her point to him when he's at the the bar. If she just said he's her boyfriend or something, he doesn't want to know. It feels too fucking good, actually. It does help to quell some of the jealousy that was rising up in his chest. He's too old to fight guys in bars and if that tool hadn't backed off, Puck can't promise he wouldn't have said some shit.
"Who was that?" he asks as he sets her glass in front of her.
"I don't know. No one."
He chuckles. "You get that a lot?" he teases.
She shrugs one shoulder and sips her water. "Kind of, yes." Not the answer he was looking for. "I don't really mind."
"What?" He kind of snapped that at her, but whatever. She's talking shit. No woman likes to be hit on by random assholes like that who come on too strong.
"I spent a very large portion of my life thinking...Well, being told, really, that I wasn't pretty," she says. She sounds like she's over it, but yeah, that had to sting. "It's not like I was ever really...It's just nice to be appreciated, you know?"
Fuck. Yeah, he knows. He wants to be appreciated. Not in a lame way or anything. It'd be nice if the woman he shares a bed with almost every night would pay him some fucking attention.
"Yeah."
"I don't know," she says dismissively. "Between Santana and Quinn and the fact that all my boyfriends didn't even really seem to like me all that much, it's a wonder I have any self-esteem at all."
She's fucking right, and he's pissed at Quinn for treating this girl like that. And yeah, he did some pretty terrible shit to Rachel when he was young and fucking stupid, but he at least apologized for it, and sincerely.
"Rachel."
"Sorry," she says quickly, meeting his eyes. "I'm sorry. She's your wife and I shouldn't talk about her like that."
"No," he says. He's kind of pissed. She's more important than Quinn right now. (Fucking awful thought. He's an asshole and he knows that.) "I liked you."
It seems important to say it.
She smiles at him across the table, pushes her bangs back off her temple. "I know," she says, like it was some big secret only the two of them were in on.
Kind of like this thing they have now.
The Cards lose by two and she pouts about it. He teases her and throws his arm around her shoulder, pulling her to the door as he tells her he'll give her a ride home. He's definitely not drunk at all. They were in the bar long enough that any beer he drank has basically vanished from his blood stream or whatever. She's got these pink cheeks that tell him the same isn't totally true for her, but she's just a little buzzed and he can tell it'll wear off soon enough.
He drives around a little and she doesn't question him on it. They aren't even really talking or anything. He's got some music she recommended to him playing and she's siting in the passenger seat with her legs looking way too fucking long and her elbow resting on the center console next to his. He can tell she's thinking about something, but he's not about to ask her what it is in case he really doesn't want to hear.
He doesn't doubt that she spends at least some time thinking about his marriage. Probably as much as he does when they're together. Technically, this friendship isn't wrong, but he's married and she calls him in the middle of the night (just that once, but still, it could have gone way differently if he'd been laying next to his wife) and they spend all this time together when he's in town. She's always available to him, it seems, even though she's got this insane, busy, important life. He feels fucking amazing knowing she always makes time for him. He feels important.
She's laughing about something he's just said when he pulls into her driveway. She twists the strap of her little purse in her hand and clears her throat.
"Do you want to come in?" she asks, looking over at him. He's looking straight ahead. He doesn't need the temptation of seeing her face right now. "I could make coffee or something."
"I can't."
"Oh," she says quietly. She sounds fucking hurt and rejected, and fuck, that's totally not what this is. Not the way she probably thinks. "Okay, well..."
"Rachel, we both know what's going to happen if I walk through that door," he says candidly, glancing at her. Her eyes are wide, lips parted just slightly, like she wants to say something but doesn't know what. "I can't."
"I didn't mean..." She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes for a second before meeting his again. "That's not what I was implying."
"Maybe not, but fuck. You look the way you do, and I'm this fucking close to touching you right now, and if I come inside..."
She holds up her hand. "No. I...That's fine. I'm just going to go," she says, reaching for the door handle. She's all flustered and her cheeks are pink, and that is not helping him right now. "It was good seeing you again."
He hates that they're back to that.
He nods, just once, and she steps out of the car. He adjusts his pants as he watches her walk, the subtle sway of her hips and the curve of her ass in those shorts. He wants her so fucking badly, but he's not going to go there. He can't go there. He's married, and just because he's hard up (and hard) and wants sex, he's not going to cheat on his wife. He can't do it. He puts the car in drive and backs out of the driveway. He's going to go back to he hotel, take care of this problem, and go to bed. He'll call Quinn before he goes to sleep, check in with her and see how she's doing.
Rachel is a nice distraction from what's happening in his life, but he doesn't need her to be one of the things happening in his life. (Even if she really already is.) He can't let himself give in to the temptation just because she listens to him and helps him and looks so fucking good no matter what she wears. It's not fair to Quinn or his marriage or even himself, really. And it wouldn't be fair to Rachel, either.
But then he thinks of the way Rachel's hand lays over his when he's talking about something serious, and the way she looks into his eyes when she's being sympathetic. He knows she's told him more about her life than she's told anyone lately. They've commiserated together. And yes, his life is way more fucked up than hers is at the moment, but there's something about her, this sadness or hopelessness that annoys the fuck out of him, because he liked the way she used to be, all too-big smiles and endless optimism and thinking the best of everyone to the point of irritation. He thinks he needs that right now, and he wonders if he could be the one to bring it back to her.
He drives around for close to an hour, thinking about everything, thinking about her and Quinn and the whole mess that everything is right now. And the one thing he wants more than anything at the moment is to peel Rachel's clothes off her body, kiss her and fuck her and make her come. And it's wrong, it is, but it's what he wants, and why can't he have what he wants, just once? He wants to be able to control something, to control her in the best way he knows how.
So he ends up at her door, knocking and standing there knowing that as soon as it's open, everything's going to change. He doesn't know if he's really ready for that, but he's just going for it in hopes that it won't make anything worse. (He knows it will. He knows it.)
"Noah," she says quietly when she opens the door. She's in cotton shorts and a black tank top now and he looks her up and down. She's no less appealing than she was earlier.
And the way she's looking at him right now is totally hopeful, but like she's trying not to look too hopeful. He thinks she's probably been sitting here thinking about him the same way he's been thinking about her.
Then she pulls open the door a little wider, wordlessly inviting him in, and she's biting her lip and staring at him as he walks past. It's like she's trying to tempt him into something even deeper than what he thinks he needs. The door closes and the lock clicks, and she swallows so hard he can hear it. She wets her lips subtly when he turns to her again.
If she's going to burn down the forest, he's going to strike the first match.
... ... ...
Watching people sleep is disturbing and she's never, ever been one to do it. Actually, she once ended a relationship with a man because she woke up to him staring at her. It's strange and voyeuristic and she just thinks it's really creepy.
It's just that when she opens her eyes, Noah's face is laying on the pillow next to her own and she just looks at him for a moment. Partly because she cannot believe she actually allowed this to happen. Also because he looks kind of ridiculous when he sleeps. Yes, he's got these beautiful lashes that fan out against his cheeks when his eyes are closed, and these lips she now knows even more intimately than she previously thought she did. (It was one of those things she told herself to keep from just grabbing him; she already knew how his kisses felt and didn't need further demonstration.) But his short hair is messier than she even thought possible, and he sleeps on his stomach with his hand balled into a fist somewhere around shoulder height. His lips are slightly parted and every time he moves even one limb, he makes this little noise that makes him sound far, far more innocent than he is.
He just cheated on his wife.
She's not doing a very good job of rationalizing it away, but she's still trying. No, he's not happy. He hasn't said that, but it's not like it's some big secret or anything. He's not happy and yet he smiles and laughs around Rachel. It makes her feel amazing, and honestly, she thinks he should be happy. He should get to be happy with whoever makes him happy. That's her right now and she shouldn't feel guilty about wanting to be the one he smiles at or kisses or touches.
His wedding ring says otherwise. No matter how many excuses she makes for them, this is wrong. He made vows with someone else, had a child with someone else. He loves Quinn, loves her enough to have married her and stayed with her and made a life with her. In a matter of months, everything has fallen apart and Rachel is the horrible, awful woman who began to put the pieces back together, for him at least, and it's definitely not her place. She never should have started acting anything more than just friendly with him.
But up until last night, they hadn't so much as kissed. They barely touched really, just an innocent one here or there. Touching his hand or his arm is hardly scandalous and certainly nothing she should have stopped or avoided.
She can't exactly pinpoint the moment this became more than that, but for her, she thinks it was probably almost immediate. He makes her happy, too, makes her feel like she's not so incredibly alone all the time, even when he's not with her.
She looks away, turns on her side when she sees the white gold band on his finger. Maybe she should have made him take it off, but even thinking that makes her feel like more of a whore than she already does. She's laying in bed with another woman's husband after what was probably one of the best nights of her life.
He makes a sound, moves closer and sets his palm on her hip. His face ends up pressed against her shoulder and his hand slides higher before moving back down. She knows he's awake, but she doesn't know what to say to him and she really doesn't know how to look at him now that his eyes are open.
"Morning," he murmurs against the back of her shoulder.
"Hi." It comes out hoarse. She was not kind to her voice last night and she's definitely blaming him. She clears her throat. "Good morning."
"You okay?"
She hears how heavy her hesitation sounds when it lingers between them. "Yeah."
He chuckles, kisses her bare skin. "Liar."
She takes a deep breath because she doesn't want to argue it, but she doesn't necessarily want to confirm it, either.
She doesn't want to start asking questions. They both know what they did and why they did it, and yes, she wants to know what happens now and how he's feeling and if he's really just going to leave here tonight and drive back to Lima after this, and when is he coming back? She's not a teenager and she doesn't need all the answers from the boy she likes right this instant. That doesn't mean she doesn't want some.
"When are you leaving?" she asks quietly. His fingertips are playing over her ribs, brushing against the side of her breast and making her eyes flutter closed. Never before has she ever been so turned on by a man who touches her like this. It shouldn't make her wet, just the pads of his fingers on her. It really shouldn't.
"Not yet," he says, bringing his hand up to cover her breast. He pushes his hips against her backside and she can feel his hardening length against her.
As far as answers go, she's having a hard time finding anything wrong with that one.
The entire time she's in the shower, she's wondering if he's talking to Quinn. She's a terrible person, but she's having a hard time convincing herself of that when she's sore in all the good ways and there's a faint hand print on her hip and a red mark on her breast. She probably shouldn't have slept with him again this morning, but she wasn't about to stop him when he lay on top of her and started telling her all the things he wanted to do to her. When he asked permission, it was sexy as hell. She was quick to say yes and repeated the word often enough that he probably won't question her again.
She steps out of the bathroom with her hair wet and dripping and a towel wrapped around her. She lives alone so she generally doesn't have to worry about covering up or anything. Not that she has anything to hide from him - he was inside her 30 minutes ago - but she does have some sense of discretion.
He's laying back against her pillows, very clearly naked under the one thin sheet covering him, and sipping from a cup of coffee he must have taken it upon himself to make.
"Sexy," he says, looking her up and down.
She rolls her eyes, even though she doesn't doubt that he likes what he sees. She grabs a pair of panties from her dresser and slides them up her legs under the towel. He's behind her and she hears him groan when he gets a flash of her bare ass before it's covered again. She pulls on a tank top with a built in bra and then unwraps the towel from her body, bends forward and twists it around her hair.
His eyes are dark and hungry when she turns around to look at him.
"Don't," she laughs.
"You can't just walk around like that and expect me not to want to fuck you again." He sets his coffee cup down on the bedside table and juts his chin at her. "C'mere."
She sighs, but does as he asks. It's not like it's a chore to be near him or anything. It's just that she doesn't get to do it enough, if you ask her. "What?"
"Rachel," he chuckles softly. She sits down next to him and his hand lands on her thigh, pulling her closer so her body is angled towards his. "You freaking out?"
"No," she says. She's not, really. "I'd say this shouldn't have happened, but...I don't know. It feels good."
He smiles at her. It's not a smirk, not like he's going to make a suggestive comment based on what she's just said. "I know."
"What are we doing?" she asks, avoiding his eyes. He doesn't say anything. When she looks at him, he's just staring at her. She knows he doesn't have any better answer than she does. "I'm sorry."
His brow furrows. "For what?"
"For...For making you do this, be unfaithful," she says quietly.
"Rachel." It's harsh, almost startles her. "You didn't make me do this. Pretty sure I was the one who came back here last night."
She shouldn't smile, but she does it anyway. "Why did you?"
"So I could have sex with you." She squeals his name and pushes at his chest, and he somehow maneuvers her so she's straddling his lap. "Because I fucking want you, Rachel." She bites her lip to keep from smiling, but his grin basically calls her out on that. "I want you."
She pushes her hips forward and sets her hands on his shoulders as he groans. "Say that again."
He chuckles, pushes her up easily and tugs down the sheet so all that's between them are her panties.
"Want you," he says, eyes locked with hers. He pulls the towel from her hair and drops it over the side of the bed, runs his fingers through her damp hair and searches her face. Then he leans forward and kisses her before sinking down further in the bed, taking her with him until he's flat on his back and she's settled over his hips with his hands pushing at her top. "Fuck, you're hot."
She pulls her top over her head and stands up on the bed with her feet on either side of his hips. It's slightly scandalous, but it's sexy, too, and she pushes her panties down off her hips and stares at him as he caresses her calves with his hands. When she settles over him again, she runs her hands down his chest and rocks her hips a little bit, which feels so good it's practically unfair.
"Well, those clothes lasted five minutes," she says, grin on her lips. Really, she should have known she'd just end up naked again anyway.
Then he says something absolutely filthy about how long he can last.
She mutters, "Prove it," as she guides him inside her and then it's basically a contest to see who can make the other come first.
... ... ...
It feels fucking amazing to be with someone again. Not even just because of the release he gets and the way he feels inside a woman. He feels kind of normal again, and shit, he loves that. He always felt that way with Rachel anyway, because she didn't spend most of her time giving him sad looks attempting to act like everything was normal and nothing was totally fucked.
He hasn't missed Quinn at all these past couple days, and that makes him feel like more of an asshole than fucking another woman does.
He's not stupid. He knows what he did was wrong. He shouldn't have gone back to Rachel's and kissed her, tugged at her clothes or let her lead him upstairs. He doesn't regret it. He really doesn't. He needs her. He only said he wants her, which yeah, is also true, but he's driving back to Lima and he's thinking about never seeing her again and it fucking hurts. He should end it and no one would have to know. Quinn wouldn't have to know. No one would find out because he knows Rachel wouldn't tell anyone. He could walk away right now and it'd be like it never happened.
Honestly? That sounds like the worst fucking plan he's ever had. And he's had some really fucking stupid plans in his life.
Because really, if he goes back to how things were before he and Rachel got closer, he honestly doesn't know what he'll do. He was in misery with basically no silver lining. He wasn't even thinking,'Well, at least I have my wife,' because Quinn kind of hasn't been his wife. She's not the same woman he married, and no, he's probably not the same man she married. They lost their child and it fucking kills him that they're losing each other, too. If they'd just worked on them like he suggested - like everyone suggested - they could have been okay and none of this would have happened. He wanted them to go to grief counseling. It sounded like bullshit to him, but there's no way it could have hurt. Quinn refused because she didn't want anyone knowing her business. They live in a small town and everyone knows anyway, and he thinks it would have looked better if she'd attempted to do something about the constant redness in her eyes and the fact that she was acting like a fucking zombie.
He's not blaming her for what just happened between he and Rachel. He's a grown man and he's completely capable of making his own choices, even if they're supposed to be wrong or bad or whatever other words people use when a man cheats on his wife. But Rachel makes him feel things he hasn't felt with Quinn in way too long, since before Beth died, if he's being completely honest with himself. He doesn't really see how it can be wrong to want to be with someone who makes you want to fucking live.
He's being a cheesy asshole and also a complete dick. He's justifying what he's done even though he knows he fucked up, technically.
Quinn's sleeping when he gets home at 8:00 at night. She's laying on her side of the bed and he doesn't feel much of anything at all when he sees her. There's no wave of guilt, no urge to confess, no realization that this thing with Rachel can't continue and he has to end it.
He closes the bedroom door and heads to the basement, turns on the television and calls Rachel to let her know he got home okay.
...Chapter 4...
Chapter: 3/6
Rating: R
Character: Puck/Rachel
Summary: She doesn't mean to linger, but it happens because he seems relaxed and less tense than he has since she saw him yesterday, and if that's the case and her little peck on the cheek has something to do with it, she wants him to be able to feel it as long as possible.
Word Count: 6,900
Disclaimer: Don't own.
She shouldn't be calling him. Jose Cuervo is a terrible influence.
She got accidentally drunk with her girlfriends and they ended up at this club she's always hated. She went along because they were all having fun and the drinks were flowing and it seemed like a good idea when she had a shot glass in one hand and a lime wedge in the other. Carrie-Ann payed for dinner, Drey for drinks, and Rachel sprung for cover at the club. The music is loud and basically terrible, and there's nowhere to sit. She's hit on by at least three men within the first half hour, and another one grinds against her ass when she's trying to dance to a little Jamie Foxx. He's attractive enough (the guy; Jamie Foxx is simply gorgeous), but she's not interested. She puts her hand flat on his chest and gives him a push with her eyes locked on his and he seems to get the idea, smiles at her even. Drey gives her hell for pushing him away instead of pulling him closer, but she doesn't care.
It's not even 1:00 and she's bored and kind of tired. She's been sweating her ass off and - note to self - continuous shots of tequila do not count as hydration. She announces she's leaving, and her friends say they want to stay, so she insists she's fine on her own and that they should stay and have fun. The bouncer hands her a bottle of water on her way out of the bar and she kisses his cheek as a thank you. She doesn't know why. (Cuervo.)
She's halfway to her place in a cab ride she's lucky she can afford and she starts thinking about Noah and how it's been almost a week since she heard from him. She misses him, as stupid as it is. She's gotten used to not only seeing him sort of semi-regularly, but talking or texting at least once in a while. She doesn't know what's been going on with him this week - she isn't going to ask, because she'd hate to pry and she knows his life hasn't exactly been easy these days - but she's missed his silly and sometimes crude text messages. Not that he's been sexting her or something. He just swears sometimes, says absurd things. She's come to like it.
It's not until he's answered and she hears how quiet his voice is that she realizes that calling him on a Saturday at 1:25 in the morning may not have been the best idea she's ever had.
"Rachel?" he laughs quietly.
"It's late. I'll hang up."
He laughs again. It puts her at ease. "What're you up to?"
"Are you sleeping?" she asks.
"No," he answers. "Sitting in my basement with a beer. Sounds like I'd need about 10 more to catch up with you, though."
"There was tequila. It got silly."
"Sounds like it," he chuckles. His voice is quiet again.
"Are you alone?"
He sighs. "Yeah. She's in bed."
"I wasn't..."
"I know what you were doing. She's upstairs. Where are you?"
She realizes the cabbie is pulling into her driveway and she pulls a $50 from her clutch and hands it to the driver, thanks him and climbs out of the car, though it's difficult to do in her tiny skirt and heels. She manages okay, but then Noah says her name, laughing a little, and asks if she's okay.
"I'm okay. I'm home. I...my keys aren't cooperating. Wait, wait," she says, trying to find the right key in the dark.
"Not going anywhere," he laughs.
"I like your laugh. You should laugh more." She shoves the door open, then closes and locks it behind her and slips her feet out of her shoes. The hardwood feels a million times better than the three inch pumps.
"It's easy to laugh when you call me in the middle of the night, drunk off your little ass."
She scoffs, checks herself out in her hall mirror. "My ass isn't that little." She hears him laughing. "It's not."
"Okay," he manages. "Fine. Your ass is huge. It's disgusting really."
"I have wide hips." She heads for the kitchen and fills an entire pitcher with water, then grabs one of her tall plastic cups. She's thinking ahead to the morning when she knows she won't want to get out of bed. How nice will it be to have water close at hand? "Sorry it's late and I called you."
"Don't worry about it. I was up."
"What are you doing? Other than beer in your basement."
"Nothing," he says. She believes him.
"Wait a second, okay? Just wait." She really needs to get out of this top. It's strategically...Well, she's practically strapped into the thing. Her skirt is slightly ridiculous and he'd probably agree if he saw her in it. She bashes her elbow on her dresser as she's trying to wiggle out of it, hears his laughter ringing out from her phone as it sits on top of the bed. Once she's down to her panties (the shirt didn't require a bra) she slips into a tank top and lets out a breath. "Hi."
"You alright?"
"I'm fine. Sexy clothes are kind of hard, you know?"
He scoffs again. "No, not really."
Laying back in her bed, she giggles a little. "I suppose Quinn never was the type to wear what I just had on."
His voice drops in timbre and he asks, "What'd you just have on?"
She shouldn't tell him, and really, he should probably be upset with her not at all subtle dig at his wife just now.
Instead she details the outfit to him and laughs when he asks why she's home alone right now.
They talk until she gets really sleepy, and she makes him promise to call her in a few days, at least. He says something about coming to Cleveland soon, and something sparks in her belly when he says he'll let her know when they can get together.
She doesn't really know what that conversation just was, but it's nearly 2:00 a.m. and she falls asleep with her makeup on and a smile on her face.
... ... ...
"Oh, please. As if you know what that means."
"I listened to at least a third of what you just said."
"Noah," she giggles. "That doesn't mean anything."
"Oh, trust me. It does."
He barely ever listens to Quinn anymore. She's usually just bitching at him for something dumb anyway. He just tuned the fuck into a conversation about the quality of Cleveland theater brats and stuff, just because Rachel was the one talking about it. It means something.
"Either way, I still don't think you understand that I can't exactly just tell them to fuck off and hope it'll straighten them out."
"You just said fuck," he says, totally in awe. He's never heard her say it. How does she make a dirty word sound so damn good?
"I'm old enough to curse," she laughs. "In fact, I do it rather regularly."
"You haven't with me."
"Well, I guess I'm just comfortable with you enough now to show my naughty side," she says. He doesn't say anything for a second. Did she actually just say that? "I didn't mean...I mean, I don't have...There's no naughty side."
He raises his brow. He's glad he's home alone. Not only because Quinn would destroy him if she knew he was talking to another woman (Rachel, specifically), but because he's kind of turned on by this. And by 'kind of', he means he's half-hard in his jeans.
"No?"
"You'll never know," she says.
He laughs, mostly because at least part of him thinks that's totally bullshit.
... ... ...
She does not expect to get a call telling her that he's in town. She's still in bed and half asleep and his voice makes her feel incredibly warm and safe, which is just so ridiculous. He just says, "Hey, Rach. I'm in Cleveland," and she smiles and cuddles up in her bed with his voice in his ear.
"What are you doing here?" she asks.
"You in bed?" he counters. It sounds like he's amused. "I thought you'd have run a marathon by now or something."
"I'm tired," she practically pouts.
"Too tired to get together for dinner?"
She smiles, tugs her covers up over her shoulder. "No," she says quietly.
"God, you sound really cute right now," he says, laughing.
She should not be as happy as she is. She really shouldn't. He's a married man and she's not the woman he's married to. But she's also practically painfully single and she has a very attractive man paying her compliments. She's still a woman, so she's always going to enjoy that. Also, it's easy to forget about his wife when he never talks about her. That's an incredibly dangerous thing.
She's got feelings for him. There. There it is, out in the open. She has feelings for him and she can't ignore them. She doesn't want it to be true, necessarily, but she can't help that he's the only man in years who's been able to make her feel both secure and completely off-kilter all at once. It happened once or twice when she was a teenager and she's been searching for it ever since. It's kind of a delicious thing, to want someone so badly and to be so scared of them at the same time.
"Where are you?"
"Hotel. Just about to head out to do a store visit."
"How come you didn't tell me you were coming?"
"I'm telling you now." He sounds like he's smiling. He seems happier these days. She wonders how much of that has to do with her. "I'll text you later."
"Okay," she says quietly. She's ignoring how serious this feels, how much she feels like his girlfriend right now.
"You gonna get out of bed at any point?" he chuckles.
Smiling to herself, she looks at the clock again. "If you're lucky."
He lets out a sound, it's almost like a breath, but heavier than that. "Yeah. Lucky," he mumbles. She doesn't think she's meant to hear him, so she ignores it. "I'll see you later."
"Have a good day."
"I will."
He's never said that before. She hangs up and she's still smiling.
... ... ...
She texted him the name of a pub and claimed it was half price appie night, or whatever, not that he cares at all. Her next message had a winky face and explained that this bar always played the Cards game. He doesn't hate the Cards, and he thinks it's mostly just cute that she's so into baseball and this random team. And they always end up at some nice restaurant and he likes the idea of them being more casual. It makes sense, since their conversations are lighter these days, even when they're talking about the heavy shit, and they're past the point of just being two old friends catching up. They can be someplace loud where they have to yell over the crowd to talk and it would be annoying.
She's at a high top table when he gets there. She looks fucking sexy.
No, he really doesn't feel bad thinking that.
She's wearing these little denim shorts and a grey Cardinals tee shirt that fits her perfectly. Her hair's in a ponytail and she's got a pitcher of beer in front of her and a mostly full glass in her hand. Sexy.
"Hey," he says. If he slides his hand across her back when he gets to her, it's just...He just wants to.
"Hi!" She throws her arms around him and he ends up mostly between her knees.
Fuck.
"How're you?" He pulls away and sits himself on his own seat, pours himself a beer. "Good day?"
"It was. I did mostly nothing. I should probably feel guilty about that."
He scoffs. She fires on all cylinders all the time. "You're allowed to do nothing every once in a while. You're just too much of a control freak to realize it," he says. He makes it sound like he's teasing her, but they both probably know he's really not. She looks like she doesn't know how to respond to him pointing it out. "I finished both days of work today, actually."
"Oh," she says. She takes a sip of her beer and looks down at her menu. "Does that mean you're leaving early?"
He laughs at her. "No. It means I have a whole day to screw around tomorrow and technically get paid for it." She laughs loudly, tips her head back and everything, and holds her glass up to his.
And no, he really doesn't hate that she seemed kind of sad over the thought of him leaving town.
He's walking down a really dangerous path here. Mostly because he's married and there are vows and he wears a ring and loves his wife. Most days. Then there are the days when he's with Rachel or fuck, even just talking to Rachel, and he's actually happy. He feels like a guilty asshole for even that, for just being happy with someone who doesn't share his last name. This is a really bad idea, sitting here with Rachel. He's not going to lie and say he's not attracted to her. He's thought so many times about what it'd be like to fuck her. The only time he gets off anymore is when he's doing it for himself - Quinn sure as hell isn't giving it up - and most of the time (always, but he's scared of what that means) it's Rachel he's thinking about. The night she called him, drunk, he was so hard talking to her that he had to convince himself not to initiate phone sex.
He's married. That means something. Just because he's attracted to someone else and he's going through a rough time with his wife doesn't give him allowance to cheat.
Then Rachel puts her hand on his thigh and steals a carrot stick off his plate as she talks about the Cards' offense and he's not thinking about Quinn anymore.
That's becoming the problem. The bigger problem? He likes it too much to stop it.
He's driving, so they stop drinking after their pitcher is finished and he gets pissed at her for paying the tab before he can. He got up to go to the washroom and she took care of it. It bugs him when she does that. He really doesn't mind taking care of things.
And then when he goes to the bar to get them a couple glasses of water, he turns around as he's waiting and there's this guy standing there talking to her. He's leaning against the table and smiling at her and Puck's fucking pissed. No, she's not his girl, really, but the two of them are alone here and no one else here knows she's not his girl. The guy hitting on her currently is a fucking asshole for even stepping up to her and talking to her when she's obviously here with someone else.
Then Puck pretends he doesn't see her point to him when he's at the the bar. If she just said he's her boyfriend or something, he doesn't want to know. It feels too fucking good, actually. It does help to quell some of the jealousy that was rising up in his chest. He's too old to fight guys in bars and if that tool hadn't backed off, Puck can't promise he wouldn't have said some shit.
"Who was that?" he asks as he sets her glass in front of her.
"I don't know. No one."
He chuckles. "You get that a lot?" he teases.
She shrugs one shoulder and sips her water. "Kind of, yes." Not the answer he was looking for. "I don't really mind."
"What?" He kind of snapped that at her, but whatever. She's talking shit. No woman likes to be hit on by random assholes like that who come on too strong.
"I spent a very large portion of my life thinking...Well, being told, really, that I wasn't pretty," she says. She sounds like she's over it, but yeah, that had to sting. "It's not like I was ever really...It's just nice to be appreciated, you know?"
Fuck. Yeah, he knows. He wants to be appreciated. Not in a lame way or anything. It'd be nice if the woman he shares a bed with almost every night would pay him some fucking attention.
"Yeah."
"I don't know," she says dismissively. "Between Santana and Quinn and the fact that all my boyfriends didn't even really seem to like me all that much, it's a wonder I have any self-esteem at all."
She's fucking right, and he's pissed at Quinn for treating this girl like that. And yeah, he did some pretty terrible shit to Rachel when he was young and fucking stupid, but he at least apologized for it, and sincerely.
"Rachel."
"Sorry," she says quickly, meeting his eyes. "I'm sorry. She's your wife and I shouldn't talk about her like that."
"No," he says. He's kind of pissed. She's more important than Quinn right now. (Fucking awful thought. He's an asshole and he knows that.) "I liked you."
It seems important to say it.
She smiles at him across the table, pushes her bangs back off her temple. "I know," she says, like it was some big secret only the two of them were in on.
Kind of like this thing they have now.
The Cards lose by two and she pouts about it. He teases her and throws his arm around her shoulder, pulling her to the door as he tells her he'll give her a ride home. He's definitely not drunk at all. They were in the bar long enough that any beer he drank has basically vanished from his blood stream or whatever. She's got these pink cheeks that tell him the same isn't totally true for her, but she's just a little buzzed and he can tell it'll wear off soon enough.
He drives around a little and she doesn't question him on it. They aren't even really talking or anything. He's got some music she recommended to him playing and she's siting in the passenger seat with her legs looking way too fucking long and her elbow resting on the center console next to his. He can tell she's thinking about something, but he's not about to ask her what it is in case he really doesn't want to hear.
He doesn't doubt that she spends at least some time thinking about his marriage. Probably as much as he does when they're together. Technically, this friendship isn't wrong, but he's married and she calls him in the middle of the night (just that once, but still, it could have gone way differently if he'd been laying next to his wife) and they spend all this time together when he's in town. She's always available to him, it seems, even though she's got this insane, busy, important life. He feels fucking amazing knowing she always makes time for him. He feels important.
She's laughing about something he's just said when he pulls into her driveway. She twists the strap of her little purse in her hand and clears her throat.
"Do you want to come in?" she asks, looking over at him. He's looking straight ahead. He doesn't need the temptation of seeing her face right now. "I could make coffee or something."
"I can't."
"Oh," she says quietly. She sounds fucking hurt and rejected, and fuck, that's totally not what this is. Not the way she probably thinks. "Okay, well..."
"Rachel, we both know what's going to happen if I walk through that door," he says candidly, glancing at her. Her eyes are wide, lips parted just slightly, like she wants to say something but doesn't know what. "I can't."
"I didn't mean..." She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes for a second before meeting his again. "That's not what I was implying."
"Maybe not, but fuck. You look the way you do, and I'm this fucking close to touching you right now, and if I come inside..."
She holds up her hand. "No. I...That's fine. I'm just going to go," she says, reaching for the door handle. She's all flustered and her cheeks are pink, and that is not helping him right now. "It was good seeing you again."
He hates that they're back to that.
He nods, just once, and she steps out of the car. He adjusts his pants as he watches her walk, the subtle sway of her hips and the curve of her ass in those shorts. He wants her so fucking badly, but he's not going to go there. He can't go there. He's married, and just because he's hard up (and hard) and wants sex, he's not going to cheat on his wife. He can't do it. He puts the car in drive and backs out of the driveway. He's going to go back to he hotel, take care of this problem, and go to bed. He'll call Quinn before he goes to sleep, check in with her and see how she's doing.
Rachel is a nice distraction from what's happening in his life, but he doesn't need her to be one of the things happening in his life. (Even if she really already is.) He can't let himself give in to the temptation just because she listens to him and helps him and looks so fucking good no matter what she wears. It's not fair to Quinn or his marriage or even himself, really. And it wouldn't be fair to Rachel, either.
But then he thinks of the way Rachel's hand lays over his when he's talking about something serious, and the way she looks into his eyes when she's being sympathetic. He knows she's told him more about her life than she's told anyone lately. They've commiserated together. And yes, his life is way more fucked up than hers is at the moment, but there's something about her, this sadness or hopelessness that annoys the fuck out of him, because he liked the way she used to be, all too-big smiles and endless optimism and thinking the best of everyone to the point of irritation. He thinks he needs that right now, and he wonders if he could be the one to bring it back to her.
He drives around for close to an hour, thinking about everything, thinking about her and Quinn and the whole mess that everything is right now. And the one thing he wants more than anything at the moment is to peel Rachel's clothes off her body, kiss her and fuck her and make her come. And it's wrong, it is, but it's what he wants, and why can't he have what he wants, just once? He wants to be able to control something, to control her in the best way he knows how.
So he ends up at her door, knocking and standing there knowing that as soon as it's open, everything's going to change. He doesn't know if he's really ready for that, but he's just going for it in hopes that it won't make anything worse. (He knows it will. He knows it.)
"Noah," she says quietly when she opens the door. She's in cotton shorts and a black tank top now and he looks her up and down. She's no less appealing than she was earlier.
And the way she's looking at him right now is totally hopeful, but like she's trying not to look too hopeful. He thinks she's probably been sitting here thinking about him the same way he's been thinking about her.
Then she pulls open the door a little wider, wordlessly inviting him in, and she's biting her lip and staring at him as he walks past. It's like she's trying to tempt him into something even deeper than what he thinks he needs. The door closes and the lock clicks, and she swallows so hard he can hear it. She wets her lips subtly when he turns to her again.
If she's going to burn down the forest, he's going to strike the first match.
... ... ...
Watching people sleep is disturbing and she's never, ever been one to do it. Actually, she once ended a relationship with a man because she woke up to him staring at her. It's strange and voyeuristic and she just thinks it's really creepy.
It's just that when she opens her eyes, Noah's face is laying on the pillow next to her own and she just looks at him for a moment. Partly because she cannot believe she actually allowed this to happen. Also because he looks kind of ridiculous when he sleeps. Yes, he's got these beautiful lashes that fan out against his cheeks when his eyes are closed, and these lips she now knows even more intimately than she previously thought she did. (It was one of those things she told herself to keep from just grabbing him; she already knew how his kisses felt and didn't need further demonstration.) But his short hair is messier than she even thought possible, and he sleeps on his stomach with his hand balled into a fist somewhere around shoulder height. His lips are slightly parted and every time he moves even one limb, he makes this little noise that makes him sound far, far more innocent than he is.
He just cheated on his wife.
She's not doing a very good job of rationalizing it away, but she's still trying. No, he's not happy. He hasn't said that, but it's not like it's some big secret or anything. He's not happy and yet he smiles and laughs around Rachel. It makes her feel amazing, and honestly, she thinks he should be happy. He should get to be happy with whoever makes him happy. That's her right now and she shouldn't feel guilty about wanting to be the one he smiles at or kisses or touches.
His wedding ring says otherwise. No matter how many excuses she makes for them, this is wrong. He made vows with someone else, had a child with someone else. He loves Quinn, loves her enough to have married her and stayed with her and made a life with her. In a matter of months, everything has fallen apart and Rachel is the horrible, awful woman who began to put the pieces back together, for him at least, and it's definitely not her place. She never should have started acting anything more than just friendly with him.
But up until last night, they hadn't so much as kissed. They barely touched really, just an innocent one here or there. Touching his hand or his arm is hardly scandalous and certainly nothing she should have stopped or avoided.
She can't exactly pinpoint the moment this became more than that, but for her, she thinks it was probably almost immediate. He makes her happy, too, makes her feel like she's not so incredibly alone all the time, even when he's not with her.
She looks away, turns on her side when she sees the white gold band on his finger. Maybe she should have made him take it off, but even thinking that makes her feel like more of a whore than she already does. She's laying in bed with another woman's husband after what was probably one of the best nights of her life.
He makes a sound, moves closer and sets his palm on her hip. His face ends up pressed against her shoulder and his hand slides higher before moving back down. She knows he's awake, but she doesn't know what to say to him and she really doesn't know how to look at him now that his eyes are open.
"Morning," he murmurs against the back of her shoulder.
"Hi." It comes out hoarse. She was not kind to her voice last night and she's definitely blaming him. She clears her throat. "Good morning."
"You okay?"
She hears how heavy her hesitation sounds when it lingers between them. "Yeah."
He chuckles, kisses her bare skin. "Liar."
She takes a deep breath because she doesn't want to argue it, but she doesn't necessarily want to confirm it, either.
She doesn't want to start asking questions. They both know what they did and why they did it, and yes, she wants to know what happens now and how he's feeling and if he's really just going to leave here tonight and drive back to Lima after this, and when is he coming back? She's not a teenager and she doesn't need all the answers from the boy she likes right this instant. That doesn't mean she doesn't want some.
"When are you leaving?" she asks quietly. His fingertips are playing over her ribs, brushing against the side of her breast and making her eyes flutter closed. Never before has she ever been so turned on by a man who touches her like this. It shouldn't make her wet, just the pads of his fingers on her. It really shouldn't.
"Not yet," he says, bringing his hand up to cover her breast. He pushes his hips against her backside and she can feel his hardening length against her.
As far as answers go, she's having a hard time finding anything wrong with that one.
The entire time she's in the shower, she's wondering if he's talking to Quinn. She's a terrible person, but she's having a hard time convincing herself of that when she's sore in all the good ways and there's a faint hand print on her hip and a red mark on her breast. She probably shouldn't have slept with him again this morning, but she wasn't about to stop him when he lay on top of her and started telling her all the things he wanted to do to her. When he asked permission, it was sexy as hell. She was quick to say yes and repeated the word often enough that he probably won't question her again.
She steps out of the bathroom with her hair wet and dripping and a towel wrapped around her. She lives alone so she generally doesn't have to worry about covering up or anything. Not that she has anything to hide from him - he was inside her 30 minutes ago - but she does have some sense of discretion.
He's laying back against her pillows, very clearly naked under the one thin sheet covering him, and sipping from a cup of coffee he must have taken it upon himself to make.
"Sexy," he says, looking her up and down.
She rolls her eyes, even though she doesn't doubt that he likes what he sees. She grabs a pair of panties from her dresser and slides them up her legs under the towel. He's behind her and she hears him groan when he gets a flash of her bare ass before it's covered again. She pulls on a tank top with a built in bra and then unwraps the towel from her body, bends forward and twists it around her hair.
His eyes are dark and hungry when she turns around to look at him.
"Don't," she laughs.
"You can't just walk around like that and expect me not to want to fuck you again." He sets his coffee cup down on the bedside table and juts his chin at her. "C'mere."
She sighs, but does as he asks. It's not like it's a chore to be near him or anything. It's just that she doesn't get to do it enough, if you ask her. "What?"
"Rachel," he chuckles softly. She sits down next to him and his hand lands on her thigh, pulling her closer so her body is angled towards his. "You freaking out?"
"No," she says. She's not, really. "I'd say this shouldn't have happened, but...I don't know. It feels good."
He smiles at her. It's not a smirk, not like he's going to make a suggestive comment based on what she's just said. "I know."
"What are we doing?" she asks, avoiding his eyes. He doesn't say anything. When she looks at him, he's just staring at her. She knows he doesn't have any better answer than she does. "I'm sorry."
His brow furrows. "For what?"
"For...For making you do this, be unfaithful," she says quietly.
"Rachel." It's harsh, almost startles her. "You didn't make me do this. Pretty sure I was the one who came back here last night."
She shouldn't smile, but she does it anyway. "Why did you?"
"So I could have sex with you." She squeals his name and pushes at his chest, and he somehow maneuvers her so she's straddling his lap. "Because I fucking want you, Rachel." She bites her lip to keep from smiling, but his grin basically calls her out on that. "I want you."
She pushes her hips forward and sets her hands on his shoulders as he groans. "Say that again."
He chuckles, pushes her up easily and tugs down the sheet so all that's between them are her panties.
"Want you," he says, eyes locked with hers. He pulls the towel from her hair and drops it over the side of the bed, runs his fingers through her damp hair and searches her face. Then he leans forward and kisses her before sinking down further in the bed, taking her with him until he's flat on his back and she's settled over his hips with his hands pushing at her top. "Fuck, you're hot."
She pulls her top over her head and stands up on the bed with her feet on either side of his hips. It's slightly scandalous, but it's sexy, too, and she pushes her panties down off her hips and stares at him as he caresses her calves with his hands. When she settles over him again, she runs her hands down his chest and rocks her hips a little bit, which feels so good it's practically unfair.
"Well, those clothes lasted five minutes," she says, grin on her lips. Really, she should have known she'd just end up naked again anyway.
Then he says something absolutely filthy about how long he can last.
She mutters, "Prove it," as she guides him inside her and then it's basically a contest to see who can make the other come first.
... ... ...
It feels fucking amazing to be with someone again. Not even just because of the release he gets and the way he feels inside a woman. He feels kind of normal again, and shit, he loves that. He always felt that way with Rachel anyway, because she didn't spend most of her time giving him sad looks attempting to act like everything was normal and nothing was totally fucked.
He hasn't missed Quinn at all these past couple days, and that makes him feel like more of an asshole than fucking another woman does.
He's not stupid. He knows what he did was wrong. He shouldn't have gone back to Rachel's and kissed her, tugged at her clothes or let her lead him upstairs. He doesn't regret it. He really doesn't. He needs her. He only said he wants her, which yeah, is also true, but he's driving back to Lima and he's thinking about never seeing her again and it fucking hurts. He should end it and no one would have to know. Quinn wouldn't have to know. No one would find out because he knows Rachel wouldn't tell anyone. He could walk away right now and it'd be like it never happened.
Honestly? That sounds like the worst fucking plan he's ever had. And he's had some really fucking stupid plans in his life.
Because really, if he goes back to how things were before he and Rachel got closer, he honestly doesn't know what he'll do. He was in misery with basically no silver lining. He wasn't even thinking,'Well, at least I have my wife,' because Quinn kind of hasn't been his wife. She's not the same woman he married, and no, he's probably not the same man she married. They lost their child and it fucking kills him that they're losing each other, too. If they'd just worked on them like he suggested - like everyone suggested - they could have been okay and none of this would have happened. He wanted them to go to grief counseling. It sounded like bullshit to him, but there's no way it could have hurt. Quinn refused because she didn't want anyone knowing her business. They live in a small town and everyone knows anyway, and he thinks it would have looked better if she'd attempted to do something about the constant redness in her eyes and the fact that she was acting like a fucking zombie.
He's not blaming her for what just happened between he and Rachel. He's a grown man and he's completely capable of making his own choices, even if they're supposed to be wrong or bad or whatever other words people use when a man cheats on his wife. But Rachel makes him feel things he hasn't felt with Quinn in way too long, since before Beth died, if he's being completely honest with himself. He doesn't really see how it can be wrong to want to be with someone who makes you want to fucking live.
He's being a cheesy asshole and also a complete dick. He's justifying what he's done even though he knows he fucked up, technically.
Quinn's sleeping when he gets home at 8:00 at night. She's laying on her side of the bed and he doesn't feel much of anything at all when he sees her. There's no wave of guilt, no urge to confess, no realization that this thing with Rachel can't continue and he has to end it.
He closes the bedroom door and heads to the basement, turns on the television and calls Rachel to let her know he got home okay.
...Chapter 4...