A oneshot for now...
But of course, all of Quinn's many questions are hypothetical.
"You know that saying, 'it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?'" Santana slurs, looking over her glass at Quinn with brown eyes ablaze. Quinn halfway nods, watching the girl's unsteady movements. "Well it's bullshit."
Quinn takes another mini sip of her wine and delicately folds her hands on the table the way she scolds her nieces to when they stay over. Santana's ranting now which means she is drunk enough to sleep with.
"Is that so?" Eyebrow quirked, Quinn leans forward, eyeing the escort thoughtfully. "Why?"
"'Cause, the scars- they never go away and they're a permanent reminder."
Quinn has never talked to a drunk person who made so much sense while drunk. It's like an oxymoron… a paradox… a something that Quinn can't think of right now because she's horny.
"Well, do you love?" Quinn questions, standing up. She pushes her wine over to Santana who downs it and tries to stand herself. She wanders over to the grand window and looks out at the starry sky. It's always peaceful at this hotel- especially at night with the view of the angry ocean.
"I suppose," Santana says after a while. Quinn smiles a little and walks around the table to help Santana stand.
"Do you need another drink?" Quinn asks, but it's unnecessary because Santana is groping her ass and lingering by her lips. Quinn makes a noise in the back of her throat signaling Santana to continue.
Quinn breathes in the alcohol and strawberry shortcake smell that is Santana while their lips press against each other. It's not quite a kiss as much as it is biting and nipping and huffing.
"Bed?" Quinn breathes. Santana grips both of her arms and licks some of the cleavage protruding from Quinn's dress.
"Yes."
They stumble to the bed, Quinn making sure they actually get there because Santana's busy prying off the girl's dress. The back of Quinn's knees hits the bed and she falls back, her dress ripping in the process. Santana grins down at her, pulling the rest of the fabric off so Quinn is completely naked.
If it were her husband who ripped the dress, she would have yelled at him, informing him that "This is a one of a kind Hummel-Anderson and you just ripped it!" But since Santana ripped it, she says nothing and watches her throw the foreign blue fabric somewhere behind her.
For a second, her body chills over and she feels her nipples tighten. When Santana brushes her fingers over them, they ache causing Quinn to flinch. But Santana wastes no time warming her up, but she's being too soft.
"Santana, bite- slap- God do something other than massage me," Quinn orders, involuntarily moaning.
"I don't think-" Santana starts only to be cut off by a menacing look from Quinn.
"Who's paying who here?" If she was at work and if she wasn't so frustrated, she would have asked "who's paying whom" like the proper girl her daddy raised her to be.
And the massage becomes rougher, Quinn groaning and moaning and thrusting her body around like a mad woman. While Santana's working on her neck, Quinn unbuttons the woman's skirt, holding her close.
Quinn releases Santana as soon as the woman stops sucking on her neck.
"What a reasonable sized hickey," Santana breathes, scooting back and licking down Quinn's body.
"Santana- Santana please." She's in charge here, but this is just how it is with Santana. Quinn has to beg even though Quinn is paying Santana. It's twisted in its own right just like everything else involving their business relationship.
What kind of prostitute (escort, she meant escort) has to get drunk to sleep with the person that's paying them? Not one Quinn would have slept with more than once, but something about Santana kept her coming back for more- paying for more. She lavishes the brunette with drinks and expensive jewelry in order for Santana to get her off once a month, away from her hell hole of a house, in the most expensive hotel for miles around.
Quinn invests more money into Santana than she has in any of her relationships- more money than in all of them combined.
The expensive diamond studs that adorn Santana's ears sparkle in the dimly lit bedroom as she looks up at Quinn.
Quinn's almost there now, something she's sure Santana knows by the way she's slowing down her fingers and tongue. She weaves her fingers in long, raven hair, and presses lightly.
"Come on, Santana," she huffs. "Be- rough!"
Santana bites down on Quinn's enlarged bundle of nerves and Quinn comes crashing down with a scream. Her mindless pleasure lasts for only a second and she hungrily pulls Santana up by her hair. Their lips crash together and Quinn's tongue feels all around Santana's mouth. The girl tastes like sweat, alcohol, and Quinn's juices- a taste Quinn has become quite addicted to.
"Your turn," Quinn hisses, throwing Santana down on her back. Brown eyes glare at her but also plead for some kind of relief. Quinn snatches up a dildo and thrusts it into Santana's awaiting center. The brunette moans, grabbing Quinn's hand in attempt to make her go slower, only- Quinn won't go slower. Slow sex equals making love and Quinn will not ever make love. Especially not to a girl. Especially not to a prostitute.
After a few minutes of erratic thrusting and pinching, Santana's whole body shudders. Quinn slowly pulls out and leans down to kiss the escort. She kisses her lips and neck and pulls the tan girl into pale arms.
Quinn nuzzles her nose into the crook of Santana's neck and breathes deeply. "If you love a broken person," she starts, "won't you get hurt on the shards?"
"Yes," Santana states matter-of-factly. She speaks so clearly and lays so still that Quinn forgets she's holding a drunk person who just had sex for a second. "But if the broken person loves you back, those will bring good memories. It's like- when people are shot, the infection doesn't come from the bullet, but removing the bullet. That's why some doctors leave the bullet in. And it's an eternal reminder that you were shot, but also that you survived."
Quinn nods her head a little in understanding (because she had a hard time following that one) and moves away from the naked woman for two seconds to pull a blanket up over them. She nestles back into Santana, prompting Santana to continue speaking with a little nip on her collar bone and a "mhm."
"A broken person is like that. If you try to fix them it's like removing the bullet. Just love them and they'll heal eventually. Not perfectly but…" Quinn watches Santana's eyes droop.
"And two broken people?" Quinn rushes out, before Santana completely succumbs to sleep. Santana smiles a little, closing her eyes completely.
"Their cracks might line up and make two whole people instead of two broken people. Like- they fill each other up."
Quinn brushes her fingers over Santana's still smiling lips and pushes some hair out of her face. Her fingers stop at the diamond studs in the woman's ear- the ones she bought because she saw them and thought of Santana.
With her own eyes falling closed, she leans over to peck Santana's cheek. "Can prostitutes love?" Quinn asks. Santana's tiny smile fades and she doesn't answer for a little bit (probably because Santana is always enforcing the fact that she's an escort and not a prostitute which are two completely different things and levels. Quinn, however, doesn't always see the difference). Quinn lets out a breath when Santana purses her lips and murmurs,
"I suppose." It's the same answer she gave earlier and it doesn't satisfy Quinn at all. She was looking for a deep, insightful response like the ones Santana has given for all her other questions. Santana screws her eyes and Quinn knows that means she should stop asking questions. But she has one more.
"And what if I fell in love with you?" Quinn whispers, intertwining their legs. She doesn't add the, "hypothetically speaking, of course," because Santana should know it's "hypothetical" just like the rest of the questions. Santana chuckles softly.
"Bullshit."