A/N: I don't own Glee nor the characters within. Based off of a prompt from an anon; Samchelpez: Sam is a stripper in Kentucky, and Rachel finds him. She likes what she sees, and they wind up having sex... Until Rachel's girlfriend Santana calls. Thanks!

Contains Pezberry and Samchel, with eventual Samchelpez. So yes, this means it's an ongoing story.

The club is dark, dangerous. Too many flashing lights, too full drinks, and Rachel's just this side of drunk that means she's not as in control as she'd like to be.

Tina is laughing in her ear, Lauren and Kitty yelling out excited and free compliments at the stage and the mohawked man rolling his abs who looks almost too much like Puck. But he doesn't look too much like Puck that it's off-putting so Rachel finds herself tossing a ten on stage as well. He's not the best looking man she's seen yet, but he's definitely up there, and she finds herself nodding along with Tina's assertions that she'd gladly get up on him. It's all in good fun, she knows, so what's the harm?

And, suddenly, the mohawked man is off, the loud and somewhat annoying announcer saying something about White Chocolate. It sounds familiar, and Rachel chances a glance around the club, blinking her bleary eyes as she realizes maybe the reason why she's felt like she's been here before is because she has. That thought, however, is swept away as a tall, well-built blond jumps through the curtains.

He's devastatingly sexy, even more so than when they were teens, and Rachel can't look away.

"Is that - ?" Tina horse squeals in her ear, snatching up Rachel's hand.

Rachel wants to nod, thinks she does, but actually doesn't because her full attention is on a man she hasn't seen in years.

"Well, damn," Lauren looks over the rim of her glasses, lips curling up, "I went after the wrong footballer after all."

It's Kitty who's the first to throw a bill at him. "Sam! White Chocolate!" she yells loudly, waving, "Come 'ere!"

Those unforgettable lips part in a blinding smile as Sam dances his way over to them, no hint of the panic and surprise Rachel had seen those years ago as he tears his shirt away. His fingers flirt with his pants, and Rachel's gaze is drawn down as she realizes that this time Sam's dance won't end even after he's recognized them. She sits up, swallows, fingers suddenly sweaty around the bills still in her hand. To make up for the fact she doesn't know if she wants to smile or say something, she takes a long draught of her drink.

It's the lights and the dangerous atmosphere of the club, she tells herself.

Sam's eyes sparkle in the spotlight, the glitter glinting on his abs and arms and chest just accenting how much he's gotten even sexier. How much he's further perfected his ab rolls and pelvic thrusts. How he's perfected… Everything. With a whoop and a money shower courtesy of Tina and Lauren, he performs the same tearing away of his pants as his shirt had gone, and Rachel's eyes snap down.

He's...

Rachel pushes her hand out, practically vibrating as she waits for Sam to come to her. He's smoother about taking her money now, fingers slipping along hers as he leaves just enough to warrant a personal tucking into his barely-there underwear later in his routine. She knows that's what he's offering because he winks at her as he pulls back, throwing his arms up in the air and turning around, swinging his hips to give the group a perfect look at his ass.

"Damn," Kitty whisper-shouts, the four of them watching as he makes his way to the other side of the stage, "I don't remember him ever being this - "

"It's been five years," Rachel cuts her off, not sure why she does, or why her voice is as husky or pointed as it is. This, seeing Sam, it's too overwhelming.

She knows she should call Santana, maybe so they can laugh about it or just make her feel better, to make the pounding of her heart due to someone else entirely. She should.

Her drink trembles in her hand, her tongue swiping her lips, a too audible gasp leaving her as he turns back. Advancing on the group, pausing to give his attention to Kitty and Lauren and Tina in turn, Rachel knows it's just to keep up appearances because as soon as he's reached Rachel, he kneels down on the stage, placing his hand on the table top to support himself as he leans forward. "Rachel..." he breathes into her ear, rough and slightly out of breath, the heat from his body branding into her skin even as he makes it seem like it's part of his routine - and who says it isn't? Who says it's just for Rachel herself, to make her shake and feel faint, to make her legs push together to try to get rid of the awareness erupting inside of her? But, "Rachel..." he finishes whispering, hand closing around hers to draw her hand to his hip and toned abs, sliding it down to the waistband of his thong, "La Quinta, room 18."

When he pulls back, making her fingers slip out of his underwear, stroking his burning and sweaty skin as her hand falls away, the twenty safely in his possession, Rachel finds herself staring dumbly at him. His eyes are dark, just as dangerous as the club is, and the corner of his lips quirk up.

He's waiting.

Tina's laughing in her ear again, practically draping herself across her shoulders, Lauren and Kitty yelling out suggestive comments again, but Sam keeps his eyes on hers as he goes back to the middle of the stage as the music starts to come to an end.

Rachel knows she should call her girlfriend, get herself out of there, turn her drunken state into something more acceptable.

Rachel knows she should turn away. Should give herself a chance to laugh about this later, only barely tinged with a shadow of guilt. Should be responsible. Should do the right thing...

Instead, her chin drops in a disjointed nod, eyes burning her message into Sam's because her body can't move enough to give him any clearer of an answer.

Sam's smile is blinding, hot, teasing in what is promises.

Knocking back the rest of her drink, Rachel runs her hand through her hair and tries to pretend that she hadn't just promised someone who wasn't her girlfriend a night of sex by dropping into the comfort of her friends' excited chatter. She laughs. She nods. She plays along. And as she does, she slowly, secretly, pulls her phone out of her purse. A heartbeat passes, and she presses down on the power button.

The club is dark, dangerous. Too many flashing lights, too full drinks, and Rachel's just this side of drunk that means she's not as in control as she'd like to be.