Santana cannot figure out for the life of her why she agreed to Rachel's bullshit girls' night out idea. Sure, she can get behind the ritual when it matters, like back when Brittany and Artie broke up the summer after they graduated or when Tina and Mike were on a "break" (which lasted all of five minutes) and the girl wanted to go out and look at other guys and pretend that she didn't feel guilty about it. But there is absolutely no reason for Santana to be sitting here in this bar sipping a martini with Rachel and Tina when she could be drinking a much cheaper G and T at a bar where there are guys who aren't too old and too bald and too leering for her to waste her time.
But Rachel came into Santana's room on Wednesday night when Santana was trying to force herself to read about the French Revolution for her history class. Gen eds fucking suck, and her professor apparently didn't understand that Marie Antoinette was the best part of this period in French history, because the dude basically glossed over the queen in favor of talking about the international response to the peasant revolution and whatever the hell else. The jackass takes two-thirds of his exam questions directly from the reading, and Santana isn't willing to get less than an A in something like history, but her text is fucking boring and she was basically looking for any excuse in the world to stop reading. Rachel coming in and talking about what a busy semester it's been already and how she feels like she's barely seen Santana even though they live in the same house was good enough, and when it was all said and done she'd agreed to a Friday night dinner-and-drinks with Rachel and Tina.
So now she's sitting here in the cool blue light of this bar in skinny jeans and knee high black leather boots and a floaty, subtly sexy deep purple silk top, sipping her martini and studiously ignoring the 40-something creeper who sat on the bar stool to her right about ten minutes ago.
It's actually been a really good night, and it was nice to get to relax and spend time with Rachel and Tina. They're all so busy that she literally can't remember the last time she saw Tina (probably when the guys had people over for the Super Bowl), and Santana and Rachel are the stereotypical ships-passing-in-the-night roommates. They went out for sushi first, got started on the sake, and then half-ran the two blocks down the street in the icy wind to this bar that Rachel loves for some reason. It's been a couple of hours and quite a few martinis, and the more she drinks, the less Santana wants to be out with her girlfriends. Gin makes her horny.
She and Tina are having a serious conversation about The Real Housewives of New Jersey while they wait for Mike to come and pick Tina up. It's such ridiculous bullshit that they just can't help getting completely sucked in, but they both work hard and take school seriously, so a little bit of television trash isn't going to hurt them. Rachel is ignoring them both even though she's sitting in the middle, tapping away on her phone with a filthy look in her eyes. She's totally sexting Puck, which makes Santana practically swell with pride. Girl was such a prude just a few years ago, but once she and Finn finally let go of one another and they started branching out, both she and Finn turned into way less annoying people. Puck locked that shit down over a year ago when they were all back in Lima for winter break, and Santana has literally never known two people who have more sex. And since Santana once had a lot of sex with Puck herself, that's saying something.
Santana smirks when Rachel puts her phone on the bar and takes a sip of her drink. The girl's cheeks are a bit pink and she isn't quite meeting Santana's eyes, which means that either Puck just wrote something completely filthy, or she did. "You just don't have any shame any more, do you?" Santana asks.
"At least I'm not reading them out loud!" Rachel retorts, and she's so sure that she's come out on top of this non-argument that she doesn't realize that she's given herself away. Nope, she just sits there with a smug little grin on her lips as she downs the rest of her drink.
Rachel's completely blitzed.
"Is Puck still going to pick us up?"
"He's coming." Rachel rolls her eyes when Santana lets out a little snicker. "God, Santana, you're like a fourteen-year-old boy."
Tina's sitting with her back to the door, so she doesn't see Mike walk into the bar. Santana would tell her, but she and Rachel are now discussing all of the ways that Santana resembles a teenage boy, giggling all over themselves and acting like Tina isn't going to go home and have freaky Asian sex with Mike and Rachel wasn't just texting dirty shit to Puck. Fucking iPuck/i. Bitch is dating Noah Puckerman and wants to talk shit about Santana's dirty mind.
It's a good thing Santana loves her.
So, yeah, Santana laughs when Mike puts his cold hand on the back of Tina's neck and makes the girl squeal. She deserved that shit.
Santana takes another sip of her drink and listens as Mike talks about the party that's apparently broken out at the guys' place. "I think Sam invited everyone," he says with a shrug. "Puck was at work, and I didn't invite anyone, and Finn had a couple of guys from class over watching a hockey game, but now there are a bunch of people at the house and everyone's drinking." He pauses and knits his brow. "I don't even know where the booze came from." He shrugs again, which makes Santana laugh. "You guys should come over."
"I'm drunk enough," Santana tells him honestly. Even though she definitely just just signaled for the bartender to bring her another martini. "You know I don't do so well with random drunk bitches."
"I'm really very tired," Rachel says before Mike can respond to Santana. It's a shit awful lie. For one thing, chick's wasted and she's trying to act like she's stone sober and fully in control when she's obviously not, not to mention the fact that she's talking to three people who have literally known her since the first time she got drunk. Then there's that whole Puck thing that Santana and Tina have both been watching all night and Mike has seen plenty over the years. (Even before they managed to get together officially, they always gravitated towards one another. Pick your favorite cliché.) "Thank you for inviting me though, Mike Chang."
To his credit, he ignores the way Santana's looking at Rachel like she's stupid or crazy and just nods. "Sure, Rachel."
As soon as Mike and Tina leave, Santana wishes that he hadn't mentioned Finn, because now she's sipping a fresh martini and thinking about the last time she had sex with Finn when she'd been drinking gin. She came so hard and screamed his name so loud that she was hoarse the entire next day. They kind of have an arrangement. Knowing that there are people at his house means that he's probably not going to want to come over to hers tonight, and she meant it when she told Mike that random drunk people piss her off, so there's no way she's going over there.
She convinces Rachel not to order another drink and they close out their tabs just before Puck comes walking into the bar, and Santana has to roll her eyes because he already has that look on his face, the one where he's been thinking about the details of just how he's going to get laid tonight and the countdown has begun.
"Hey, baby," he greets, leaning against the stool next to Rachel's and letting her lean in to kiss him. It's way dirtier than Rachel would normally be in public.
"Hi."
"Can we go?" Santana asks loudly. She lives with Rachel and sees some variation of this exact conversation a couple of times a week as it is; she doesn't need a change of venue performance. No, she's drunk and she just wants to go home and go to bed if she isn't going to be getting any herself.
Puck looks at her strangely for a moment, but lets it go. "Yeah." He holds Rachel's arm when she hops down off her stool and teeters on her heels when the full force of all those drinks hits her.
Santana spends the ride across town to their house in the backseat of Puck's Jeep checking Facebook on her phone and ignoring the way that Rachel's moving her hand on Puck's thigh while she babbles away about whatever.
As soon as she's got the door unlocked and they're in the house, Santana goes to the fridge and grabs a beer. Yeah, she'd decided that she was done drinking after that last martini, but she isn't quite drunk enough to spend the rest of the evening listening to Puck and Rachel have sex. Beer is the solution to that, and it's delicious.
"We should watch a movie!" Rachel says, leaning against the kitchen counter and taking the bottle of water Puck hands her. "Santana, Mean Girls!"
Puck groans loudly. He's never understood the appeal of the movie, and fuck him. Still, Santana just shakes her head. "No, thanks, Rach. I'm just gonna go to bed."
Rachel pouts. "Okay. Good night, roomie!"
"'Night, Rach."
"G'night, S," Puck adds. Santana throws up a hand as she walks out of the kitchen and down the hall to her bedroom, pushing the door closed behind her.
She puts her beer on her bedside table and rolls her eyes when she hears Rachel cry, "Noah!" down the hall followed by a peal of giggles. She's lived with Rachel long enough to know that that particular giggle means it's T minus seven minutes till the moaning starts, and Santana's completely jealous of that tonight. Sure, she's getting hers from Finn on the regular, but apparently there's a party at his place tonight. And fuck Puck for being here getting it in instead of making sure his stupid friends don't burn down their house.
She puts Boondock Saints into the DVD player because it's loud enough to drown out the Puck and Rachel sounds from down the hall, then pushes her jeans down her hips and trades her purple top for a nearly-transparent white tank. A glance at the clock when she hears Rachel's first moan let her know that it's been six minutes; Puck's ahead of the curve tonight, the bastard. Okay, so she's a little bitter about this whole thing, but she's been drinking gin martinis all night and gin makes her horny as hell, and no one can blame her for being jealous when Puck's making Rachel moan like that. Fuck, Santana knows what sorts of things Puck does to make the hobbit makes those noises because he's done them to Santana plenty of times.
She flops down on the bed and takes a sip of her beer, watching the hot Irish guy and the less hot Irish guy do their thing on her TV screen. "Oh, for fuck's sake," she mutters when Rachel lets out a little squeal. Honestly, fuck this. She grabs her phone and taps out a quick message to Finn, a straight to the point come over.
can't. drunk. people in my house.
I don't care. Come over.
A come over text message means just one thing, and Finn knows that. They've actually had that conversation before, one night when he walked into her bedroom and asked her what she wanted instead of just taking off his clothes. There's no way that whoever's in his house is more important than coming to hers.
When the phone rings, she counts to five before answering it. "If you're just going to tell me you can't come over, I don't want to talk to you, Finn."
"Santana." His voice is dangerously close to whiny. "There are a bunch of people here."
She can hear them in the background. "Is Mike there?"
"Yeah."
"Then who cares if you're there? He's a big boy." The sound in the background on Finn's end of the line suddenly changes, is muffled to the point that she can barely hear it. She drops her voice a little. "Finn, I want to see you."
He lets out a groan. "Fuck, San, I can't drive. You come over here."
"I can't. I don't want to," she adds for honesty's sake and because she's kind of a bitch, "but I can't drive either. Find a ride."
"Santana." Fuck, now he is whining.
"Fuck off, Finn," she tells him seriously. "I'm going to watch the rest of this movie, then I'm going to take care of myself and go to sleep." He lets out a little moan that she ignores even though it's hot. "You have an hour and a half to figure out what the fuck you want to do."
She hangs up before he can say anything, dropping her phone back on her bedside table and taking a long, slow sip of her beer.
And yeah, she smirks when her phone buzzes and she sees the message from Finn.
10 minutes. that key better still be under the bench
The spare key is still stuck up under the little decorative bench on their front porch with a magnet, so she doesn't bother to respond. Hell, the front door might still be unlocked; they tend to be less vigilant about locking it when Puck or one of their guy friends is in the house, however ridiculous that might be, and Rachel was the last one in. All of their friends know where that spare key is, which she sometimes hates because it means just about anyone can come over any time, but it's pretty awesome for times like these when she doesn't want to get out of bed to let Finn in.
The front door opens and closes just a little too loud, and Santana might feel bad about that if she thought that either Puck or Rachel was even the slightest bit aware of it, but she definitely just heard Rachel let go the first time. (Yeah, the first time. Fucking Puck.) Finn's footfalls are heavy as he comes up the hall, and he has this stupid little grin on his lips when he pushes her door open that she thinks is hot in spite of herself.
They've been doing this for a while, since back in the summer when the girl he'd been dating all year decided to go back home for the summer and he had just moved into his house with Mike and Puck and the three of them had done all of the heavy lifting for her and Rachel at the girls' new place. The bed Rachel had ordered hadn't shown up yet, so she'd gone back to the guys' house to sleep with Puck, and Mike had disappeared into Tina's lair (one-bedroom apartment, whatever) and left Finn and Santana alone in the girls' new house with a sort of ridiculous amount of alcohol. They wound up drunk on SoCo and lime, and Santana had decided that it was worth giving him another chance to prove himself since she hadn't slept with him since they were sixteen and he was a virgin. He'd apparently learned something from Quinn and Rachel and the handful of girls he'd dated since college started, because the kid was fucking great, so Santana decided that he could become part of her regular rotation.
She was busy last semester, taking 18 hours and doing an internship in the finance department at a local radio station, and she tells herself that's the only reason that her rotation has dwindled to being just Finn. He's easy. He doesn't ask for anything that she isn't willing to give him, meaning that he doesn't expect anything but a good time in bed. They're sort of amazing together, actually. She almost always gets off at least twice, and while he occasionally calls her and asks her to come over, it's usually her calling him. And, yeah, they're friends and shit. He brought her NyQuil when she got sick after going out and getting wasted on Halloween dressed in little more than a bathing suit (She went as Raquel Welch in the deerskin bikini, and no, she doesn't know the name of the stupid movie it's from.) even though it was barely forty degrees outside. She gave him a ride one morning when the jackass who plowed the guys' street packed snow in at the end of their driveway and Finn had an early class and no time to dig it out, and sometimes when she goes over to their house, she takes the beer that she knows is Finn's favorite, an IPA from a local brewery that she thinks is sort of awful.
But when he crosses her nearly-dark bedroom and lays on top of her in bed, he isn't her friend. He's the guy who's going to make her fall apart.
Fuck, that's friendly enough.
She parts her legs for him, shifting a little so his belt buckle isn't digging into her stomach quite so hard. She lets out a little noise of protest when he pushes one hand up her side under her tank top. "Fuck, your hands are freezing."
"Sorry," he mumbles against her neck, nipping a little at the flesh there.
She shifts her hips when he kisses her, and she can feel him half-hard against her center, and god, it's been almost two weeks since they've done this, which is kind of ridiculous. The whole point of having a fuck buddy is so you can get laid on a regular basis without the hassle, but they've both been busy with classes, and Finn has a practicum or some shit, so, you know. Then he rocks his hips and massages her tongue with his and she stops thinking about how long it's been and focuses on what she's doing. Or, rather, on what he's doing, his thumb teasing the underside of breast. He tastes like peppermint Altoids and just a hint of beer, and she can smell his cologne like he spritzed it on just before he left his house, and she likes that he made that little bit of effort even if she'll never tell him that.
He plucks at her nipple and she drags her mouth away from his to moan. "Get naked," she orders, putting both hands on his face and holding him away from her so he can't kiss her again.
He's giving her this crazy hot little smirk when he stands up and pulls his shirt over his head while she just lies there and watches, one hand on her stomach teasing the waistband of her own hot pink lace panties. She glares when he pushes down his jeans but leaves his boxers on, but then he grabs her arm and pulls her up so she's sitting, tugging her tank top up over her head quickly before pushing her back down against the pillows and hooking his thumbs in her panties at her hips. "These are hot," he tells her conversationally, and she notices that he sounds significantly more sober than he did on the phone just fifteen minutes ago. It's one of those weird Finn things that she can't really explain.
"I know," she breathes as he slides then down her legs. He gets back on the bed, situating himself between her thighs and hooking an arm around one of her legs, pushing her open wide. "Finn."
He splays one hand over her stomach just below her navel, his breath is warm against her center, and if it wasn't so fucking hot and worth it, she'd hate him for teasing her like this. But she's learned that it's actually better if she just lets him have his way sometimes; some of the best sex they've ever had has been when she lets him take control, and even though she practically had to beg him to come over here, it seems like he's totally down for that tonight, and she's drunk enough to think it's a fabulous idea and not fight him for the control.
He just brushes his thumb over her nerves, making her shift her hips, then licks a stripe up her center, pulling a little whimper from her throat. "You're like, totally wet for me, baby," he says, his voice still way to casual for how frantic he's making her feel.
"Don't fucking tease," she says harshly, glaring down at him between her legs while he just barely touches her with his thumb, making her breathe hard. She kind of hates him for this shit.
"You like it." He curls his tongue around her clit before she can retort (lie) and say that no, she fucking doesn't, and instead she lets out a moan that breaks when he slips a finger into her and starts pumping it slowly.
God, he's fucking good at this. He likes doing it - it's part of the reason she keeps him around, honestly - and there's something about being drunk that makes him like it more, and she will never, ever complain about it, especially not when he's moving his tongue like that and curling two fingers inside her. She lets her legs fall open more and gasps when his free hand comes up to play her nipple, rolling it a little roughly between his thumb and forefinger. She threads her fingers into his hair and tugs lightly, holding him in place while she shifts her hips against his mouth. He moans against her - she feels it in her entire body and it's amazing - and then sucks hard on her clit, and she's done, her body curling in on itself just a little when the orgasm tears through her, a whimper on her lips. He keeps his mouth on her as she comes down, moving his tongue slowly, lightly until she lets out a little whine.
He moves up her body, leaving little kisses on her skin as he goes, pausing to bite at her nipple lightly. "You're so fucking hot when you come," he mumbles against her neck, and it shouldn't turn her on as much as it does, really, but maybe that's because he's hard against her center, grinding against her even though he's still wearing his boxers.
And you know what? Fuck that.
She brings her feet up and catches the fabric with her toes, pulling until he gets the hint and helps her get them off his hips, dropping them off the side of the bed and reaching toward the drawer of her bedside table for a condom. Since being good at sex doesn't make him any less fucking clumsy and she doesn't want to have to pick shit up later or clean up spilled beer, she bats his hand aside and pulls the drawer open herself, grabbing a condom from the little dish inside and slamming it shut when he sucks on her pulse point and lets out a little growl. "Jesus, Finn."
He kisses her hard, nipping at her bottom lip and weaving his fingers with hers, pressing the condom between their palms. His other hand slides all the way up her side and into her hair, holding her in place while he kisses her stupid. He sucks on her tongue a bit, teases the skin just behind her ear with his thumb when he nips at her bottom lip with his teeth just hard enough to make her back arch a little. She slips her hand between them and wraps it around his length, stroking slowly, and he drops his head to her shoulder with a hiss when she twists her wrist and swipes her thumb over the head. He licks at her earlobe, catches it between his teeth. "I'm going to make you scream, baby," he mutters against her skin.
And right at that moment, from down the hall, they hear a long, drawn out, 'Noah,' that Santana can't help laughing at breathlessly. "Like that?" she asks, letting her teeth graze his shoulder.
"Goddamn, Santana." He pulls away from her completely, sitting back on his heels so he's kneeling between her bent legs, looking down at her with dark eyes while he tears open the condom wrapper with his teeth. She knows what she must look like, all flushed and mussed and wet. Fuck, she wants him. "Think you can beat her?" he asks, smoothing the latex over his length and stroking himself slowly.
She smirks up at him as he moves over her again, sliding her hands up his arms and over his shoulders, curving one hand around the back of his neck. "Is that like a challenge?" she asks, and he just shrugs as he presses himself between her legs and grinds against her. It feels so good, but it isn't enough. "Finn."
He thrusts into her all at once, hard and deep, and they groan together, almost in harmony. (Yeah, she can appreciate that shit.) And that's the other thing about Finn: The kid is not small. Honestly, no one has ever filled her like this, as cliché as that sounds, and there's this one place that he hits inside her that no one else has ever found that never fails to make her gasp. They're hot together, have been from the beginning (she's forgiving him that time in high school because she's pretty sure no one should have an awful first time hanging over his head), so she means it when she breathes out, "So good. Finn."
"Mmm." He doesn't bother with words, just starts thrusting his hips in a slow, even rhythm that starts making her crazy almost immediately. His lips skim her collarbone, nipping at the skin there while he palms her breast, kneading the flesh gently. It's good, but it isn't enough, and she wraps one leg around his hip, changing the angle as she presses her heel into the small of his back. "'S'good, baby."
"More," she whines, clawing at his shoulders a little. He doesn't change the pace of his thrusts, just pulls back enough to smirk down at her, a look that she either wants to kiss or smack. "Finn."
He snaps his hips roughly, suddenly, and Santana lets out a keening sound as her body arches up off the bed.
It catches her off guard when he slips his arm around her waist and rolls them quickly, letting out a grunt when the change in angle pushes him deeper inside her and she moans loudly. She puts her hands flat on his chest and just looks at him for a moment, lying back against her pillows looking smug and stupidly hot. She pushes a hand through her hair as she rolls her hips once, and she grips his wrist when he reaches up with one hand to tease her breast, using it as leverage when she begins swiveling her hips, grinding down on him so she's getting friction against his pelvic bone with every movement. His other hand comes up to fist in her hair when her head falls back, his grip tightening just a bit and sending a delicious pleasure through her scalp and down through the rest of her body.
"How are you so fucking hot?" he demands, bucking his hips up into hers and making it basically impossible for her to answer. Really, Santana should be asking him that, because since when is Finn fucking Hudson this hot? They've been doing this for months, but he's just full of fucking surprises, and she thinks she could probably be okay with only doing this with him for a while longer.
She can feel herself slipping closer to the edge as they work together, move together, his hands now on her hips while she rests hers on his chest, her fingernails scraping the skin lightly. She leans down to kiss him hard as she grinds into him. "Touch me," she breathes against his lips. "Baby, please."
Instead of doing what she asks, he rolls them again, pushing her back into the mattress, and she legitimately doesn't know if she wants to curse or cry as he drags her further away from her release. He pushes her legs open wide and snaps his hips. "Not yet," he breathes against her ear, tugging at the lobe with his teeth.
"Fuck, Finn." Her fingernails dig into his shoulder blades as he pushes into her hard, and then he hits that spot and she gasps, just like always, and brings her left leg up around his hip. "Finn."
He's practically panting in her ear, and when he finally (finally) slips a hand between them, she knows he's close. He's still thrusting into her steadily, making her gasp so hard each time that she should probably be worried about hyperventilating, and he only has to rub his fingers against her for a few seconds, sliding two alongside her clit, before she's falling apart, his name tearing from her lips and her other leg coming up around his waist. It takes her by surprise a little, and him too, apparently, because he pulls back just enough to look down at her with wide eyes. "Holy shit, baby." She just lets out a whine, her back arching as another tremor rolls through her body, and she feels him expand inside her as he comes with a snap of his hips and a grunt.
He keeps moving against her gently for just a moment, then he pushes his hand into her hair and kisses her slowly. "Fuck, baby," he murmurs against her lips. He's heavy and sweaty on top of her, but she doesn't hate it, and she pushes her hands through the hair at the back of his head just because she likes the way that feels too. And sure, maybe she knows that he likes it, especially right after he comes.
"Aren't you glad you left your stupid party?" she asks, smirking up at him.
He looks at her like she's crazy. "Uh, yeah." Clueless bastard. It's probably a good thing he's hot and good in bed, or else she totally wouldn't put up with him.
(Such a lie.)
He pulls out carefully and gets rid of the condom while she pushes herself up so she's sitting back against the pillows. She takes a sip of her beer since it's still mostly full and it's there and she's practically dying of thirst, and when he takes the bottle from her and drinks, she doesn't even want to break his hand. "You think I was louder than Rachel?"
He shrugs, but he's grinning as he tugs on the blankets and sits beside her, sliding his legs under the covers as he hands her the beer bottle. Yeah, he sleeps over, and no, it isn't a big deal. "I can't really be objective since you were yelling in my ear."
She rolls her eyes and looks back at the TV where Boondock Saints has been playing the entire time. Willem Dafoe is on the screen being all weird and creepy and Willem Dafoe, and they watch in silence for a minute. Santana takes a long drink, then hands the bottle back to Finn so he can do the same. "This is the one we watched on St. Patrick's Day last year," he says after he takes a drink. He hands her the bottle and puts his arm around her, pulling her into his side a little and sliding down so they're lying down together.
She pulls away from him, downing the last of the beer and putting the empty bottle on her bedside table before lying back against him. Fuck, he's all warm and she's just not now that she's naked and has sweat drying on her body, even if they are under the blankets. "That was a good way to start a drinking holiday," she muses, remembering the game. They put the DVD in just after eleven in the morning when they'd both finished class for the week. There's nothing wrong with pre-gaming for a night out, even if you do start twelve hours before you plan on leaving. Every time someone in the movies says fuck, you take a drink of beer, and Santana honestly can't think of another movie that uses the word more liberally. They'd killed a twelve pack of fucking Keystone that Finn had for some reason, then ordered a pizza because the Irish don't have very good food. And later that night, they drank Guinness and Jameson and Bailey's (often mixed, yay car bombs) like they were supposed to.
And yeah, maybe that was one of the many nights that Santana started mixing holiday traditions and ended up flashing a random group of guys for the Mardi Gras beads they were wearing for no good reason, but the one guy had a flashing shamrock thing that she fucking wanted, okay?
"We were both drunk by the time we got to this part," she says, remembering.
He just shakes his head at her, then slips his hand under her pillow to pull out the remote from where she always stashes it so she doesn't manage to lose it. "Can we sleep?" he asks, flicking off the television without waiting for an answer.
Santana just rolls her eyes, then turns away from him and tugs the blankets up around her shoulders. He shifts behind her, his chest pressing against her back and his hand on her thigh, kneading the muscle there in a way that's so sexy it doesn't even make sense. She's tipsy and tired and she should be pretty fucking satisfied after what they just did, but if he doesn't knock that shit off, she's going to end up telling him to take her again. "Finn," she says warningly, placing her own hand on his.
"What?"
Maybe he could have played stupid or innocent a few years ago, but she knows better now. She looks over her shoulder at him, just grinning at her in the dark like she can't feel him getting hard against her bare ass. He looks drunk again, but she holds her breath when he leans forward and kisses her shoulder, his eyes locked with hers even when his tongue darts out to taste her skin. "Finn."
"What?" he repeats. His grin has turned into a smirk, and fuck if she doesn't want him again.
It doesn't suck.
She's sort of confused when she wakes up the next morning, because Finn's hand is skimming up and down her spine as she sleeps on her stomach and his tongue is tracing the shell of her ear. "San."
"Hmm?"
"You wanna go head to head with her?"
She turns her head to squint at him, letting him brush her hair out of her face. He's smirking at her, and his hair is a complete disaster, sticking up all over the place. She's just about to ask him what the fuck he's talking about when she figures it out.
Puck and Rachel are at it again, because the girl is moaning down the hall. The sound is cut off by a little squeal, punctuated by a giggle, then they hear a, "Fuck, Rach." It's muffled but not indistinct, and Santana decides that she fucking loves where Finn's head is at.
She turns onto her back and Finn immediately brings his hand between her parted thighs, swirling the pad of his middle finger over her lightly. "Go down on me first," she tells him, and she actually laughs at the the excited look on his face as he starts moving down her body. He hooks his arms around her legs and looks at her hotly when she pushes her fingers through his hair. Fuck, he's sexy. "I want to win, Hudson," she says seriously. He grins wickedly, then leans forward and licks a long, slow stripe up her center, flicking her clit at the end and making her head fall back against the pillows as she moans breathlessly.
She totally wins.