Wanting

My body aches. It is an ache that reaches from my toes, toes that curled each and every time she made me come, to the follicles of my hair, brunette hair had wrapped around her long fingers and pulled with such perfect timing. It hurt to even open my eyes, because opening them would mean that it was time for me to take my behind home.

Speaking of my behind...

Good Lord, this woman and the things she has done to me. I can still feel the proof of where she has entered me, touched and tasted me. Just the thought makes my clit start to tingle, thoughts of specific moments, specific movements—the feeling of it all.

Internally, I shake my head in disappointment at myself. I do not love this woman. This woman does not love me. I am not her lover and she is not mine. We fuck. I fuck; and, I do not get fucked. I have to laugh at that last line though, because right now I feel so full and satisfied as I rest by her side—so full, so satisfied, and so absolutely fucked.

I open my eyes slowly, one and then the other. The beauty of the pale skin that stretches across the strength of her forearm, as it rests possessively over the warm tanned glow of mine, is a contrast that says everything.

Its amazes me to no end when I wake up like this in her bed, in her home, and in her arms.

The misty half-light of a new day filters through the large picturesque windows of her bedroom and plays with my mind. It whispers things that make me hopeful and almost forget that falling for a woman like Quinn Fabray is dangerous. Falling for a woman like her is like being gifted with a shiny new dollar piece, one of the golden ones you have to ask for at the bank. Except this time, you did not request it. Like magic, it found you. That means something right? But like most things that find you, it is deeply flawed. This one has a hole in its center. You can feel the weight of it in the palm of your hand, but it will not buy you anything worth having. You just hang on to it because it's different, unique, yet still recognizable as something of importance. It found you. You want it and there is no reasonable explanation for the wanting.

I want to believe that her warm hazel eyes, with their constant sparkle of mischief, could possibly look at me and see a future. I want that thick Scottish brogue of her to say my name in the sunlight and not just whisper it against my skin with the heat that makes me melt in the dark blanket of night.

My daddies used to say, "You old enough for your wants not to hurt you." That was their way of saying no. I have had my share of hurts from misled wants. That is why I have to get out of here, go home, get in my own bed and sleep. That is why I must tell myself no. I am old enough to not let my wants hurt me.

"No," is actually what I should have said when she ordered for me last night, as if she knows me better than I know myself. She ordered the food. She ordered the wine. She ordered me to remove my panties. I ate the food. I drank the wine. I removed my panties, then held them in my open palm like an offering before her and ran my tongue slowly across my upper lip before smiling—already growing wet between my legs.

Quinn Fabray likes to play games. Woman like her thrive on it. Last night was a "date". After weeks of fucking like animals in heat with no promises or discussions of anything more, just delving into the demands of our want, she announced that she wanted more than moments. She said that she wanted us to spend some time together.

"Rach?" The sound of it leaving her lips gave me pause. I raised one eyebrow and avoided her eyes.

Her early warning to me still echoed in my mind. "I am by nature an unapologetically selfish woman. I have been around for a while and I'm set in my ways. There is no room in my life for complications or much of anything else. I like to keep things simple."

She explained herself to me as I lay completely naked in the back seat of her car, her driver partitioned off and hopefully blind as well as deaf to what we had been engaged in. She described who she was and what she wanted just before slipping the dusky, hardened nipple of my right breast into her mouth, latching on and pulling.

"Simple," I repeated dutifully, closing my eyes and letting my mind drift upon the wave she was creating. At that moment, I wanted simplicity too. I simply wanted her to do the same exact thing to my left nipple.

Our moments have been in bathroom stalls with my legs held high, or against brick walls with the voices of others threateningly close. We had a moment once at the front of her foreign sports car that conveniently only seats two, with the head lights leaving us unhidden on a lonely road to some event left waiting for her—with me bent over, my breasts pressed against a hood still warm from a racing engine. That road and the hood of her car was a special moment. I loved the feel of her hands spread out and cupping my backside. Her fingers pressing into my skin as she looked down, watching her engorged cock move in and out of my tanned body.

Those were stolen moments that left me too lost in her to think about tomorrows.

Time is what she wants, her time and on her terms. Time will only reveal the inevitable. Nothing about me is simple, especially this craving that she has created. I am now a mess. Time will only make me an ugly mess, something to be avoided, my calls unanswered.

This mess started at an office where I was just at the right place, at the right time, with the right skirt on.

Quinn Fabray, with her name planted on the outside of the building within which I worked, bent down in front of me. Like a true gentlewoman, in Armani suit that probably cost several months of my salary, she gathered the papers I had let clumsily fall to the floor as she passed by. Her gaze started with the line of my calf and did not stop until her smiling hazel eyes were boring into mine, with a fire so strong that I was immediately lit.

Last night was supposed to be the night I put an end to this mess. Oh, but I did not stop her when she squeezed the flesh of my inner thigh under the table. She leaned close to me and used the flat of her thumb to spread my own juices over my clit.

"Quinn," I warned, already sounding a little breathless.

My legs were spread just right, for the easiest of access. Quinn simply smiled that beautiful toothy smile that showcases how very sensual her own lips are. Her smile made me want to kiss those lips as she applied pressure to my firm bud and slipped her middle finger deep into my wetness.

I made the tiniest of sounds and tried so hard not to look like I was coming as I came.

She ordered my favorite dessert and patiently watched as she insisted I eat it. All the while, she knew how badly I needed her to fuck me. She smiled wickedly at my want.

Looking at her lips does that thing to my abdomen, that feathery feeling on my insides. I picture my fingers running over her lips or see it between my juicy thighs, like that first time in her office. My skirt was slid high on my waist and my legs over her shoulders as she sucked on my most sensitive spot. She drew my tender nub between her teeth ever so carefully as she flicked her tongue across my clit. I leaned back across her desk and made sounds that I'm sure had to be heard by everyone outside of that locked door. I didn't care. My body shook to its very core with the fierceness of my release. She would not ease up and her strong hands held me in place as I tried to escape. I came so hard. I thought I wet myself.

When she rose up, her lips shiny with my pussy's juices, I kissed her for the first time and tasted my own sweetness on her tongue. I was nothing but want then. I undid her skirt in a frenzy of need. I caught my breath at the sight of how beautiful her cock was in my hands. The helmet was so mouthwatering and seeping with her response. Her shaft was so thick and lined with veins, I thought I felt them pulsating in my hands. I guided her into me and held my breath as she stretched me wide.

"Ms. Fabray," I whined.

"Quinn," she corrected me, her voice heavy and her accent a caress in itself.

She plunged so deep into me with one swift movement. She fucked me so thoroughly that day. When she was done, Quinn stepped back and watched me with a smile as my legs still quivered uncontrollably. When I was finally able to stand, I could feel her molten cum running down my legs. I had to wait for my body to recover enough to walk away with any type of balance.

She created a want in me that day that just will not go away or lessen in its intensity. Every touch just makes me want more.

I need to go home.

Now, I am on all fours looking for my clothes, or at least enough for me to leave in, when I notice her watching me.

"Stay," she says.

Why is her voice always like a touch?

"I can't."

She shifts, turning completely on her stomach and tucking a pillow under her head. I smile slightly, to cover the sadness of realizing that I am so easily replaced by a silk-covered down pillow.

"You can," she states as a matter of fact—major arrogance being another of her flaws. "You know you won't regret it."

"I don't want to. I've stayed too long as it is." I hear myself deny her for the first time since I looked into those eyes. They are eyes I avoid as I try make my way to safety.

I am such a liar.

When her driver drops me off, the partition down, I say, "I guess I'll see you around." The driver, a rather handsome looking man close to my own age, looks knowingly but gives me a gentle smile anyway.

"Here," I tell her, handing her a powdered blue box. "Give that to your girl. It'll make her smile and know that you love her."

Diamond earrings should say something besides "Thanks for the fuck".

Four weeks later, I am still a mess. But, it grows less and less as each week passes. I have just been informed that my new job may keep me on permanently. I have successfully managed not to drop things there, including my panties. Normal is nice and my life is back to it. This is what I think as I approach the apartment building where I live. The sun has slipped away and everyone seems to be on a mission to get somewhere. The sounds of an exploding bass beat pumps from a passing car, a reminder that this is a Friday night. I wish that I had had money for a taxi or at least a gypsy cab. These heels were not designed for actual walking. My feet hurt and I cannot wait to lie down on the comfortable couch in my little apartment. I have taken to watching television in the evenings until I fall asleep. And damn, I am out of ice cream.

Yes, I laugh. Life is back to normal.

I miss her. I miss her hands, her teasing, and those damned lips. I close my eyes and I see her eyes smiling at me. I even miss the smell of those stupid cigars she sometimes smoked after we had sex. That smug expression on her face always made me roll my eyes, her knowing my thighs were still shaking from her ministrations. She liked to lie on her back, between my legs, with her head resting on my stomach and an arm wrapped around my thigh, smoking a cigar—as if she had just won some battle.

But, I am not imagining the smell of her cigar or her presence now. My foot barely hits the fifth floor landing when I see her propped up against the wall across from my apartment door. With closed eyes, leaning that perfectly curved body back against the wall, she takes a long drag from her cigar and then slowly releases it, as if deep in thought. Dressed for the office, but with the top buttons of her shirt undone, Quinn Fabray stood there as sexy as ever. I had read an online biography about her, after our first encounter. They called her the "consummate bachelorette", a "charismatic corporate marauder". She looked every bit the part, and so very dangerous. The walls of my apartment building seem suddenly dingy and the lighting weak and inappropriate. Those damned butterflies begin to flutter and my legs feel weak.

Her eyes open slowly as she shifts her head towards me. She takes another long drag and releases it.

"I was in the neighborhood."

The first week, her messages were curious and entertaining with an option for me to call back. They were the hardest to resist. The second week, she demanded a response and called at odd hours. I felt justified in my decision that she was only interested in herself. Then the messages stopped. By the end of the third week there were no calls. The total silence that followed only confirmed that she had returned back to what was normal for her or that I had been properly replaced.

And now, here she stands. "In the neighborhood," she says. I hope the security system on her car works well. It's going to stand out like a sore thumb in my neighborhood.

I am so tempted to just turn and go back down the five flights of stairs. Her eyes lock on me and I find it hard to breathe, let alone run. It takes almost a minute before I am strong enough to look away and walk to my own door. I can feel her eyes on me as I nervously search my bag for my keys. I can feel them go down my body as I turn my back to her.

I pause before turning the last lock. "What do you want?" I manage, aware that my voice is shaking.

I feel her closeness, even though she does not touch me. When her throaty voice speaks above my ear, I close my eyes and let the brief familiarity of it warm me.

"I am here for you."

"Quinn." I sound like I'm pleading.

"You leave me with little choice, having not returned my calls and abandoning your position."

"Abandoning my position," I repeat. "Quinn, it was just temporary."

She lowers her head so that this time I feel the warmth of her voice on my ear. I also feel her body hovering just centimeters from my own.

"It was whatever you wanted it to be for as long as you wanted it Rachel," she says and the thickening of her accent reveals a trickling of offense.

I hear her words and I wish that they only meant what I want them to mean. A familiar feeling washes over me. I let go of the breath I am holding and I give in to the urge. I let my body relax into her, where I seem to fit so perfectly.

Quinn leans in, placing her delicate hand over mine and causing me to finally turn the key. She opens the door all the way and ushers me through, closing it behind us.

My small apartment is nothing in comparison to what she is accustomed to. Nevertheless, I've always been proud of it, the neatness and my attempts at class. But, times have not always been easy. I am not sure that I want to turn on a light, allowing her to see things more clearly. A part of me wants her to do what she always does when she is behind me. That part wants to feel her pressed into me, to feel her hands undress me while taking every opportunity to appreciate each individual curve. I want her delicious lips at the curve of my neck, her fingers tugging on my hair.

We stand in silence for a moment, and I'm quite sure that she can hear the uncontrollable hum of my want. She moves, finds a lamp in the shadows and flips it on. She then positions herself comfortably on my couch, crossed her leg, flicking the now unlit cigar between one thumb and forefinger.

"Comfortable?"

I sound a bit angry. But, I am really not. A part of me wants to straddle her lap, pull her hair and kiss those lips. I ache to feel her hands cup my bottom and draw me into her...

She grins and tilts her head to the side.

"What do you want?"

I avoid the couch and the accompanying matching chair. I go to the tiny dining area, pull out one of only two chairs that sit at the round table there. I position it so that I can see her clearly and sit down.

She lifts one eyebrow.

"You," she returns easily. Her accent giving the one word two syllables.

I roll my eyes.

"What do you want?" She looks around while she speaks.

"Surely there must be something," she continues, her expression and voice taking on a more serious tone. "Every woman wants something." I just continue to watch her, hoping that my face reveals little. But when her eyes finally rest on me and make their way to my own, I am visibly angry.

"I'm here. You have made whatever point you were attempting to make."

She thinks that this is a game.

"I don't want anything from you." I throw my reply at her and cross my arms.

I see a flash of hurt across her face and sadness in her eyes. It is brief, but it is evident. How very strange?

"I am old and I don't have much to offer a girl like you."

"A girl like me?" I so want to hang on to anger. It keeps me from coming undone.

She watches me closely for a moment, narrowing her eyes just a bit.

"It's simple," she finally says. "I want you in my life."

Time seems to freeze for just a moment. Then she readjusts herself.

"I have property. Or, you can choose a place that you like, preferably closer. You can have your own driver, your own car. I'll establish an account in your name. That way you can have your own money. You can work if you like. I can have you placed close to me. Or, you could finish Art School. The choice is yours. I want you to be comfortable and have whatever it is you want."

"Wow." That is all I can manage in my disbelief. I never told her that I dropped out of Art school.

She looks so content with herself, having made her terms clear Was this the part where she expects me to negotiate? Am I not going to be given that opportunity?

"I do," she supplied. "I want you in my life."

I stand up and position the chair back to the table. I slip out of my heels and neatly place them out of the way. I place myself in front of her, fighting the urge to touch her. Her eyes search mine and all I can think is "Good Lord, this woman". I shake my head slowly, side to side. I know that there are girls that would kill to have this woman make them this offer. Somewhere, right now, I'm sure that there is a girl hoping that she will call. She might be satisfied with just her attention, no matter how brief or limited.

She stands up and straightens out her shoulders so that now she is looking down at me instead of me looking down at her. I let my hand touch the side of her face. I run my finger along her bottom lip. I do love her lips. Then, I drop my hand.

She gives me a half smile.

I surprise myself with the force of my response as I slap the shit out of her. I have had enough.

"People like you think money is the end all be all, you arrogant fuck. Have I ever given you any indication that I give a shit about your money or what you do with it? And besides, if that was all that I wanted there are a lot less complicated ways to get it and still keep my self-respect. I have a place to live and I get around just fine." I'm loud now and about to slap her again when she catches my hand. She glares at me for a moment, not so much from anger but from shock. Then, with a half-smile, she places the cigar between her lips and lets it dangle as she speaks.

"I'll take that as a no." I go to my door and open it. "Thank you but no thank you, Quinn. You can leave now. You can find yourself another little blow-up doll to fuck senseless when the mood hits you. I'm not whoring myself out."

"That's not what I meant. You know this. When have I ever treated you like a whore?" The way that she said the word whore, her accent never more prevalent, echoed through the apartment.

"You just did. Now leave."

"No."

"What?"

"I don't want to," she states flatly, as if that is going to make some type of difference to me.

"You are old enough for your wants not to hurt you. Buy yourself another toy."

Quinn comes closer, but she does not position herself to walk out of the still open door. She places herself in front of me so that I can see nothing but her. She is close and what I see in those usually gentle hazel eyes is suddenly frightening.

"I did something. Or maybe, I didn't do something. I don't know."

She takes the door from my hand and slams it shut.

"I'm..." She searches for a word as if her thoughts are suddenly untranslatable.

"I'm not leaving," she finally says, reaching out to wrap her arm around my waist. I pull back, but she jerks me into her. It is too close and I know what being close to her does to me, so I arch my back to place some space between us.

She leans into me, her displeasure at my response now obvious. There is no smile, just focused intensity and what could only be described as anger. Her other hand comes to my neck and she wraps her fingers around my throat, holding it firmly.

A part of me wants her to tighten her grip. I want her to squeeze, to show me her anger and to further invoke mine. Woman like her only know what they want, what they feel entitled to take and to use. They do not know rejection, certainly not from someone like me, who has nothing they give any weight to or measure. Do it, I think. Squeeze. I want her to give me something to hate her for, something that will stamp out this need for her presence, her touch—her love. I challenge her with my eyes and set my lips in defiance. I want her to handle me wrong or say the wrong thing just once. That kind of anger I can identify with, I'm used to defending myself. I'm used to that type of pain and what it brings. I'm used to fighting to separate myself from it so that I can survive. My body goes rigid as I prepare to strike back.

"What do you want?" Her words are thick and move across my lips as she lingers there searching my face. Something unexplainable wells up inside of me like a ball and I begin to feel as if I cannot breathe. It is not the pressure from her hand; she has yet to apply any. Her hand just sits there holding the length of my neck. I struggle to breathe just the same and I feel my eyes begin to burn. I close them immediately and squeeze them shut, hoping that nothing soft or wet escapes.

She cannot see me like this. No, please, not like this.

"Look at me," she demands. "Now."

Her lips are still so close to mine that I feel them move. Her hand travels from my neck downward. She feels me. She stretches the neck of my top and lets the palm of her hand feel my over-heated skin. She feels my heart beating in my chest, the expansion of my lungs as I breathe.

When her lips finally claim mine, her kiss is as desperate as my own. She takes me fully in her arms and I feel her hands spread possessively across my back. I touch the soft of her hair, her face and the lids of her eyes as I return her kiss.

"This woman," it is all I can think as I lose myself in her.

"You want me as much as I want you, Rachel Berry" she manages. "I feel it each and every time we touch, when you look at me."

If only that were true, I think. I want her more.

She lifts me up and I wrap myself around her as I have so many times. I want to give her the one thing I know she craves, that which allows her to be mine for just a moment, to see that look on her face and in her eyes. I want to hear the sounds she makes when she releases inside of me.

There are only two other doors, the bathroom and the bedroom. She finds the correct one and lays me down on my bed. She practically rips off buttons as she frees herself from her clothes. I slide my top over my head and slip out of my bra. She pulls off everything else. When our lips meet again, the heat of flesh is everywhere. A month without her seems like a year and yet now it seems as if it was only yesterday. Her body is so familiar to me and yet still so new. I want to touch all of her, taste her, breathe her in and hold her there.

But, I can't. I can't hold her. Who could possibly hold her? Each time the sex is over, when she slips from within me or her lips leave my skin and the cool air drifts in with a chill, when her eyes lose that wildness and that teasing easiness resumes its place, I feel a little part of myself dissipate. That is why I stop her now. With her face between my hands, I push her away and turn my head. I try to pull back on my hips, my body wide open beneath her weight. She is already poised to enter.

"Quinn," I whisper, my voice breaking. "This...I..."

"Rachel," she swears her accent so thick now that her words sound like another language. "Good gracious God, Rachel Berry, you drive me insane."

"I'm complicated."

"No shit. That's the fucking understatement of the year." Her words are harsh, but the smile in her eyes is there. She touches her nose to mine, hazel eyes boring to my.

"You don't do complicated," I attempt to smile. "Remember?"

She sprinkles me with soft kisses, the caress of her tongue, and the threat of her teeth as she moves down my body. My hands move from her face to her blonde hair.

"If that were true I would not be here," she whispers into the skin of my torso, causing the muscles there to ripple, "watching your apartment and lingering in halls."

She moves further down.

"I wouldn't be here now, begging."

I moan.

"Please…" she says dragging the word out and breathing it into my body as her lips descend on my pussy and my body rises up to meet her.

She holds my hips firmly, with her body positioned just right to leave my legs open and ready, prepared for how I twist and buck under her assault. She kisses and nibbles and sucks my tender, engorged clit like a pro, trained in driving me out of my mind with pleasure.

"Quinn...Oh..." I purr, pulling at my own hair as my thighs began to tremble beyond her or my control. Even after I come, she lets her tongue and lips continue to torture me as she laps at my juices.

"You see," she picks up the conversation as she moves up my body, "The woman you say I am would not have done that. That woman would only be after her own pleasure."

"It's less..." she says plucking at my dusky nipples with her tongue, "complicated...that way."

I feel the whirlwind inside of me slowly subsiding, eyes half closed. I am fully aware of every detail of her movement. We are right back where we had begun. I feel her pressing against my swollen, still pulsating, lips.

Her eyes are serious as she looks down at me. My hands are held above my head, her fingers entwined with my own. We just stare at each other, not daring to move.

I think about saying no, but I do not want that. What I want is to feel her deep inside of my hungry pussy. I had come thoroughly, but I know that it is only a little of what she gives. Also, there was the fact that she was giving me the opportunity to say no.

"I want to stay with you," she says finally.

Her lips crush mine as she enters me. Her thickness stretches me, the pain of it causing my body to exhale in relief as she pushes her cock into me, inch by inch, torturously slow. She lifts herself slightly. I both feel her and see her bottom out. The look on her face causes my heart to ache. This is one of the moments I want to capture, to hold her close and never let go.

She does not start to work herself out, only to plow back in again. She does not start the hip movement that makes me cry out for more. She just watches.

"You stay the night, be with me, take me, please me, but in the morning..."

I speak without thinking of how I must sound to her.

"Yes?" she encourages me, her eyes questioning.

"In the morning, you leave. I'm just the girl you fucked last night. I need more. I know that was not part of the plan, not what you want or need. Somewhere my want for your unapologetically selfish ass became a need. I need more. I need more of you."

Her expression is unreadable and my heart begins to sink.

"What's wrong with being the Girl I fucked last night if I give you pleasure? You want me just as badly as I want you. What could be better than that? What can be better than this?"

She moves just enough to make the head of her cock dance against the bridge of my cervix and create a surge that shoots through my body.

"Get off me please," I beg, on the verge of losing what little I have left.

Neither of us moves.

"No," she whispers. "This is where I belong, here with you and inside of you."

"I can't think when you are inside of me."

"Then don't think. Feel!"

She starts to move, slowly withdrawing herself only to push back in. As always, her movements are so measured and certain.

"You make me so weak. It's so embarrassing."

"Be weak, embarrass yourself on me."

Pushing and pulling, her hips move. Each time, she hits my spot so perfectly and then drags herself across my sensitive clit to heighten the pleasure even more.

"I don't want to just be the girl you keep around to fuck."

Her thrusts begin to quicken.

"I don't want to be the woman that gets so taken by a girl that she loses control. I don't want to miss sleep or business opportunities. I don't want to get desperate, calling, knowing she is looking at the phone, looking at my number, listening to my pitiful messages and not answering. I don't want to be that woman that lurks in halls, or waits in the dark watching this building, hoping to see you, praying that you are alone. I'm too old for that shit."

With each sentence, her strokes become more forceful. The sound of our flesh meeting echoes through the room, along with my sharp cries and sensuous moans. She was pursuing her pleasure now, finding it within me.

"I'm not impenetrable. I hear you," she continued as she pushes in so deep, driving me into the mattress of the small bed and then suctioning out. "I'm inside of you and I hear what you are saying and I feel you."

"And you are inside of me too, taking over."

"Yes," I cry out before being reduced to grunts and short breaths.

Her fucking is fierce, withholding nothing. Just as that wondrous feeling envelopes me and I feel I am about to lose consciousness, her whole body tenses.

"You, Rachel Berry" she says, her voice strained and hot on my lips, "you make me weak."

Her kiss absorbs my sounds as we come together.

Later, with her lying on her back between my legs, her arm thrown possessively around my thigh and her head propped against my torso, she smokes her cigar. The sweet smell of it mingles with our sex and curls upward. I smooth my fingers over her blonde hair, so comfortable in our nakedness.

"Well," she says, her accent playing with my senses, "if I'm going to be sleeping here, we will be needed a better bed, love."

"Careful old woman."