Santana opened the door with a sharp intake of air and there she was, hair feathery and biting her soft bottom lip, perfectly plucked eyebrows in a small, slight line of concentrated insecurity.
They both knew what was going to happen here.
"Want some tea?" Santana throatily suggested. "It's for the old lady. Not me. It seems like it'd be your thing." She shrugged, carefully casual, as the words rushed out of her.
Quinn shook her head, looking at Santana head on, as they reached Santana's bedroom. "I'm not...thirsty."
Quinn daintily walked around Santana's room, fingertips tracing little trinkets along the room's walls, as if everything was new and she hadn't been here only weeks ago. Santana eyed Quinn's short jean skirt, and something in her stomach fluttered with a nasty, deep longing for the girl turned tensely away from her.
Suddenly Santana pressed Quinn against the wall, her fingertips eagerly stuffing up the girl's skirt, finding that tender, wet spot through her underwear…
Quinn whimpered in that high, short voice of hers.
"You slut," Santana seethed into Quinn's ear, grinning, her own body on fire as her thumb slowly, slowly circled…"You're so fucking wet. You want it so fucking bad, don't you?" She laughed, throatily, then began to sloppily nibble her ear, lip gloss pressing off onto the girl's neck, jawline.
A finger gingerly traced the line of Quinn's round, soft ass. Through thin cotton the finger pressed, pressed against the familiar, tiny rosebud.
Quinn's aching whimper grew louder and louder, until her neck rocked back and her stomach lurched forward. Bucking, lusting, wanting.
Santana's own satisfaction would come…but now, more than anything, she wanted to break the rules, twist Quinn around, and lick, bite, swirl their tongues and lips together, slick…
"I think you're cute," eleven-year-old Santana offered a crying Quinn.
"Really?" She sniffed. Three A.M. and both were tired but awake. Some guy she liked had asked another girl out on a date, to the movies.
"Yeah."
Silence. Both stared into the other's eyes.
"Boys are stupid." Santana said quietly, and—without even thinking!—she leaned in…
And Quinn leaned in…
Sugary. She sighed, then she sighed. Eyes closed, eyes opened.
Again. Again. Again.
Pull away. Silence. Both lie face-up, in their sleeping bags.
"I'm not…"
"I like boys."
"Me too."
Almost fifteen, both of them are almost fifteen.
Quinn's room, this time.
Putting on Cheerio uniforms, getting ready for a Saturday practice.
Newness. They haven't been Cheerios for long.
"After practice, can we go over to your house?"
Santana smiles.
"You want some sweet nookie?"
Quinn shrugs, always too proud or shy or cavalier about it.
"Finn and I haven't exactly happened yet. I…need you."
They both smile and Santana leans in to kiss those light, pursed lips, neck craned just so…
She meets Quinn's unrelenting finger.
"You know the rules. Never again."
After practice she uses three fingers for the first time.
Sometimes at night Santana lies back in bed and shivers run down her, as she remembers the first time their hard nipples rubbed against each other, again and again.
Sometimes when her mouth meets that tight pink slit, Santana pretends she's kissing Quinn's lovely lips. Her tongue rolls in and out, Quinn moans. She's always been a saucy individual, but here, on her bed, she is Quinn's and she lives bucks tongues strokes for Quinn only Quinn and all that is in her hurts longs to hear Quinn whimper utter sigh scream.
"Oh! Fuck! Santana! Yes! Yes! Ohh….
"Ahh…No…Uhh…Don't forget the rules…"