Sometimes, late at night, he would call her.
He never expected her to pick up. For one thing, it was one, two in the morning when he called. For another, she wasn't speaking to him.
But he couldn't forget the look in her eyes when he had pulled away; the two of them, ensconced in her room, lips chapped from kissing, the Deed done between them. The look in her eyes that told him, You're not going to call. You're going to let this go.
Except he did call. Forty times.
He'd given up leaving messages – angry, bitter, Why won't you just admit what we had was real? tirades – and would instead let the phone ring until her automatic message came on. Listening to that all the way through before pressing end.
He was reduced to the crumbs of her attention, and it pissed him off.
He should feel guilty for going behind his best friend's back, but somehow, when he thinks of how she moaned his name, not Finn's, he can't feel really bad for long.
His mom doesn't understand why he's so surly lately, why he ups his appetite for girls. She's given up trying to understand a long time ago, so it's not like he had a lot to explain anymore.
At least, not to anyone else.
For her, at least, it's easy to pretend that it was all just one alcoholic dream. She soaks in the bath for four hours afterwards, and she dresses especially pure in the days after the party, but it's hard to forget the way she arched her back when all he was doing was kissing her throat, or how she had wrapped her legs so tightly around his waist he couldn't even slide his jeans all the way down.
She forces herself to kiss Finn a little more in the next couple of days, and she loves him, she really does – but he's never made her moan like Puck did.
She's fucked up, and she knows it, and she hates herself a little more for it.
"We can't be doing this."
If she had said it half an hour earlier, he would have stopped, looked her in the eyes, and told her that all she needed to say was stop. But since that was the fourth time she had said it in the past twenty minutes, and because she had accompanied it each time with a passionate kiss, Puck started to doubt that she was really serious.
His lips dip lower, nipping her neck gently, leaving marks of his love, the love he kept pretending wasn't there whenever he saw her. The love Finn has no idea about.
Quinn makes a whimper as his lips brush her collarbone and she's seized by this inexpressible need to show herself to him. She feels fat today, ugly and useless, and Puck is the only one who looks at her without judgement or critique. Even Finn occasionally slips up when she asks if her butt looks big. Puck never does that; he always made her feel beautiful with just a look.
Her hands reach for the zipper on her skirt and Puck visibly gulps, like he hadn't expected this seduction to go so far, but Quinn is past the point of caring about angels crying or Jesus. She wants him, his touch, his kiss, the feel of him inside of her, and she's determined to get it. One of his hands is sliding up the inside of her thigh, and the other is helping her tug her skirt down. She's feeling way too exposed, but she pushes past it.
She runs her hands up his chest, lifting the white shirt he had worn to the party, revealing the toned abs and muscles that makes her go all faint for some reason. Puck doesn't seem to know what to do; if it was Santana, they would have fucked already. But it's new to Quinn. It's new to Puck; he's never been in love before.
Before she loses her nerve, she pulls the zipper on his jeans down, tentatively reaching for that package he's always talking about. It's unlike anything she's ever seen or felt before. He's gone commando, too. How very Puck.
His mouth is on her neck, her breasts, her stomach, her legs, her arms, her mouth, everywhere, fuelling her with the courage to do this, to take what she really wants and fuck the consequences. She wraps her legs around his waist, suddenly aware of how much she wants him, of the ache between her legs, and how it only intensifies when his fingers trace lightly over her legs.
He chuckles. "I can't do anything with my pants on."
"Yes you can," She returns fiercely. "Just ... make me feel."
When their eyes meet, she's aware of more than just lust and desire. She wants him to make her feel. She doesn't want some fast and dirty fuck. She doesn't want to cheat. She wants to make love, with Puck.
He lowers his mouth to her secrecy and, before his tongue wipes all coherent thoughts from her mind, she thinks she hears him whisper "I love you."
She texts him once, after that night. It's right after it comes out that she's pregnant, and he's trying to find the ground, because it seems to have disappeared under him.
I hate you.
He texts her back, after he gets loaded and hates himself more for it.
At least I made you feel it.