Tonight he feels like a janitor.
Seriously, only a janitor would have so many keys. He's pretty certain half of them don't even go to anything, and only God knows why he still has them. The only thing he knows is that, right now, he's having more than a little trouble getting into his house, and the keys are entirely to blame.
Alright, maybe all of that alcohol isn't helping too much, and maybe Rachel Berry gyrating against him isn't all that helpful either.
Her hands are roaming his body as he tries to differentiate between the keys, and he thinks that she doesn't really care that she's making his task infinitely harder. As her hands travel lower he's positive she doesn't care, but he's doing alright, especially considering how her body's pressed up against his.
But really, he can only take so much.
So, when her hand shifts to grope an area where it shouldn't be, notyet, he's almost completely willing to give up the idea of getting inside. Really, being inside is overrated anyways, isn't it? But he knows that it's colder outside than it feels, and he knows it'll suck if they get caught here, so he decides that he should probably give it one more shot.
Gritting his teeth, he pulls back enough to glare at her out of the corner of his eye.
"We can do this here." He threatens, and he means it, and thankfully she seems to grasp what he's saying. Regaining a bit of her composure in an instant, she moves her hands back to his arm, and even if she is still pressed up against him at least she's not moving.
Finally he's able to find the right key (thank the fucking Lord!) and he all but breaks the door down in his haste to open it. This has her laughing, but he really doesn't care as he moves inside, bringing her with him. Pushing the door shut he has he against the door in an instant.
She's already loosened his tie and she's already gotten his shirt half-unbuttoned, and he finds it a little unfair that she's completely clothed (he'll ignore the fact that she has a lot less to get out of). Wanting to rectify this immediately, he pulls her closer, hands intent on finding the zipper to her pathetic excuse of a dress.
But she's regained a little of her rationality in the last fifteen seconds, and she doesn't fail to be the voice of reason here.
"We shouldn't do this." She murmurs, and even if it's not completely convincing when muttered against his skin, it's still been said, and he can't really ignore it.
"Nah, we really should." He's trying to convince her with another kiss, keeping her close as his hands continues to roam. It seems to work, because she's totally responding and her hands are all over him. But her conscience, which is always sober, isn't giving up without a fight.
"Noah, we can't do this." The words are whispered, and without conviction, but her hands have stopped moving and he's not so drunk that he doesn't notice. He stills as well, and he's not entirely sure if his groan is audible or not.
"Yeah, we really can." He's not going to give up without a fight either. He presses another open kiss to her neck, and she's not resisting at all.
"Noah…" He really wants her to stop talking, but the fact that she said his name takes away some of that desire. It renews his resolve, and he has her up against the door again, and he's looking her in the eyes.
"Give me one reason why we can't?" He grits out, and she doesn't respond because she can't think of anything, so he continues, "There's nothing wrong with this. There's nothing stopping us." He affirms, convinced he's got her now. He's tired of excuses, from her and from everyone else.
"But I don't love you." She slurs, and he almost wants to laugh. He almost asks "When the fuck has that ever mattered?", but he doesn't.
Instead he's looking down at her as she drunkenly stares up at him, her lips pouting and her brow furrowed, and he can tell she's confused. He knows that somewhere in the back of her hyperactive, little mind she's trying to clear away the buzz, trying to think rationally again, trying to remember that this is wrong.
But the thing is: he doesn't really give a damn; because she's here, because her nails are digging into his skin, and because he's drunk too, so morality can go fuck itself.
His decision made he leans in, supporting her body with his (he thinks she's going to fall over any second now). His arms tighten around her, his hands seeking warm flesh and the zipper to her dress.
He's smirking that same old smirk now too, and all of her protests die as he mumbles against her skin,
"Details baby, details."
Please Review.
This is my first real story, I could really use the criticism. Thanks. :)