A/N: Thank you all SO FREAKIN MUCH for all your reviews and comments! I know it was a little long since I last posted - the muse wasn't giving me what I felt P & R deserved... but here comes part 2 AND 3...and lots of smutty smut! Hope you enjoy!

The steam from the running water weaves around them, and his fingers extend into her damp hair, his knuckles rapping against the cold tile of the back shower wall. One arm around her waist, his fingertips graze her hip, and he cups a handful of her perfect tight ass, moaning into her mouth. His tongue trails down, her jaw, her neck, his nose nuzzles the valley in between her breasts, and he laps up the tang of her skin as it mixes with the hot water.

She moans breathily as his tongue circles around her pert nipple. She grabs a handful of his hair and puuuulllls, so he adds teeth and tongue and nibbles and sucks, and fuck, he will never tire of that voice, her moan, and he pretty much needs it echoing in his ears for the rest of his motherfucking life.

"Noahhhhh," she pleads again, so his free hand moves to dip in between her legs. So good, so fucking good and wet and perfect and she wraps one leg around his waist and he hoists her up and she curls herself around him, just as he curls his finger inside of her, twisting, feeling every bit of her as he moves in deeper and -

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Wait, what? What? The fuck?

Where is he?

Bed, no shower.

Alone. Dammit, alone.

Hands empty, and his dick? Shit, man, sporting one HELL of a morning wood.

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Seriously, what the actual fuck, where's the shower? Where's Ra -

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JESUS CHRIST PHONE. It vibrates itself pointedly to the edge of his bedside table. Puck presses the silence button and hurls it across the room. His hands wipe over his face as he tries to orient, the sun streaming piecemeal through the navy curtains on his window, the stillness of the air in the room, the silence…

The insanely painful bulge in his boxers.

Damn. Fucking dream of a dream. Like….fuck. Seriously, that was so real, he could legit taste her (or, at least, what he assumes she tastes like, and damn, so good). Vivid motherfucker of a dream. Shit.

He was totally about to get Rachel Berry off. Rachel fucking Berry. Damn. He hasn't had a Berry sex dream since, like...senior year of high school?

Ok, so maybe he has them every now and then and maybe he thinks about her ass in those little skirts sometimes when he's taking care of his business and fuck you, he doesn't exactly picture her when he's with Quinn so shut up (ok, so it happened like, once. Maybe twice) but it's not cheating so like he said. Fuck you.

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AGAIN?!

Ready to give whoever on the other line a piece of his mind (cause, seriously? First the dream interruption and now he has to actually move and get UP), "WHAT!" He hollers into the phone.

"Puck?"

Shit. Oh, shit, it's Quinn.

Quinn his girlfriend.

His girlfriend who couldn't bear to tear herself away from her school to be there when he needed her.

Fuck no. He didn't need her. Puck doesn't need anything. Or anyone.

Well, he could need that shower scene. He is Noah Puckerman.

"Puck? Are….are you there?"

Oh, right. Quinn.

"Hey. Yeah, hey, I'm here." He yawned and shoved his thumb into his left eye. "Was just...sleeping." He plopped back down on his bed and attempted to wipe the sleep (and, mmmm, Rachel tits) from his eyes.

"Well, I'm home, in Lima, I landed late last night but I didn't want to call you." (probably a good move cause, you know, Rachel tits). "I'm at my mom's. Can I come over?"

"What? I mean, yeah." He's still thinking about Berry moans and Berry mouth and Berry ass and... "I - lemme get in the shower first."

Mmm. Shower.

He is possibly not thinking of Quinn (Quinn. His girlfriend) while he's in the shower with his hand wrapped around his dick.

But, again, that kinda thing only happens every now and then. And seriously. That dream.

Hours later, Rachel sits in her car, chewing her lip. She's parked a few cars away from the Puckerman house.

It's awkward. This is awkward.

As she tried fervently (and, eventually, fruitlessly) to fall asleep last night, she kept replaying the make out session from yesterday's shiva, like a record on repeat.

She could not stop the tingles throughout her body when she thought of all the places Noah's hands went (and all the places she, oh God, all the places she wanted them to go). She can't get it out of her mind, and, consequently, she can't let anything in to her mind, because all that's floating around in there...lips and arms and hands and -

Deep breath.

I should go into the house, she thought.

She pulls her hand off of the car door handle and feels the full body flush creep back up , through her legs, belly, arms, even the tips of her hair are ablaze right now. No. No, I should go right home and take a cold shower.

Right, Rach, she scoffed to herself. A lot of good a shower did you last night. In fact, the shower only made it worse, because then her mind started on the steam from the shower, which fueled whatever was curling up in her abdomen, and her hand involuntarily moved down and then she was thinking about showering with Noah and -

RACHEL BARBRA BERRY YOU STOP THIS INSTANT. Since when are you this wanton sex-crazed woman, lusting after Noah Puckerman?!

Tenth grade.

Ugh, she can't even fool her inner monologue.

You're supposed to be grieving, Rachel. She scolded herself. Your sole purpose here is to be a good, reliable friend to Noah. You are here to help him through this crisis, to pay your respects to him and his family and this dreadful loss, supporting him however necessary.

However necessary, Rachel? Really? Going to support him right out of his pants, are you?

No.

Rachel. Puck has a girlfriend. A girlfriend who's not you, and this is so bad, you need to stop thinking about this, you need to stop wanting this, Rachel.

Ok. This is fine. She's an actress. She can go in there and put on her regular Rachel Berry face and performance, and maybe pull Noah aside later on and they can discuss what went on yesterday. And he will reiterate what I know is true; it was a one time thing and my mind is working overtime because, maybe I'm a little sexually deprived lately, but who isn't right? She nods emphatically to punctuate her thoughts.

I mean, it's entirely plausible that my hormones are raging because I haven't been with someone for at least a year, and I'm pretty sure if I continued that internet research I began at approximately 2am last night on said topic, it will corroborate my hypothesis that a large percentage of the female population in my age bracket aren't receiving adequate lovemaking to suit their needs.

Rachel sighs miserably.

Except Quinn. Quinn probably is completely and totally sexually satisfied. All sexed up on the regular. Lucky duck.

But really, hopefully a logical, mature conversation with Noah will put an end to these ridiculous feelings she is having, but then again maybe he will wrap his arms around her and -

RACHEL.

Right. Right. Time to go inside. This is a shiva, Rachel. A solemn event, not a social event, not an opportunity to quell any sort of (insane, unfounded, utterly absurd) sexual desires. She opened her car door and hoped that the blast of frigid February air would cool her off, because right now? She is positively on fire head to toe.

Normalnormalnormalnormal. She chanted in her head with every step closer to the front door.

It was nothing, just a drunken hookup, a mistake, compounded by grief, and it didn't mean anything and it won't happen again. A. Mistake.

And she does not want it to happen again, and -

Oh God, yes I do, I do so much.

"Oh, Rachel! Hi!" The door flies open and there's Quinn on the other side.

Quinn, Noah's girlfriend (girlfriend), pulled her into a hug.

Quinn, Puck's girlfriend. Quinn's words melt together, penetrating Rachel's ears in indistinguishable white noise. She gingerly returns the embrace, discretely peering over Quinn's shoulder. She spots Noah across the room, not in his dress blues, but in a simple button down shirt and tie, sitting on the couch alone. He raises his arm to stretch and yawn as he scratches the back of his neck, and just the mere sight of his arms, muscular biceps bulging out of the rolled up shirt sleeves, his strong, capable, hands, long, dexterous fingers, and she's...she's absolutely...

Rachel usually doesn't allow herself to use such vulgar language but this situation definitely calls for it.

She's fucked.

It's kind of screwed up that Quinn is here. Ok, she is his girlfriend.

And why does he have to keep reminding himself of that?

But, ok, he's glad she was able to tear herself away from school (he's not mad. He's not). But this whole situation is just...weird. Becca has been shooting daggers with her eyes at Quinn the whole time (like, more than usual even), and Quinn is ignoring it, so at least that's good that he doesn't have to play Judge Judy here, but it's like...she's just too...cordial and hostess-y shit with his family to really be at a shiva. She's going up to everyone introducing herself, and a lot of these relatives she's never met (cause, really, he's not bringing home anyone to his extended family like, ever) and seriously, his mom fucking -

No. He's not going to think about it. After his shower this morning (and, hot damn, what a shower it was), he found Becca sitting at the kitchen table, clutching his ma's purse and crying. And then he got this huge ass lump in his throat while trying to calm her down for, like, 20 minutes, and then Quinn walked into the house and Bec turned her tears off like a fucking light switch and changed into demon sister, stomping upstairs, slamming her bedroom door.

So then he spent the next 20 minutes listening to Quinn psychoanalyze Bec's behavior and talk about some stages of grief crap, mixed in with these pleas of " talk to me Noah, tell me how you feel, don't shut down," and he just sat with his head in his hands. Then she started on with this useless "I am so sorry," and those stupid placeholder shit words everyone else uses and he just wanted everyone and everything to just go away.

He's just so impatient, you know? Like, he hates that his ma's not here, he hates that he's feeling so fucking shitty sad, and he hates everyone looking at him with those stupid big eyes because it just reminds him that his ma's. Not. Here.

But worse than those eyes and all the sorries? Is pretending nothing is different. Because it is all kinds of fucked up different and there are all these unanswered questions and shit he's got to figure out and it kind of sucks to see people smiling and being all chatty shit because he doesn't want to smile ever again, or at least, not today.

He remembers this word from English class in high school (whatever, Ms. Smith had huge knockers and they got hard nipples every now and then and that shit is worth paying attention for so shut up). Paradox. When two things are opposites but coexist. His fucking life is a paradox.

But seriously though? Shiva's not a social event.

It's also not an occasion to hook up with your dead best friend's ex girlfriend, but. Whatever.

Luckily for Rachel, distractions made themselves known when she walked into the Puckerman living room. Some of their old Glee club members had stopped in - Kurt and Blaine, Mr. Schue, Sam. So while it felt a little bizarre to reunite with old friends at a solemn event, at least it kept her mind occupied. And it's not like she was laughing and joking with the Gleeks. She was just….catching up.

Truth be told, she couldn't keep her focus entirely on the conversations in front of her. Her attention kept straying back to Noah. He was following Quinn around with this look on his face as she went up to different guests. Quinn seemed to have this routine, Rachel observed. First she'd introduce herself as Puck's girlfriend (and, Rachel had noticed, more than a few of the guests reacted surprised to that sentiment). Then Quinn would cock her head to the side, she'd touch the shoulder or arm of whomever she was talking to, and give them these big sad eyes. Every now and then Rachel would catch a few snippets of, "so sorry," and "denial", and "grieving."

At least she's being supportive, thought Rachel. Or, trying.

When Finn died, she got all the same well intentioned speeches and words and, for her, they really didn't help. People get weird about death. They need to say something, not really to make you feel better, but to make themselves feel better about trying to make you feel better. But words? Well, when someone you love dies, words do little.

But that was Finn, Rachel continued her musing. And that was me. And it was such a bizarre situation, it was inevitable that people would have gotten awkward around the deceased ex fiancee/ex girlfriend, ex whatever I was. So maybe she took their responses and reactions at Finn's wake a little too seriously. And after all, surely Quinn knows Puck better than anyone else so she must have an idea of what will help him, and maybe by her being this, ambassador, of sorts, that will help.

"Rachel? Hey, Rach?" Kurt was waving his hand in front of her face. "You there?"

She realized everyone was looking to her for some sort of response.

Oops.

"Right. Um," she floundered. "What?"

Some actress, Rach. She thought. Way to bring your A game.

It was getting dark out and the group at Puck's house was thinning. The Glee clubbers had left, and Rachel was helping Becca clean up, while Quinn was perched on the arm of the chair Puck was sitting in, her fingers intertwined with his.

Rachel's not jealous.

She not.

It's just that those fingers were in her hair a little less than 24 hours ago, and maybe she feels guilty for that but moreover maybe she might feel a little bit jealous.

Rachel, she admonished herself, and went to drop a stack of paper plates into the kitchen garbage. She started wrapping up leftover bundt cake and busying herself. Distractions.

She doesn't recognize this person that she is becoming.

"So you understand, Puck, right?" Quinn said in a low voice, massaging Puck's fingers with her free hand, not meeting his eyes. "I wish I could stay longer, and you know I want to be here with you but I could only really get away for a short period of time, and it's midterms and I am so close to landing this amazing internship with my professor…" her voice trailed off and Puck rubbed his face.

"Yeah, whatever, Q, it's fine."

"I mean really, Puck, you can call me anytime, day or night, I am here for you. I want to be here for you." She paused, and rested her fingers over his knuckles. "It's just so much time flying back and forth and I really can't be away for so long. This semester could make or break my future career...our future life together." She took a deep breath. "You know I love you, Puck. I do. I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry."

Rachel walked back into the living room as Quinn was standing up. "Rachel, I've got to get going, but it was great to see you again," She walked forward to give Rachel a hug. "Albeit under terrible circumstances."

Rachel returned the hug, less gingerly than before, maybe still just a little bit guarded, though. "How long are you in town for?"

"Just today," she responded, glancing at Puck, and biting her bottom lip. "Um. Unfortunately, I...I have to leave early tomorrow morning."

He's not mad.

He's not.

"Oh….well," She took a breath. She can't look at Noah right now. She just can't. "Have a safe trip back and a productive semester."

Quinn cocked her head to the side and took Rachel's hand. "I know you were fond of Mrs. Puckerman, as well, Rachel. Please know that I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thanks, Quinn." Rachel turned to return back to the kitchen, out of this...this scene because...because what? She wasn't sure why she was so...angry?

Why couldn't Quinn stay, I mean, this is her boyfriend's mother?

And since when was I so invested in the dealings of Noah Puckerman? A little voice in the back of her head whispered, since always, Rachel, but that voice was easy to ignore. Who is this person I am becoming, letting my loins overrule my logic? Jumping to these ludicrous, preposterous conclusions about the behavior of a couple that I really know nothing about?

Just because he kissed you last night, Rachel, doesn't mean you have any claim to what goes on in Quinn and Puck's relationship, she berated herself.

She stacked dishes in the sink and ran the faucet full blast to drown out the pulsing in her ears.

It's not your place, Rachel. She thought. Quinn's with Puck. And Quinn probably knows what he needs, and Quinn wouldn't leave if Puck really needed her.

He's not mad.

He's not.

But...she couldn't just...I mean, she was only there for not even a full 24 hours.

Maybe he's mad.

But then again, he really didn't miss Q that much last night, when Rachel Berry was in his lap, but whatthefuckever.

Well, I certainly can't talk to him now about our...our tryst, she thought. Quinn left about a half hour ago, and she's been cleaning (ok, fine, hiding) in the kitchen since then. There were a handful of people left, no one she was familiar with.

But she didn't want to leave. Yet.

He's grieving, Rachel. She thought. Give him space. Be there, but not there.

So she starts washing the endless stack of glasses and mugs with a detail oriented fury and dedication worthy of a gold medal in dishwashing Olympics. Space, Rachel. Give him space.

Ok. When she finishes cleaning this glass, she will go into the living room and -

"What. The. ACTUAL. FUCK?"

His fucking father is NOT here. That rat bastard is NOT STANDING IN HIS LIVING ROOM RIGHT NOW.

He sees red and flashes of white and his eyes are throbbing and HELL MOTHERFUCKING NO.