I'm really sorry, San. Britt's voice is small and pathetic, and you almost feel sorry for her. I didn't mean to say it. It just came out.
Whatever. I'm just trying to figure out what we're going to do about it.
No one said anything. We can pretend it didn't happen, like it's no big deal.
It could work, you guess, after today's fresh win at Sectionals—so fresh that you both still have your competition dresses on. The adrenaline is still coursing through you.
You think back to yesterday, when everything unraveled so quickly. Puck. Finn. Quinn. Rachel. And the party line call that had come just before the big showdown, the one in which Brittany had let slip to everyone that the two of you were sleeping together. Her revelation could get lost in the confusion. But it might not. The long pause of the whole party line following her slip-up gives you your doubts.
Thanks to that, you're breaking one of your rules: talking about it.
Well, it isn't a big deal, right? I mean, I sleep with guys. You sleep with guys. You've made out with other girls. This isn't any different from any of that.
It's not? The reproach in her voice is soft, but you hear it.
We're not lesbians. You spit the word out like a piece of bad fruit. We're not gay like Kurt. We're popular, remember?
Sure, but—
You stop her mouth with a kiss. Hard. Brutal. You're angry at her for making you think like this. For making you break your rules. For so carelessly airing your deepest secret as though it were nothing.
Nothing's changed, you whisper. To her? To yourself? Nothing has to change.
You push her back against the bed and bite the places you normally kiss. Almost as hard as if she were a boy instead. She whimpers and shrinks from the way you bite her armpits and wrists, which you pin back on the pillow. You want to settle this now. Even though you just did it two weeks ago and are breaking another rule by doing it again so soon.
Don't be angry, San, she whispers.
I'm not angry, you lie.
You stare at her hands where you've pinned them down and follow the line of her arm. You wriggle your hand beneath her panties—your other hand still pinning her arms behind her head—and suck her earring between your teeth before breaking your last rule: you whisper, eyes closed, into her soapy-smelling hair.
Beg me to fuck you.
Please, I need you, San.
Beg me to fuck you. In those words.
She hesitates. You hear her biting her lip—not the way she does when she's about to come, but the way she does when she's afraid of something.
It's just a game, Britt.
At last, she relents, letting her body conquer her doubts.
Please, Santana, she whispers. Fuck me.
When boys obey, hearing those words make you feel powerful. When Britt obeys, you feel weak: an ache spreads through your chest and between your legs. Using your body to part her thighs, you worm two fingers inside her, force your hips against your hand, and fuck her like a boy.
Britt's eyes flutter closed. She relaxes into the rhythm. Your hand is drenched and hot, and your wrist is getting sore from the angle. The anger is melting into regret. Britt isn't one of those boys. You want to stop, but you can't weaken, not now. Brittany can—she stills your hand for a moment with her own.
Can I take off my underwear? she pleads. And yours?
You shake your head and do it yourself; she compliantly lifts her hips and keeps her wrists behind her head as you peel off her panties and toss them to the side. After shedding your own, you settle back between her legs with your dresses hiked up to your waist, plunge back into her with three fingers, and lock your hips to hers. It's better without cloth in the way. Your own hand provides friction and you feel almost as if you were really a boy; you wonder if it feels like this for the boys who have slept with Brittany. You steal glances at Britt's face while her eyes are closed: her expressions ripple one after another, changing too quickly between pleasure and pain, and you fight the urge to ask if she's all right. She'd stop you if she wasn't, right?
She shivers; she's getting close. You let her arms chain your body tightly to hers, and force your fingers against the place inside that makes her shake harder.
Yes, San, yes, yes, she whispers, until she bites her lip so hard you're afraid it might bleed, and just before she comes she digs her fingers in your hair as if to make sure you haven't left her. You close your eyes, just in case she opens hers, and force your mind from sentiment to sensation, to the border between her body and your body, thin but immutable.