A/N: A little late. This is, quite literally, all fluff and porn. I apologize in advance.

Their Sundays are Santana's favorite.

She's the first to wake up, blinking against the dawn light filtering in through their large windows. It's blissfully silent inside the bedroom, other than for the sound of her companion breathing quietly next to her.

Santana lays there, on her stomach, and just listens because she isn't yet conscious enough to do much else.

When she is, a few minutes and some stretching later, she rolls over to look at her companion.

Quinn is curled up on her side on the opposite end of the bed, facing the wall. The gray sheets have slipped down to her waist and exposed her bare back and side. Even now, years later, the sight of her smooth skin and muscle fills Santana's stomach with a persistent warmth. The reaction may have once terrified her, but Santana lost the commitment-phobia somewhere between Lima and Berkeley.

She crawls across the gap between them. Most nights, they drift closer together in their sleep, but on some nights, like last night, they move apart. It doesn't bother Santana-she isn't exactly a cuddler-and also, it means she can occasionally surprise Quinn.

She spoons up behind her girlfriend and presses her lips against her shoulder.

"Q," she whispers.

Not surprisingly, Quinn doesn't move an inch.

Santana curls an arm around Quinn's waist and presses herself closer, bare breasts and torso pressing flush against Quinn's warm back, her hand splaying across Quinn's stomach.

"Mmm," Quinn hums in her sleep, shifting back slightly.

Santana smirks against her shoulder.

"Wake up."

"No," Quinn mumbles petulantly.

Santana doesn't mind doing a spot or two of convincing. She lets the hand that's resting on Quinn's stomach wander down between her thighs.

"Can I...?" she asks, voice low, sliding her fingers lightly over Quinn's inner thigh.

Quinn doesn't say anything-Santana suspects she's still mostly asleep-but she exhales softly and nods, parting her thighs. It's as much of an invitation as Santana is likely to get this early in the morning.

She kisses the soft skin beneath Quinn's ear and slowly slides a finger between her folds.

"Fuck," Santana whispers in her ear. Quinn is slick and impossibly warm underneath her touch. "I love touching you like this. You feel perfect."

Quinn's breath catches in her throat-a small, unintentionally sexy sound-and her fingers come up to close around Santana's forearm. Her grip feels light, and Santana knows it's more about contact than control.

She sinks her fingertip lower, careful to be gentle, to avoid jarring Quinn when she's still sensitive, and rubs over her entrance. She gathers the wetness that's growing there, then drags it up to Quinn's clit, avoiding direct contact just yet.

"Oh," Quinn gasps and her grip tightens as Santana begins to circle her clit.

She spends some time lazily, teasingly doing just that-building Quinn up, feeling her breathing begin to quicken. Everything-the little sounds she's making, the combined sensations of her wet, hot flesh against Santana's fingers and her soft skin all up against Santana's body-is downright dizzying. Santana nuzzles Quinn's neck and lets herself sink into the familiar, sensual feeling.

"You're making me so wet, babe," she murmurs breathily. She adds another finger to the one circling Quinn's clit, and then slicks them both right over its swelling length.

Quinn whimpers, her hips pressing forward, and almost instantly, Santana feels a new rush of wetness against her fingers as Quinn gets closer.

"Right there," Quinn gasps, voice still rough from sleep. And really fucking hot.

Santana moans and obliges, because she very well may be physically incapable of refusing her girlfriend right now. Her slippery fingertips move easily, and she rubs right where she knows Quinn needs it. And then, not too many strokes later, fingernails are digging into her arm and Quinn is stiffening, groaning low in her throat.

"Fuck..." she shudders, clit throbbing against Santana's touch as she comes. "Santana...fuck."

Heat washes over Santana.

"Jesus, Quinn," she says. "I'll fuck you all day if you keep asking."

Her own wetness is beginning to soak her inner thighs and her breathing is growing quicker. She works her fingers over Quinn's clit as Quinn comes down, ready to bring her to the edge again, knowing that she easily could and wanting to. If Santana had to pick her favorite activity on earth, it would be making Quinn come. Over and over.

But, before she can proceed with her plan, Quinn pulls her hand away and rolls on top of her.

"Me first," Quinn says, pinning Santana's wrists against the bed. Her short hair falls around her face, framing the lovely, deep flush she's sporting.

Santana blinks in surprise. Then, she bites back a grin.

"Awake now, I see."

"I have this relentless alarm clock," Quinn says and kisses her.

Quinn returns the favor, then, trailing her fingers down between Santana's thighs and pressing two inside her. She fucks her, slow and deep, thumb occasionally rubbing over her clit, lips pressing kisses to her mouth and jaw and neck, murmuring hotly. She fucks her until Santana is writhing against the sheets, sweat collecting at her lower back and wetness dripping from her and down the back of Quinn's hand, until she's begging for more and faster when she can manage to speak around her gasps. It's better than perfect-better than anything, maybe-and when she comes, hard and devastating, it's with Quinn's name on her lips.

They pass out after that, tangled up in each other, Quinn's leg hooked over Santana's and their fingers lightly intertwined.

The second time Santana wakes up, however, it's to an empty bed.

She takes the opportunity to stretch herself all over it, reveling in the pleasant ache at her wrists and in between her legs.

Quinn must have cracked one of the windows, because there's a cool breeze coming into the room. Santana likes it, the fresh morning air clarifying, but its chill makes little bumps spring across the surface of her exposed stomach, and she finds herself groping for the t-shirt she lost sometime in the night. When she can't find it, she groans and hauls herself up, padding toward their en suite.

She takes her time in the shower, head tipped back to let the warm water flow through her hair and down her back, and then she heads downstairs and across the expansive living room to the kitchen.

There's a plate of crumbs sitting on the island countertop, evidence that Quinn has been in here.

Santana puts the plate in the dishwasher and then turns to their fancy new espresso machine. It's already been turned on. She thinks. She reaches for a cup, puts it in there, and presses a switch. Completely unsurprisingly, nothing happens.

"Bastard," she grumbles.

Maybe she needs to swallow her pride and finally let Quinn show her how to work the pretentious thing. For now, though, she prepares two cups of good old regular coffee the old-fashioned way, instead.

She grabs a muffin from the container near the oven and heads over to the study, coffees in hand.

"There's my shirt," she says upon entering. Quinn is sitting at the desk, her laptop and some papers spread out in front of her, in nothing but a pair of underwear and Santana's missing t-shirt.

She glances up.

"Hey," she says around the pen she's chewing on, then she looks back at her work.

"Hi," Santana says, coming up to her. She sets both coffees and the muffin down on the desk next to an empty mug and then slides her fingers over Quinn's shoulders. "Proofing?" she asks.

Among her many (excessive, Santana thinks) responsibilities, Quinn is on the editorial board for a philosophy quarterly.

Quinn nods. "Kill me."

"I'd rather not," Santana responds, kissing the shell of her ear. "I'd rather make you a nice dinner tonight."

Quinn taps some words out onto the keyboard.

"Mmm, really? Will it be better than your coffee?"

"My coffee is perfectly fine," Santana protests.

Quinn turns her head toward Santana and smirks.

"It is," she says, meeting her lips for a lingering kiss. "But, I don't know; it doesn't taste like 1,700 dollars..."

Santana kisses her again, but it's with a disgruntled groan.

"Fine. You can teach me how to use that stinking thing later," she says when they break apart, in reference to the overpriced espresso machine. "For now, tolerate my provincial cup of joe."

"I'm sure it's fantastic, babe," Quinn says, kissing her jaw, "but finally."

Santana shrugs, and she can't help but slide her fingers up Quinn's thigh, because it's impossibly tempting, all smooth and bare and right in front of her like that.

"I might as well start making up for that chunk of cash I put into it."

"Yes," Quinn sighs. Santana doesn't know whether it's a response to what she said, or to what she's doing with her fingers, which now, are trailing from Quinn's inner thigh to her core. She presses them lightly against the soft cotton of Quinn's underwear. Before she can do much else, though, Quinn's fingers have closed around her wrist.

"I would love to. Believe me," she says despairingly. "But my deadline's tomorrow morning."

Santana frowns.

"Give me those bastards' addresses. Auntie Snix will pay them a nice visit for setting a Monday deadline."

Quinn snorts.

"I'm dead serious," Santana says, pulling away reluctantly.

"Oh, I know," Quinn responds. "You've certainly shown me how Snix can put the smack down. Very literally."

"Water under the bridge?"

"We'll see," Quinn says.

Santana gathers up her breakfast. "You can't lord that over me forever, you know. We were in high school."

Quinn's gaze shifts back to the computer screen.

"I can try," she says, but it isn't very threatening, her attention already back on the work she needs to get done.

Santana tucks an errant strand of hair behind Quinn's ear.

"Don't work too hard," she tells her, most likely futilely, and slips out of the study.

She spends the rest of the morning doing trivial things around the house-sorting through their mail and getting the laundry started, refraining from going to tease Quinn again-and then she curls up on the couch with a completely indulgent, non-work related book.

It isn't something she can do often, with her job at the lab as work intensive as it is, and so she lets herself relax into the cushions, taking in the words on the page with attentive appreciation.

Santana doesn't know how much time passes, but somewhere around the end of chapter 15, she half-notices Quinn wander in and plop herself down on the couch.

Quinn doesn't say anything, but she turns the TV on to an old episode of Top Gear and settles in.

Either she's done with her work, or she grew too frustrated to continue.

Santana finishes reading the last few paragraphs on the page, then peers over the top of her book. Quinn's hair is slightly wet and she has a fresh set of clothes on, meaning somehow, Santana completely missed her coming out of the study and going upstairs.

"Are you here with good news?" she asks.

"No," Quinn scowls, eyes never leaving the TV screen.

Frustrated, then.

Santana silently turns back to her reading, giving Quinn her space. They're both volatile women, and so, in a strange sort of way, their relationship works; they have a mutual understanding of when and how hard to push each other's buttons, and when not to. And when that understanding occasionally falls out of alignment, well, the make-up sex is pretty damn good.

The TV stays on for maybe five minutes. Then Quinn is reaching for the remote and turning it off.

"I hate that fucking show," she says irritatedly.

Santana tries and fails to stifle a laugh.

Quinn turns toward her.

"Is my pain amusing to you?"

Santana lowers her book, long-sufferingly, and looks Quinn in the eye.

"Yes, Fabray."

"What a healthy relationship we have," Quinn says, crawling closer and pushing Santana's legs apart. Santana thinks so, but she's too distracted by the hand running down her inner thigh and the fingers hooking into the waistband of her shorts to say anything.

"Can I?" Quinn asks, mimicking Santana's words from earlier.

Santana wonders if it's deliberate or just a coincidence. What she says is,

"You know you don't need to ask for permission," and then, as Quinn begins to tug her shorts off: "You didn't have to pretend you were here to watch TV if you really just wanted to fuck me, you know."

Quinn smiles.

"There were no pretenses. I honestly thought it would be relaxing. And then I honestly realized how stupid I was, when I could be going down on you instead," she responds. "Lose the tank top."

Santana's blood promptly and predictably rushes south.

"Fuck," she says, tossing the book and doing as she's told. Just to hang on to a little pride, though, she adds, "Using my body for your own selfish purposes, I see."

Quinn slides Santana's underwear off, but she makes sure to throw in an eye-roll while she's at it.

"It is better than that other one I used the other night," she says, running a warm palm up Santana's flat stomach.

"Hey," Santana warns, slightly breathless from Quinn's touch as it moves closer to her hardening nipples. She doesn't much like to tease when it involves the thought of Quinn being with anyone but her. Snix is green as hell. "Just mine."

"Yours," Quinn confirms, face beginning to flush. She cups her fingers around one of Santana's breasts, then leans closer and closes her lips around the nipple of the other.

Santana can't help the whimper that escapes her lips. Quinn's mouth is hot as it slides over her tight, sensitive skin, sucking with the perfect amount of pressure. Along with the firm touch of her fingers, it all feels startlingly good. Santana parts her legs wider, feeling an insistent need to spread herself.

"Quinn," she murmurs, sinking her fingers into her girlfriend's hair, pressing her hips up and hoping Quinn gets the hint.

Rather than move lower, or touch her anywhere below the waist, though, Quinn trails kisses across Santana's chest toward her other breast.

"Yeah, babe," she says.

Santana honestly can't tell whether Quinn is playing dumb to tease her or whether she-

Nope, she thinks as she feels Quinn's lips curve into a smile against her nipple, right before she unhurriedly sucks it into her mouth-it's the former.

They both moan as Santana's nipple hardens instantly, Santana a little more urgently. Her hips press up again, in search of pressure or friction, and this time, they bump into Quinn's stomach where her shirt has ridden up. She quickly capitalizes on the opportunity to grind herself against Quinn's soft skin.

Quinn growls.

"Holy fuck, Santana."

Santana tugs lightly on her hair and grinds up again, making Quinn's stomach wet.

"I'm ready," she says breathlessly.

Quinn moans in response and presses a kiss to her nipple.

"Okay," she says, pulling away.

Santana watches, eyes half-lidded, as Quinn crawls lower on the couch and settles in between her legs, watches as her gaze instantly darkens when it drops to her core.

"You look perfect," Quinn whispers. "I can't wait to be inside you."

It's alarming how quickly Santana's body reacts to Quinn's voice and her proximity. Her clit, already swollen from want, pulses almost uncomfortably, and she feels herself getting wetter. Quinn whimpers, confirming that she can see perfectly everything she's doing to Santana.

One of her hands curls around Santana's thigh, holding her in place. Santana is half sitting up against the arm of the couch and so she can see everything: the way she herself is ready and glistening, and the way Quinn is looking at her, like it's the first time all over again. She feels an ache deep inside her, more within her chest than anywhere else. She tucks a strand of hair behind Quinn's ear and cups her cheek. It feels hot underneath her palm.

"Please," Santana says.

Quinn doesn't need to be told twice. She spreads Santana's folds with the fingers of her free hand and leans in, sliding her tongue up from Santana's soaked entrance.

Santana tries to suppress a whine as Quinn's warm, soft lips wrap around her clit. She's only half successful.

"Yes," she sighs, fingers sinking into Quinn's silky hair again. A steady, comfortable heat begins to wash over her, making her heart pound heavily as Quinn sucks, slow and firm, her tongue occasionally rubbing wetly against the tip of Santana's clit. And then, just as Santana feels like she might be getting closer to some precipice, Quinn slides her mouth off her clit, lower, and presses her tongue inside her. They both moan.

"Holy fuck," Santana whimpers, her hips pressing up instinctively at the way Quinn's tongue fills her up.

Quinn stays there, nestled in between Santana's legs, one hand still holding her in place while the other slides over the skin of her thigh, her stomach, her side-anywhere she can reach, for longer than Santana can keep track of. All she's aware of is the perfect wet heat of Quinn's mouth and how her pleasure is building and building, how her core clenches steadily around Quinn's tongue, leaking wetness that coats Quinn's lips as she thrusts into her again and again. Despite the fact that she can sense her urgency growing, Santana doesn't yet ask for harder or faster. She finds a certain pleasure in the aching sensation, and she's downright obsessed with the way Quinn is moaning and whimpering against her. Doesn't want it to stop.

She's surprised, then, when her orgasm hits her right then, with barely any warning.

"Oh fuck," she moans, head falling back and her hips pressing up against Quinn. "Fuck fuck fuck..."

The pleasure hits her hard and fast, and it feels like there's no end to it, because Quinn's mouth doesn't stop. In fact, she only grows more insistent. She presses her tongue inside Santana through her orgasm, moaning more loudly and digging her fingers into her thigh, an indicator of just how much she, too, is enjoying this.

"Yes," Santana gasps, tugging at the short hairs at the nape of Quinn's neck. "That feels ...fuck."

"You taste so good," Quinn murmurs against her, and it makes her shudder all over again.

Quinn spends the next few minutes licking her up, slowly sliding her tongue over Santana's clit and entrance, careful to be gentle over her sensitive flesh as she comes down. When Santana finally feels like she might remember her own name again, her heart rate beginning to come back to normal, Quinn presses one last lingering kiss to her inner thigh and glances up to meet her gaze.

"Thank you," she grins, her lips and chin gleaming. "I definitely feel relaxed now."

Santana refrains from growling. She wriggles out from underneath Quinn and presses her into the opposite end of the couch, crawling into her lap.

"You'll feel a lot more relaxed once I'm done with you."

They spend far longer on the couch than the typical person may consider wise, but Santana doesn't consider either of them typical and also, it's Sunday. When Quinn finally collapses on top of her, nose nuzzling into her jaw, the sun is far lower in the sky.

Quinn groans. "How the hell is it four already? And why did I think it'd be a good idea to shower early?"

Santana's fingertips trail down the clammy skin of Quinn's back and over her ass, nudging between her legs to slide through the wetness that's collected there. It's not so much about getting her off now as it is about feeling her. Well, them.

"Easy solution to that, Q: hot tub," she says.

"No. Absolutely not," Quinn replies, sighing. "I need to go get my work done."

She makes no attempt to move.

"So go," Santana says.

"In a minute."

The corners of Santana's lips quirk.

They do, eventually, make it off the couch, Quinn in the direction of the study and Santana to finish the laundry and get started on the sauce for dinner. She doesn't take her own hot tub suggestion, feeling guilty that Quinn won't be able to join her. When she realizes how ridiculous and uncharacteristically considerate this line of thinking is, Santana wonders where her spine went. Then, she shoves all of Quinn's underwear, intentionally unfolded, into the dresser. It's bound to piss her off. That should balance it out.

At around six, Santana realizes she forgot to buy cream for the dessert.

"Damn it," she swears as she stares into the fridge.

She slams the door and goes upstairs to pull on a pair of sweatpants and grab her keys, and then she goes to find Quinn.

"Hey," she says, entering the study. She's surprised to find that Quinn isn't at her desk, but is, instead, lying sprawled across the plush rug on the floor, laptop in front of her and head buried in her arms.

"Quinn, what the hell?"

Quinn blinks up at her with sleepy eyes.

"Please tell me you haven't been napping this whole time," Santana says, folding her arms across her chest. "I swear, if you keep me up all night because you're whining about not having finished your work, I will-"

"Santana," Quinn interrupts exasperatedly. "I just sent everything in."

"Oh."

Quinn rolls her eyes in that long-suffering way of hers. She sits up and clicks her laptop shut.

Santana grins. "Well, in that case, want to accompany me to Whole Foods?"

Quinn, predictably, agrees-she loves going to the store, if only to buy more bread and cheese than they ever know what to do with, and also, they won't get to spend much time together once the work week starts-but it isn't without her share of complaining.

"Jesus, Santana," she grumbles as they climb out of the car. "When will you realize that nobody's chasing you? And actually start looking before you merge us into an SUV?"

"My car, my rules," Santana shrugs. She actually doesn't think she's that terrible of a driver. It's just that Quinn is around eighty-five in driving years.

"And my life that's in mortal peril," Quinn says. She reaches for one of the baskets that are stacked near the entrance.

"Admit it," Santana smiles, grabbing the basket before Quinn can. "I make your life way more interesting."

"I admit nothing," says her stubborn girlfriend.

It's busy inside the store, people stocking up for the upcoming week, milling around in the aisles to try to decide between flavorless cereal A and flavorless cereal B. Quinn and Santana don't linger much and they mainly stick to the perimeter of the store the way they usually do. Quinn walks slightly ahead, occasionally turning her head back to say something. She has a form fitting long-sleeved shirt and jeans on and Santana can't help but enjoy the view, loving the way the soft fabric clings to Quinn's curves.

By the time they get to the dairy aisle, their earlier sort-of-squabble is forgotten. They're instead debating the merits of two-tiered shopping carts.

Santana reaches for the cream, her arm grazing Quinn's side.

"You haven't told me what you're making for dessert yet," Quinn says, changing the subject.

"That's because I plan to make you guess. While you're naked and blindfolded underneath me," Santana replies casually.

Quinn turns the prettiest shade of pink.

"That sounds. Um," she manages to say.

Santana beams. When she turns around, a couple with a young kid is staring at them, all scandalized-like.

Santana's smile widens unapologetically.

Quinn disappears upstairs when they get back home, claiming that she's finally going to vacuum the first floor the way she was supposed to last weekend. Before they got sidetracked by a friend of Santana's dropping in unexpectedly, and, well, everything else they often get sidetracked by.

Santana smirks, going into the kitchen to put away the groceries and get dinner started. A little while later, just as she's finishing up, the loud humming from the vacuum stops abruptly and Quinn wanders into the kitchen.

"It's raining," she announces. She goes over to the fridge.

"One of the benefits of living in a house made of windows is that I can tell when it's raining," replies Santana as she carefully flips the filets she has on the skillet.

Quinn rolls her eyes, starting to pull things out of the fridge for the salad.

"I was looking forward to eating dinner out there."

Santana moves over to the sauce, giving it a stir and watching Quinn move around the kitchen. "Good thing we spent a gazillion dollars on that dining table," she says, though she feels the same way. "Makes eating indoors a little more tolerable."

"We should build a roof over the deck," Quinn says.

What she probably means to say is, 'you should build a roof over the deck.' Over the years, Santana has realized that Quinn is plenty willing to come up with "brilliant" do-it-yourself projects. Executing them, on the other hand...

"That's a terrible idea," says Santana.

"I don't know; it's almost summer. You out building stuff in the heat sounds like a good idea."

Santana doesn't try to hide her amused smile as she plates the filets and sides.

"Or I could be inside, instead, making use of all that free time in bed. With you."

Quinn stops chopping for a second, glancing up.

"Fine," she says. "You win."

"Duh," Santana grins.

She takes the dishes over to the dining table and then goes back into the kitchen to grab the wine. Quinn is still at the island working on the salad, so Santana pours them both a glass and walks over to her, pressing against her back.

She kisses the shell of her ear as she slides a glass into her hand.

"To more quiet Sundays with you," she murmurs.

Quinn hums softly, clinking their glasses together.

They both take a sip of the wine, and then Quinn turns her head to meet Santana's lips. Santana sighs into the kiss, her free arm slipping around Quinn's waist and tugging her back against her body, loving the feel of her soft warmth all against her. She sucks gently on Quinn's full bottom lip, then deepens the kiss, tasting the richness of the red wine on both of their tongues and underneath it, that familiar, intoxicating taste that's purely Quinn.

She doesn't think she'll ever be able to get enough, but when Quinn begins to rub back against her, Santana forces herself to pull away. She knows from plenty of experience that there's a point of no return and that they're about to cross it.

"Come on," she says, reluctant. Quinn's parted, wet lips make her want to grab her again. Take her right there on the countertop. "Finish that up and come have dinner."

Quinn pouts adorably, but she says, "Okay. I'll be there in a second."

Santana tries to quell the warmth that presses through her insistently as she goes back into the dining area and turns the radio on. She finds the jazz standards station and sets the volume low enough that it's only just above audible.

A few minutes later, Quinn is sliding the bowl of salad onto the table and they're settling into their seats to dig into their meal.

"Holy shit," Quinn moans appreciatively, mouth still mostly full. She chews slowly and swallows, then says, "I still have no idea where you learned to cook like that."

"Lima Heights Adjacent," Santana responds with a shrug and Quinn laughs. "Not that I wan't out terrorizing people on the streets or anything, but when I wasn't doing that, I was cooking for my ten cousins."

They spend the rest of the meal discussing Santana's Lima misadventures.

Quinn stands in front of the big French doors in the kitchen, after they're done eating.

"It stopped," she beams, referring to the rain.

They drag the reclining lounge chairs out onto the deck and bring their wine glasses with them. Santana crawls into the chair on the right, the side that she claimed when they moved in over a year ago-better air circulation, she'd said in response to Quinn's baffled expression-and stares out at the view of the Bay, breathing in the early summer rain that still lingers in the air. The lights of the houses over the hills twinkle in the distance, creating an earthly constellation over the otherwise dark landscape.

They sit in silence for a while, Santana taking in the night and Quinn tapping away at her tablet.

"E-mail from the associate dean," she explains distractedly when Santana glances over at her.

The second time Santana looks over, though, just a few minutes later, there's a mess of moving colors on Quinn's screen.

"Angry Birds?" she asks, amused.

"I hate this fucking bird. This is the worst bird."

Santana snorts at her girlfriend's less than mysterious anger management issues and rests her head back against the chair.

"That game gives you too much anxiety," she says.

As if to prove her point, Quinn slams the tablet down, cursing.

"It wouldn't if the asshole actually did what he was supposed to."

"You should come here," Santana urges.

Quinn tilts her head, a few blonde strands falling into her eyes.

"Yeah?"

Santana hums in affirmation and is glad to see that, without any further ado, Quinn slides off her seat and crosses the distance between them, swinging a leg over Santana's thighs and settling into her lap.

"Hey," she smiles. She slides one hand over Santana's shoulder and the other cups her cheek. She leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips. "You feel nice," she whispers against her lips.

Santana curls her fingers around Quinn's hips.

"You do, too," she says. "Have I mentioned that...that my favorite thing to do-in the universe-is touch you?" she asks. She trips a little on the words. They don't typically express themselves this way. "To speak to you? And have you in my arms? Feel you come against me and get wet for you?" She thinks that she could go on forever.

Quinn's eyes grow dark, almost matching the night sky behind her.

Santana slides her hands underneath Quinn's shirt and up her back, reveling in the warmth radiating from her skin.

"I'm so disgustingly in love with you," she murmurs. Stupidly. Irreparably. She realizes.

Quinn gasps softly, clearly taken aback. It's not often that they say those words. In fact, it's probably been months.

"Santana," she whispers in reverence, crawling closer, pressing their bodies together harder. "Fuck. So am I. So much."

She leans in to kiss her again, but Santana stops her.

"Wait," she says, glancing away. "Can I just... I want to..." she tries.

"Yeah?" Quinn asks, both hands now cupping Santana's face, warm and reassuring.

Santana pauses for a second, to collect herself, and then she meets Quinn's gaze again and asks:

"Can it just be like this, the way it is between us, forever?"

Her implication is as clear as it'll ever get, and the way Quinn's expression changes, how it softens and how her lips part-her quiet inhalation, all indicate just how well she realizes that.

Quinn was always a perceptive one.

"Yes," she responds. Her voice is even. Certain. "Yes, of course."

Santana exhales, not even aware that she'd been holding her breath, and crashes their lips together, unable to respond in any other way. She kisses Quinn hard and deep, wrapping her arms around her, wanting to feel her everywhere, and Quinn responds just as urgently. Her fingers sink into Santana's hair and she moans into her mouth, grinding their hips together, hot through her jeans.

A few minutes into their kiss, Santana feels a droplet of water on her arm.

Quinn drags her lips away and looks up at the sky just as a few more droplets of rain fall.

"Oh," she says, sounding half startled and half delighted.

A rumble of thunder sounds from not very far away.

"Uh oh."

"Come on," says Santana with a small smile, lightly tugging the back of Quinn's shirt. "We still have dessert to get to."