The sound her lover makes when Santana's fingers slide inside is so achingly familiar that she forgets to breathe.
The miniscule moan fading into a gasp. It's just the same. Exactly what she remembers, what she's let herself imagine in the dark of her bedroom.
And the way her back arches...jesus. It's almost the same as the way she arches when she wakes up and stretches: that same slow, languid, impossible angle her body forms.
Santana watches hungrily as Brittany's back straightens, slowly, and bright eyes open to meet her own. Brittany mouth parts just as Santana begins pumping her fingers in earnest, and whatever she was about to say is transformed into a whimper as her eyes flutter shut again.
Santana's eyes shift downward, to the splayed thighs and her own hand slipping in and out firmly and rhythmically. Brittany looks just the same there, the slightly asymmetrical inner lips, the freckle on the left outer lip, the clit firm, proud, glistening. Brittany even trims the same way she used to.
She runs her other hand slowly up Brittany's abs. The flesh is softer, but no less smooth and inviting, and her hand alternately cups each breast. They seem bigger than she remembers (though, the left one is still slightly larger), but the nipples are the same. Peach colored and painfully hard.
Brittany opens her eyes again and reaches out to grab Santana's head, and it's a hard and messy and desperate kiss. Unfamiliar, but no less welcome, because Santana feels so much of the same desperation in her belly. A kind of anxiety that has her wondering if this can even be real.
But when Brittany pulls away, Santana sees that smirk. She knows that smirk. And Brittany's voice, husky with need, murmurs, "Another finger."
Santana swallows, and slows the pace of her hand to comply. As she slides the fingers back in, Brittany makes that sound again, and Santana's stomach leaps.
She shifts, then, kissing her way down Brittany's body while her fingers curl inside. Brittany watches her, biting her lip.
As Santana's settles her face between Brittany's thighs, it feels, in a very strange way, like she's home. The flesh is so familiar, the scent exactly as intoxicating as she remembers, and when she flattens her tongue in a broad lick, the way Brittany arches and keens this time makes her own clit throb.
It's so right. She settles into the position, and her tongue swirls, her fingers pound. Brittany's breath comes so quickly now, in excited gasps and breathy exhaled moans, punctuated with little "yes"es and "fuck"s and little whimpers that sound like Santana's name.
The way Brittany tightens around her fingers so that Santana almost can't move them isn't new. The way she can feel the thighs next to her head tremble is just right. The way Brittany's back arches again and she bucks and cries out almost brings tears to Santana's eyes (though, part of that may be because the bucking of Brittany's hips may have banged her lip against her teeth).
And several minutes later, coming while grinding herself against Brittany's still-pretty spectacular abs, the way those eyes watch her...that makes her feel hotter than she has in a long time.
They breathe together against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. It's been more than ten years since they've cuddled like this, but they fall into each other so naturally, Santana's half draped over Brittany, her head on her shoulder.
"You know," Brittany says softly, "I've been in love a lot of times, but I've always loved you the most."
Santana's heart throbs. "Me, too," she whispers. She's had many girlfriends, and many more lovers, since she and Brittany broke up as teenagers. She thought one day she'd forget about her high school best friend turned lover. She never did.
"I'm glad we found our way back to each other. I knew we would," Brittany says.
Santana smiles. She doesn't regret any moment of the years the spent apart. They've learned a lot. They've grown up.
And this moment together, curled up in bed, her head on Brittany's shoulder?
This is what really feels like home.
