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There weren't any words.

No protestations, no questions, no attempts at rationalization.

Not anymore.

Oh, there had been in the beginning, of course. Questions, comments, concerns... But the end result had been the same.

The best sex that, in her admittedly limited experience, Paris Gellar had ever had. And, if anything, it had only gotten better over time.

She wasn't entirely sure how it had started, anymore. Or not exactly when, at any rate. Technically, she supposed it had begun with a rather offhand remark to Lorelai Gilmore about how she should take off her shirt for... some reason. She couldn't remember why anymore. Lorelai hadn't seemed to think much of it, at the time.

Or perhaps it had all started the first day she'd laid eyes on Rory.

This was twisted, she knew, as she almost frantically unbuttoned the elder Gilmore's shirt and threw it aside. Twisted and wrong.

And she didn't care anymore.

It was so easy to see Rory in her mother's eyes, to pretend that it was Rory tugging off the skirt of her Chilton uniform with an incredibly hungry look on her face.

But it wasn't. It couldn't be. She was busy with Dean, or Jess, or... Dean. Paris didn't know even anymore. It didn't matter, either. Rory didn't want her. Not like that, anyway.

Lorelai did.

So she had to pretend it was Rory's lips she was so passionately kissing, Rory's long legs she admired as she stepped out of her tan pants. She had always loved Rory's legs. And the eyes...

It had been her eyes that had first made Paris's heart melt. So incredibly, impossibly blue, wide and innocent and pure...

Lorelai's eyes weren't innocent.

And that was okay. In fact, it was good. An innocent woman wouldn't have been able to do the things with her fingers and tongue that Lorelai did, until Paris had to choke back a scream of sheer ecstacy as an orgasm flooded through her body.

She likes to pretend.

In her mind, it's Rory's nipples that she licks and sucks at, then surprises with a gentle bite that earns her a moan. It's Rory's cunt that she slides two fingers into - and when she does speak, she makes sure to use that word when she whispers into what she imagines is Rory's ear, her mind supplying the delightful blush that would come to Rory's delicate complexion; Lorelai seems to enjoy being called a dirty slut or a whore by her, but neither of them are speaking this time - and Rory's clit she licks at while using every skill she learned that one slumber party when she, Madeline, and Louise got into her dad's liqueur cabinet. She hadn't thought about Rory once, not even when she was eating out Madeline, Louise's head between her own legs.

But she is now, as Lorelai bucks and writhes in pleasure. It's so easy to mentally super-impose Rory's face as the climax hits her. Sometimes she makes an effort not to, though. Sometimes she focuses on Lorelai's sated face as she gazes up at her with an emotion in her eyes that Paris doesn't even want to try and identify. That fades quickly enough. She does enjoy having sex with Lorelai, after all. A lot. So the least she can do, she sometimes feels, is acknowledge just whose bed she's sharing.

This isn't one of those times.

They lie together for a moment. Soon enough, Paris will have to get up and start collecting her clothing. She does have homework to get done, after all. But she doesn't want to move yet, doesn't want to spoil the illusion of cuddling with Rory. She thinks that Lorelai must know by now who Paris pretends she is, but never seems to mind.

Sometimes she wonders just who Lorelai pretends she is.

But she doesn't ask.

Because there aren't any words.

END