A/N: Yea, so I was working on a one-shot, when this came to me and would not leave me alone until I had written it down. It's inspired by that delicious "Take Me" promo. There are no real spoilers in it, except that it mentions a party for someone's grandfather. Maybe if GG was on HBO, we could get something like this. Let's start a petition! Heh.
Oh yea, it's kinda sorta dirty too, so if that's not your cup of tea, I suggest you skip this one. :)
Title taken from a lyric in "Say Hello to the Angels" by Interpol.
***
For some reason, she finds herself in the back of his limo again. He says nothing, only stares at her with that unnerving, smoldering gaze of his, and despite herself, she feels her heart begin to pound, her breath begin to quicken.
Slowly, deliberately, he slides over the expanse of leather separating them until there's no room to breathe between them. She can feel the heat radiating from his body as it presses against her, and she wants to give in to it, revel in it, because it's been so fucking long since he's been this close to her, but too many things have happened between then and now, and no matter how intensely her body craves him, things between them will never be this simple.
So she opens her mouth to stop him, but the words get lost along the way, because suddenly his palm is against her cheek and the pad of his thumb is caressing the flesh of her lower lip. Her eyes snap to his face, but he's staring at her mouth, seemingly mesmerized by the way his thumb smoothes across her mouth, back and forth across her lips, excruciatingly slow and sensual. Bottom lip, top lip, then back to the bottom one.
A slow shuddering breath escapes her and she feels her blood burn several degrees too hot, hears it rushing in her ears, and she cant help herself. Truth be told, she doesn't really want to. She tilts her head slightly, causing his digit to dip into her mouth. She bites down on it and gently scrapes her teeth, from knuckle to fingernail, before swirling her tongue around it. He pulls it out slowly with a gentle popping sound and then slides it back in. When he finally looks at her, his eyes are heavy lidded and almost black with longing. She knows that look. She's dreamed about that look. Her own eyes flutter closed as he continues to probe her mouth with his very lucky thumb. It's a sweet, slow torture.
And finally, finally, his lips crash against hers and instead of his finger, it's his tongue assailing her mouth. They're desperate and needy and so fucking turned on. She sighs as his hands grip her hips tightly, and in the blink of an eye she's straddling his lap. Her thighs squeeze his and she can feel his hard length pressed between them. It only makes her want him more. His fingers find the bottom of her dress, and in one swift movement, he pulls it clean off and over her head. Scandalously, shamelessly, miraculously, she isn't wearing a scrap of underwear. Before her Roberto Cavalli dress even lands in a heap at the far end of the limo, his lovely, hot mouth finds her right breast, and all she can do to keep from combusting is thread her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck as his tongue curls around her peaked nipples.
Through her lust-filled haze she can hear his harsh panting, then the clink of a belt buckle and the glorious sound of a zipper being unzipped. His hand is on her face again, bringing her lips down to melt against his own. When he pulls back to look at her she can see the need and desire in his eyes, and something else, something she never thought she'd see. "Blair, I…" he chokes out, before trailing off.
She parts her lips to say something, anything, because she's wanted this for far too long, but suddenly he's rolling his hips, entering her in one quick, delicious thrust, and all coherent thought is gone.
Her eyes wrench open with a gasp. She's lying in her bed, staring up at the damn ceiling, her muscles spasming around the swiftly fading phantom of her dream.
Goddammit.
It was going to be one of those days again.
***
Her legs are still wobbly as she makes her way to the table in the courtyard where Serena is sitting. She's spent the entire godforsaken day cursing the moment she ever let Chuck Bass touch her. But fuck, could her touch her. No one else; not Nate, or Marcus, or Jack, or Carter, could touch her the way that Basstard could touch her.
Replays of her dream have been following her in every single class, but it hasn't stopped there. Sex flashbacks, like acid flashbacks, have also been sneaking up on her. In first period Economics it was the first time; after Victrola, in the limo. In second period Calculus it was the first time he went down on her; getting her off with his tongue as she sat on the bar of his suite, her skirt bunched up around her hips. Fourth period French it was the first time he ever took her from behind; bent over her walnut vanity, her fingernails scratching into the finish as she watched him pound into her in the mirror.
She sits at the table and squeezes her thighs together, the sensation producing a pleasurable shudder to course through her. She's absolutely certain that her panties are ruined.
"B?"
She turns to her blonde friend, and it's quite obvious by the tone of her voice and the exasperated look on her face that she's been trying to get her attention for a while.
"Hmm?" Blair asks, absolutely refusing to blush.
"Do you want me to pick you up for Nate's grandfather's party tonight?"
"Oh. Uh, sure." With all the dirty thoughts in her head, she had forgotten all about the party. Nate had personally asked her to be there. His family had always loved her.
"Good," says Serena. "I'll have the limo stop by your place, say around 7?"
"Wait, limo?" The images of her dream start bombarding her already delicate mind again. "Is Chuck going?"
"He's Nate's granddad; of course he's going—"
"I'll find my own way then," she insists.
"B," Serena sighs tiredly. "Can't you guys be civil? Must you two always end up going at it?"
Blair raises her chin. "I can be civil," she announces haughtily, lifting up her nose.
Being civil was easy. It was the 'going at it' that she wasn't so sure about.
***
She's on her third glass of champagne when he finally decides to grace the party with his presence. She's talking to Anne, her back towards the door, when the air around her seems to shift. It annoys her to no end that she has the ability to tell, without even seeing, that he's entered a room. She wonders if it will ever go away.
Her sixth sense is confirmed when Nate's grandfather cheerily yells out "Charles!" and crosses the room to greet him. She tries hard, but fails, to keep her eyes from rolling. Excusing herself from Nate's mom, she crosses the room to where Serena is talking to Vanessa. She doesn't really feel like making polite conversation with the Brooklynite, but it just so happens that Chuck is standing with Mr. Vanderbilt only a few feet away from where the pair of girls are talking. Picking up a fourth glass from a passing waiter, she makes her away across the room, taking careful, deliberate steps as she passes him, making sure her hips swing enticingly in her Herve Leger dress.
When she reaches Serena and Vanessa, she says hello, but doesn't join in the idle chatter, choosing instead to casually glance around the room disinterestedly. After a couple minutes she glances back over her shoulder and catches him staring at the point where her dress meets the back of her thighs. She stands up a little straighter, the dress riding up another inch. His eyes travel up to her face, and she can't help the way the corner of her mouth quirks up in a devilish smirk. He watches her as she takes a sip of champagne from her glass, her tongue languidly running across her bottom lip to catch any errant drops.
His eyes darken, and she's pretty sure she has him right where she wants him.
She finishes her drink in one long pull and sets it down on another waiter's tray. She smiles slyly at Serena and Vanessa before making her way out of the room and down a long empty corridor, hoping that he'll take the bait and follow her. It's been ages since she's been in this house, but she remembers there being a library in here somewhere. At the end of the hallway, she opens a large door on her left. It's not the library, it's the art collection, but it's far enough from the party that she can no longer hear the din of voices. This will do just fine.
She walks further into the room, inspecting a couple pieces of art hanging on the wall. As her fingers touch the bust of some Roman goddess, she feels that shift in the air again. "Are you just going to stand there?" she asks coyly, without turning.
When she hears the door close, she finally turns to look at him. He's standing there in his dark blue suit jacket and pink bowtie, his hands in his pockets and a cool smirk on his lips. "Waldorf," he greets amiably.
"Bass," she returns.
He saunters closer to her until he's only a foot away from her. "Some dress," he murmurs with appreciation.
"I know."
He places a warn hand on her hip and that's the only sign she needs. She turns toward him, crushing her lips to his. Their teeth clash together as her tongue invades his mouth. She moans against his lips, but he pulls away.
"Blair," he breathes, hesitant.
But she doesn't need or want his words; she just needs him to touch her. She pushes against his chest until he's up against the wall. "Do you remember the first time you saw the real me?" she asks breathlessly.
She sees the flash of recognition in his eyes as he remembers, his breathing sharp and shallow. Of all the people she's ever known, he was the first one to ever see her, truly see her, taking her clothes off and dancing on that stage. The thought heats her very soul.
She wraps her arms around his neck. "Take me now," she whispers before kissing him again. For several moments he kisses her back, long enough for her to think that he's giving in, but then he's pushing her away again.
"What's going on with you?" he pants. There's a frown between his brows and he's staring into her eyes like he's trying to read the answer to his question in them. It's incredibly frustrating,
"Nothing," she promises, short of breath. She tries to bring her lips to his again, but he turns his face away.
"Blair," he rasps again, his eyes still searching.
"Fine," she cokes out, the sick, burning feeling of humiliation beginning to creep across her skin. She pulls away, intent on getting as far away from him as possible, but she doesn't take two steps before he grips her by the wrist and roughly brings her back to him. He spins her around so that now it's her back pressed up against the wall, and he claims her lips hungrily.
Only one word enters her mind: Yes.
She makes quick work of his bowtie and has his shirt halfway unbuttoned before they even break apart. His lips work their way down to taste her throat as she helps him shed his suit jacket. It lands on the floor and two seconds later is joined by her cream-colored cardigan.
"God. Touch me," she cries. Always one to please, the fingers of his left hand skim up her thigh to cup her ass, while his right hand palms her breast through the fabric of her dress. He nips at her neck and presses himself flush against her. She feels him twitch against her stomach.
With a nimble hand he pulls the top of her dress down, along with the cups of her bra, and when his expert mouth latches on to one of her rosy peaks, her eyes roll back in her head and she thanks any and all deities that she decided to wear a strapless dress for the occasion.
Her fingers finally finish working the buttons of his shirt and she takes a moment to smooth her palms across his chest and down his stomach. Her hands are shaky as she unbuckles his belt, but it only takes a few seconds before she finally takes his rigid length in her hand. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, resting his forehead against her collarbone. She strokes him once, then twice, wanting to hear it again.
"I missed that sound," she whispers into his ears, smiling.
He looks up at her through his lashes and smirks. Then his hand works its way into her panties, his skilled fingers finding her aching nub. She grinds against his hand and a soft mewling sound escapes her lips.
"And I missed that sound," he whispers back, amused.
He pushes the dress further up her thighs before slowly pulling her panties down her legs. They fall to the floor, but she barely has a chance to take one step out of them because then he's grasping the back of her thighs and lifting her up. She wraps her legs around his waist and catches sight of her panties still dangling from her left ankle.
He looks into her eyes and doesn't close them, even as he leans in to press his lips to hers softly. And then, ever so slowly, he pushes into her. A whimper rises from the back of her throat and she feels him slide in, and when he's finally inside her, filling her, she releases a shuddering, satisfied sigh; her body happy at finally having him back where he belongs.
He presses his face into the crook of her neck. "Fuck," he curses softly.
He pulls out slowly, only to slam back in, and her knees grip him higher on his ribs, wanting to pull him in deeper. He builds up a rhythm, pulling out slow and pushing in fast, her hips meeting each and every one of his thrusts.
She knows she's not going to last long, so she increases the pace of her hips and he very astutely takes the hint. "God, I missed you," he groans against her skin.
"You feel so good," she moans as he drives into her a little faster, a little deeper. She feels her walls begin to tighten around him, knows she's slick with need and want. Her thighs begin to quiver, so she squeezes them tighter around him.
His thrusts become less measured, less calculated, and this is the part she loves the most; when she knows that he's about to lose himself just as much as she is. He slams her into the wall, arms encircling her wait, and presses himself tightly against her, her bare breasts pushed up against his hard chest. She throws an arm around his neck and clutches at his shoulder as her climax mounts. He bites into the skin of her exposed neck, and she's nothing but the pleasure and friction coursing between her legs as he drives into her over and over and over again until…
"Chuck," she gasps hoarsely, clenching around him.
His orgasm follows moments later with a shudder and she sucks in a breath at the sensation of him spilling himself inside her. His arms tighten around her as he leans them against the wall. He rests his forehead against hers and they stay that way for a long minute, with nothing but the sound of their harsh panting as it returns to normal. Finally, he pulls out of her and sets her down on shaky legs, removing the underwear hanging from her ankle.
They take a couple minutes to compose themselves. She pulls the top of her dress back up, while he buckles his pants. He takes his jacket from the floor and hands her her cardigan.
"Blair," he begins, but she's not sure she wants to hear him. At least not right now.
She turns to look at him in the eyes. "Thank you," she whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. She's not talking about her sweater.
He looks like he wants to say something more, but he sighs instead. "It was my pleasure," he breathes.
She smiles and starts walking towards the door. When her hand is on the doorknob he calls her name again. She turns to face him.
"I'm keeping these," he tells her with a smirk, flashing her discarded black lace panties dangling on his finger.
She smirks back. "Meet me tomorrow and I might help you start a collection," she promises. She's only half joking.
She doesn't close the door behind her.