Disclaimer: I do not own "Gossip Girl."
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It is the last place he expects to see her in, so it's more curious bemusement than surprise that ripples over him when he catches sight of her. It's the curve of her cheek as his date guides him to their seats that he first recognizes, or thinks he does, as he scans the stage laid out before him.
The symphony is about to begin, the orchestra is in position; and it's the poise of her shoulders, the curl of her dark hair, the glimpse of milky-white skin as she shifts around to face the crowd, that he notices before he actually sees her face.
"Lovely, isn't she?"
"Not nearly as lovely as you, darling."
The words and endearment slide off his tongue with a smile and a twinkle in his eye; he's an old hand at meaningless flattery.
The chandeliers in the ballroom dim, preparing the audience for the spectacle about to begin, lending a genteel ambiance to room before the music enthralls; he keeps his gaze on her on as she begins to play, wonders vaguely what role she is playing.
"She's been quite the darling this season, very talented." His date provides.
He makes a sound of murmuring agreement for his companion; lets his gaze rest across the room on her for a moment longer before shifting his gaze to the woman at his side and gracing her with a charming smile.
He has his own role to play.
---
She's at the center of a crowd during the gala after the performance; and she looks so very graceful, so young, and utterly delicate—like an oleander bloom, he thinks, stunning and venomous— that he silently commends this performance above her musical one.
They work the room expertly and it's only a matter of time before they are in one another's presence. They're both good enough that nothing so much as a flicker flash over their faces as introductions are made; and when he takes her hand in his, the kiss he presses to the top of it is wholly chaste.
He's going by Jack and she by Lynne; and when his date titters that he was quite taken by her solo piece, Jack ducks his head while Lynne blushes.
It's mere minutes of the evening and he doesn't know, or really care, what her game is; but his is simply escape, and he has no intention of ruining it by acknowledging her presence, by playing a game with her.
When his date drifts away, he drifts with her, not a hairsbreadth of hesitation.
---
It's hours later; he's meandering his way out of the great hall, having dallianced with his date in one of the empty antechambers a while ago, when he sees her resting back against one of the walls, a glass of something held in her hands; the midnight blue of her gown still sparkling in the dim lighting and those icy blue eyes steadily watching him. The space around them is quiet, the patrons having retired for the night, the musicians working on doing the same.
He's got no role donned and so approaches her with swaggering steps, lets his eyes roam over the length of her.
"You know," she breaks the silence, the voice of Lynne, breathy and kind, gone; replaced with a husky drawl and a mocking lilt, "Of all the people I expected to see here… you weren't on the list… Jack."
He lets his own lips quirk as he comes still closer, the plush carpet dulling the sound of his footsteps, "I was in the area,"
Her eyes do some roving of their own, taking in his mussed hair and missing jacket, his un-tucked shirt and loose tie. By the time they make it back up to meet his again, there's sardonic laughter glimmering in them, "Alone?"
He doesn't stiffen, keeps his limbs loose as he comes to a stop in front of her, "Yeah," he breathes, "Alone."
"That's interesting." She brings the glass to her lips, sips, "And you somehow made it to my violin concerto."
His lips tilt upwards, eyes going to her mouth, "Apparently," he admits, leaning in closer, resting an arm against the wall near her head, "It was… surprisingly… good." He tells her.
She tilts her head towards him, licks her lips, "Thank you," takes another sip from the glass, "I've been… practicing."
His eyes drop to her lips, lush and smirking, "How long've you played?" He wonders, lips tilted in a smirk of his own.
"Is that curiosity? About me?" Her voice dips even lower and her hips slink against him, "Tisk, tisk…" she presses closer, "What would Serena say?"
He doesn't flinch at that mention of that name; instead trails the fingers of his free hand down the side of her arm, "Serena's not here…" to the curve of her hip, "Is she…?" rests it low at the back of her thigh.
"No," she agrees, rippling against, "Pray tell— where is our lovely S?"
His jaw wants to clench, but he restrains himself. "She's where she always is…" he feels the sheer fabric of her dress, digs his fingers into her skin, "In New York…" she arcs an eyebrow snidely, gives him an acerbic look; and he gives himself away, bites out, "With her friends," before he can stop himself.
Her hand comes up to his face, brushes at his cheek with scornful tenderness, "Have you been exiled, deary?"
His jaw does clench then; and his silence is her answer.
Her fingertips, soft and surprisngly dainty, trail down to his mouth, tap at it, "Who bought you the ticket this time?" She taunts, "Was it dear old Chuck?"
And he rears back then, away from her touch; his blue eyes flashing, "No one had to buy me a ticket," he snaps; fury welling up inside, he was here for escape and if she couldn't provide even that much, he had not use for her.
Her body follows his, not quite touching, but almost; her blue eyes icy as she says, "Won't be long till you circle back though," a curl of dark hair slips off her shoulder as she tilts her face a little, adds, "Will it…?"
And he feels that same ice slide over him, into him; nearly smiles with feel of it, the remembrance of it. It's different with a girl like this— no game necessary, dictated by everything being a game; his lips almost skim her cheek as leans in, wonders, "So what's the con here? Your game?"
Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, she's still for a moment; and then she shifts in his direction, her blue eyes going to his lips, "Perhaps…" she murmurs, lifts the glass she's still holding between them, swirls what's left carefully, "I simply enjoy the violin."
His eyes go to the liquor and he lifts his hand, takes the glass from her as he murmurs, "Why?" Before draining the contents of it and reaching around her to set it on an end table
"Because…" she breathes, a hand slipping towards his chest, "In the hands of a master…" her other hand tugs his shirt, deftly unbuttoning the few buttons he'd put together, "It's nothing short of brilliance…" she's leaning towards him and the arm he'd stretched around her drops to low across her hips, "… exquisite... breathtaking…" he smirks, lifts his gaze away from her mouth to her eyes; she's waiting for the look, leans forward into him, "But in the hands of amateur…" she continues, tilting towards him, her teeth on his lower lip, "It's utter torment..."
He grins, bites her back; kisses her with teasing slowness until she leans back a little, purrs, "You up for a real ride..."
"Hm…" he finds the zipper of her dress, "Still taking on Serena's hand-me-down's, are we?"
She arcs back, pulling him with her; face to face, noses almost touching, "Mmm'not the one worn and discarded, am I…?" she sneers.
He watches her with slitted eyes, thinks he may have unwittingly cracked the ice. "Aren't you?"
Her eyes flicker, pulse suddenly with something he can't read. "We orbit them, don't we?" The question isn't meant to be answered and she barely pauses before pressing on, "They closed ranks a long time ago," she notes, "Chuck…" her lips graze his, "… and Blair…" lips touching his, "… and Serena…" her tongue teasingly skimming his bottom lip, "… and Nate…" she nips hard at him then, a flash of teeth, a sting pain against his bottom lip as her blue eyes lift to clash with his, "What happened? Did he move in for the kill? I've heard Natie's been getting a little more assertive lately…"
He wrenches away from her; ice gone, fury bubbling over, "Go to hell."
And she snakes an arm around his neck, fingernails into his skin, mouth quirking into a smirk, "Come with me."
And it seems fitting somehow, so he does.
---
She sashays out of the ballroom and he strides behind her, watching the trail of her dark hair, the way her hips sway; she tosses him a sultry look as she leads him into the elevator and he's got no reason to hold back.
He comes at her fast, feeling raw, presses her back against the wall, and kisses her with teeth and tongue and need; she's sinful— decadent, smells of violets, tastes like brandy, and as is as raw as he feels. She shoves him back, hands to his chest; drives him towards the opposite wall and punches in buttons on the panel.
There's no talking, just breathless gasps as she peels off his shirt, belt, undoes his pants; the elevator doors open and she throws her arms around his neck again, digs her nails into the flesh of his shoulders as she catapults them from the elevator and towards the foyer. He squirms free of his pants, has already unzipped her dress; she sheds it as she walks him into the penthouse, no underwear, shoes off next, and his lips lower to her neck, throat, shoulder…
The lights are off, just a sliver of light from a partially open curtain, and they keep it that way; make it as far as a couch and tip over onto it with little thought. He peels off her bra, can't really see her face in the darkness, feels her gaze burning him; warm skin, biting nails, wet kisses, sharp teeth, a bruising touch, and they go to hell.
---
It's almost sunrise, and he's taking in the still darkened suite with a careless gaze; his eyes have adjusted to the lighting and he can see the room is elaborate, expensive. She's lounging on the couch, not asleep, naked and sated and smug. He's walking around the room, in pretty much the same state, knows it's time for him to leave.
When he touches the violin set atop a table, she twitches a little.
"Play it," he says.
And she arcs an eyebrow, "You developing a fetish there, dear?"
He picks it up, takes it over to her. She straightens.
"You wouldn't be one to frown upon that would you…" he baits, eyes flitting over her languid form. He isn't sure exactly why he wants to hear her play again, to see her play—except for a quiet whispering, a vague sensation, that for a moment, watching her on that stage, he had been taken with her.
Wants to see if it'd been Jack taken with Lynne— or he with her.
"Unless," he presses, "It's too meaningful to do here, now…" he challenges.
Her expression flickers into blankness as she concedes, extends her hands for the instrument.
And he moves towards her, leans against the arm rest; and he listens, watches.
---
The last thing he expected was to enjoy the music; to be strangely enthralled by it, to feel his body relax as the melody filled the silent room, to have his eyes become heavy-lidded and his pulse slow—but that is exactly what happens.
She is, he acknowledges, whether herself or Lynne, a talented musician.
And he has to blink then; because in the dimness of the room, with her eyes closed and her face still, with the music coming gently and those piercing blue eyes shut, with the smooth notes enveloping her and her long, dark tresses falling over her pale, bare shoulders, she looks—
She looks innocent.
Innocent in a way he has never known her to be; in a way her blazing blue eyes, fierce and furious, could never allow her to truly be mistaken as. The first time he'd laid eyes on Georgina Sparks, she'd been eleven years old; and he'd known the moment he'd seen her she was more than her name attested too, she was fire— looking to burn everything in her path.
He doesn't know; doubts suddenly, that anyone does— why. Why she burned like that—and he wonders then if anyone's ever even asked.
The melody ends and her eyes snap open; blue and wide, watchful. She's looking at him curiously; not quite calculatingly, and he bends towards her, kisses the lips he's swelled and cut-up with a gentleness missing from every other touch he'd bestowed on her.
She's completely still for a beat, he feels her lashes flutter against his nose as her eyes close.
And an instant later he's on his bare ass on the suite carpet and she's standing over him— nude, lips pursed, and icy eyes sizing him up, "Time for you to go…" she drawls; lips quirked in an imitation of a smirk.
He rubs at his chest where she'd shoved him, scrambles to his feet, honestly perplexed, "What?"
She smiles, frigid as her eyes have gone; moves then, gathers up his pants and shirt, throws them at him.
He reaches out, catches them instinctively, "Geor—"
"Now, now, Jack," she cut him off, eyes hard, "Let's not ruin the moment, shall we…" and she's wrapped a hand around his forearm, is pulling him towards the elevator and he's stumbling behind her, barefoot and a oddly stunned.
She's already pressed the button to call for the elevator when he understands. It was real. "You've been practicing." He repeats, watching her face again.
But she'd told him already—she was a master; and nothing so much as a flicker crosses her face as her smile stretches, "And you've been fun," she murmurs, rakes her nails over his chest, "But Lynne has an afternoon performance I should rest for."
The elevator doors open and he's opening his mouth to respond when she pushes him into it. "Wait," he contests, reaches out his hand and stops the doors from closing, "That was— the way you play is—"
She's covering his lips with hers then, mouth demanding, relentless, and he has no hope of retaining thought under the intense attack. She pulls back, pupil's pin-dots in darker-than-usual blue eyes, and he realizes he's not drunk and neither is she; her hand is at his chest and her lips linger faintly on his as she breathes, "Look me up when you wanna ride through hell again, Baizen."
And then she's shoving him back again and he stumbling backwards a step, gaze flying taking her in completely, long hair and flashing eyes and miles of bare skin; his lips quirk in a smirk as the elevator doors begin to close again, his last glimpse of her is nude and smug and smirking; and he thinks, yeah, he might take her up on that…
.Fin.