Author's Note: The problem with starting a series in the middle of its final season is the intense compounding of feelings. I'm still working out the fallout for previous seasons as this one plays out so forgive me for continuing to go back in time. This one belongs to the lovely failbox who listens to me talk about a show she does not watch during nearly every one of our lunch dates and texts me pick-up lines from terrible romance novels to make me laugh. Her most recent one from Judith McNaught's Paradise, which I slightly modified, inspired this entire fic.
The bitterly cold air feels refreshing against his skin. Anyone else would have cursed themselves for not grabbing their coat before slipping away from the party downstairs, but the stinging sensation of the wind hitting him in the face is just the salve he needs for the fire raging in his body.
He never expected to see her here, never expected to see her again quite frankly. He thought he had been in the clear when the hours ticked on by and there was no sign of her. But one of the downfalls of living without Gossip Girl is that he never has semi-reliable information about her life. He should have known she would appear ready to rule over the masses and fashionably late as always.
The last bit of information he had managed to extract from her best friend was that she had fled to Monaco with her fiancé following the accident. He didn't know why, didn't understand how she could just renege on what she had promised him in the town car. All he knows is that she isn't the first person in his life to make false promises.
He takes a deep breath, relishes in the pain of the icy air filling his lungs. But the exhale is caught as he notices a woman standing near the edge of the building. He knows that outline anywhere; he can close his eyes and picture it perfectly. The soft flare of her hips. The gentle slope of her neck.
For a moment he pauses, unsure of what to do or say. He contemplates returning back downstairs to the party, grimaces at the irony that his escape from her leads him right to her. But the alcohol he consumed tonight coupled with the pain and agony and fire he feels just at the sight of her makes him bold, loosens his tongue and his inhibitions.
"Hello, lover."
He watches her shivering stop immediately at the sound of his voice. He wants to grab her, yell at her for forgetting to grab her coat before coming up here because she is far too tiny and thin to be standing out here without some kind of protection from the air. He wants to grab her, yell at her for forgetting to grab her best friend before coming up here because she is far too desirable and delectable to be standing out here without some kind of protection from him.
"Chuck."
The way her voice breaks – it is a siren's call. And although she hasn't even looked at him, hasn't thrown one coy glance at him over her shoulder, he finds himself standing directly behind her. Her body is mere inches away from his, and he inwardly curses her for not wearing something with a fuller skirt because at least then he would have been forced to stand further away from her.
"What do you think you're doing here?"
The often asked question is expected, and he has to chuckle at her gall for asking this of him considering their location. She's standing on top of his empire, and he wants to make some biting comment about how she has no claim to this space and cannot ask this of him.
But that would be a lie.
Instead, he inhales the scent that has haunted him since he was sixteen as he gingerly places his fingers at the nape of her neck. He half expects her to flinch; he half expects her to swat his hand away. But she just stands there – neither rigid nor melted – as he strokes his fingers along her exposed neck and leaves goosebumps in his wake.
"Why'd you do it? Why'd you leave me, Blair?"
The question is nothing more than a choked whisper between them. She shivers – whether from the cold air, his ministrations, or his words he is unsure.
"I just wanted to be there for you after the baby."
"Don't," she replies harshly.
He stops his ministrations immediately, starts to extract his hand from her lovely neck when her own captures and holds it in place. He's tethered to her, stuck in a torturous limbo that he will never be able to escape from.
"I wanted you," he replies.
He slips his other hand around her waist, splays his hand across her hip and pulls her into his embrace. The scene is so familiar; his hand against her body and the other tracing her neck and collarbone. Except this time she's holding him in place, and he desires more than just one night between her legs. He wants it all, wants to offer her the world he promised her in the back of that town car.
"I want you," he clarifies.
He can feel her body shudder against his own, and this time he knows that her movements are from more than just the cold air nipping at their exposed skin.
"I'm damaged," she confesses.
The words enrage him, the fire in his belly further fueled by the desire to hurt whoever planted this terrible thought in her head.
"Don't," he hisses in her ear, but she's too far gone.
"God's punishing me for the wicked things I've done."
He jerks her around so that she is facing him, and holds her tight so she cannot avoid his leering gaze.
"God would never punish someone as perfect and pure…" He trails off as he reaches up and cups her face. He's an atheist but, even if he wasn't, there is no way there is a deity as vindictive as the one she has imagined. "You were the lightest thing in my life. You pulled me from the darkness. There is no way God – it was an accident."
"He took my baby," she replies in a shaky voice. The tears are falling freely now. "He tried to take you, too."
"I'm here. I'm right here."
"Because I made a deal with Him," she informs him. "He would spare your life if –"
"What life?" He snaps back. "This is not a life. My heart beats, but I still feel like I've died."
She shuts her eyes at his words, trying to do what she always does and retreat to the movie version of her life where the ugly parts are so easily removed. He has half a mind to kiss her awake; she half expects him to kiss her in awareness. But the brush of his cheek against her own and tenor of his voice in her ear is enough to cause her eyes to fly back open.
"You want a deal? I'll make you a deal," he whispers harshly. "Go to bed with me tonight, and I'll give you the world."
She shifts her body away from him, disgust written across her face. She inwardly berates herself for believing that he could truly change when underneath this therapy-attending exterior is the same smarmy womanizer who propositioned her with similar words in high school. But this time he won't give up so easily; he won't allow her to hear what she wants to hear. He follows her movements, dips his head so he can still whisper in her ear.
"Move in with me, and I'll give you paradise on a gold platter," he continues. "Marry me, and I'll spend the rest of my life creating heaven on earth for you."
The words are caught in her throat, and her heart beats widely in her chest. Her engagement ring feels heavy on her finger, heavy on her heart – a constant reminder of the promise she made to another man and to God. She feels weak at the implications of his words, at the thought of the ring she returned in Paris currently stored in the safe in a room just below her feet.
"Chuck," she whispers.
The name is half an invitation yet half a rejection. And she is unsure of how she wants him to take it until his lips connect with her own. The searing kiss electrifies her body, engulfing her in a fever that wards off more than just the chill for the night air.
"Anything you want; everything you want," he mumbles against her lips when they break apart. "I come with it, of course. It's a package deal."