Author's Note: I could spend the next three months researching this story to death in the library. Or, I could write the story as it comes to me and continue to keep this endeavor fun. I'm going with the later so, please, forgive historical inaccuracies.
Chuck takes her mouth again, lays claim to them until she cannot deny him any longer. Having her is a madness he now needs and craves, and he burns with an addictive ache that only she can alleviate. No matter her denial, no matter the fact they must lurk in the shadows when it comes to them alone like this, their needs and wants converge and become one.
She meets him, meets every press of his lips with an overwhelming craving to taste the recklessness he offers, taste the fiery, all-consuming passion that exists between then. He possesses an advantage no other has ever had – not the knowledge of how she feels pressed against him, but rather a knowledge that allows him he to understand her like no other has ever before. Knowledge that they are both cruel and greedy and selfish and passionate and well-matched in the way they hide their desires, hide their hearts.
It is why even while she meets and matches him, even while he sense the passion rising and building inside her, he can also sense her turmoil, her confusion, her need to understand. Her innate caution holds her back, and she will not let go until she knows where he is headed, until she understands where he wants to lead her.
He could sweep her resistance away, if he wished. She might be able to stand against him the way she has for the other men that have approached her, but she would not be able to stand against his and her passion combined.
He knows her well enough to know that simply telling her his ultimate goal would only to lead to more arguments, to more resistance rather than less. He knows himself well enough to know that he does not have the words to express his ultimate wish, at least not in a way that she cannot misconstrue. So he pulls her closer to him and tries to show her the truth, tries to reveal to her what she is to him.
The engagement of lips and tongues is no longer sufficient, no longer enough to satiate them. He spreads his hands, lets them rove over her back and over the silk covering her skin. He feels her responsive shudder, aches when she sinks against him. Her fingers tighten on his lapel as she fights to hold on to her wits, as she shifts closer with hips and thighs moving into him until his control quakes.
His fingers find what they are searching for. Lifting his head and dragging in a haggard breath, he spins her and draws her backwards until her back is against his chest; her luscious bottom is against his painfully tight groin. He bites back a groan and concentrates on her, on the slide of his hands from her hips to undo the laces of her gown.
She gasps when the bodice of her gown loosens, when the fabric is pushed around her waist until the only thing between her breasts and his hands is the thin muslin of her chemise. His long fingers stroke and caress her through the fabric until she forgets about breathing, until it no longer seems necessary. The sensations he presses upon her ensnare her mind, ensnare her senses.
She feels gentle tugs, feels his fingers press aside the muslin to slide beneath and cup her breast. Skin to skin. The sensitive satin of her breast against the palm of his hand. She shudders with anticipation and wonder, moans as he feathers kisses along the nape of her neck. Pleasure roars through her as he caresses and runs his thumb over her pebbled nipple, causing her to arch and push her breast more firmly into his hand invitingly.
He spins her back around, detaches his lips from her neck before skating them over the upper curve of her breast. His dips his head lower, attaches himself until she gasps and arches against him again. A growl of satisfaction escapes from his lips, and she glances down to watch him minister to her slowly. From beneath his lids, his eyes flash and catch hers. He holds her gaze for just a moment, offers her a wicked grin as he moves to –
"Chuck, are you –"
He straightens, pulls her to him as the door to his study is thrown open. She freezes in his embrace, grows rigid and cold as he commands for the intruding party to leave them in a harsh bite. The noise in her ears roars so loudly that she barely hears the click of the door, barely registers that they are alone again until she feels his fingers tugging on the bodice of her dress. Up or down, she cannot tell.
The hands previously tangled in his hair push him away with a stunning amount of force; push him away until he stumbles back from her two paces. She yanks her gown up without his assistance, clutches it to her so as to hide herself away from him. He moves forward, tries to assist her with the laces. For a moment, she acquiesces to his help until the look on his face registers.
"I know that look," she hisses. "It's the look you get when your plan falls into place."
She moves away from him again, bats away his hands in the process. Her features harden as her eyes drill into him. She shakes her head in disgust, steps backwards when he moves to follow her.
"You ruined me on purpose. You did this for your own enjoyment and didn't care what it would do to me, which is exactly why you and I can never work."
"Wait," he breathes as his eyes widen in surprise at her remarks. "Slow down."
"You make me sick," she spats as she presses her coffered hair to assure it has not fallen out in their activities. "This thing between us? It's over. For good."
"Wait, Blair, I didn't mean –"
He reaches out, curls his fingers about her arm to prevent her from leaving. She rips herself away from him, moves towards the door, and barks out her final order as she wrenches open the door.
"Don't talk to me!"
He watches her leave in disbelief, watches the way she sweeps out of the room with the swish of her gown and without a backwards glance even as he calls her name. He takes a haggard breath, tries to ascertain exactly what has happened when the closed door reopens. His shoulders sag when he sees that she has not returned to him before his features harden. He advances on the intruder until he is mere inches from the blonde's face.
"What you saw," he hisses, "never happened."
"Chuck," his best friend breathes out in surprise. The murderous glare on Chuck's face, however, causes him to swallow back his protests. "Saw what?"
"Good," Chuck replies. He adjusts his clothes, smoothing out the lapels of his coat and his cravat before stomping out the door in the direction he thinks Miss Blair Waldorf has fled.
He shifts anxiously in the carriage, causes the well-sprung vehicle to quake with his movements. He checks the time against the watch in his pocket, calls out to the driver of his carriage in an anxious demand, and scowls with Arthur informs him that proper calling hours do not begin for another five minutes.
He spent last night looking for her, only to overhear from unhappy suitors that Miss Waldorf and Lady van der Woodsen retired to Waldorf House for the evening. Half tempted to drive over there that night, bang on the door of her home until she agreed to speak with him, Chuck had only been dissuaded by Arthur, who reminded him that such an action would not further his suit with the esteemed young lady. And so he spent the night tossing restless in his bed, trying to figure out how he was going to correct the misinformation in her mind.
Deciding he has had enough, he ignores the advice of his most trusted servant and ambles out of the carriage. He knocks on the door, waits with baited breath for entry, and raises an eyebrow in surprise when the housekeeper rather than the butler greets him.
The older woman hesitates over allowing him entry, only agrees when it becomes apparent that he will either wait on the steps or wait in the drawing room. She tells him to wait in the foyer, informs him that she will announce him to the young lady of the house.
"Ma'am," the housekeeper announces, "a Mister Char—"
He cuts her off, far too anxious to wait, and strolls into the drawing room. His eyes land first on the old butler hovering in the corner of the room, move until they find her seated on the settee. Her spine – already ramrod straight – stiffens as she meets his gaze, and a slight flush rises up her neck to settle in her cheeks. He smirks wickedly, knowingly, and begins to advance towards her.
"Bla—"
This time it is he who is cut off, silenced by the jovial greeting of the man he never noticed before. A man seated next to her on the settee, seated in a position far too intimate for someone making only a social call.
"Ambassador Grimaldi," Chuck curtly replies. He eyes the man suspiciously, feels his heart freeze when he sees Blair's hand wrapped in that of the French Ambassador's. Louis shifts his gaze from Chuck to Blair, beams even as the young lady seated next to him does not return his gaze.
"I guess you shall be the first to hear the happy news," Louis informs him as he shifts his gaze back to Chuck and gives Blair's hand a gentle squeeze. "Miss Waldorf has just agreed to do me the great honor of becoming my wife."
For just a brief moment, Chuck thinks he might have heard the French Ambassador incorrectly, thinks he might have imagined the whole exchange. What little he slept last night had been plagued with nightmares, visions of her running out on him over and over again. And then his stomach clinches, wraps itself around his fallen heart until he can no longer breathe. His eyes search out hers, stare down the smug satisfaction until he sees it slide off her face.
"Congratulations," he manages to say. He cannot manage any more, cannot pretend to wish them happiness. He whirls on his heels, stalks out of the drawing room without a proper goodbye, and does not bother to stop until he is back on the street climbing into his carriage.
"Where to, Mister Bass?"
He harshly instructs his driver to take him to his childhood home, to take him far away from here. If Arthur is surprised, he says nothing as he closes the door behind Chuck, climbs into his seat, and flicks the reins. Chuck settles back against the plush seat of his carriage, spies the bouquet of peonies he had forgotten in the carriage in his haste. He reaches across the carriage angrily, grabs them in his hand, and tosses them out the window until they fall pitifully in the street only to be run over by the carriage behind him.