A/N I don't own anything. This is set after the high school flash backs but BEFORE Cotton and Mahogany. I KNOW, I'm annoying with the jumpy jumpy. I'm sorry. Blame the muse. Please let me know what you think! THANKS TO CHER AND FEEF!!!!
Charles Bartholomew Bass. Why anybody would ever name their child something that sounded like a play by play commentary of someone yakking – I'll never know. But I married him anyway. A year ago today, to be exact.
I smooth the silk bodice of my nightgown down my hips. He has good taste, my husband. Not that I would ever admit that to his dangerously handsome face. He'd smirk that smirk I pretend infuriates me and I'd somehow end up on my back… or my hands and knees… or like that one time in Germany; swinging from the rafters. There was a lot of liquor involved – I don't like to talk about it.
The bands on my left hand catch the light and wink at me in the mirror. Yes, definitely good taste. And a heart – though he likes to believe I don't know it beats only for me. He's a huge softy, my husband. Alright, that isn't entirely true. He's huge – yes, but most of the time he isn't soft; quite the opposite, actually. In fact, most of the time he prances around the penthouse; semi hard and extremely proud of himself. And I take great pleasure in keeping him that way. It does me well to always have him ready to go (not that he ever needed help in that department.) For reasons other than you might think, too. Take this morning, for example. The first anniversary of the day he shackled himself to me legally. His words, not mine. Yes, I know. But nothing hits Chuck Bass where it counts more than thinking he's getting his wife on her knees only to be rudely and sorely mistaken. He's been glowering at me from across the room, squirming in his chair to readjust the impressive bulge at his crotch, and grumbling loudly for hours. Like I said, his over developed libido comes in handy.
I adjust the sliver of a strap against the creamy skin of my shoulder, trailing my fingers across my collar bone and slowly up my neck.
He groans and I smirk.
The only thing Chuck Bass and Clark Kent ever had in common: kryptonite.
I can see him in the mirror, eyes hungry and devouring the sight of my ass peeking out from under the flimsy swatch of silk he's bought me. His gaze drifts to my thighs and the crotch of his pants jumps violently. He loves my legs. I once got him to come by merely crossing and uncrossing my legs against his under the table at my mother's annual Thanksgiving party. Eleanor had given him the strangest of looks and he'd made up some excuse about admiring the vase in the center piece while I giggled uncontrollably. We'd gotten the vase this past Christmas as her gift.
I readjust the hem of the emerald silk. For some reason he's bought me a negligee in every shade of green. I suspect it has something to do with a certain peak-a-boo slip worn during a certain performance at a certain burlesque club in the fall of our junior year. I don't mind – another weapon for my arsenal; all's fair in love and war.
He grumbles under his breath and I catch the word 'woman'. I am not particularly a fan of the word – though I realize it is in fact, my gender. I reach my other hand up into my hair, sweeping it up off my shoulders and massage the nape of my neck. He swears a string of curses a ship full of sailors would be embarrassed to hear and I grin at his reflection in the mirror. He glares back. I bat my eyes innocently.
"Something the matter, darling?" I ask, my voice sickeningly sweet.
"No," he barks; the tiny word infused with frustration.
I turn around and let my hair cascade back to my shoulders. He gulps.
"I do hope you aren't feeling ill," I reply, infusing my voice with fake concern. I finger the silk between my breasts, accidentally grazing a nipple. His crotch jumps again and I feel a sympathetic pull between my legs. My tongue darts out unknowingly to moisten my lips as I gaze appreciatively between his thighs. His eyes narrow and I feel the energy in the hotel room shift; I've given him ammunition and he knows it.
"Baby," he drawls huskily because he's just recently figured out that I don't actually hate the pet name as much as I claim to.
Heat pulses against the crotch of my emerald lace panties.
"Yes?" I attempt – and fail miserably – to keep my voice even.
He smirks and pushes himself to his feet arrogantly.
"You look a little flush," he emphasizes the word, his hands in his pockets, "are you feeling alright?"
"Yes, yes. Quite well, thank you." I rush the words out, turning my back on him to brush my hair in the mirror.
He crosses the room confidently, the sounds of his bare feet approaching muffled against the plush Parisian carpeting. I can feel his body heat against where his anniversary present dips low on my back. His skin against mine is my undoing. A fact he's known – and exploited shamelessly – ever since that night in the back of his limo.
"Let me," he whispers in my ear, sliding the brush from my hand.
Shivers race down my spine and my already pert nipples begin to tingle as bristles massage my scalp. He slowly drags the brush through my hair and I moan low in my throat.
"Feels nice?" he asks innocently, his erection prodding my backside.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He smirks against my nearly bare shoulder, reaching around me to toss the brush onto my vanity.
"Blair…" he whispers, his eyes locking onto mine in the mirror. He trails his palm from my hip to my breast, kneading it gently.
I shake my head feebly; "You called me woman."
"You are my woman," he growls, his voice low and husky.
I roll my eyes but the sudden moisture between my legs beguiles my annoyed response.
"You didn't let me pack," I offer weakly instead.
Because he hadn't. He'd rushed me out of the penthouse yesterday nearly the second I'd opened my eyes. I hadn't even been allowed to grab my toothbrush. The only articles of clothing I had were his old, worn Yale sweatshirt I'd slept in and the emerald silk he'd so graciously agreed to buy me.
"You weren't going to be needing your clothes," he kisses the sensitive spot behind my ear and my knees buckle. He wraps a muscled arm around my waist to steady me and slips a finger between emerald lace and flesh.
"God, you're wet, baby," he whispers, his breath hot against my ear, "feel how wet you are." He guides my hand between my legs and I follow the movement in the mirror. I catch my lip between my teeth as I watch him direct my fingers toward my clit.
"You like that," he breathes heavily.
I nod, my eyes never leaving our joined hands in the mirror.
He slips his fingers from me and grabs my hips with both hands, bending me forward. Our gazes lock in the mirror as he pushes lace aside, preparing to position himself at my entrance.
"You didn't let me pack!" I squeak, jumping upright and whirling to face him.
"You've already used that one…" he laughs, pinning me against the dresser with his weight. He thrusts his tongue into my mouth, mimicking the motion of our joined hands between my legs moments ago.
"No!" I protest but before I know it he's pulled back and thrown me on top of the vanity next to my hair brush. He grins at me widely before crushing his lips against mine again. And then my mind is too hazy to remember the reason for my protest.
"Chuck…" I moan his name and wrap my legs around his waist.
He bites my bottom lip, hard. I push his pajama pants from his hips, scratching the sensitive skin between his hip bone and thigh. He makes a sound low in his throat somewhere between a moan and a growl and runs his free hand up to squeeze my thigh. He yanks the thing scrap of lace roughly aside again to rub his head against my opening and I freeze once more.I reach a hand down and wrap it around his girth, stopping him, "My pills are at home."
His fingers still and his breath catches in his throat. He lifts his eyes to mine slowly.
We've never talked about it. Having a baby. It's one of the few subjects I haven't dared to touch with a ten foot pole. And truthfully, after the paint by numbers relationship with Nate in which my entire life right down to the 2.5 kids and dog was planned out, (not to mention the nightmare removing bodily fluids from Dior would be for Dorota) I was glad the subject was taboo. But lately I can't help picture what a delicate little girl with his brown eyes or a devilish little boy with his mischievous smirk would look like. The moment weighs heavily between us, even though I know it would take more than three days off the pill for me to get pregnant. He swallows, his eyes never leaving mine, and nods. I let out the breath I'd been holding, expecting him to back away slowly but he tugs my panties further to the side. My eyes widen, locked on his as he slowly enters me.
"It makes a difference," he says, his voice soft, "it feels… different; no protection."
I nod because it does. It's more… intense, somehow. He lifts my hips slowly to match his rhythm, his eyes never leaving mine. They're a caramel brown in the soft light of the room and swim with emotions I know are reflected in my own. He lowers his gaze to where our bodies are joined, trailing a hand from my hip to press his palm against my abdomen as he slips back inside me. I place my palm on top of his. His eyes find mine again, a hint of unshed tears shinning in them.
"I love you," I whisper, fighting back my own sudden tears.
He leans in, tenderly pressing his lips to mine as he brings us both slowly to climax.
Luxuriously spent, he carries me to the bed and snuggles into my back beneath the covers. "Happy Anniversary, Blair," he whispers softly as I drift off to sleep.
And a few weeks later when the familiar discomfort of my period makes itself known I can't help but feel a tiny pang of loss.
So I start accidentally dropping that tiny white pill down the sink every morning while my loving husband showers.
A/N TONS of references in this one. Mostly to previous chapters. Points to anyone who can spot them!
Lynne
