And here for you is number two!
Afterglow
"I should get home."
"Yes."
It's interesting to see, Chuck Bass observes, the great Blair Waldorf deep in her afterglow. She's almost asleep, dark head resting on his bare shoulder, long eyelashes sweeping her flushed cheeks and not looking at all like the eyelashes of a seductress and a whore - which, by definition, she is. What else do you call a girl who breaks up with her boyfriend and then proceeds to perform a striptease and lose her virginity to his best friend less than an hour afterward?
You call her lonely, he realises. You call her afraid.
"Chuck?"
"Hmmm?"
"Was I - I mean, was I -"
"You were perfect." He leans in, kisses her drooping eyelids, surprises himself; he suddenly feels as if he should hustle this bewitching girl out of his car and onto the sidewalk before she can do any more damage.
"I didn't imagine it would be like that."
"That's because you weren't imagining it with me."
"I was...sometimes."
He freezes, but she's too drowsy to notice. The idea of her, Machiavelli in Manolos, fantasizing about him with her hand down her La Perlas is almost too much for him to handle.
"Chuck?"
"Yes?"
"I should go home."
"Not yet." His palm curls under her jaw and he gently kisses her bruised mouth, tasting her stillborn smile. "Not just yet."
Soon, Blair Waldorf isn't the only one deep in her afterglow.
Fin.