A/N. I own nothing. Less than nothing actually and certainly not Gossip Girl or any of its characters. They belong to Cecily von Ziegesar, Josh Schwartz and the CW.

Hi. First story I've had the nerve to publish in a while and ever in this fandom. It is unbeta'd so all mistakes are of my own making.

'Irish' or 'Irishing' a coffee is simply coffee+alcohol. Please R&R!

I'm sitting across from him at the breakfast nook in our brownstone, my right leg crossed over my left at the knee. He's pretending to read the paper he's spread on the table in front on him.

I'm not fooled.

I consider slowly uncrossing and crossing my legs to draw his attention to my newly smooth calves – a part of my body I damn well know he can't resist- but my little pink robe was made to display certain assets and if I scoot back the inch it would require to maintain my balance during such a maneuver… bare butt would meet cold mahogany.

Yes, I know. Sooo trashy. But the Basstard is wearing the D&G cologne he knows I damn well can't resist. And he's towel dried his hair into a disheveled mess that he hates but he knows hits me between my thighs. So my La Perlas might have accidentally found their way into the vase my mother gave us last Christmas when he was searching shoulder deep in the refrigerator for that last truffle I just had to have.

I settle instead for tilting my head slightly and softly massaging a non existent kink in my neck. I let my eyes fall shut and catch my bottom lip between my teeth. "Mmmmmm…." I moan softly and hear him choke on the coffee I refuse to let him Irish. It's 9:00 a.m. for God sake - alcohol need not make an appearance until dinner …or my mother does.

I feel his glare on me and moan once more to remind him of the solo act I loudly performed for his benefit in the shower this morning. I hear him set his mug down on the table roughly as he clears his throat and I smirk triumphantly until I open my eyes and realize the coward has retreated behind his precious Wall Street Journal.

"Darling…" I say sweetly, leaning forward to prop my elbow on the table so that I can rest my chin atop my palm and conveniently display my fuller-than-usual cleavage. We do not call each other sickeningly sweet pet names- mostly because he detests them. I've officially laid down the gauntlet for the third morning in a row.

He sighs almost inaudibly. Thirty seconds, a minute passes. He hesitates just long enough that I begin to think he's giving in, that I've finally won. I lick my lips unconsciously in anticipation. It's been three days- the longest we've ever been without having sex- and I'm beginning to feel it. Really feel it. My nipples (the traitorous bitches that they are) respond eagerly at the slightest glance.

So what if it might have been my idea to withhold sex until he agrees to stop making that demand? So what if I've only lasted this long because it was that damn book he quoted in telling me I couldn't?

Folding his paper shield in half he discards it on the table next to my mother's vase.

"Yes, baby?" he replies a smirk playing at this lips, eyes locked on mine challengingly.

Alright, fine. Mostly because wedetest them. Violently. I make a mental note to accidentally refer to his penis as Princess Sofia the next time he dares to put me on speaker phone at the office. During an investors meeting. With his father there.

"Would you be a dear and please pass the milk?" I ask innocently as I play with a strand of my hair. He reaches out an arm - well toned mostly from holding my legs around his waist in the shower … and against the windows of our penthouse in Paris … and from that one (twenty) time(s) in Serena's foyer closet…- and nudges the carafe across the table with his nimble fingers to within reaching distance.

Oh, those fingers. My gaze lingers on his strong hands. I rake my eyes up his muscled arms to his broad, hairy chest. Oh, God.

I drop my hand abruptly from my hair. My silk robe slides a little further down my left shoulder but I don't attempt to readjust it because the jerk has noticed my panicky movements and is snickering… smugly.

To reign in my galloping fantasies I think of Nate and how his chest was always a little too hairless, his fingers too fumbly, his hands too narrow.

My blood pressure finally drops below 200 again. I dare to raise my eyes to his to thank him – and maybe lick non-existent jam from the contours of my lips - and discover his attention is otherwise engaged.

Belatedly I realize I'm still tilted forward at an angle that affords him a spectacular view of my breasts. His fingers are still wrapped around the forgotten carafe; his gaze fixed where silk overlaps silk between my breasts.

A muscle in his jaw twitches.

My traitorous bitches make their first, but certainly not their last, appearance of the day.

I attempt to conjugate French verbs in my head. I try to call upon the deep breathing techniques I've learned recently. If I give in now he'll think he's right. That his precious book is right. And I'll lose. I try reciting in alphabetical order every grade school teacher I've ever had.

Before I even get to Mrs. Buckman he's swept the entire contents of the table onto the floor and my legs are somehow wrapped around his waist.

"Eleanor's vase!" I cry between fiery kisses because I'm not entirely sure who's in the process of loosing and I need a few seconds of reprieve to figure it out. He makes a sound low in this throat somewhere between a growl and a moan.

Bare butt meets cool mahogany he as sets me on the table but I don't notice because he's kneeing my legs apart to settle himself there.

"You'll be the death of me woman" he pants as he leans his forehead against mine, eyes closed, "I'll buy you another damn vase."

He draws in a shaky breath and needs my upper thighs.

"She'll notice" I can't stop myself from replying even though I've decided he was the one about to lose - and I really couldn't care less about the vase. I shift closer and press myself against him. His erection prods where its most been missed the last three days and a small whimper escapes me before I can stifle it. He pulls back to smirk at me.

"Oh, no", I say "uh un. Game over- I've already won."

He rolls his eyes at me.

I glare back at him.

He cocks a brow disbelievingly.

I shake my head emphatically.

He rolls his eyes again. I make a mental note to somehow include his grandmother in the aforementioned phone call.

"That," he gestures briefly at the rubble around us, "was me."

"This…" he wraps one arm around my waist and tangles his free hand in my hair. I moan a little and arch my back as he slowly grinds himself against me, "was all you."

I scoff. I pull back intent on arguing – something I know he finds me sexy while doing- when my panties, soaked and tangled in freesia stems, catch my eye. I giggle a little because he's right and they'd probably be just as wet if I had left them on.

"You're right - stalemate."

I shrug my shoulders – silk slipping further down my left one as I do – and untangle myself from his hold. As I inch back on the table I flick my gaze between us at his prominent erection. He groans and I smile sweetly.

"Compromise?" he asks pleadingly. And I'm pleased because he's been the first to give in … twice.

Not to mention he's only ever uttered that word in my presence.

And I'm horny as hell.

I nod. He drags me to him roughly and franticly covers my lips with his before I can vocalize my answer. My nipples tingle, my centre pulses and I briefly wonder if his damn book is right and I can come from a just kiss after all.

"Mmm" I mumble against his full lips and push at his chest.

"What now?" and he's so cute when he's annoyed that for a split second I consider telling him I ate the last truffle two days ago.

"No more book" I tell him.

He sighs. I decide if this man rolls his brown eyes at me one more time I'll- but I don't have to think up any more crazy amendments to my phone call because he kisses me tenderly then.

"Fine" he acquiesces touching his forehead to mine.

I kiss him. He tangles a hand in my hair and cradles my head as he slowly guides me down once more to the table. I barely notice the cool wood on my practically bare shoulders because I'm flooded by the memory of the first time he gently made love to me while glass windows stood guard.

He stops suddenly, easing his weight off me to capture my left hand in his right.

"No more hyphen" he demands playing with the bands on my fourth finger.

I sigh exaggeratedly and roll my eyes.

"Fine" I mumble almost incoherently.

He brings our still intertwined fingers to his lips. I raise my right hand and push a lock of dark hair out of his eyes. He smiles lovingly and I tug him down to kiss him thoroughly but he pulls back once more.

"No hyphen" he states in a tone of voice reminiscent of the 17 year-old playboy I fell in love with all those years ago as he spreads his broad palm across my rounded abdomen.

Tears spring to my eyes. Damn hormones - and damn his stupid know it all book!

I nod because I love him and he's protectively rubbing my swollen belly.

Besides, 'Mrs. and Mr. Blair Waldorf' has a nice hyphen-free ring to it.

I make a mental note to make him all too aware of his slip up later… much later.

A/N The 'book' is meant to resemble What to Expect When You're Expecting (which I also do not own). Pregnancy facts are mostly made up for the purpose of this story. - Lynne