It started out with a kiss
How did it end up like this?
It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss
He is too tall, too lean, too blonde. But he is a Bass, and he tastes like scotch and smoke and sin, and if she closes her eyes very tightly, she can almost pretend the lips moving so possessively over hers are his.
It's just a kiss anyway. It means nothing. Just a drunken kiss at midnight to celebrate the New Year. Even as they find themselves in the elevator and he presses her into the wall. Even as she grinds her pelvis against his arousal and he paws at her ass to pull her closer. Even as the doors open and they stumble down the hallway to suite 1812…
It's only a kiss.
At least that's what she's trying to tell herself. But she's had a few drinks too many, and his mouth is so insistent, his hands so swift and skillful, it's easy to forget. So tempting to imagine he is him and to allow the kiss to become something more, to let it grow into the passionate reunion they've been denying one another since she returned from Tuscany.
Her body yearns for that, to be joined once again with his, and the masterful palms currently trailing up her arms and curve of her spine reignites those long dormant embers. Fingers twist in her hair harshly, bordering on pain, but still she moans low in her throat as his tongue wars with hers and her skin burns where they touch.
"Please," she whimpers, tilting her head to the side, offering her neck, wanting, needing more.
With a darkly sensual laugh, he obliges, nuzzling the tender flesh beneath her jaw. But rather than relax into the sensation, she tenses slightly, remembering the smug sound he'd made. So familiar, and yet… not. Different in a way she cannot fully comprehend with her champagne buzz and his teeth grazing lightly along her collarbone.
But the feeling? The feeling is the same. Especially as he toys with the slender strap of her gown, deftly sliding it off one pale shoulder. She shivers in anticipation, recalling precisely what is to come seconds before the silk of her dress is pulled down, exposing the satin cups of her strapless bra. Reaching behind her, he unhooks the flimsy piece of lingerie and whisks it away, fondling her breasts, thumbs drawing lazy circles over her nipples until they harden into dusky peaks and she arches into the contact.
"Chuck," she sighs in contentment.
The self-assured caress falters for a moment. Then she is being shoved roughly backwards, toppling as she bumps into something behind her, landing with a soft gasp upon the plush mattress amid tangled sheets and downy comforters. The smell, faint but distinctive, immediately envelops her and she is thankful that she had not permitted the maids to change the bedding since he had disappeared so that the heady mixture of sandalwood and spice could remain, the lingering scent reminding her of him just as fingers hook in the waistband of her stockings.
Instinctively, she lifts her hips a fraction to aid in their removal, knowing this is his favorite form of foreplay. But instead of rolling the sheer material down her legs, he jerks them, ruining the pair in his haste to rid her of them.
She stiffens, desire and dreams fading with the knowledge that he never would do that. He savors stripping her tights from her, drawing them over her thighs and past her knees and down her calves inch by tantalizing inch, lavishing attention on each newly revealed stretch of skin before moving on with the pleasurable torment. The only garment he enjoys taking off more are garters, on those occasions she wears them, because then he can do the act twice, teasing them both into a frenzy by delaying their gratification even longer.
Not so with this man. This is not, and will never be, him. This is wrong, and has already been allowed to persist way past what she originally intended as the midnight countdown began and she'd met his hungry stare across the bar. It was only supposed to be a kiss.
Everything else has to stop.
She's about to look at him, to let the fantasy end when his palm finds her swollen folds and all worries are chased away by the delicious friction, that exquisite pressure building within her as his fingers rapidly delve into her wet heat. He always was so good at this, knew exactly how to bring her to the precipice with astonishing speed. And suddenly she's there, floating in that space between heaven and hell, writhing on the blankets, begging for release, sobbing in frustration when his hand leaves her before that final crescendo.
"Don't stop, Bass. I need you," she pants, her voice a husky plea in the silent suite.
Dimly she hears a zipper, that unmistakable rasp of metal on metal, followed by a hazy recollection that something about this should bother her, that something is not right with this situation. Then he's back, crawling over her, seeking her entrance, his throbbing cock brushing against sleek wetness, and she shudders, wanting him to hurry and take her, wanting his length to stretch her slick sheath, wanting to cum around him as he murmurs seductive encouragements into her ear.
It's been too, too long.
But that nagging feeling of misgiving will not go away, even as she wraps her legs around his hips. His weight is off, she realizes. It's not enough. There's too much space between them, no comforting press of his body pushing her into the firmness of the bed. He's propping himself up too high, as if she were some delicate flower easily crushed and he... And Chuck knows her better.
She opens her eyes, and the gaze staring down at her is blue and not brown.
"Jack?" she breathes in dismay, reality bursting into her awareness. "Jack! Oh God…"
His face transforms into an expression of triumph. Then he surges forward, filling her, slamming into her core so quickly that she cries out, both from ecstasy and agony. She wants to shove him away, but as he continues thrusting, each stroke harder and faster and deeper than the last, she can't concentrate, can't get her mouth to form the words, can only thrash her head upon the pillows and cling to him, even as hot tears escape to scald paths down her cheeks as she's driven towards an orgasm unlike any she has shared with anyone other than him, the broken boy she loves, the dark-haired prince she swore to stand by.
And she explodes, nails raking down flexing muscles, a scream wrenching from her throat, a name on her lips. His name. The only one she has ever called out at that moment when all else ceases to be. In this… at least in this, she has not betrayed him.
Later, seconds or minutes or hours, he slides off of her. She rolls onto her side, curling into a ball, hugging her knees, weeping silently, feeling like the worst kind of whore.
Oh God, what has she done?
He reaches out to rub her back, and she cringes away. "Don't," she whispers, bile rising, unable to even look at him. "Just get out."
"Not yet, princess," Jack smirks.
"Don't call me that," she snaps, guilt flashing more strongly through her at hearing Chuck's pet name for her leave his uncle's mouth.
"Whatever you wish," he shrugs as if disinterested. "But I'm not leaving until morning."
"Fine, then I will."
She starts to rise, but his hand closes over her wrist like a vice. "Relax kitten," he leers. "I might want you again before dawn, so lay back down. You aren't going anywhere."
"Go fuck yourself!" she spits, struggling to pry his fingers loose, risking giving him a death glare as his grip clamps down harder, becoming painful.
"Lay back down I said," he repeats, his tone ominous. "Or do you want the wayward prodigal to find out about this dalliance when I bring him home? I don't think he'd take it well. In his condition, it might be the thing that pushes him over the edge."
"You sick bastard! If you think I'm going to let you – "
He cuts off her tirade with a snort of derision. "You're in no position to negotiate, sweetheart. So lay the fuck down and hope once was enough." He grins, glacial eyes raking over her, making her feel dirtier than ever. "I have a flight to Thailand in a few hours. Maybe you'll get lucky."
With that, he lets go of her, and she hurriedly draws a sheet over herself, as if she were completely naked and not still in the disheveled remnants of a Valentino dress. "Thailand?" she asks, powerless to stop her curiosity. "What's in… Chuck! You've found Chuck, haven't you?"
He laughs, his handsome face full of amused delight. "I didn't find Chuck," he confesses. "I've always known where he was. He is staying in a Bass hotel, after all."
"You son of a bitch! You lied to everyone on purpose!"
"Of course I did," he nods condescendingly. "I needed him out of the way so I could see what all the fuss was about. He's mentioned you frequently you realize, in phone calls, emails. Talks about you like dearly departed Bart talked about his first wife." Jack smiles, a sardonic twist of lips that does not resemble any form of happiness Blair has ever seen. "He loves you, he's all but told me so, and look how you rewarded his devotion."
She sobs then. Great wracking wails that shake her small form huddled on the bed, and as he curves his arms around her, pulling her against his chest, touching her as if she were his, the tears only fall faster, her howls of despair turning into hysterical keening.
"That's alright, precious," he soothes. "Cry all you want. This'll be our little secret."