The Secrets of Summer

Part 1 of 2

A/N: *sigh* Here we go again. I know, I know. Wth, Jessica? It started as a response to a prompt on gossipgirlanon that evolved itself in my brain. I can't help it! Anyway, the prompt was Tripp/Blair: Lolita. You have been warned.

It wasn't that he particularly enjoyed the family estate in Connecticut. In fact, a good part of him despised the place, but his summer housing assignment at Yale had fallen through and his parents insisted that he accompanied them to the family reunion. Tripp stepped out of the car, his khakis slightly wrinkled from the ride and the top button of his shirt undone. He held onto his personal luggage – a brown leather briefcase that had been a high school graduation present filled with the archaeology textbooks he needed to pour over for his undergraduate research thesis. If nothing else, he thought, this summer would be productive.

The air in Connecticut always smelled a little different and despite himself, he liked it. The sky was a light blue and the green around the estate burst with promises of new beginnings. He took it all in as the breeze ruffled his hair and the staff walked by with the rest of their bags. Perhaps the time away from campus was what he needed. Things had been so tense after he and Maureen decided to take some time off. Even if he spent the days locked away in his room at the estate, at least he didn't have to avoid certain places in the event that he sought human contact.

He was on the steps up to the front double doors when he first spotted her. She wore her dark hair in cascading waves against stretches of smooth alabaster skin that taunted him from beneath a thin white lacey frock that reached her mid-thigh. Her mouth was a soft peach pout that complimented the color in her cheeks and shaped her doll-like profile. She kept her eyes blankly ahead of her at a Vanderbilt football game.

The romantic in him would not let him forget, not even for a second, the moment she caught his eye and turned her face to him. She smiled so softly that he felt his chest constrict at its beautiful fragility and he might have imagined the spark that lit up in her eyes as she felt him take her in.

She certainly lit a spark in him.


The last time he saw Blair Waldorf, she had been a slip of a girl. Her teeth were too slightly too big for her mouth and her eyes always glued to his younger cousin. Yet at dinner that night, as she held her boyfriend's hand on the table right across from him and carried on polite conversation like a pro, he found himself unable to look away. The girl – because at sixteen, she could hardly be considered a woman – was simply captivating. Every nerve in his body called out to her in familiarity. She was the combination of every girl he had ever wanted as a teenager. He bounced his feet slightly at the energy amassed from the very proximity of hers under the narrow table.

He had few words but even those were unnecessary when her right knee bumped his and she met his gaze with an apologetic smile and a glance of her own that lingered for a second even as she turned her face to the conversation taking place to her right.

His helping of salmon filet was just served when he felt her cross her legs. She must have seen him shiver because the curve of her lips as she ran her moving limb up his calf before it rested on top her other leg could only be described as teasing.

He wondered how appalled the other Vanderbilts would be if they knew how hard he was during a family dinner, right under Johannes Vanderbilt's portrait.


There was something strangely, yet incredibly arousing about the fact that he had known the 'before' in this Ugly Duckling story, even if she could never really have been considered ugly. Still, he never expected for her to blossom as she did and to witness her continual growth was more inspiring than the texts that were collecting dust on his nightstand. He watched her from his window while she watched Nate, while she kissed Nate, while she sat on Nate's lap and thrust her tongue into Nate's mouth and let him slip his hand up her skirt just a little before she clamped her hand on top of his.

He acknowledged that the behavior was immoral at best and criminal at worst, but he could hardly help himself. Not when he was almost positive that sometimes her eyes fluttered open and caught his before turning away quick enough for him to believe that it had all been his imagination.

But then once, Nate brought her into his room and while the two cousins chatted, Tripp couldn't help but notice the way she ran a delicate index finger down the spine of Lynn Meskell's Archaeology of Social Life: Age, Sex, Class Etc. in Ancient Egypt.

The smell of Coco Mademoiselle that lingered on his sheets assured him that he had not imagined their encounter and he slept with the image of her clean, well-kept nails running down his arms, her hair mussed against his headboard.


He hadn't played football with his family since he was Nate's age, but he stood with her by the sidelines while the teams were picked and she turned her face to him over her bare shoulder. "I like winners."

His team beat Nate's by three points and he walked off the field with a victorious grin, as though half expecting the girl to run into his arms and spin around until they fell into a laughing mess. No, instead, she kissed her boyfriend in consolation while he ground his teeth.

He only felt slightly better when she looked over her shoulder again back at him and winked.


They shouldn't be there. Tripp knew better.

But then again, his brain never functioned well after 11 pm, let alone the fact that he was awakened by the girl showing up like a fairy at his door at 1 am to rouse him from his slumber.

She held her arms out for balance as she walked along the thin yellow line painted around the dimly lit pool. Her eyes stayed on the line as she spoke. "Nate and I broke up."

"I know." Of course he knew. How could he not know? She didn't question it either.

"He thinks Serena's better suited for him and wants to give it a try." She was wearing a little yellow sundress that rode up while her arms were still up. It made her look like spring. Her hair was in an uncharacteristically messy ponytail behind her and the blue of the water's reflection danced on her skin. "He thinks I'm not adventurous and spontaneous enough."

"Hm. Maybe you're just ill-matched."

She looked up at him from beneath her lashes. "You would like that, wouldn't you?"

It was as though her eyes sprouted invisible arms that constricted his throat because Tripp, who never had a problem devising a clever argument or opinion, who always spoke up and entertained his class with witty comebacks for his professors, physically could not say anything as she approached him like a predator.

As though he would ever run away from her.

"I can be spontaneous, Tripp. You know that, don't you?" He could only swallow in response; his Adam's apple bounced like a buoy and breathing was becoming a difficult task.

She looked down again, her hands smoothed out her dress before traveling down her body to the hem. With small, delicate fingers, she grasped the edges and lifted, taunting him with inch after inch of delectable flesh until it came over her head and onto a lounge chair. He did wonder about those red straps beneath the yellow dress and now he knew. She waited patiently, her eyes trained on his reaction before she slowly uncrossed her arms. He didn't know where to start looking and could only mutter "going swimming?"

"Not exactly what I had in mind." She sauntered up to him, hips swinging in confidence. Confidence probably gained by the way his jaw nearly hit the floor. She swung her hair free after she pulled the thin black elastic from it. She was so close that he could smell her perfume drifting up his nostrils and felt rather than saw her tip toe. Her body was leaning closer to his and just when he thought his mouth would finally meet hers, she stopped. "But not a bad idea."

She splashed him when she hit the water and he found himself taking off his shoes. Then his shirt. It all went until he was down to his boxers and even as he berated himself for this terrible idea, he slid his body into the pool.

His arms swung on their own accord as he kicked his legs behind him. They reached for her even when there was not nearly enough blood in his brain to think properly. He followed the sound of her giggles and laughs and he let her go a few times. Her evasion techniques were poor and he spent a good amount of his childhood sailing on the water so logic dictated that he ought to be able to reach her within minutes, but he had never seen her so light and carefree before that he was willing to wait a few more minutes as he halfheartedly chased her around.

Her legs were white as they reflected the pool lights and he grasped one so that when he pulled, she gave a tiny yelp before her body crashed into his and he held her small, slippery waist in his hands. He backed them into a wall and he told himself that's what capturers did to their prisoners lest they escape.

She breathed heavy when he ran his thumbs up and down the sides of her navel and the tips of her breasts brushed against his chest whenever she took a breath. Her left leg ground her, but her right folded like a crane, the bottom of her foot flat against the wall and the knee extended past his body, taking the leg of his boxers up with it. The inside of her thigh was the softest thing he had ever felt and he let his left hand relinquish its post and grip her leg around him. It perhaps was not the smartest thing to do; it brought his pelvis nearly right up against hers and her head threw back in a gasp.

The heat of her body was inviting and her face mesmerizing. There was a severe disconnect between his brain and his body because his mind was busy at work memorizing the way she looked with her eyes shut and her mouth open like that and his body was on auto-pilot as it moved its way closer to the warmth.

She shocked him back to earth when she began to move her hips against his.

He went rigid. It was something he had imagined a thousand times, but as it happened, his mind blanked.

"What's wrong?" He heard her voice, breathless. At least he wasn't the only one.

"Have you – have you ever done – that is, has anyone ever… touched you before?"

She shook her head, the wet strands of her hair brushing against him. "No." She brought her hands to his shoulders. "But Tripp, I want to – I need…" She couldn't say it and he knew she wouldn't be able to, so she just finished with a "please."

There it was again, that pesky romantic in him. It made his right hand tremble as he cupped her cheek and pressed a closed mouth kiss to her lips, all the while remembering the first time that summer when their eyes met under a clear blue sky. Against the innocence of that gesture, his left hand slid up her leg that had wound itself tight around him and rested on the swimming suit bottom that pressed close like a second skin, skin that no one else had touched before.

She moaned and pushed against his lips when he applied pressure onto the material, feeling his way around her, discovering the spots that made her shudder and groan. She didn't even have to try to get a reaction from him; her little pink tongue ran its way across his lips and his mouth opened as though he was taking his first breath and the hand that laid on her cheek travelled down to her neck even as he kissed her with everything he had. Every bit of passion she inflamed in him thus far in the summer and the soft pads of his fingers ghosted over her skin even lower to her collarbone, beneath a strap, across the top of her breasts and finally covered one with his palm.

She thrust her hip towards her and with a cute pout and that voice she used when she wanted her iced tea two minutes ago. "What are you waiting for, Tripp? I-I thought this was what you wanted?"

If she only knew how much he wanted this, she wouldn't have tempted him in the first place. But he was the older one here. He was not going to be a teenager's mistake. He would at least try to be noble. "Blair. You- you know I… Are you sure? You just broke up with – and I don't want you to do something that –"

"I'm being spontaneous tonight." She kissed him then, hard and rushed. "I'm yours, Tripp. Take me." He wanted to say yes. God yes. But he knew what this was to her and it was entirely too different from what this was to him.

So in a way he gave her what she wanted. He pushed aside the cloth and slid his index finger into her and his body sang at the way she curled against him. Her breath was ragged as she leaned her forehead against his chest and he in turn laid his head against hers. He felt her eyelashes on his skin as she squeezed her eyes shut and her hands curled into little fists on his shoulders. He took a few calming breaths himself before he asked, "are you – is this all right?"

Even at her nod, he wasn't sure. The only thing he was sure of was that she didn't lie when she said that no one else had touched her there. She was tight, responsive, passionate laced with a twinge of fear. He could feel it in her slight tremble so he went slow. A soft, sensual rhythm until she herself grew impatient and urged him further with a kiss.

Her kisses and movements were a little sloppy, eager with age, and she was easy to satisfy and worship. She adjusted and he slipped another finger in, his thumb pressing against the very top of her slit. He studied her as he would an ancient relic, his free hand brushing over parts of her skin as he would brush dirt off at an excavation site, and applying firm pressure when needed. He swallowed her sighs and let the gentle waves crash against his back.

Yet for all her inexperience, she was not a selfish lover. Clumsy as she may have been, she angled her leg to rub against him in no consistent rhythm or force, but enough to cause his stance to falter and his hands to tense.

He found the spot he would never forget when she gave a choking sound and her eyes flew open. And he hit it again and again and memorized it so that no man would ever know her the way he did. Tripp worked harder than he ever had before to please someone and it paid off as her cries became louder and his name tumbled out from between her lips. Just as she came, she pulled his head down to her and pulled at his hair and pulled at his tongue with hers but still he could hear the hum in her throat and couldn't help but feel a little pleased with himself. But then she wrapped her hand around him through his trousers and any sense of pride drained from him as he fell apart so easily at a touch of her hand. He convinced himself it was the wait that did him in.

He helped her out of the pool on her jelly-legs as a gentleman would and averted his gaze to his own clothing when she slipped on her dress. "So thanks for…"

"Yea." He kept his eyes on her as he always had but she could not turn hers to him. He felt nauseated when he realized that reality had settled in for her. She wasn't the spontaneous girl and she was realizing this. Spontaneity didn't work for her and he was… he wasn't part of her plan, he supposed. "Don't worry, I won't tell Nate."

"Right, I mean. I wasn't worried about." He cut her off with a look that told her to stop. She was only making things worse. "Thanks."

And she ran off and he stared, as he always had.