Tousled Curls and Winston Pearls

As I lick my lips, I'm incredibly cognizant of the fact that my mouth is drier than Stephen Colbert's humor (not that Stephen Colbert's humor is bad, I'm just more of a Jon Stewart kind of guy. I guess that's the liberal in me, but yeah, I digress). The creamy white arm draped over my stomach is a deterrent in my quest for water, however, and I'm kind of hesitant to move for fear of waking Blair.

This is pretty much how all of our mornings start out, me waking up early and Blair drowning in a sea of blankets. You'd think that it would be the opposite because Blair is so organized and in control of her life, but then again, there are a lot of different sides of Blair that most people don't get to see.

I'm a lucky guy.

No longer able to withstand my thirst, I venture to lift Blair's arm gently off of my stomach. I have to take a quick glance at her, because honestly, I still can't believe we've been sharing beds for over two months. With her fair skin and thick, tousled curls, Blair reminds me of a young Elizabeth Taylor. I guess you could consider Blair Manhattan royalty, but still, there's something intangible about her that transcends Upper East Side tradition.

Swinging my legs over the side of the mattress, I get to my feet and make my way around the bed. Even though the heat in the penthouse is allegedly cranked up to seventy-eight, the fact that I'm as clothed as a Calvin Klein model does little to keep the winter air sneaking through the window at bay. Too focused on how cold I am, I neglect to see my own left foot betraying me. Suffice to say, I go down faster than Georgina Sparks in a Russian orgy.

"Fuck!" I mutter as my knee collides with the edge of Blair's nightstand. I don't do pain well. Yeah, I admit it, I'm a baby.

Suddenly, I hear the bed creaking, and raise my head to see two wide, sparkling eyes staring back at me. "Of all the wonderful qualities you possess, gracefulness is clearly not one of them," Blair remarks with jest.

"Your wit astounds me," I tell her (it really does). Standing up with misplaced pride, I find myself needing to redeem myself in terms of my bedroom gymnastics. "I was gonna go get some water, but, uh, yeah, obviously that didn't happen. I did manage to get this great bruise, though."

I regret my choice of words as quickly as the sentences tumbles out of my mouth. You know, you'd think that for an aspiring writer, my conversational ability would consist of more than interjections. I guess it's a force of habit, the fact that I express myself using far more words than necessary (Jenny calls it a gift, I call it a curse).

"Bruised or not bruised, Humphrey, you are still a klutz," Blair laughs. She shifts on the bed and my heart skips a beat at the way the thin strap of her nightgown slips down her shoulder.

A moment of silence passes, and as my eyes graze over her silk-clad body, I decide that water can wait. Bending down, I press my lips to Blair's and a jolt of electricity courses through my body. The scent of her perfume still lingers from the night before, mixed with that distinct aroma of Blair that I've come to worship.

Expertly, Blair pulls me on top of her, her slender body melding to mine. Even though this is hardly the first time she's been beneath me, I can't help but be nervous that I'm crushing her. "You okay?" I have to ask, because Blair's comfort is my first priority.

A simple sigh is her response, and the sensuality in which it's drenched is driving me wild. Desperate to get lost in the utopia that is Blair Waldorf, I dip my head and kiss her neck softly.

Apparently, the gods have it out for me because right as my hands start bunching up the fabric of her nightgown, my damn cell phone goes off. Leaning over Blair, I pick it up and groan at the number flashing on the LCD screen. "My dad," I inform Blair as I accept the call, regretting it immediately. I mean, what kind of nerd answers a call from their father mid-foreplay?

Ah, yeah, that's right. Me.

My dad's rambling on in my ear and I'm pretty much giving him non-committal "yes's" and "wow's", because I'm too distracted to actually care right now.

Catching something about waffles in my dad's spiel, my mind drifts off, specifically, to a few months ago, when I first starting hanging out with Blair. Initially, the prospect of spending so much time with her was, well, less than pleasant, to say the least. But, you know, after being around a person day in and day out, you come to learn a few things about 'em. Me? I learned that Blair and I, we really aren't so different. Eh, alright, Blair has that whole "ruthless manipulator" thing down to an art, but still, the fact stands.

See, I never thought I would meet an Upper East Sider who knows as much about classic lit and cinema as me. Blair? She's ridiculous. Forget libraries, if you want to know about Jane Austen, she's your go –to girl. As it turns out, we both love Sense and Sensibility and think that Catcher in the Rye is overrated (don't get me started).

We also knew that there was something happening between us when we kept up our coffee dates even after the plotting and the article collaboration. Over several lattes, I learned that Blair and I both have an affinity for strawberry ice cream, mothers whom we hardly see, and ambition, both professional and educational, paralleled only by Cleopatra and Marc Antony. Who'd have thought?

I'm shaken out of my musings as my dad's voice becomes increasingly loud. "Dan? Dan? Are you listening?"


"Yeah, dad, I'm here."

"Well a response every once and a while would be nice. A box from Harry Winston came today. You wanna tell me why exactly you need those cufflinks? The button on your shirt does the job just as well."

Ah, the Great Cufflink Debate of 2011. I really don't want to get into this with my dad while I've got my gorgeous girlfriend half-naked next to me (I wisely choose to leave that part out). After briefly arguing over the phone for another minute, I end the conversation and turn my phone off.

Deftly poising myself over Blair a second time, I pull the covers up around the both of us and press my lips to her ear. "Just wait until my dad sees the box of Winston pearls."

Blair's breath hitches in her throat and she narrows her eyes with gleaming suspicion. "You didn't."

Cocking my head noncommittally, I grin.

"You never cease to amaze me, Dan Humphrey," she whispers playfully as she reaches her arms around me and draws me close to her chest.

I could say the same for Blair.

AN: Hope you guys liked things from Dan's perspective. It does give a little more insight into Dair's relationship, and I hoped to demonstrate why I think that they, as a couple, are plausible.