Metropolitan Opera House, New York

He was eighteen when he found her, sourced her to the room with the gilded ceiling by her breathy little cries; he thought she looked too young to be playing that game, the game with her hand moving restlessly beneath her pale blue skirt, all alone in the ladies' lounge at the opera.

"Bass!" She had gasped.

Up until then, their relationship had consisted of but two words, and now he spoke the second.


Her shoulders sloped delicately downward, rising and falling as she sought each breath. "You won't tell?"

"Not if you show me again."

Her stomp past him had been delightful, and the hazy golden room was still redolent of a cat in heat. She was sixteen years old, still willful, beautiful but unaware of anything but the heavy sleeves slipping from her shoulders, the curls coming loose from her coiffure. He hadn't turned to watch her go but had felt her, followed her with every sense he possessed...perhaps Blair Waldorf, with her little pink tongue parting her overripe lips, wasn't too young to be a player after all.


Shhh - I'm supposed to be on hiatus. Drop me a line and tell me what you think, and we'll go from there *winks emphatically*