Disclaimer: I own nothing but 8 brothers who've given me the propensity to swear like a pirate. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

A/N: This is dedicated to my Red. Love you and glad you are ok!! Terribly sorry this took me longer than imagined. I do hope you like it, though it may not be as 'smutty' as you requested. Chuck refused to...er, play ball?

THANK YOUS to my girls BETH! Court! and Ayr!

"Sometimes it's something. Sometimes it's meaningful. Sometimes it's caressing faces and fingers intertwined and whispering little secrets in ears. …And sometimes a fuck is just a fuck." (Y.P.F - Young People F cking)

Chuck had always subscribed to the latter of the two, believing the first to be bullshit; a lie girls willingly ate up, deluding themselves into believing they hadn't just fallen onto their backs and parted their knees for some horny asshole who only cared about emptying his balls.

No, he was special, she was special; it was special. She hadn't just been pounded, used and then discarded. She wasn't just a warmer, tighter step up from the guy's own palm. Wasn't just some chick he'd picked up in a bar whose name he hadn't bothered to ask, let alone wanted to remember.

No, he'd caressed her, whispered softly to her, had gently made love with her.

Sex was just sex; love had nothing to do with it.

Not unless you counted the way he loved the way their eyes widened, impressed with the size of his dick, just before he rolled the magnum on only to roll it off again later, discarding it as quickly as possible like he did them.

A fuck was just that, a fuck - and he'd yet to meet a young woman who didn't share his philosophy. And he'd met more than even he could remember; the amount of boys he'd liberated could fill the Marianna Trench five times over, had filled a certain Marianna's trench five times over, if he remembered correctly.

As the girl beside him handed him her drink and sauntered onto the stage he now owned, catching his gaze over her shoulder in silent acceptance of his challenge, he couldn't stop the thought from taking root in his mind any longer; would getting off just be getting off with Blair Waldorf wrapped around him?

In theory, it should be. Cock, meet Pussy, she'll be the entertainment for this evening's festivities.

But the fact that his palms were suddenly too damp and his heartbeat had spiked to an unprecedented rate as, eyes locked on his, she slowly pulled the yellow material from her hair all threatened to cut his theory off at the knees.

Not to mention the unnamable, and disturbing, feeling that thinking about her in terms of just another Saturday night caused in the pit of his stomach.

He could blame the alcohol, but he'd been keeping pace with her since she'd brushed past him upset into the club and hadn't had that much to drink (for him), though the limited alcohol intake did explain his current inability to make his suddenly parched throat work.

But it didn't offer any explanation for why he was suddenly on his feet, enraptured as the lacy material of her prim and proper dress slid down the length of her, pooling on the floor.

The masculine black 'waitress's' deep baritone cut through his thoughts, confirming that they were indeed in a public place, that her hips were swaying seductively on his stage for all to see and not just in his head in some (almost) unheard of fantasy.

His answer was delayed, and rife with honesty; he had no idea.

It was like he was seeing her for the first time himself, though through somebody else's eyes. Somebody who wasn't her(ex?)boyfriend's best friend, somebody who just might believe in 'sometimes'.

Maybe the champagne was past its prime, though he had personally overseen its ordering and knew otherwise or maybe she'd slipped him something, though that idea was ludicrously unfounded and more flimsy than the first.

Or maybe she'd been the one sipping too much bubbly. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes a little glassy beneath heavy lids as she watched him watch her sweep her hair from her neck in a way that was doing nothing to discourage his rising blood pressure.

It was almost as if she was dancing for him; the way she trailed her finger up the seam of her stockings, full lips slightly parted. How she slowly ran the strand of pearls through her fingers, holding his gaze as she bent deliberately to ghost her hand from her calf to the lacy trim of her negligee riding high on her thigh.

The 'waitress' retreated into the sea of faceless people he knew surrounded him, but could no longer hear over the sensual beat of the music or the erratic tattoo of his heartbeat in his ears.

He raised her glass to his lips to lure his dry throat into cooperating, and found himself lifting the flute higher still, saluting her. She'd won, shedding the clothes of the person expectations dictated she be to seduce him into being another version of himself that believed– if only for the length of one song.

And then the music ended, the roaring of the crowd behind him bursting him from his muted bubble, and she was back beside him, underdressed, glistening with sweat and out of breath, but prim and proper and controlled.

Even kilter once more, and choosing to ignore his momentary half slip into something – a fuck was just a fuck, after all, he forced his lips into a sneer and flicked the thin scrap of material at her shoulder, drawling something about taking a run at her himself had he known her talents lay on stage.

Maybe he should have a pole or two installed? That way, the next time she felt the need to channel Marilyn Monroe; she'd at least have something to get herself off with while he took matters into his own hands.

When after a short pause she threw back her own thinly veiled insult, telling him to make sure they were over ten feet, because she wouldn't touch him with anything less, he relaxed into the familiarity of their barbed banter. They had remained that way, tossing badly fashioned insults back and forth until they reached the quiet cave of his limo and he could no longer stop the words from coming out as she slumped against the seat, her head resting against the cool leather, thanking him for the ride that really required no thanks.

She'd been amazing up there.

And then, though the music in the club had been pounding, and outside New York's soundtrack was harsh and loud and fast, she slowly inched her way across the tiny remnants of the gap between them, and kissed him.

Full, innocent lips against his skilled, experienced mouth. Delicate, lily soft fingers inching toward his overused crotch.

So he pulled back, unable to think of it as his dick, his cock in her soft presence any longer and in a low whisper asked her if she was sure.

A meaningful nod and her lips were on his again, her tongue reaching out to taste his. His palm lingered across her collarbone and down the milky skin of her arm as he slowly divested her of the thin silk strap.

Small, delicate fingers stroked the hair at the nape of his neck, and his own thick fingers rose to briefly intertwine with hers before leisurely caressing the back of her thigh.

She pulled back, eyes soft in the intimate dark of the moment, and guided his jacket from his shoulders, the palms of her hands warm against the silk material of his shirt. He held her gaze as he gently trailed his fingers the length of her shapely calf to slip her shoes from her feet, her stockings slowly following suit before his lips reunited with hers.

Her little fingers worked the clasp of his belt buckle, freeing him from his pants as she pressed lingering kisses to the hollow of his neck. She slid a smooth leg across him until her knees hugged his thighs, his palms ghosting up the soft skin of her arms to cradle her face in his hands, lifting her eyes to meet his.

His gaze searched hers as she hovered above him and finding no hesitation, or reluctance, or sharp edges he allowed her hips to sink lower and lower until her warmth surrounded him. Her eyes, wide with wonder, held his as she began the slow dance, his palm stroking her spine at the small of her back.

And there they stayed; eyelids hooded, lips slightly parted, gazes locked, until the limo slammed on its breaks, honking its horn and ripped them from their dark cave.

Stockings were yanked on, feet crammed into shoes and silk jerked back into place before all he saw was a brunette blur vaulting into the street and all he heard was the harsh 'This never happened' she tossed over her shoulder.

He rode home in amazed silence, only managing to tug his pants back into place moments before his driver swung open the back door and the cool night air crashed against his flush skin.

He refused to allow his mind to go there as he rode the elevator to his suite, only faltering as he reached the wet bar, coming face to face with his father.

What was the man doing here? Wasn't the meeting with the Australian brokers supposed to tie him up until mid next week?

When his father paused, regarding him with a puzzled frown and asked him what it was that had that look on his face he merely shrugged, telling the older man; nothing - it was nothing before he turned and escaped down the hallway to his bedroom, missing his father's perplex reply. No, this time it wasn't nothing, but something.

Sometimes it's something, son. Sometimes it's something.

A/N If you are impatiently awaiting updates to my other fics Mahogany and 'Til the End (as were promised earlier in the week) I've been unexpectedly called to Montreal for a funeral. Thank you to everyone who has been offering condolences, and I hope you continue to stick with me:). I'll be back sometime Sat/Sun hopefully. Thanks again.

Lynne

Oh, and for those of you I may have confused:

Italic words - 'something more'
Bold & Italic words - 'just a fuck'
Bold words - warring between the two (more vs. fuck)