Gossip Girl: It Had To Be You

S and b create the ultimate distraction

The Basses' suite at the Tribeca Star was big enough to live in. It was the perfect party pad—sleek and modern with tasteful taupe velvet sofas, cherrywood paneling, cream-colored carpets, a king-size bed, two huge plasma-screen TVs, and a generous wet bar. The main attraction was the oversize hot tub, situated in a sort of anteroom between the master bedroom and the bathroom behind a giant sliding frosted glass door. Usually, the door was left open so that revelers could rotate freely between the couch, the bed, the bar, and the hot tub carrying magnums of champagne, their damp bodies wrapped loosely in the hotel's signature white Egyptian cotton Frette towels.

It was six o'clock on Friday night, the night Nate was to escort L'Wren Knowes to the debutante ball; the night Nate had planned to finally lose his virginity and become a man; the night Serena and Blair had been planning all week.

They arrived at the suite early. Serena brought half her parents' liquor cabinet and a carton of Gauloises with her. Blair had Fresh Direct deliver oysters, Godiva chocolate-dipped strawberries, caviar, and salty Triscuits. The idea was to ply Nate with aphrodisiacs, alcohol, and a general aura of seduction, causing him to become so distracted he'd forget all about L'Wren, the cotillion, and his first time.

Those had better be some strong aphrodisiacs!

Chuck's date for the ball was the twenty-year-old Italian contessa Donatella Juliet de la Varga, heiress to the Varga olive oil fortune. The contessa was strikingly beautiful, with hip-length amber-colored hair, dove gray eyes, flawless olive skin, endless legs, and the curvy 34 × 24 × 34 bust-waist-hips ratio of a Victoria's Secret model. To Chuck's complete and utter joy, the contessa was so used to going topless at beaches throughout Europe, she thought nothing of walking around the suite with her top off, asking for advice on which of her two pairs of exquisite gold Prada heels she should wear to the cotillion. Sadly, her English was so limited she could only communicate by saying "okay," "cute!" and "is hot, no?" which made her sound slightly retarded, but added to her allure.

It's hard to be jealous of anyone, however beautiful, who can only say three things.

"Having a bake sale, girls?" Chuck asked when he noticed Blair and Serena setting up shop at the round glass coffee table. They'd borrowed a few of the cut-crystal Baccarat ashtrays stacked on top of the wet bar and had filled them with an array of offerings, from Gauloises to lime wedges.

A bowl of cigarettes anyone? Olives? An oyster?

"Cute!" the tall, mostly naked foreign girl trailing Chuck exclaimed, pointing at the neatly arranged items on the coffee table.

Chuck snaked his arm around the contessa's bare, curvy waist. She was wearing white lacy boy shorts, a pair of gold metallic peep-toe pumps, and nothing else. Her round, navel orange–size boobs were tan and robust, like they'd spent more time in the sunshine and fresh air than had her perfectly sculptured face, which was pale in comparison.

Where exactly are these beaches she frequents?

"But my darlings, you forgot condoms," Chuck joked like the horny jackass that he was. "Don't worry, I'm sure there are some lying around." Actually, there were—cases of them, in the cabinet under the bathroom sink. It was gross. Who could get through that many condoms before they passed their sell-by date? But Chuck's parents—although they'd never actually engaged their son in a conversation about safe-sex practices—were adamant that the hotel's cleaning staff keep the bathroom cabinet well stocked. That was de rigueur with families such as the Basses, the Waldorfs, and the van der Woodsens: anything to avoid a scandal.

Better safe than sorry, right?

The contessa reached for an oyster, and Blair slapped her hand away. "Those are for my boyfriend," she hissed, ogling the Italian contessa's perfectly shaped tan breasts despite herself.