Do The Twist
Back room at the Oak Room –
Just like this.
Above the casino in Monte Carlo –
Just like that.
This, that, twist, shout.
He doesn't need to take his clothes off, they're something to grab, tear, twist. She likes the feel of the finest on the skin where they touch. She doesn't need him naked, she needs him on her, in her (hard). The headboard slaps the wall for the first time that night as she locks her ankles together, grinds her heels into his backside, twists the back of his collar, chokes him. He sucks air straight out of her mouth and she sucks on his tongue, drawing his taste down her throat. It goes down sweetly, like they've gone down before (hard).
Hands on her thighs, hands on her waist, one hand lifting the tattered black remains of her body so they slam together (oh yes, oh my God, oh my God). Her hipbones shudder and she opens up and closes at the same time, gripping like she's gripping his hair, holding him (hard) so coming in is coming home and pulling out is cold and shocking and that warm, familiar grasp is where he's supposed to be, what's supposed to drown him. Her contours are as familiar to him as the contours of a map, Central Park, Fifth Avenue, Park Avenue, the isle of Manhattan.
Heads turn this way, that way, lips everywhere, teeth everywhere, stinging kisses and soothing bites with no intention of drawing blood. He knows it's real because he tastes her sweat, salty, hears her purr at the first innings. He feels her twist.
Harming and healing, pressed so close they can feel their heartbeat, only the one (hard), no more than one needed for two. They'll fry together when the bed catches fire, when it hits the wall one final time and they smash through it, when they fall through the floor. They're going to die anyway, and one time alone isn't going to be enough. He'll roll off her and straight back on again, her legs will collapse and shake and determinedly wrap around him again, kicking at his spine, breaking his back, twisting his insides when she grapples with him, takes hold, twists (hard). Her hair is aflame, her body is white. She shudders all over. He sees nothing as he pours out everything, heart, soul (fuck, yes, yes) in one inferno that scorches her within and brands her without.
In the back of the limo –
Just like this.
Above the casino in Monte Carlo –
Just like that.
This, that, twist, shout.
Chuck pushes back her hair with shaking fingers and Blair, the consummate liar, lies limp and still but drinks down his tongue, tightens her grip and demands again, a reckless drinker with an overflowing glass and the twist, love, running down her throat, flooding their veins, the twist that's supposed to drown them.
Fin.