Author's Note: Written for the fourth prompt of the sixth Limoversary – "games". Set during Chuck and Blair's time sneaking around having sex in the back of Chuck's limo (several times) as referenced to in 1x17. Because you didn't think Blair was capable of being that imaginative (2x08), or that Chuck hasn't wanted to play "Where['s] Waldorf?" all night before 2x19, did you?
One of her hands rises to lightly touch his cheek, dips down to trail her fingers against the skin of his neck before sliding around his neck and kissing him back – brazenly, passionately, desperately. The heat spreading along every nerve and consuming the recklessly hungry and greedy parts of her that desire to be swept away until she is moving boldly against him. Twisting her body until her right side is pressed against the back of the seat, until she's turning into him and following each mesmerizing kiss.
And the instant he eases the pressure of his lips against hers, she compensates with a fiery, passionate demand for more, more, more. Grace Jones toppling Grace Kelly because she doesn't have to be poised and perfect here, because greedy passion is rewarded in this place where tinted windows keep judgment out and hide fireworks from prying eyes. Fireworks so bright that her eyelids fall close as he locks his lips on hers, as he gives her what she so insistently demands.
He slides his palms from her shoulders up the graceful slope of her neck and then down her back as she curves into him, as she stretches into every kiss with a silent purr of delight. He lets his hands pause at her waist and lightly flexes his fingers against the hip bone covered in fabric before pressing her into the leather seat below them in a reminder to her, to him, to them that she's back here once more willing and ready and clamoring for more.
An unnecessary reminder because she shifts her hips against him and refuses to moderate the kiss from ravenous to merely hungry, refuses to allow him to deny her what she is risking reputation and sanity to have. The shift of her hips creates a gap between her ass and the leather seat serving as her throne just wide enough for him to slide his hand in between and cup, for him to trace suggestively and hold possessively as he shifts against her.
A claiming statement that only makes her move more urgently and demanding against him in reply because she hates to be teased, hates to offer up all that she is and have it shoved aside. His eagerness to take her for a ride – literally, figuratively – being the one thing she can count on and promised to her once more as he bends his head and kisses her more deeply than before.
Hands anchored in his hair, she clings to the kiss as she allows herself free, as she steps outside of the shadow of what she should be and enjoys a world that is more exciting, more tantalizing and enthralling than the one she belonged to for sixteen years, fifty-one weeks, and five days. A world where she is neither required to rein her devious passion in or even have the intention of trying; a moment where she can live without worry, even if only for the few reckless moments where his fingers flex and grip and where his lips press and tease and—
Leave hers with an infuriating chuckle, with a taunting smirk seen only after she falls forward, after she opens up her eyes and stares him down. Smarmy satisfaction spreading across his features as he shifts his hips away from hers and falls back against the bench seat. Barely disguised panic swelling inside her as his hand releases her ass and skates up her side to her rib cage because he doesn't get to reject her, because she is—
Bending into him again as his lips return to hers, as his hand moves from her rib cage to brush against the underside of her breast only to cup and strum his thumb across her nipple through the fabric of her dress. The relief so sharp that she presses her hand against his neck, parts her lips, and gasps her approval into his mouth in surrender to him, to the way he claims every inch of her lips until shudders race down her spine.
His hand shifts against her breast – cupping and squeezing gently – while his fingers find her nipple and circle tantalizingly and tauntingly until her nails sink into the soft skin at the nape of his neck and her hips shift off the seat in a desperate plead for more. His fingers close about her nipple and her spine arches as a moan, a purr, a gasp escapes from her lips. He rolls the tight bud through the slippery fabric of her dress until her purrs stop being out of delight but out of frustration because she needs more friction, more touching.
More, more, more.
Twisting a fraction, her leg slips up onto the seat between them and her thighs part in invitation, in demand. But he seems unaware or, more likely, aware yet deviously uncaring because his fingers move from her nipple to palm her breast once more, move to curl back around her waist and hold her against the seat of his limo away from him. And he eases back from the kiss while he reaches up with his free hand to detach the fingers digging into his neck, to draw her hand from the place that drives him crazy and place it instead against the back of the limo in silent instruction for her to grip the leather rather than him.
She pushes forward because she knows exactly how to tempt him with demanding, eager caresses as a woman that meets him stroke for stroke rather than gives him full reign over her. And she doesn't allow him to resume control of the kiss nor does she allow him to even try because supremacy is hers and his and shared mutually between them.
Except not tonight, not in the back of his limo as it continues traveling down streets through the parts of Manhattan she aspires to rule and as he draws back completely from the kiss. Not entirely, though, because instead of drawing his lips from hers, he skates them along her jaw to her earlobe and then allows words to slip past them in a deep, seductive call.
"I wanna play a game."
"A game?" She questions as his hand tips her chin backwards, as he spends a moment placing lingering kisses in the hollow beneath her ear. She tips her head back further with a shivery sigh when his lips become nipping caresses down the gently sloping line of her neck. "What—what kind of game?"
"Where, Waldorf?"
A game without the most protean verb of the English language; a game without action or explanation that causes her eyebrows to pitch in surprise and her breath to catch in excitement as he pauses at the nape of her neck to press his lips against her thudding pulse. A game she still does not understand as he runs his tongue over her pulse point, as he pauses once more to grin wickedly against her skin.
"Here? Or—"
His lips trail from her neck skimming over the strap of her neck that hides the space between her neck and her shoulder from him to press a kiss against her shoulder. He repeats his question once more – twice more – between kisses, and her head twists to look at him because the purpose of this game is becoming more and more evident with every kiss, every lick, and every press of his nose into her rapidly heating skin.
"Hmm, where, Waldorf?"
He murmurs his question into her skin as he moves slowly, languidly down her arm. Her heads twists away as her eyes close, and her fingers dig into the fabric of leather of the limo as her lips part in a gasp. Breathless, arching, and yet desperate to play as his lips find the skin just above her elbow, as his tongue runs over it in a teasing gesture of what is to come.
His lips on her skin – the hot, wet caress of his tongue on her skin – Is illicit and addictive and sends heat spreading low in her belly. Her head twists until her chin skims across the crown of his head; her body twists until his hand moves to her arm to hold her in place.
"You have to tell me if you want to play," he taunts and teases with a sigh of hot breath against the crook of her arm. "You have to answer me when I ask where, Waldorf."
"Please," she manages to say in a breathless, achy gasp. She waits for her reward, waits for him to indulge her for being willing to play another one of his games with him. And for the briefest of moments, he tightens his hold around her arm and swipes his tongue against the skin in the crook of her elbow, but then just as quickly he shifts away from her and detaches his lips entirely once more.
"No, Waldorf, that's not the game. You have to say where."
Impatience builds and eyes flash open once more because she doesn't say please to anyone, because she doesn't like how much he teases her. But he is there to guide her and prompt her just as he was the very first time, and this time her breathy, aching gasp is presented as the demanding edict of a queen.
"There."
Almost immediately, he rewards her with another hot caress of his tongue against her skin, and he slides from the seat beside her to her knees before her. His lips never once leaving her skin as he trails kisses down the length of her arm. She watches with hooded eyes, with a gasp ready to escape when his other hand moves to caress against her bare knee under the fabric of her dress.
A gasp released when his hand skates slowly upward and his fingers brush against the sensitive skin of her thigh. Brushes that trace, claim, and reward every purr of delight off her lips and every shift of her hips against the seat. One fingertip – one she knows quite well – stretches forward to trace the damp lace between the junction of her thighs and then falls away so his hand can lift the hem of her skirt, push it higher up her leg, and expose bare legs to the lips that have continued to lavish affection against her arm.
A single press of his lips against her kneecap sends her head falling backwards and her fingers digging into the fabric of the limo's backseat. A single swipe of his tongue against her kneecap sends the fingers of her free hand sliding through his hair and tangling with the brown hairs. But he moves his lips away from her skin – a smirk lifting the corners of his lips at the sound of her growl in displeasure – and lifts his eyes to watch her, to ask her to play his twisted game the way he wants to once again.
"Where, Waldorf?"
Lifting her heavy lids, she tries to catch her breath and figure out what he wants. One look at him through eyes clouded with lust and desire, though, and she knows immediately what the endgame of this new excruciating pleasure he has concocted is for him – the taste of her wanton desire on his lips, the sound of her wanton desire in his ears.
"I know you know what it's called. All you have to do is tell me where, Waldorf."
His fingers slide upward from her kneecap between her thighs to peel back the damp fabric, to slip the one finger she knows so well in between for a single, teasing stroke downward. Another gasp off her lips even as she tries to bit her lip and stifle the word before it can join with her moan; another chuckle off his lips as he reminds her of the exact number of letters making up this single word and asks her to tell him where one more time.
"Where, Waldorf?"
The desired combination is spoken as his fingers traces her slick, swollen folds, and she is rewarded immediately with the return of his lips to her skin, with the swipe of his tongue against the inside of her thigh. Smug satisfaction on his part gives away to her own as his other hand leaves her arm to part her legs further and lift her hips, as the finger tracing her so intimately is joined by four more that pull down the lace panties blocking their way. And his lips move from the inside of her left thigh closer still while that single finger returns to circle, trace, and tease, to gather the hot, slick moisture just because he likes the way it feels on his fingertips.
Her own fingers grip his hair as his tongue replaces his finger and directs him onward because she played his little game and now she wants the prize. Her own fingers grip onto the back of the seat and steady herself as the caress of his tongue against the skin of her neck, arm, elbow, knee, and thigh is repeated between her thighs.
Her lips part just as her thighs fall open further to him; her lips close as her thighs clamp close when he tries to move away and ask her once more. But his words become muffled and lost as her own echo throughout the limo, as her hand pushes him forward and silences him all together.
"There, Bass."
The nine letters of her edict crack and catch as her breath hitches and tangles in her throat at the rewarding swipe of his tongue, at the nipping caresses of his lips around her tight bundle of nerves. And then his tongue mimics what the finger she knows so well would do for her – easing her and filling her and driving her to the point where her eyes shut, her mouth parts, her head falls backward, and every bone in her body becomes consumed by the fire of pulsing excitement.
Consumed such that flames roar, passion spills over, and she tightens unbearably – white hot and intense. Consumed such that only the one who knows her body so well would know to look up from under his lashes and the fabric pooled at her hips to watch her teeter on the peak, on the brink of orgasm.
Know the exact moment to see her skin flushed and glowing, her lips swollen and parted, and her breathing beyond ragged as she experiences each wave of pleasure he sends coursing through her. Know to press deeper and shift his tongue ever so slightly to the right to nudge her over the edge and sending her falling with a soft purring cry. Know that the ripples of her release against his tongue and the taste of her desire for him on his lips are savory byproducts of their ultimate endgame.