In case you didn't know, I - like many other multi-tasking authors - am also a poet and a singer. The song quoted is one of mine, inspired by Chair and called (like the title) 'Kiss Touch (Bad Word)', because I could never show it to my mother if it were 'Kiss Touch Word-That-Rhymes-With-Chuck', its original name.
It may seem that I refer to the Ten Commandments in the wrong order, but as I was raised Catholic (though I'm not very spiritual now), I use the Catholic order of commandments, which is different to the Anglican or Jewish one. Also, this piece is set in Chuck's 'new man' stage in season four.
Enjoy.

Kiss Touch (Bad Word)

When you touch me, I burn

She used to love it when he went down - all the way down - and not only because each petit mort eclipsed the last with its supernova of enticing oblivion. No, she used to love it because he talked; said all the things she needed to hear, the things that made the un-Blair-like heat rush through her like dark sickness and ebony fire. Now she breaks the ninth commandment and covets, flouts the eighth and bears false witness and oh, tragedy! - grinds the first into the dust. She makes him her false idol, this new man in Chuck's skin, and when he smiles politely and takes her hand, she feels her skin char and the lust gnawing at the pit of her stomach like the hunger of the fiend who lives down there and plays poker with her wrecked morality.

Nowadays, she gets off on him barely touching her at all.

When you kiss me, I hurt

"Lily, how lovely to see you."

She's next in the receiving line, twelfth to congratulate him on his triumph. She already went to church today, already confessed, already said her prayers and made her peace with the devil he exorcised and she's now embracing. They tango in the wee small hours of the morning, that devil and her fingers and her scent in the air.

"Good evening, Blair."

"It seems that congratulations are in order."

He smiles in innocent appreciation,and she leans forward to kiss his cheek and corrupt. It's one long movement, the press of her lips to the line of his jaw a little further back than is appropriate and the brush of the translucent silk of her blouse and exotically encased breasts beneath against his shirtfront. She draws back and smiles the old Chuck's smile; the lazy, simple, bestial smile of seduction.

"The Empire looks beautiful. Remind me to get the name of your designer."

She walks away with a swing in her step at the dazed look on his face and a nod to the French whore for good measure.

Don't you wanna

"...not going to Blair's brunch?"

He focuses on the flames, watching her smile flicker between them and the dark eyes flash: glowing coals, setting sun. "I think it's best if I stay away from Blair for a while - just until the air clears."

Serena makes a sound of derision. "Just until you take a cold shower, you mean."

Don't you wanna wanna

He doesn't look up. "I no longer have those feelings for Blair, Serena."

Her eyes burn into him like laser beams so he's caught between blue flames and red. "If that were true, you wouldn't need to leave every time she visits, tell your girlfriend to change her perfume and throw out the Tiffany's DVD."

"I hate George Peppard."

"Of course you do."

Pull down the blinds and get a little flirty

"This has to stop."

"What does, exactly?" She raises an eyebrow like a visual drawl, tucks one curl back into her coiffure and turns to admire one of Lily's new acquisitions adorning the wall. Her white neck is blatant, fragrant; ecstasy for a man blinded. He closes his eyes and counts to ten, and thinks of Eva's gentle smile and her 'you shouldn't have' at his latest gift.

Women like Blair expect gifts because they know they deserve them.

"These...these constant attempts of yours to turn me on!"

She glances back over her shoulder. "Oh, am I turning you on? Oopsie."

Don't you wanna

"I need a drink."

"But you never drink in the middle of the day!"

He stalks away from her, the air thick with a quiet rage. "I said that I need a drink."

His phone lies abandoned on the table as the door slams shut behind him, and the sweet faced French girl lifts it delicately from the polished wood and eyes the screen with apprehensive curiosity.

Don't you wanna wanna

Spotted: Blair Waldorf baring all on the Cote d'Azur. Because everyone does it in Europe, apparently...

Turn off the lights and get a dirty

"What exactly are you trying to do to me?"

"Who said that this has anything whatsoever to do with you?"

"I'm Chuck Bass."

"And Chuck Bass has a girlfriend."

Don't you wanna

She glides into his favourite watering hole just as it's about to close, and the bartender drops a glass when she tips him a wink and two hundred to keep the liquor coming. He eyes her darkly, and she smiles like a fallen seraph in search of her very own Satan. She drinks something red and fruity and out of character, her tongue tracing the rim for salt.

It almost happens.

Right there.

Right then.

Don't you uh-oh

"Don't do this."

"Oh, Charles." That tongue curls around his full name as her fingers curl around his thigh.

Don't you wanna

Blair is laden down with packages when she opens the door - hat box from Bendels, three (and a half) bags from Barneys, two from Bloomingdales and, most important of all, the tiniest robin's egg blue one; a present to herself from her personal interpretation of Heaven. It's a struggle to open the door, and she silently curses Dorota's set breastfeeding hours as her elbow scrapes the frame and she wobbles inside, only to be seized by unseen hands and pinned to the wall, wrists clamped behind her back, head pulled back and mouth plundered. When Blair opens her eyes (as if such a thing were necessary), the pair that meets hers is frenzied, hot, and black with determination.

"Chuck."

"Not a word."

Don't you uh-oh

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my - Chuck!"

"Only that."

Don't you wanna (oh) with me?

"Love me?"

"Always."

Fin.