Author's Note: I've decided to expand this into a series of oneshots exploring the more visual side to Blair and Chuck's relationship because there was a time before Season Four when Chuck learned that Blair liked the possibility of someone seeing.
Strong yet tender fingers curl about her jaw; his distracting lips return to hers to press and part and leave swollen with need. Strong yet tender fingers trail down her neck leaving heated skin cooling at the loss of contract; his lips detaching from hers to trail after his fingers and stroke the fire below. Tongue swirling around her collarbone; fingers swirling around her nipple through the silk fabric of her blouse. And his name tumbles off her lip in a whimper; the only time the Queen willingly and wantonly begs for her consort's attention.
A smug grin – one she can feel against her skin even though she cannot see it – spreads across his lips. She shifts against him, and her legs move to encircle around his waist to hold him in place, to drag him towards her. Yet he continues his slow, languished strokes pulling out just quickly enough to move his hips out of her grasp so her ankles do not have enough time to cross and sinking back in just slowly enough that she can feel every inch of him, feel every licking flame of the fire spreading through every nerve in her body.
"I can't."
His smug grin is replaced by a knowing smirk because her whimpered words are a lie. Because he has held her right here – tightly coiled, begging for release – so many times that they both know all she can do is let go. Throw herself headlong into her release one more time until she shivers with an actual fever.
"Now you and I both know that's not true."
His words are a deep, throaty chuckle against her collarbone. His lips ghosting over her neck and jawline to find and connect with her lips; his hands moving from her breasts to her hips to hold her still, to hold her off and tease her for just a little while longer. All actions that ignore the glare in her eyes in favor of the flutter of her eyelids as he sinks back in with tantalizing control. The gasp of pleasure cascading off swollen lips only to lapped up by his lips greedily pressing against hers, by his tongue sweeping in to duel with hers again.
"Just one more time, ba—"
"Mister Bass?"
The hot, white flames coursing through every nerve ending in his body are chased away. The boundary of his focus widening to encompass the stream of bright light spreading as the door opens. Hands about her hips push her backwards to hold her against the wall and hold them both in the safety of the darkness. His name is repeated once again as his secretary pushes open the door a little wider, as she takes a step into the empty conference room.
And Chuck is about to lift his head from where it is pressed against her neck – hot breaths tickling her skin – to call out for Joan to leave them now in a harsh, forbidding tone. But the slick, wet warmth tightening around him gives him pause and causes him to lift his head and catch the glint in her eye as her hips rock forward to meet his stilled ones. The promise that Joan will be paid for her silence should she step any further into the room, should she turn her gaze just a little bit more to the left and see her boss and his girlfriend in flagranteis burned away by the return of the white flame. By the constricting of her heat so that it engulfs and enflames and sends his nose nuzzling against the heated skin of her cheek as his lips search out her ear.
"My, my," he chuckles darkly against her ear as she shifts against him, as she tightens around him again. "So naughty?"
Her response to his question is to drop her head to his chest and nuzzle her nose against the throbbing vain in his neck – hot breaths tickling his skin – as her eyes slide over his shoulder to watch. Her left hand locks on his shoulder while her right slides to his throat and upwards to scratch through his hair as she watches the door shut behind the retreating form of his secretary. Her eyes roll to the back; the whites bright in the darkness as his teeth scrap against her earlobe, as his hips flex forward, as his right hand slides between her legs to touch and stroke the raging fire.
Her response to his question is felt with his fingers, felt between her silky thighs and swollen lips. A hot wetness that coats his digits and makes him burn with thirst and impedes rather than aids in his languished, teasing movements for she is wet and warm and tightening and turning the tables so he is the one who is going mad with wanting, who is lit afire.
"But someone might see."
A teasing protest she knows is fake for his satisfaction is felt in how he traces, explores, fondles, and caresses. His satisfaction known and repeated in how he loves to offer up opportunities for her exhibitionist side to shine and how he loves to see her in her rawest and freest form. And the fingers of her left hand curl around his shoulder digging in until a ripple of pain shoots over his back, until his voice becomes a gravelly rumble of sincere protest in her ear.
"Blair!"
"If you tell me we have to wait, I'll scream."
She thinks for a moment that she will have to drag open her eyelids and affix the withering yet sadly underused glare of a monarch on him or that she will have to somehow take matters into her own hand. But past experience has taught her that the prospect of a kind of punishment he likes is probably his end goal because he enjoys offering her just a taste before he consumes his favorite dessert. And, besides, their position extends no courtesies so that she must rely on him – irritatingly arrogant chuckle and all – to finally give her what she wants.
"You better believe you will."
Finally filling her and stretching her completely only to pause just long enough that her head turns on his shoulder and her gaze slides up to meet his. Brown eyes holding darkened eyes as he slides inch by slow inch to fulfillment; a fierce battle to keep his focus on her given the slick, scalding heat enclosing around him and threatening to turn them both to ash and cinder.
Every muscle clinching and flexing in greedy anticipation as his hands slide to support her weight so she can take control, so she can rise up and down and control every movement with a wicked grin that hints at how the contraction of her muscles aren't entirely reflexive. Not like the fingers sinking deep and desperately against her skin.
The rise of voices outside the shut door is unable to distract him, to divert his attention from the overwhelming tactile sensations he is experiencing. But her gaze focuses past his head and shoulders and her eyes roll to the back of her head once more as the door is opened just slightly, as the voices become less muffled. The interrupter shutting the door when he or she is informed Joan already looked there; the sound of the shutting door just loud enough to muffle her purr of satisfaction and cry of completion.
And his head turns – nose brushing against her cheek – to find her lips, to swallow her sounds for they are theirs and theirs alone. The tide of her release like a spark to his own; his shattering cry muted by their kiss. A small, delighted smile curving both of their lips as she collapses against him and he closes his arms about her as her head lulls from where their lips are joined to the wall behind her to finally rest against his shoulder.
The warm weight of her slumped around him felt in the arms cradling her, in the way she still pulses with heat around him. Eventually, with soft feathery kiss or two to his neck and one or two to her shoulder, they slide apart. His hand reaching out to support her as she finds her balance and straightens her skirt; her hand reaching out to straighten his collar and retie his bowtie only to curl around and yank at his smug words.
"I didn't realize your love of burlesque extended to more…revealing activities. If I had known, I could have made Victorla into a less high-class strip jo—"
"Not another word, Bass."
"Oh, no," he agrees as his hands slide around her waist, as his fingers splay and press and caress until she shivers under his touch once more. Teasing and stroking the fire below with that equally arrogant, appreciative, and eager smirk returns to his lips. "I'd hate to give our location away. Someone might see."