The strap loops through his fingers like the tendril of a bow on top of the wrappings to a present that will easily unravel with the gentlest flick of his wrist, but before he can tug it slips through his fingers to fall down the slope of her shoulder. The graceful slope of her neck is exposed further as she shifts on the couch beside him, and his eyes dip down to catch a glimpse of skin peeking out from behind lace and wire. Tight confines constricting her haggard breath as she braces one hand on his chest; tight confines constricting his blood flow as he tries to part his legs further in search of some kind of relief.

"Are you watching?" She murmurs against his ear, and his attention snaps from her chest to her face to the television screen mounted inside the cabinet across from where they sit.

A silent film, a grainy black and white picture could never hold his attention the way the sound of her purring in his ear, the sight of her flushed and red can, and he can barely even think of concentrating as she brushes her nose against his cheek, turns her gaze to watch him watch the film, and lowers her other hand to flick open the button of his pants.

"Isn't it naughty?" She questions as she slides her hand into his trousers – zipper be damned – and curls her fingers about him. His jaw clinches immediately; his hand grasps at her knee as it peeks out from under the hem of her skirt.

"Very," he replies while his fingers briefly ghost across her smooth, silky skin as he strains upward to reach the junction of her thighs, to reach for his favorite dessert.

But she slaps his hand away, releases her hold around him to reach instead for his jaw. And this time she doesn't stroke her fingers against his cheeks or gently run her thumb against his cheekbone but rather holds his chin between her thumb and her forefinger as her eyes flare, as she reprimands him for trying to take charge.

"Do you think she's better than me?"

"What?" Chuck sputters as his gaze shifts back to the screen, to the woman on the film sinking to her knees in the elevator of his hotel and servicing her male companion with gusto. Quick and dirty. In and out and on with life.

A picture of what his life used to be that melts away at the feeling of Blair's dainty, smooth hand wrapping back around him, that disappears when eyes roll backwards to meet hooded lids as her lips meet the blunt head of his dick. The tiny seepage of liquid lapped up with the quick dart of her tongue before she opens her mouth wider and slowly slides her lips downward.

Moves upward just as quickly so that his gasp becomes strangled halfway up his throat, so that his hand immediately releases its hold around the couch and instead moves to tangle fingers in her hair. To become stuck in the complicated twisted of the bun at the base of her neck; to become untangled when she moves back to sit on her heels with a smirk on her glistening lips.

A smirk that shifts and changes when she unfurls her legs – still sun-kissed from their summertime games– and sinks down to her knees before. Her arm bumps against the coffee table; a curse word falls from her pretty lips as she tries to wiggle her way into the confines of the space between his coffee table and his couch. But every gesture to help her up, to switch their roles because he knows exactly where to place his knees to make this work are ignored and batted away, shot down and forgotten as her lips press against the skin of his dick once more in a tender kiss.

A soft reminder of what this never gave him before chased out as her mouth – hot and wet, warm and tight – descends around him once more. And both his hands move to tangle in her hair, move to grasp onto any kind of support because her mouth is on him there and he can't breathe. Air lost in a groan as her tongue curls around him; air strangled to death as she becomes more intent with every bob of her head, every constriction of her throat around him. A delicious torture he can no longer take and interrupts with the slip of a finger between her lips, with the way he nearly pries them from him.

The flicker of self-doubt, of questioning on her features is forgotten as he crashes his lips to hers. Open-mouthed and eager, hungry and wanton with no concern about the way he has mingled with her so much that he tastes salt rather than sweetness on her lips. With no concern about the way her hands have curled into fists against his chests until she pushes him backwards the instant she feels his arms slide around her, the instant she feels him moving to take control.

"Uh-huh," she replies as she leans back on her heels and out his embrace. "No touching. He's not touching her."

The clouded part of his brain barely registers her words because he is too singularly focused on touching and tasting and tormenting himself by trying to sedate a thirst he'll never be able to quench. The clear part of his brain – the one growing smaller with every second – latches onto the way her voice tilts downward, the way her intonation drops from queenly forcefulness to something he hoped would disappear at the conclusion of their games.

Because all the pretty words in the world aren't going to change the fact that the man in the surveillance video Blair spotted as she flipped through the channels from public entertainment to her favorite blend of private and public is riding a wave of ecstasy they have only briefly experimented with before. Because all the conjunctions in the world aren't going to change his answer to her question about if he had ever done this – grabbed onto the railings, took rather than gave, and then exited without a second glance but with a satisfied smirk on his face – from yes to no.

And it's not that she wants to erase his past, wants to recast him into a fumbling fool that doesn't know where to press and stroke and kiss until she thinks she might go crazy if she doesn't get some kind of relief, but rather that she has come to learn how much he admires a woman who knows how to use her tongue and she wants to gather up all that admiration until it's directed solely at her.

"My turn to lead."

His eyebrows rise as he obediently lowers his arms and forgoes all attempts to hold her; his fingers fondle the foil package rather than her skin as he watches her rather than the television screen. Never the television screen when he has something more beautiful, more artistic, more expressive to watch and admire and hopefully, he curses with a groan, touch.

Chuck sucks in a long, slow breath whilst her hands travel up his inner thigh over the fabric of his trousers, her fingers skirt around him to slip under his the waistband of his pants. And rather than move downward to sedate the painful throb of his dick, her nails nick against the skin of his belly as it expands with his breath and her fingers weave through the thick hair covering his chest. A hiss of pain escapes across his lips, and his hands move to stop her.

"No," she instructs batting his hands away. "Stay still."

"Blair," he groans out at the sight of such possessiveness on her face, at the demand he swallow his impatience because she's taken the role he usually plays – commander, instructor, teaser – and he prefers to mask his submission with a sampling of his chosen dessert. But she only smirks and spreads her hands across his chest – caressing in the same possessive way he longs to do for her – before press her lips not to his dick but to the heated skin of his stomach.

Her teeth come into play with distracting nips, and then her tongue sweeps across to dip into belly button. He sucks in a breath and shifts his weight in the hopes of moving her attention lower, and when that doesn't work, he moves again in an attempt to nudge her head up for a kiss, for an opportunity to touch some part of her. She ignores him, commands him not to move.

"Impossible," he hiss because one part of him strains forward brushing against the flap of his trousers in its attempt to escape. The zipper digs into his skin painfully with every shift, every failure to move, and he grits his teeth so her name comes out as a low, strangled groan. "Blair—"

"Wait," she instructs him with a low and sensuous laugh as she moves from her knees back to her heels. The brush of her hot breath against his skin is a subtle torture causing his head to fall back against the couch. Jaw clenched, his eyes roll up to look at the ceiling because looking at anything other than -

The soft sound of her skirt hitting the floor is nearly missed over the sound of his haggard breathing, and his eyes lock on her just in time to see her peel the silky tank top over her head. Bare skin and lace: a dangerous combination that causes him to ache with desire, to ignore all her commandments as he strains forward to run his hand against her thigh up to meet the lace of her La Perlas. His fingers curl around the fabric, prepare to pull them down – or, better yet, rip them off – with just the flick of his wrist.

But the way she looks at him, the way her gaze travels slowly up his body – from his knees up his thighs past his jutting erection, past the exposed portion of his abdomen to reach his eyes – causes him to pause just long enough for her to sink back down to her knees, for her body to drop low enough that he can see the surveillance video once more. He cannot say if the video has reached its beginning or its end because her eyes – a blaze of dark intent – and her smile and the feeling of her hands sliding upward against his thighs slows time, shifts space.

Chuck nearly swallows his tongue when she curls her fingers around his rigid length. Chuck nearly loses his mind – what little is left after the way she has tortured him for seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years – when she calmly leans close and presses her lips against the blunt, wet head of his erection once more.

A shudder of delight tears through his body when she follows one bulging vein with the tip of her tongue and then with the nail of her index finger when Blair moves to lightly trace the head of his dick with her tongue. And then she smoothly takes him into her mouth so quickly that he can't breathe, that every muscle in his body becomes rigid and tight. Blair draws him deeper into her mouth and skillfully pushes Chuck right to the place where he is at the mercy of her bilingual tongue, where her tongue traces around him as though she is conjugating verbs or offering translations he'll never understand.

"Blair," he says on the tail end of a smothered groan, of a labored breath, but she neither heeds his warning nor cares that his fingers have become entangled in her hair once more.

The condom once held in his hand in preparation forgotten as he reaches his completion in her hot, wet, welcoming mouth with a gasp of delight. And his head slumps back against the couch once more as he tries to find the words – the apology or the praise, the things he once said or the things he only says to her – as she swallows around him before releasing him and moving to brush the back of her fingers against her lips. Fingers he grabs and holds as he shifts his eyes down to meet her gaze, as he searches her eyes for any kind of hint as to what he should do or say.

"Was it—"

"The best of the best," Chuck interjects as he dips his head to kiss the back of her fingers, as he opens his mouth and moves to wrap his lips around her fingers. "You were right, Blair - watching the Empire's real-time surveillance playback is so deliciously naughty."