She slides her hand up his chest to join her right at the nape of his neck, to curl and press against the peek of skin just above his collar. His grip around her waist loosens as he gathers her closer yet she can barely feel the jostle of every step up the staircase because he carries her so gently and softly, so reverently and sweet. Her eyes disappear behind her lashes; her lips press against his catching his still parted from the last time they met. And her tongue slips out to tease against his lip, to trace it contours as she contemplates plunging in and plundering, pressing forward and pursuing what has occurred between them – the tug of angry hands lifting her up onto the piano, the bite of lips spewing forth words of hate – many times in the past few days.
But tonight his hand presses against her back lightly and gently – almost in wonder – as he carries her up the stairs and the lips that press to meet hers do so coaxingly and temptingly – almost pleadingly. As if he wants her to look and see, to understand what this – the warmth rather than burn inexorably raising between them though this kiss – means. As if he wants her to feel it and appreciate it and acknowledge what this is symptomatic of.
She stumbles slightly – her knees buckling and her heels wobbling – when he sets her down in the middle of her room, when she catches his eye as he shuts the door to her room. She turns her back to him moving her hands to undo the series of small buttons holding up the halter of her dress only to pause when she feels his fingers skate against the bare skin of her back and mingle with hers to undo the buttons for her. Only to close her eyes when she feels him press his lips against her neck as the fabric of her dress falls to pool around her hips, when she feels his fingers skip over every vertebra in her back to find the zipper hidden on the side of her dress.
A blue, flowery puddle forms at her feet and threatens to tangle around her but his hands have settled at her waist, have spun her around in a promise to catch her if she falls and she neither cares nor has time to protest about possible damage to her dress as his fingers skate up the contours of her side to stroke slowly against the underside of her exposed breasts. Lightly caressing and stroking until she restlessly shifts forward and her eyes fly open to meet his with fervent demand. Only to close when he circles her peaked pink nipple with the thumb of right hand, when he takes his time, when he teases out the rising tension that bows her spine, that fractures her breathe, that causes her to press forward seeking just one more tantalizing touch.
The line of concentration etched between her eyebrows grows deeper with every touch, every sensation. And he dips his head not to kiss the tender skin of her breasts but to ghost his lips against her forehead, to skim them over the bridge of her nose and press them against her lips once more. An action that almost seems to take her by surprise because her eyes fly open and her gaze searches out his as he pulls slowly and softly away from her.
Her eyes never leave his holding his gaze even as his hands fall to curl around her waist and he backs her towards the bed and staring up at him as she sinks down to sit on the edge of her bed and watches him tug off his suit coat and work on the buttons of his shirt. Strips himself down to his pants and his white undershirt before she reaches up and pulls him down on top of her, and then they both fall backwards until her back is pressed against the mattress and she can feel the hardness of his dick press against her stomach through his pants.
His left hand reaches up to sweep the hairs that have fallen like tendrils about her face out of her eyes; his left right reaches up to trace the outline of her collarbone before stilling just above her heart. She can barely hear over the roar of her heart, and the sound only grows louder when he moves his lips to replace his fingers, when he darts his hot tongue out to swirl around the bud of her breast.
Smooth, wet heat surrounding her nipple and causing the same to pool low between her thighs until her fingers twitch against his neck, until her fingers move to tug impatiently against the hair at the nape of his neck. The hands fastened about her waist hold her still as he switches from one breast to the other, but one eases its grip just long enough to pull at the silky fabric of her panties.
And this time he doesn't tear them away, doesn't sink his fingers into her skin with impatience, but rather slides them down her legs so slowly that the fabric feels like light kisses against her skin. Kisses he repeats with the press of his lips against her hip, against her thigh before he moves to stand and drop not just the balled fabric of her panties but also the heavy fabric of his black pants to the floor. Stops his pants from falling just long enough to grab a foil package from inside the pocket.
Her gaze dips downward to watch him roll the condom on, upward to catch his dark eyes and dip her head in a silent reminder that the white undershirt must go as well because she cares not if he gets cold, if he is self-conscious about his appearance. Tonight, they will not hide behind angry words and frantic hands, behind quick couplings and immediately righted skirts, and she reaches up to lace her fingers with his and tug him back towards her.
His lips move to meet hers; his fingers move to brush against her breasts once more before trailing down her stomach to touch the soft skin of her inner thigh. She breaks the kiss and drops her gaze to watch his long, elegant, too-knowing fingers slip between her thighs and stroke. The touch, the slide of his fingers through the slickness between her thigh, the feeling on his index finger easing and then stroking deep inside her causes her back to bow and her eyes to roll up not to the ceiling but to meet his.
That one finger withdraws to caress again, to touch again, and to cup again before sliding in and stroking once more. Desire and passion seamlessly meld within her, but the deep pools of his eyes show how much it has become tangled and twined within him, how much the flaws of one and the heat of the other have built into something he can no longer orchestrate.
The physical orchestration masterfully done in the way he gives her just so much stroking the fire within only to ease her back from the licking flames, from the point where she will be consumed by the same heat that fueled them over the past few days. The emotional orchestration out of his hands because she is watching him and he is watching her and they are slowly but surely reaching the point where they can no longer pretend this is just an itch to be scratched, this is something that can be pushed aside and killed with tons of hate sex or a strong resolve towards abstinence.
That the person she sees when she looks into his eyes, into the depths of his soul isn't still the same Chuck Bass she fell in love with. The one that still sees the real Blair; the one that still longs to be the kind of man his father never thought he could be.
"You okay?"
His question is breathed against the skin of her cheek as his nose brushes against her skin, and it takes her a moment to clamp down on the words about how she loved him – loves him still – and wishes he had never followed down that dark path that nearly destroyed them both. To swallow back agonizing questions as to why he would hurt her so badly, why he would make it so she's not even sure they can be friends in order to keep anger from bubbling forth and ruling their actions and touches once more tonight.
Instead, she focuses on how confident she is that it wouldn't be her world without him in it and how she needs him to be here , focus on protesting over the way his finger has stilled inside her shifting her hips in encouragement and twisting her head to press her lips against his before he can ask any more questions. Before Chuck can turn her into one of those girls that blurts out words in bed after a few kisses and some heavy petting.
Chuck's hand shifts between her thighs – the ring on his pinky finger scraping against her skin – and he works a second finger in alongside the first. She gasps at the feeling of him stretching her, blatantly readying her, and her eyes hold his as the world grows brighter, tighter, and wetter. As he draws his fingers from her and leaves her feeling as though she is hanging in midair.
"Blair," he whispers as he shifts against her, as her hand slides down to brush against him. His voice becomes gravelly and cutoffs before she can catch the final letters in his next word. "Sweeth—"
Slow and gentle. Words removed from their repertoire with the tearing of their contract and the abolishment of Article Nineteen, and yet they find them together once more – Chuck fighting the impulse to sink deep between her thighs, Blair fighting the impulse to push him onto his back and finish this for them both. Instead, he bends his head and presses his forehead against hers as her hands grip his sides, as her fingers slide across the expanse of his back whilst he settles himself back between her legs. Instead, her gaze holds his as she spreads her fingers and runs them through the wiry hairs of his back until her arm is looped around his neck just as it was when he carried her up her, until her warm hand is pressed against his cheek and her lips are moving to meet his.
The fascination with her movements, with her is still so firmly etched into his eyes. The deep glow serving as her spotlight tonight and a reminder that he loves to her watch her just as much – no, more than – she'll ever love to watch them or anyone else have sex. And even now, even after everything he put them both through, she can tell with just one shared look that they affect each other in the same way. To the same degree. To the same end. The same consuming, all-encompassing passion because they are one vein, one heart made whole.
The realization comes just as softly as his kiss tonight in front of the fireplace, and still she tries to bury it behind a hungry kiss. Tries to turn away from it by sliding her leg against his back and allowing him to slide against the wet heat between her thighs. And she knows she has him when he groans, when he surrenders to her urging and gives them both what they want.
Her own lips part with a gasp; her own hips move in eager invitation when he withdraws and thrusts again, when she meets him stroke for stroke, touch for touch and pushes them towards the place where they will both shatter with mutual sedation. And yet even as her body undulates beneath his – complementing, matching, receiving, taking, and giving – it is still at that slow and steady and soft pace he showed her when he couldn't find the words to express how he felt.
A refusal to rush shared between them until they reached the place where the tempo must inevitably increase, where her nails dig into the sink of his back as she holds tight and urges and drives him on. Where he would wince over the making of new scars were he able to concentrate on anything over than shuddered breathing and the feeling of her passion surrounding him. Yet even still every moment, every touch of his body against hers and vice versa, every exchanged seems more laden with feelings.
Tactile sensation carrying something deeper, something finer that they haven't been able to touch since before the piano. Before Paris. Before the Empire State Building. Before the deal.
Something familiar that causes his eyes to search out hers and her eyes to hold his as she lifts her legs and wraps them low against his back to take them deeper, to urge him deeper still. As she watches him climax inside her and then watches the reflection of her glow, the echo of her dark soul in his eyes as she reaches her own completion around him.