Long fingers flex against the side of her body before skating under her jacket over the silk fabric of her top against her back, before sliding downward to slip under the waistband of her skirt and palm against her ass. The black tights prevent her from feeling his cold fingers on her heated skin and instead entrap the heat radiating off her making her burn brighter with feverish desire. The fingers stroking against the nape of his neck drop down to curl around the starched collar of his shirt and impatiently tug him closer to her because she needs more, wants more.
Blair swipes her tongue against his lip, eases just the tip of it into his mouth to find his, and he meets her demand with the stroke of his tongue against hers, with the flexing of his fingers into the skin of her ass. But he makes no move to pull her towards him and it falls to her to lean into him, to press her breasts and her hips forward against his body in order to make him back up against the wall. And only when he is flush against the wall of the brownstone, when one arm is sandwiched between his body and the carved bracketing around the window does one hand leave her ass to skate up her side and close possessively over her aching breast.
Her purr of delight is swallowed by his kisses, and the press of his lips against hers echoes the way his hand languidly claims every inch of her breast. Moves so slowly and so tenderly that she presses her body against his further in a silent demand for him to move quicker and presses her lips against the skin of his neck in obvious encouragement for him to take her now before her purrs of delight become screams of frustration. And with an irritating chuckle – one that reverberates against her lips as she presses her lips against his neck – his hand shifts on her breast to squeeze, to cup whilst his thumb slowly, tantalizingly, tauntingly circles her nipple through the fabric of her top and bra.
"Chuck," she warns impatiently. "Someone might see."
"Isn't that the point?"
He muses his question against her temple as he palms her ass, as he encircles her nipple with his thumb once more. She twists just a fraction angling one hip until it presses against his erection, until she feels his gasp brush her hair backwards against her ear. But her upper hand is stolen from her in an instant because he spins them both around – her back to his front, her front to the wall – sending her hand flying forward and pressing against the wall in order to keep her upright as he lifts the hem of her skirt, as he presses himself in between the cheeks of her ass.
One hand moves to curl around her waist while the other moves to sweep aside her hair and expose her neck to his gaze, to his wandering fingers, to his lips. Teeth scrape lightly against the smooth skin of her neck; ashlar brownstone scrapes harshly against the soft skin of her palm. And her free hand flies to the hem of her skirt in order to lift it over her hips brushing against his left hand as it falls to her hip, mingling with his fingers as he moves to tug down her tights and La Perlas.
But he pushes her hand away, nudges her elbow forward in direction for her to use both hands to brace herself, and her reward for following instructions is to feel cold air and cooler hands stroke against the heated skin of her body. Early spring air ghosts against her newly exposed skin only to be chased away by the fever that flares when his palm runs over the skin of her upper thigh, when he angles his hand and trails his fingers between the junction of her thighs. Parts her and slides one long finger inside her.
"Oh my god," she gasps.
The syllables are muffled by the way she presses her lips into the back of her hand, but she still rolls her head to the side and eagerly eyes the steps leading down to the brownstone vestibule. Holds her breath when she hears the voices of those passing by; releases it with a shudder when Chuck shifts his hand, presses deeper, and strokes.
His tongue sweeps over the pulse point of her throat; his teeth follow causing her heart to skip a beat and her pulse to pause for just a moment. The air becomes lodged her throat as she presses her forehead to her hands, and her body grows wet with desire and anticipation and need as she watches those passing by reach the top of the steps and continue on towards work or home or anywhere in between.
Blair's focus fragments as he adds another finger; the whites of her eyes show as his ministrations send her eyes rolling backward. The hand curled about her waist leaves her body in order to flick open the button of his coat - te fabric immediately falling over her hips and obscuring her side from view – returning only after he has unfastened his pants and pushed open the flap of his boxers. His body shields hers from view as he slides between her ass cheeks, as he panders solely to her needs until every nerve ending feels afire.
And every nerve ending burns completely when Chuck's hand returns to her hips and helps to angle her just so, when he tips her backwards and upwards and withdraws his fingers from between her thighs to allow the blunt head of his erection to fill the void without ever skipping a beat. His fast yet steady movement continues onward driving her towards the point of no return, towards the point where she can no longer focus on anything over than the feeling of him inside her and the sound of his gasps under the chatter of those passing by on the busy sidewalk.
Chuck presses himself deeper forcing her up on her toes, and her heels come slamming down onto his toes when he slides out from between her thighs. His hiss of pain mingles with the sound – part protest, part moan – that falls from her lips, and she pushes off her elbows and onto her hands in order to meet him, to allow the tip of him to fill her once more. And the fingers of the hand curled around her hip dig in to hold in her place as those on his other hand skate upward to stroke against the underside of her breast through the fabric of her top. Wet fingers dampen the fabric as he strums his thumb across her nipple; cold fingers are heated by the fever racing through her body as he thrusts deep once more.
Every long and heavy stroke feeds and fuels the fire, and the sensation send her gasping as she hangs her head between her arms, as Blair rolls her eyes towards the staircase once more. She feels the touch of his lips, the caress of his breath on the nape of her neck as he fills her, as pleasure fuels them both. As they both give into the need that whispers through them both at all times, that grips and consumes him whenever she is close, that is fueled by the knowledge that no one can see them the way they can see each other.
Her bare ass and the backs of her thighs ride against him as he fills her; her nipple hardens between his fingers as he sinks deeply into her. And the heat rises through her, catches her in its grip and burns through her until she shatters and falls with Chuck's name on her lips. Her body contracts around him and her hands slip against the ashlar brownstone, her spine bows and her feet fall flat against the concrete once more and he has to release her breast and curl his hand around Blair's hip to keep her upright. Control that slackens as the feeling of her pulsating around him – once, twice, three times – becomes too much to handle and his body joins hers over the edge.
Consciousness returns in fits and starts, in trickles of awareness that come in the form of shoes on the sidewalk, voices overhead, and taxi drivers impatiently honking their horns. Their bodies – his bent over hers, hers pressed against his – untangle after a moment. After he traces the whisper of the truth written in his soul into the delicate skin at the nape of her neck in gentle reverence; after he smoothes his thumb over the indentation the ring on his finger left on her hip when he gripped tightly to keep her from falling.
And their fingers tangle under his coat against her hip as they both move to slide her La Perlas and her tights back up her legs. The platinum bands on their fingers clank together as they both adjust and straight her skirt, and only when she is sufficiently covered does he turn away and adjust himself.
"You could always use your scarf," Blair informs him as she reaches for her purse and digs out a packet of tissues, as she unfurls a Kleenex and beings to wipe him off. "At least we don't have to worry about finding a trash can to throw away the con—"
Worry immediate floods his face, and she cuts her words off by pressing her lips against his in soft reminder that she is fine. More than fine. Words about how this was her idea are lost and forgotten as he meets her kiss with his own, as he slides his hand up to cup her cheek and runs his thumb against the outline of her jaw. And his other hand drops down to push away her hand, to adjust himself, to slide up the zipper before she can start something that they don't have time for.
"Chuck," she pouts against his cheek when he breaks their kiss and turns away. Smirk forming on his lips, he snatches the crumpled tissue from her hand; smirk falling from his lips, he grabs her wrist and turns her palm upright to his rapidly darkening gaze.
"Blair," he ghosts out softly twisting his head so his gaze can meet her, and she quickly rushes to assure him once more that she's okay, that this is all part of what she likes. Her words are lost and forgotten once more as he tenderly presses his lips against the scratched up portion of her palm, and that devious smirk returns when the gesture sends her eyes tipping backwards once more until the whites are visible.
He nudges her towards the staircase – his hand reluctantly leaving hers – so he can concentrate on adjusting his no longer perfectly knotted tie, but freezes in the action when he hears her tiny yelp of surprise followed the sound of a camera shutter firing. And he takes the short flight of stairs two at a time only to find a photographer in her face.
"B!"
The single syllable is shouted loudly not by him or by the photographer but rather by the blonde hurrying down the sidewalk towards the scene, by the blonde who blocks the photographer's view with her body and curls her hand around Blair's arm to pull her away from the scene. And she nearly trips over her own feet as she follows Serena down the sidewalk, as tries to follow the blonde's protestations.
"I cannot believe these photographers are still following you," Serena exclaims with a disgusted look on her face. "I thought you said this is all died down when you and Chuck got back from your honeymoon."
"It did, S," Blair replies as she yanks her arm out of Serena's hold, stops walking, and turns to face Serena. "No one photographs us now unless it's for the business section of the Spectator or the 'A Night Out With' feature of the New York Times."
"Us?" Serena questions twisting her gaze from Blair towards the direction from which they came just in time to see Chuck running his fingers through his askewed hair, adjusting the button on suit coat, and casually conversing with the photographer who only moments ago was harassing his wife. And her hands fly to her hips, her mouth twists into a grimace when she turns her gaze back to Blair and takes in the slight deshelvement of her appearance.
"Oh my god, I should have known when I saw you climbing out of a brownstone vestibule with your skirt on backwards that Chuck Bass wouldn't be far behind looking like the Bass that ate the canary. But a photographer, B? Were you trying to get caught?"
The shift in Blair's gaze and the way she bites onto her lip rather than answering Serena's question causes the blonde's hands to fly upward with fingers splayed open almost as though she can wave away the question. And disgust becomes written across her face as her mind fills in the answers for her, as she eyes her best friend in shock.
"I thought you were glad Gossip Girl is dead," Serena reminds her.
"I am," Blair replies. "It's just that one person with a smartphone isn't quite the same thrill as someone with access to Gossip Girl's tip line was."
"B, there's still twitter, Facebook, the Spectator."
"Yes, but Nate and his whole 'I never sent in a tip to Gossip Girl' holier than thou attitude refuses to participate in anything other than serious journalism," Blair interjects with the roll of her eyes, "and you know Penelope's twitter doesn't have quite the following or the reputation as Gossip Dan did."
"So what?" Serena asks allowing the dig at Dan to slide because she knows she'll never be able to get Blair to stop. "You hired a photographer to sell photos of you to Page Six for the attention?"
"Of course not," Blair snaps with a shake of her head as though Serena has lost her mind. "This way Chuck and I get to experience the thrill of possibly being caught and, if Martin ever does actually catch us in flagrante, Chuck gets to pay someone off for their silence, which you know he loves, and we get to keep the photographs for our own personal enjoyment."
"Ew," Serena shrieks as she moves to cover her ears with her hands.
"Hello, Sis," Chuck chuckles out in greeting as he slides his arm around Blair's waist, and she immediately leans into his embrace as his thumb rubs circles against her side through the fabric of her top. He presses a kiss against the temple of her forehead, squeezes her side in a show of support as she works on perfectly knotting his tie. "I'll see you tonight, Mrs. Bass?"
"I'll be home ready and waiting to play the wife, Mr. Bass."
"Oh, that's cu—" Serena cuts herself off when she sees the look on their faces – the suggestive smirk on Chuck's lip, the unabashed glow of anticipation in Blair's eyes – and immediately clamps her hands down tighter of her ears.
"Why did I have visions that marriage would somehow turn you two into an old, boring couple? I must have been delusion because that's obviously never going to happen."