An elbow meet ribs and the drink in Nate's hand sloshes over the rim of the glass and spills over onto the new carpet before the blonde can raise his hand and catch the falling droplets. Her eyebrows shoot upward, her spine straightens, and her mouth settles into a firm line of deep displeasure as the fingers currently trailing against the slope of her neck freeze, as she prepares to chastise Nate for being so clumsy and interrupting yet another scheme.
But the leggy blonde standing him sweeps her eyes downward, twitches her head to the side in an explanation as to why she was so intent upon getting his attention, and Blair knows what's coming long before she feels cold fingers curl around the flesh of her bare, upper arm. The heat of such an icy touch spreads through her like a wildfire as the man she was conversing with stammers out an excuse and leaves them alone; burnt areas catching fire again when cold, scotch-laced breath skims against her cheek as she turns to face him head on.
"Enough with the charade."
"What makes you think it's a charade?" Blair snaps back as she yanks her arm out of his grasp and steps away. She reaches up not to trail her fingers against her exposed neck but to part the mass of brunette waves currently cascading over one shoulder and cover her neck from his view. Her movement causes his frown to deepen, and she suppresses a smile when she sees a flash of anger in his eyes.
"I have guests," she informs him, and she moves to step away, to join their closest friends near the French doors overlooking the street. But her body collides with Nate's, sends his drink sloshing over the rim and onto the carpet once more because their closest friends know the subtext of those looks and have already gathered their coats and begun to make their excuses.
Chuck's gaze never wavers as Dan appointments himself town crier once again and announces the end of the party, as Nate sets his glass down next to the photograph of Chuck and Blair's wedding and apologies for spilling on the carpet once more. But his fixation on her face, on the fire of emotion kept suppressed by her cool exterior causes him to miss the way his sister curls her hand around Blair's and squeezes once before hurrying down the stairs.
And that cool exterior melts when they are alone, when she turns on him and begins to berate him for ruining her party with his insatiable jealousy. A charge he meets with eyes that narrow, with a gaze that sharpens as he questions the point of her little display – the fingers trailing down her neck, the false interest in the man speaking to her – if it was not meant to egg on his jealousy.
"Would you like a spanking?"
"Would you like a punch in the nose?" She retorts in a voiced lowered, in a tone meant to be provocative and challenging. His eyes – unable to narrow any further – darken at her threat, trap her attention so thoroughly that she feels rather than sees his cold fingers move to press against the heated skin of her neck.
His fingers fist the long locks hiding one of his favorite parts of her body from his view, and he pulls her towards him so quickly that the ring on her finger scrapes against his chin as she moves to loop her arms around his neck. Flared tempers meet in the frantic press of her lips against his, and all the heat, all the fire pent up inside them both melds and roars into an inferno as he wraps his arm around her waist and presses her body against his.
Feverish skin prickles under her gown as her hips meet his, as her fingers trail against his cheek as his continues to fist and tug at her hair. And his lips firm against hers for just a moment before he tilts his head, changes the kiss into one where her lips part and his tongue meets her in a frantic duel for control.
A draw is declared as he tilts his head once again and begins to press kisses against the corner of her lips, the line of her jaw, the slope her neck and the hand fisted in her hair leaves to curl around the back of her thigh and help lift her onto the table nearest to them. The photograph of his in-laws wedding falls; the silver frame protected by the couch cushions upon which it falls. And yet of them stop because need and desire have melded together into something entirely potent they both thirst for, something undeniable given the grip of his hands on her ass, give the hardness she is currently skimming her thigh against as she moves to curl her leg around his waist.
His hot, open-mouthed kisses send scorching heat through her until she begins pull at the lapels of his coat, at the straps of her dress in a desperate need to read her feverish skin of such heavy clothing. But Chuck's hand skim up her backside over the zipper and past the straps as he fists his fingers in her hair once more, as he grips onto her and presses his lips against hers like a man desperate more, more, more.
And she urges him on by moving one hand to undo the buckle of his belt and winding the other around his neck in order to pull him closer still. To pull him into the space between her parted legs so she can curl them both around his hips, so she can keep him ensnared inside her trap.
The feeling of her legs against his waist serves as a siren's call; one hand untangles from her hair to run up the length of her stocking until he feels bare skin. Their kisses becoming more ravenous, more demanding as he yanks on the strap of her garter, as Chuck breaks it with a quick tug and then slides the silk stocking down her leg. Greedy fingers press against newly bared skin; greedier fingers leave her hair to do the same to the garter strap holding up her right stocking.
She seizes the opportunity, curls her fingers around the lapel of his suit coat and pushes it off his shoulders in her own demand for more. And her commanding, demanding caress against his cheek, against him as she fumbles with the belt clasp are meant to set him afire, to make him want and desire as does. To strip away the calm, the careful demeanor she has seen in the last three weeks in order to touch the other parts of him – the ruthless, demanding conqueror – that she also loves.
And he rewards her efforts by yanking off the suit jacket, by tossing it aside and quickly returning to skimming his fingers under her dress against the bare skin of her thighs. Chuck's lips press against hers, his tongue slip inside her mouth again swallowing her gasp of displeasure when his fingers leave her thighs just before he reaches the place where heat and desire pull and then her purr of delight when his hand slides around to cup her ass and shift her towards the edge of the small table and against him.
The movement causes the table to quake, and Nate's nearly empty glass falls off the edge spilling across the new carpeting. The silver frame holding their wedding photograph crashes against the table as it falls, but the sound is swallowed up in the frantic display of raw passion. Other photographs of friends and the family they've created together wobble as she pushes her body up and off the table just long enough for him to curl his fingers around the waistband of her La Perlas, to pull the fabric down her thighs and then tear them away when she refuses to unfurl her legs from around his waist and impatience gets the best of both them.
The buckle of his belt clanks against the table as she finally pushes it aside and sets to work on the button and the zipper, but her hand freezes against him when he finds the zipper of her dress first and she arches into him when the straps of her dress fall from her shoulders and his cold hands slip under the band of her lacy bra and press against her firm flesh. Blair takes a moment to savor the way his palm feels against her skin, shifts urgent and demanding against him when his fingers skim against breasts that are now larger and curl around nipples that have been everything but sexual for the last nine weeks.
Blair purrs in delight when he breaks their kiss, bends his head, and presses his lips against the flesh nearly spilling out of her bra. His kisses send her eyes rolling upward until only the whites are visible; send her head tilting backwards and her pelvis tilting upward against his. His free hand pushes up the fabric of her purple dress exposing ivory legs to the light from the streetlamps pouring in through the French doors and causing his body to strum further with need for her touch, her body, her warmth, her love.
And somewhere in his pause of admiration for her legs, in his frantic grasp for control, she found the button and the zipper of his pants then found him. Chuck gasps for air – cold, scotch-laced breath skimming against the flesh of her breast – and his eyes open wide as he feels every touch of her heated fingers against him. Their hungry, greedy strokes cause him to groan and he vaguely can hear her chuckle of delight as she seizes the upper hand in their game.
A provocation, a challenge he meets by sliding his fingers between her parted thighs and gathering the wet heat that waits. One stroke causes her to tremble; two strokes cause the table to shake once more as she gasps and shifts and demands more. And he presses his lips against hers, greedily swallows her purrs of delight when he slides one finger inside without pausing, without stopping to ask for assurances she has already given him.
The hand curled around him slackens as her senses leave her, and the band of the ring on her finger presses into his cheek in an attempt to find something to hold onto as he slides one finger and then another inside her. Gasps and purrs give way to breathless and wordless demands for more, and he gives into the fire raging inside her that longs to burn and the cold inside him that longs for her light and her warmth. Her firm thighs hold him; the hips she swears widened over the course of nine months cradle his as the blunt head of his erection touches wetness and then is bathed in warmth and heat.
And he might have paused there had had her lips not parted in a smile, had she not reminded him of how much she loves him with three words, eight letters before drawing his lips into yet another kiss. But she shifts against him in a reminder of how sure she is that sends desire racing through him and he reaches down, finds her knees, and lifts it up over his hip opening her to him and allow him to thrust in.
Her body arches once more; photographs he wasn't sure he'd ever own wobble and fall adding to the crescendo of her moan. The sound becomes trapped in their kiss as her body clutches his tightly and then beneath him melts; a minor climax that causes her fingers to dig into his skin, that causes their perfected rhythm to break for just a moment.
But Blair joins him again when he starts to move within her once more, and her determination to wring every last iota of pleasure from this moment is fueled by the way his strokes become slow, long, and deliberate. She meets him and matches him, winds her legs around his hips and draws him deeper, and she smirks against his cheek when he breaks their kiss to moan over the sensation, when the greedy man she loves fills every inch she offers and then takes some more.
And Blair tries to drink in, soak up every little pleasure – the feeling of his hips against hers as she drive repeatedly deep within her, of his hand squeezing her ass and her breasts pressing against his chest – but his lips press against hers once more, his tongue mimicked his possession of her and all thoughts leave her mind. Instead, the fire below roars to the front melting the cool exterior urging him to take her as hard as he can, as deeply as he wishes until they go up in flames together.
Until they reach an end where all that is left is skin flushed red, flesh damp with sweat, and lungs so tight they burn. Until she shatters with a cry and he groans out her name; until he slumps forward and she presses her hand against a fallen frame to keep them both upright as she feels his heart racing through his shirt against her chest, feels the tempo echo where they are joined.
She draws a slow, shallow breath then raises a hand to sweep her hair off her neck, to caress against his cheek as their heartbeat gradually slows and their breathing returns to normal. And when it does, when he begins to stir and plans to leave her, she locks her legs about his waist once more and holds him in place. Chuck's dark eyes flash to meet hers, to search out the answer with questions she can read in his eyes before he can voice them.
"It was a charade," she says in a voice low and raspier than it usually it is. She shifts her eyes downward with her next words about pretending to flirt with another man, about trying to fuel his insatiable jealousy, and then cautiously lifts them to meet him with her next.
"I've never had to tell you what to do before, where to touch. You've always know. But you've been so –gentle – these last few weeks and I worried—"
"Worried about what?" He asks softly with concern attached to every syllable.
"That you only see me as Henry's mother; that the visual of me with him has replaced the Blair you saw that night at Victrola. I just thought if I could appeal to your baser instincts, you would forget about Blair the mother and remember how to see all of me."
"Blair, I love you. Every part of you," he replies in whisper as he drops his head and presses his lips against her neck. He trails his lips up the slope of her neck to the line of her jaw before pausing and whispering in her ear. "I could never forget the Blair that danced for me that night at Victrola, the Blair I said 'I love you' to for the very first time, the Blair who came after me in Paris, the Blair who gave me a family and then gave our family Henry. They are all one and the same."
"Then why have you been touching me like it's your first time? Like you're afraid I'm going to shatter and not in a hot, back against the wall kind of way?"
"I only wanted to make sure you were comfortable, that you felt safe. A man makes sur—"
"Chuck," Blair interrupts, "I'm sure. I'm absolutely sure. I wouldn't have married you if I wasn't sure that the risk is worth it. I wouldn't have had Henry with you if I wasn't sure you'd make an amazing father. I don't need you to copy the image of what a man is supposed to be. I just need you, Chuck."
She leans forward to press her lips against his cheek, raises her hand to cover the spot where she kissed him as though to trap the feeling of her lips on his skin for him forever. And then she smiles when she catches his eye, drops her gaze for just a moment only to lift it once more to play the charade of doe-eyed, innocent seductress.
"Well, you and your willingness to act out all sorts of visuals with me," she informs him with lips that quirk into a smirk. "Although, I'm not sure this table is really a substitute for the visual of you, me, and the table in the foyer of my mother's penthouse."