It's an enticing sight.

Supple young flesh colliding together, naked bodies undulating, glossy lips parted in wordless cries of ecstasy, punctuated by the occasional command. Harder. Faster. Fuck me. All captured in high definition and designed to appeal to the lusty male.

As a member of the target audience, it should be working on him.

But it isn't. All he can see are fake boobs, fake tans, fake hair. All he can think is that the slut getting rammed on the screen is not her, the girl who has set a fire in his blood that nothing seems to be able to quench. Nothing except her.

Fucking bitch.

With a snort of disgust, Chuck turns the television off and pulls his pajama bottoms back up, hissing through his teeth as the fabric brushes against his straining erection.

He is hard, so painfully hard, his loins aching for release, but not from the movie. Oh no. This agony was still the leftover result of the minx across the hall. He'd been at full salute for thirty goddamned minutes, even since he'd taken her in his arms, and his lips had fused with hers.

Leaning back upon the mattress, he lets his eyes drift shut, and whether it is real or imagined, he would swear that the taste of her kiss yet lingers in his mouth, and he recalls with distinct clarity the feel of her porcelain skin beneath his hands, burning into him like a brand, just like it had that first time in his limo, and every time thereafter, and would be doing right this second if not for that blasted text message. That thought alone is enough to drive him insane.

It has been too long since he'd last had her, and he'd been so close, so very close, and quite honestly, if they had been any farther along than those first scorching kisses, he wouldn't have stopped, text message be damned, and he would even now be sheathed inside her.

Thinking of what could have been, his dick pulses with renewed tension, and he clenches his jaw, shoving a hand under his waistband in another attempt to relieve the pressure. He tries imagining it is her delicate fingers gliding over his shaft, and while that certainly helps, it isn't enough because he doesn't want to jack off.

He wants to slam into her liquid heat over and over until she screams his name and bites his shoulder, and rakes her nails over the flexing muscles in his back hard enough to draw blood.

He wants to lose himself in her embrace and forget the women who came before, and those who came after, each and every nameless conquest that ultimately left him unsatisfied because they were not her.

He wants to storm into that room across the hall and lift her chestnut curls to expose the nape of her neck, that flawless patch of skin so rarely seen and seemingly innocuous until he'd chanced to nuzzle it one lazy afternoon and Blair had shivered and moaned in a way he had never quite heard her before, so entirely wanton and all the more arousing because it was utterly unexpected. He'd made love to her that same afternoon, nose buried in her silken tresses, lips and teeth and tongue working over that sensitive flesh as he took her from behind, and although his pace had been leisurely, she had never been so vocal or so very uninhibited, and long before she began coming undone in his arms in almost rapid fire succession, he'd known that this had become his kryptonite because it was so obviously hers.

He never should have mentioned it to her, but he had, and little tease that she was, she had used that information to her advantage this evening. She'd planned the perfect scenario to exploit that particular weakness of his. She'd left the bedroom door conveniently ajar so he could catch a glimpse of her lighting jasmine scented candles in her demure nightgown when he walked past. She'd waited until he entered the room before twisting her hair up into a loose bun. She'd not deigned to look at him while she dismissed him in an almost annoyed tone. All of it, every single move carefully orchestrated so he would be lured into believing he'd stumbled upon her in a private ritual. And it had worked. In that moment, he'd given in and hadn't cared that he was about to lose their game because he'd been conned into thinking this wasn't a deliberate seduction, but a chance encounter.

Then the impatient beeping of her cell, followed immediately by her panicked insistence that he ignore it had brought him back to his senses, even before he'd actually read Serena's message, and his outrage at being played had driven him back to his own room.

Leaving had, of course, been the right decision, even though his erection shows no signs of abating anytime soon and the prospect of taking matters into his own hands while watching porn seems less and less appealing when she is there, warm and willing, and the only thing separating them is the span of a hallway and their own pride.

It would be so easy to…

But no. Holding out is the smart thing to do. Incredible sex is the only thing she seems to want from him that she isn't able to get elsewhere. It is the only leverage he has, and seeing as he wants more from her than sex, wants her to say those same three words, eight letters she had asked him to say after flaunting her lord in his face, he has to use it. Really, it is simple economics. Supply and demand. He has the supply, so he can make the demands, and right now that demand is that she reveals her feelings for him first. Then he will gladly do the same and fuck her senseless. A deal is a deal after all.

But holy hell does he wish there was no deal at the moment. He is so fucking aroused he can't see straight and his hand is just not doing the job, even when he fantasizes about Blair's coy smile and pert breasts and those luscious thighs of hers encased in the lacy stockings she knows he adores. It just isn't enough. He needs more. He needs her, and he can't have her because she is too stubborn to give in and so is he.

Goddamn it.

Wrenching his hand free of his pants once more, he stares resolutely at the ceiling. He could use a drink. Several drinks. The better portion of a bottle of scotch. But that would require walking past her room twice, and he may be stubborn, but there is only so much temptation a man can withstand. Also, he would need to go downstairs, and no way is he doing that with a raging hard on. The penthouse is currently empty save for him and the Waldorf, but knowing his luck the second he ventured out someone else would come home, probably Serena, or worse, Lily, and he would run into them in his current condition and that would just be beyond humiliating.

No, no as much as he loathes the idea, a cold shower is looking like his best option. But he can't seem to compel himself to move towards the bathroom. Instead, his dark gaze flicks towards his door and the siren that waits several feet away on the other side.

It can't just be him that is affected this way, can it? Surely she is frustrated too. Probably even more so seeing as she'd concocted the foiled scheme and would most likely have been anticipating its success. If that was the case, maybe she would be up for…

No. No, he shouldn't even be considering that. No words, no sex. That was the arrangement.

But what he's proposing isn't sex. Not really. And so long as he stays in his room and she stays in Serena's it wouldn't progress into sex. It would just be them… helping one another, and there's nothing wrong with that, is there? It's a perfectly acceptable onetime only compromise.

Now if only he can convince her of that.

Propping himself up with pillows, he reaches for his cell and hits a number on his speed dial. It rings once, twice, three times, four and he starts to worry that she is going to ignore the call completely when she finally picks up. "What the hell do you want Bass?"

He clears his throat, uncertain how to proceed now that he actually has her on the line. "I was just checking to see if you were okay."

"Why do you care?"

That's as good an opening as any he supposes. "Well ultimatum or no ultimatum, I hate leaving a girl all hot and bothered."

"Good thing you didn't manage to get me hot or bothered then," she declares with false bravado.

"Is that so?" he taunts, confident that if he could see her now, her eyes would not match her mouth.

"Yeah," she sneers mockingly. "All we did was kiss, Bass, and it wasn't even that good."

"I seem to recall it differently," he drawls in a tone reminiscent of the evening he had nearly seduced her in front of everyone while she was dating Lord What's-His-Name. "I seem to recall you kissing me as if you were starving and ordering me to ignore your phone while pulling my mouth down to yours like you couldn't get enough because you've probably had to fake it with every other man besides me."

"How dare you!" she hisses in outrage, letting him know his barb had found its target. "And was there a point to this phone call, or were you just wanting to torment me some more?"

"Well I did have a proposition for you," he says. "But seeing as you are neither hot nor bothered…" He trails off, giving her just enough of a hint to rouse her curiosity. Blair Waldorf never could resist not knowing everything.

"What kind of proposition?"

Bingo.

"One that would require you to be hot and bothered," he deadpans. "Which you are not. So never mind. Forget I called."

Three…

Two…

"Wait!" she exclaims. "I… I may have fudged the truth a little."

Suppressing the urge to shout in victory, he instead grins with triumph. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"So if I slid your panties aside and touched you right now, would I find you wet?"

For a long time, she is quiet, so utterly silent that he begins to fear that he had gone too far, too fast, been too crude. But then she sighs, a sensuous little sound. "Yes."

He swallows, his dick pulsing in expectation. "How wet?"

She doesn't reply immediately, and the lapse in conversation stretches out, becoming increasingly awkward until he grits his teeth, mentally cursing himself for even attempting to start something like this with her. He should have known that she wouldn't be up for it, that it would be too far outside her comfort zone, that she –

"…very."

He stutters, hand clenching around the phone, afraid he'd imagined her faint admission. "What?"

"If you… if you touched me right now, you'd find me very wet," she states softly. "Sopping in fact."

"Oh yeah?" he breathes, feeling like he cannot quite get enough air.

"Yeah," she admits with a sultry laugh, and he can almost see the playful curve of her lips. "What about you Bass? How would I find you?"

He reaches down, rubbing his throbbing cock through the silk of his pajamas, glad that she always was one to catch on quickly. "How would you hope to find me Waldorf?"

"Hard," she confesses. "Oh, I'd want you to be very hard."

He smirks at her enthusiasm. It never took him much to bring out her inner vixen. For all her cool exterior, she is fire below, and oh sweet Jesus how hot that fire burns. "Well I have a feeling you wouldn't be disappointed," he growls, his tone dropping into a husky caress. "I am extremely hard."

"Really?" she asks, and from the quality of her voice he would bet money that she is touching herself already. "And why is that?"

"Because I can't stop thinking about how much I want to tear that wisp of black satin you call underwear off and sink my fingers in that tight little pussy of yours." She gasps, a sharp inhalation less offended than it is aroused, and he smiles smugly before continuing. "You like when I finger you, don't you kitten? How I rub your clit and work you with my hand until you're all slippery, until you're bucking into my palm, until you're begging me to take you. But I don't listen, do I?"

"No, no you don't," she affirms, her words breathless in the way that only pleasure can make them.

"What do I do instead?"

"You… fuck Bass… you…" She breaks off into a whimper.

"What do I do Blair?" he prompts, his free hand tugging his pajama bottoms down. "What comes next?"

"You… you go down on me." She all but purrs it, and a memory of their first time in the limo flashes through his mind as he succeeds in removing his pants. God she'd been a minx even then. No wonder he fell for her.

"That's right," he grunts as his fingers graze over the swollen head of his dick to wrap around the base. "Because I love the way you taste, and how you shudder when my tongue slides between your folds, and the way you arch into my mouth and dig your nails into my scalp as you writhe beneath me and moan my name – "

"Chuuuuuck."

"Yes, just like that," he murmurs despite his parched throat as his palm skims lightly over his length, not really stroking in earnest, knowing that once he begins it will all be over in a matter of minutes. He has been aroused for too long to make it last, and picturing Blair laid out upon the bed, her knees drawn up and creamy thighs parted as she pleasures herself while she makes little mewling sounds of desire into the phone is steadily drawing him nearer the point of no return without the need for much additional stimulation. "Are you getting close sweetheart?"

"I… I…"

"You sound close. You sound like you're ready to go any second, just like when I suck on that sweet little clit of yours."

"Oh my God," she sobs suddenly, and he knows her head is tilted back in abandon, her spine bowing off the mattress, her climax swiftly approaching.

"But I usually stop just short of your orgasm, don't I?"

"Yes, yes," she pants with an urgency that has him tightening his grip on himself, increasing the exquisite friction. "Yes, fuck yes."

"And why is that?" he grinds out, struggling to restrain his impulse to change the slow pace of his hand. "Do you remember?"

"You want me to come on you."

"Yes, again and again and again beca – "

She cuts him off, knowing the answer before he even thinks to ask the question. "Because ladies come first," she whines, the need for release making her almost incoherent.

"But you aren't always a lady, are you Waldorf?" he whispers, feeling a familiar pressure building within his balls that cannot be controlled. "Not when your legs are hooked around my waist, and my cock is pounding into you, and you're grasping my ass and pleading for me to fuck you harder, deeper, faster. You're not a lady then."

"No."

"What are you?"

"Yours!" she cries with such bliss that for a moment he thinks she's gone over the edge. But then she speaks again, nearly frantic. "I'm yours. Oh God! Chuck, Chuck, Chuck…"

"I'm here."

"I can't," she wails. "I can't."

"You can," he encourages, understanding that any loss of control, even in the heat of passion, is frightening to her. "And you will."

"I… I…Oh my God," she moans.

Unable to hold back any longer, he allows his hand free reign, sliding it over his dick with ever increasing speed. "Don't stop," he growls. "Don't you dare stop."

"Chuck," she pleads. "I want you."

"You have me. I'm right there. Just let go."

"No, I… I need more, Bass. I need you. Now. Right now."

His rhythm falters, his hand freezing mid-motion even as his loins scream in protest. "Say the words and I'm yours," he promises, the hope is his voice bleeding through the strain of stopping his imminent orgasm.

"I… I… I can't," she whimpers, and just from the way she says the words he knows she is no longer talking about being able to get herself off.

"Then this will have to suffice," he replies, his hand once again moving. "Now come for me, princess. I need you to come for me."

"Oh…" she sighs, her breaths harsh little rasps over the line.

"Let me hear you Blair," he begs, hovering on the brink, and sensing she is too from the way she is nearly hyperventilating. "Please, let me hear – "

And suddenly she is shouting his name, her ecstatic cries loud enough to be heard from across the hall, and the unadulterated pleasure in her tone sends him immediately into oblivion.

"Blair!" he gasps, hips lifting off the bed as he explodes, spurting hot and heavy, his fist continuing to stroke himself until the last tremor fades.

They are both quiet for a long time after, neither willing to breech the silence that had descended, but eventually she speaks. "Thank you Bass."

"Believe me Waldorf, my motives were not altruistic," he mumbles gently. "The pleasure was all mine."

"Well that's not entirely true now, is it?" she points out, throwing his own words back at him in a voice so laden with innuendo that he feels himself start to stir again.

"I suppose not," he laughs.

"So does this mean the deal is – "

"No," he interrupts. "This was a onetime thing. I still want you to her you say it."

"Why?"

"Why did you want me to say it?" he counters.

"Just… because," she mutters evasively. "You?"

"Well my reasons are slightly more complicated than that, but I guess since I am expected to be content with 'just because' for an answer, you'll have to be content with it too," he scowls. "Just because, Blair. I asked you to say it just because."

Just because he loves her and is afraid to tell her that until he's sure she won't react like she had when she found out he liked her at her birthday party. That was bad enough, but this had the potential to be so much worse. Best to be safe.

"You are so infuriating," she snaps.

He snorts. "Look who's talking princess."

"Whatever Basshole," she snarls, and he has no doubt she is rolling those chocolate eyes of hers.

He leers. "I love it when you talk dirty Blair."

"As we've just proved!" she retorts.

"And the tigress comes out!" he grins, loving her wit, loving her bitchiness, loving her. "Touché."

She groans in faux annoyance. "Goodnight Chuck."

"Goodnight Blair," he whispers. "Sweet dreams."

"You too."

"Oh, and Blair?"

"Yeah?"

"You should say the words soon," he breathes. "For both our sakes."

"For both our sakes?" she repeats. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Say the words, and you'll find out."

And without waiting for a response, he hangs up, knowing from the pang he feels as soon as he clicks his phone shut that Blair Waldorf has ruined him, and his single days are numbered, and he really, really couldn't care less.