Season 5, missing scenes from "Vengeance"
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the WB and DC Comics, not to me.
Author's Note: This story is somewhat more explicit than my other stories. If you don't like explicit sexual description, don't read it. No relation to my other Chlark stories.
Clark isn’t quite sure how it happens. He intends to find the staircase and take Chloe downstairs, get her out of this area of town before they run into more trouble, but instead his arms slip around her.
And then somehow they’re kissing again, long, slow, sweet kisses that are less frantic than last time, but no less intense.
She feels right in his arms, fits there perfectly, as if she's a part of him. Her body presses against his, supple and warm, and he kisses her like he’s never going to let her go, ever. She smells like the vanilla soap and shampoo she uses, but he can also smell himself on her—his sweat, his come, the scent of his skin—and that touches off a very possessive, masculine impulse inside him.
She is his. Maybe only for an hour, but right now, she belongs to him.
Chloe is kissing him back, her hands running through his hair, over the nape of his neck, conveying such warmth in every caress that it makes his throat tighten. He’s never had anyone touch him this way, so that every brush of the fingers, every movement of her body, every kiss is a declaration of affection. Of love.
He can feel what he means to her, and he knows he ought to back away, because he doesn’t return her feelings, but after weeks of lonely misery he’s just not strong enough to move away from the love she’s offering so freely. He thinks if he tried to move away from her now, he'd probably die on the spot.
Although he's not sure what he craves more, her body or the deep affection of her caresses.
They kiss for a very long time, tongues brushing together, hands exploring one another. He got carried away and rushed things last time, but this time he wants to take his time, and he does, sliding his hands up under her clothes and stroking her until he knows every curve of her body, every inch of her skin, by heart.
He wants to remember this night, to commit it to memory forever. He never wants to forget what it was like to make love to Chloe Sullivan in the middle of Metropolis, with the lights of the city spread out all around them and the pale pewter glow of the sky overhead.
He reaches for her bra, a beige, lacy thing, and she pulls her mouth away from his and whacks at his hands again.
“Don’t you dare destroy that,” she growls, sounding like a mother bear defending her cub. “It’s my favorite bra.”
“It’s nice,” he answers. His voice sounds oddly harsh, and he isn't sure whether it's because he's turned on, or because the sweet, loving way she was touching him made his eyes sting a little. “But I’d like it better if it were on the ground.”
“I’m not taking all my clothes off on top of a building in the middle of the city, Clark.”
He can't help himself. He grins. “Bummer.”
“Deal with it, farmboy. But…” She reaches between her breasts and unfastens it quickly. “Maybe that’ll help a little.”
It helps a lot. He pushes up her blouse and shoves the bra aside, bends his knees a little, and begins kissing the soft swell of her breast. She makes a little sound deep in her throat, a noise that sounds like approval, so he moves down a bit further and kisses her nipple. It’s swollen and rigid beneath his mouth, and some instinct tells him to do more than just kiss her there, so he parts his lips slightly and draws it into his mouth.
She gives a long, sobbing noise and digs her fingers into his hair, and he keeps sucking on her nipple, a little surprised by how much it turns him on. Or maybe it’s just the gasping sounds she’s making that turn him on so much.
At the same time her hands are sliding over him, too. He’s still wearing a jacket, jeans, and two shirts, so there’s a lot more clothing for her to shove aside, but her hands are all over his chest and back. He loves the feel of her hands against his skin, and before long he lifts his mouth away from her breast, moaning again, gasping with every touch of her hands.
And then he’s falling to his knees and tugging her down with him.
She immediately makes a little sound of discomfort, and it dawns on his befogged mind that a pebbly concrete roof is not the best surface for making love, at least not for a human. His knees are invulnerable, but Chloe’s aren’t, and she’s not wearing anything on her legs except sheer stockings, which probably aren’t a lot of protection against the rough, gravelly surface. He shrugs off his jacket, drops it onto the roof, and gently pushes her back onto it.
Her arms are around his waist, pulling him against her, and he settles on top of her carefully, bracing his weight on his arms so as not to injure her, pressing his erection against her. He can feel how hot and wet she is, right through the denim. But it occurs to him his jeans probably don’t feel good rubbing against the most sensitive place on her body, so he hastily reaches down with one hand, undoes the button and zipper, and shoves his boxers down a bit.
Her hands settle on his ass, pulling him against her eagerly, and he’s inside her again.
Both of them make identical sounds, low, shuddering moans of pleasure, and he drops his face against her shoulder, his breath rasping in his throat. His body is already shaking with need, but he's trying very hard to control himself, because he doesn't want to screw her hard and fast like he did in the alley. He wants to make love to her the way she deserves.
She moves against him eagerly, but he puts a hand on her hip, forcing her into a slower rhythm. He doesn’t want this to be over quickly, the way it was last time.
He wants it to go on forever.
They move together, very slowly. He’s trying really hard to make it last, but with every thrust, her body grows slicker and hotter, until he’s gasping at every movement, hissing through his teeth, making soft, desperate noises into her hair. He clenches his fists so he won’t be tempted to clutch at her hips or touch her, because right now he can’t control himself all that well, and he’s afraid he could hurt her.
She has no such compunction, and her hands are all over him, touching him through his clothing, beneath his clothing, stroking his hair. Her lips brush over his throat and his ear and his cheek. She even kisses the end of his nose, which isn’t exactly erotic, but it's so typically Chloe that it makes him smile. Trust Chloe to be thorough, in kissing as well as in everything else.
He never wants to stop what he’s doing, because then she might stop kissing him and touching him, and he sure as hell doesn’t want that. So he slows down the rhythm even more. He can tell she’s getting a little frustrated with him, a little impatient, because her body’s straining against his, and her breath is coming in quick little gasps.
Both their shirts have somehow gotten yanked up, so their torsos are pressed together, her soft breasts against his chest, her stomach against his, and they’re both covered in sweat. Despite the cool night breeze, he can feel heat radiating off her, and he knows he’s just as hot, or maybe hotter. He doesn’t think he can wait much longer, no matter how much he wants to.
And then she lifts her legs, wrapping them around his hips, and moves against him hard.
Just like before, he sinks into her a little deeper, and it pretty much totals his self-control. He freezes, because it feels so good that he can barely stop himself from coming. His balls are taut and heavy with need, and his cock is throbbing relentlessly. He wants her so much it hurts.
“Clark,” she whispers, digging her fingers into his hips so hard that he can feel it despite the denim. If he wasn’t invulnerable, he thinks she might just leave bruises on his ass. “Don’t stop now.”
He grinds his teeth together so hard that if he were human, his molars would suffer irreparable damage. “Chloe,” he mutters, his voice strained. “I just… I don’t want this to end.”
She squirms against him and makes a small, needy sound in her throat. “Please, Clark.”
“You’re always so impatient,” he says softly, smiling again, just a little. She’s always been that way, with regards to just about everything, so it doesn’t really surprise him that she’s impatient in bed. He kind of likes it, though. He likes knowing she wants him as much as he wants her.
She's so sweet and open and honest, and that touches him at the same time it scares him, because he's afraid of hurting her. But he can't stop now.
He can’t stand being perfectly still any longer, no matter how desperately he wants to prolong this encounter, so he moves against her slightly, sliding into her just a bit. She cries out as her whole body arches against his, and he feels her convulse around him, her inner muscles squeezing him. He's certainly no expert on women, but it's obvious that she's as close to the edge as he is.
A long groan is dragged from his chest, and he balls up his fist, realizing a fraction of a second too late that his hand was flat against the concrete. All of a sudden he’s clutching a handful of rubble.
It’s a damn good thing he wasn’t holding Chloe, he thinks. And he really needs to watch what the hell he’s doing, or he’s going to send them both crashing right through the roof. That might make this a memorable night for her, but it’s not exactly the way he wants her to remember making love to him.
He drops the crushed concrete, presses his forehead against her neck, and struggles to get hold of himself.
"Clark,” she pleads in a whisper, digging her hands into his ass still harder, urging him to move, begging him to move.
He withdraws a bit, then thrusts into her hard, just once, and she sobs his name again. He can feel sweat pouring off his skin, yet he feels goosebumps shiver over his flesh at the same moment. Since ordinarily he’s impervious to both cold and heat, it’s a novel sensation, although it's not unpleasant. Just different.
He’s still trying hard to control himself, and it’s difficult, because he can barely breathe. His lungs are laboring, his heart is thudding violently, and he feels like he imagines humans do while running a marathon—totally keyed up, yet very close to the edge of passing out from strain and exhaustion.
He slides into her again, very slowly. She’s whispering his name in his ear over and over again, like a mantra or a prayer, and he loves the sound of his name on her lips, the awed note in her voice. It drags him still closer to the climax he's trying so hard to resist.
He sucks in another breath and tries to steady himself. And then she wraps her arms around his neck.
“Clark,” she whispers, so softly that he’s not sure he could have heard her without superhearing. “I love you.”
Heat explodes deep inside him, and suddenly he’s slamming into her hard, his whole body shuddering. He can feel her body arch against his, hears her voice raised almost to a scream, and he thinks he’s probably yelling too, but he really doesn’t care if anyone hears him at this point.
He's beyond caring about anything but Chloe. Her soft words have totally broken down his defenses, shattered his self-control, and he's helpless to stop himself from surrendering to the fierce pleasure, helpless to stop himself from coming hard and fast.
Ecstasy floods him like water crashing through a dam, and he lets himself drown in it.
Lets himself drown in her.
Read Chapter 6 here.