Behind the Mask, Chapter 2

Clark/Chloe futurefic, angst
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the WB and DC Comics, not to me.

Given Clark's cold, angry attitude, Chloe had braced herself for a scathing rejection. For a long second, he didn't react to her kiss at all, and she felt her heart sink like a stone tossed into a pond.

Then his arms came around her and he yanked her into his lap, hard.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding into her mouth hungrily, in an overwhelming onslaught that made her dizzy. His mouth was so ravenous and eager that she was stunned, and his big hand tangled in the depths of her long hair, grasping it gently, so she couldn't get away. Not that she was really trying.

His other hand was everywhere, caressing her cheek, her breasts, her ass. There was a frantic despondency to his caresses, a wild despair in his kisses, and anxiety hit her hard, making her heart squeeze in her chest. His mask of anger and indifference had fallen away, and behind the mask she could see agony and grief and misery.

Clark wasn't just depressed and mopey. Something was seriously wrong.

She tried to pull away from him long enough to ask what the problem was, but he wouldn't let her break the contact even for a second. Not that she really expected him to talk to her, anyway, considering how he'd been stonewalling her earlier. Obviously talk wasn't what he needed right now.

She slid one of her arms around his neck and lifted her other hand, gently stroking the mole on his right cheekbone in a gesture she'd used over and over again since they started dating, a gesture that meant, I love you.

A soft moan broke from his throat, and if possible, his kisses got even more intense. She could hardly breathe, and her heart was thudding so rapidly she was surprised it didn't just jump right out of her chest.

At last, just when she thought she might actually pass out, he pulled his mouth away from hers and began kissing her throat. He hadn't bothered to shave for two days, and she could feel the rasp of his stubble against the sensitive skin. Ordinarily he shaved on a regular basis, and the rough friction felt different, but oddly pleasurable. She arched her head back, allowing him better access. Heat ran through her veins, and she could feel her nipples harden until they ached, could feel moisture burning between her thighs.

At last he lifted his head. "Chloe," he whispered, and she could hear anguish in his baritone voice. "Chloe, I love you."

"I love you too," she whispered, dragging her eyelids open with an effort and looking into his face.

A look of terrible pain blazed deep in his eyes. "You shouldn't," he said in a hoarse whisper. "I'm not good enough for you, Chlo."

"What?" She blinked at him. "Don't be silly, Clark. You're the best man I know. The best man I've ever known."

He swallowed and shook his head wordlessly, then buried his face against her shoulder. She could feel him shaking, and sympathy welled up inside her. She still wasn't sure what was going on in his head, but obviously something had shaken him very badly.

She wrapped her arms around his waist and held onto him, trying to convey without words that she was there for him. That she'd never let him go.

Clark was still against her shoulder for a long moment, motionless but for the trembling she could feel in his body. She stroked his hair, running her fingers through the wavy dark strands, trying to comfort him, aching to bring him relief from whatever was eating away at his soul.

At last he lifted his head and looked at her. To her dismay, he'd managed to recover his cool mask of indifference, and all the pain she'd seen on his face was gone.

"You'd better get back to work," he said.

"No," she said, holding him more tightly. "I'm not leaving you like this, Clark. You're really upset about something."

"I'm fine. Go to work." Something unpleasant sparked in his eyes. "At least one of us should get something accomplished."

She stared at him, puzzled by the acid in his words. Maybe he was just talking about his writers' block, but he sounded entirely too bitter to be talking about his writing. "Clark, what are you talking about? You accomplish big things every day. You do more for the world than I could ever dream of doing."

"No, I don't," he said, his voice soft and acerbic. "I told you before, Chlo. I don't deserve you."

He started to pull back from her, but she wasn't going to let him go that easily. She held onto him and leaned forward, brushing her lips over his throat.

He hesitated, then his arms went around her again, and a little sound of desire rumbled in his chest. All of a sudden his hands were roaming all over her body again, and she wondered why on earth he'd been hiding in his office, trying to avoid her, when he obviously needed her so desperately.

Then again, maybe that question answered itself. Evidently he needed her, but he didn't want to need her for some reason.

Typical Clark logic, she thought wryly. You could count on Clark to make any relationship problem ten times more complex than it had to be. She loved him, but when things went wrong between them, he had a tendency to mope and sulk and generally make matters worse, the big dope. It was one of the most infuriating things about him. But she was going to do her best to make sure that didn't happen this time.

The touch of her lips against his throat was obviously getting to him. She could hear the rough sound of his breathing, could feel his hips starting to move in a primal rhythm, so that his erection pressed up against her thigh over and over again. He felt incredibly hot even through their clothing. They were still sitting in the office chair, and beneath their combined weight it creaked ominously with every movement.

She tugged at him, and he took the hint and slid with her onto the carpet.

He pushed up her skirt eagerly, running his hands over her legs. She wore thigh-high stockings, but that fragile material didn't prevent her from feeling his callused palms skimming over her skin. Heat sizzled through her everywhere he touched, and she moved against him with restless need.

He was wearing a blue t-shirt and a pair of jeans, and she pulled at the hem of the t-shirt, yanked it up to his shoulders, and did some exploration of her own.

Although they'd only been married for six months, they'd been dating for years, and she'd caressed his body so many times she knew it better than her own. Even so, a little thrill rippled through her at the feel of his smooth, sculpted muscles beneath her hands. Clark was a beautiful man who looked like sex wrapped up in a six foot three package, and touching him was something she was pretty sure she'd never grow tired of.

He gave a soft groan of pleasure, and suddenly she found she was naked.

She smiled, amused. When Clark went into superspeed and removed her clothes, he moved faster than the human eye could see, and it seemed almost like magic to suddenly find herself divested of her clothing. She was used to it by now, but familiarity hadn't dimmed her awe of the remarkable things he could do. She still thought it was really cool to have her clothes removed in the blink of an eye.

The red and blue carpet, patterned with symbols from the Kawatche caves, was soft against her bare back, and Clark felt warm and solid against her front. She noticed he hadn't taken off his own clothes, and she immediately tugged the shirt off over his head. The feel of his hard chest against her breasts sent a wave of heat through her. She pressed her nose against his shoulder, breathing in the musky odor of aroused male, a scent of soap and sweat and pheromones that made her stomach melt.

She reached down between them and fumbled at his jeans, unfastening them. Then she reached into his boxers and grabbed him. Maybe it was her reporting background, but she'd always believed in going directly to the source.

Besides, she was pretty sure that as long as she was holding him there, he wasn't going to pull away from her. Men were pretty weak that way, and Clark was no exception.

He inhaled sharply, his breath hissing between his teeth. "Chloe. God."

She'd touched him there a thousand times, too, but she never failed to be astonished by the way he felt, amazed by the heat and hardness and sleekness of him. He thrust eagerly against her palm, groaning, and she wrapped her fingers around him and let him slide against her hand, squeezing him gently. A little noise escaped him with every movement, and she felt an answering tug of need deep inside, along with a surge of liquid fire between her thighs.

"Clark," she whispered. "I need you."

The words weren't even remotely adequate to express what she was feeling. She needed him physically, but she needed him emotionally as well. She didn't want him to retreat from her, the way he'd done over the past two days. She loved him so much that she simply couldn't bear it when he pulled away from her that way.

He braced a hand on either side of her and pushed himself up a bit, then moved against her, and she could feel the head of his erection brushing against her moisture. She moaned, frantic to feel him inside her. But he made no move to go further, just slid lightly against her. A sound of aching need rolled from her throat.

"Clark. Please."

She heard a sound from him, a whimper of need almost as desperate as the noises she was making, and she opened her eyes to see him looking at her, his green eyes wide and vulnerable.

He looked like he was struggling hard to fight against the emotions she was stirring in him, and she realized that part of him still wanted to hide behind his emotionless mask. He didn't want to let out whatever was bothering him, didn't want to acknowledge it, because then he might have to actually face it.

Which was also typical of Clark, unfortunately.

She lifted her head just a little and brushed her lips over his, and he gave in with startling suddenness. His body slammed into hers violently.

He felt hot and huge and absolutely wonderful, and her eyes drifted shut of their own accord as she lifted her legs, wrapping them around his hips to allow him to thrust even deeper. She clutched at him, one hand in his hair and the other around his waist, and brushed kisses over his rough cheeks as they rocked together, fast and hard.

With every movement, he cried out, his deep voice sounding very loud despite the noise of the city that she could hear through the window. Usually they tried to keep it quiet because of the neighbors, but apparently he'd totally forgotten about the neighbors. That was perfectly okay with her, because the neighbors weren't exactly at the top of her mind, either.

The feel of his body inside hers was incredible, and pleasure spiralled within her, coiling tighter and tighter, until she could hardly bear it.

At last he froze, deep inside her, his entire body trembling with need, his breathing harsh and uneven. She didn't know if he was trying to resist her again, or if he was just trying to prolong the pleasure, but either way, she couldn't wait another second.

She turned her head slightly and gently brushed her lips over his. A long, shuddering groan broke from him, and he withdrew almost entirely, then plunged inside her fiercely.

Instantly, her climax rippled through her, an explosion of light and heat that had her clutching at him desperately, sobbing with the intensity of her release. She was vaguely aware of him thrusting hard, in a desperate, frantic tempo, his muscles rigid beneath her hands, his voice raised in a roar of ecstasy and satisfaction.

At last he dropped his head onto her shoulder, gasping and shaking like he'd been without oxygen for the past five minutes.

She let her hands run over him lazily, feeling the sweat on his skin, the heat of his body. At last he lifted his head, looked at her warily, and sat up, reaching for his t-shirt.

She sat up too. That wary look concerned her. She'd hoped making love would have broken his walls down a bit, but he looked like he was building them up with bricks and barbed wire instead. "Clark," she said gently. "Come on. Tell me what's bothering you."

"No."

The curt monosyllable annoyed her, and she spoke more sharply than she'd meant to. "What the hell is wrong with you, Clark?"

His head jerked up, and he glared at her. She could almost see the mask drop back onto his face. He looked almost like a stranger, rather than the gentle, loving man she'd married.

He was silent for a long moment. At last he spoke.

"Get out," he said coldly.

Read Chapter 3 here.