Close Encounters, Chapter 2

Clark/Chloe
Late season 5
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the WB and DC Comics, not to me

Lightning flashes like strobe lights, and in the brief instant of white light Clark can see Chloe looking up at him, her eyes wide, a slight, sultry smile curving her lips. Then it's dark again. Thunder crashes overhead, and rain begins to spatter against the windows.

"Are you asking me to stop?" she asks softly.

He's not sure what he's asking for. Part of him wants to ask her to stop, and part of him wants to tell her to never stop, and part of him just wants to grab her.

He's seriously conflicted right now.

Her hand moves against him, very slightly, and his body reacts to the gentle brush of her fingers with an involuntary twitch, drawing a startled gasp from him. He hears a soft chuckle.

"You don't sound like you want me to stop," she observes.

If the lights were on, if he were actually looking into her eyes, he'd probably be panicking and trying to crawl under the couch. He's not exactly smooth when it comes to dealing with women, and the unexpectedness of this situation would ordinarily be enough to scare the hell out of him.

But the fact that she's touching him in total darkness somehow makes it seem very different. It's almost like they're two totally different people than they were before-- not Clark and Chloe, who have been platonic friends forever, but just a man and a woman, alone in the dark.

The rain begins to beat heavily against the roof in the same way his heart is thudding against his ribs, and her hand moves up and down with a little more confidence, and he doesn't try to stop her. Heat and sensation build in him-- not the sweet, gentle pleasure he expected, but a raw, fierce need, a desperate desire that's so intense it scares him a little.

He wants to feel more, wants more than just her hand against him, and he doesn't object as she moves a little closer to him, her thigh pressing up next to his own, her breast against his arm.

His eyes drift shut as her lips brush lightly over his throat, sending little explosions of sensation through his nerves with every touch. At the same time her hand is still sliding against him, making him throb with need and desire, moving faster and harder until his hips move involuntarily, so that he's rubbing up against the palm of her hand in an eager, hungry rhythm.

"You like that," she whispers against his throat.

Of course he likes it. He's a guy. He almost says so, but he doesn't want to say anything at all right now, because he's afraid if he does, it'll break the spell. She'll remember he's just Clark, her friend, the very same Kansas farmboy she's known for six years, and pull away from him.

And then he'll die. Because he's pretty sure he can't live without her touch now.

But even though he doesn't want to say anything, he can't stop the groan that wells up from someplace deep inside him as her hand closes over him, her fingers curling around him, touching him a little more firmly.

Even through the denim it feels incredible, better than anything Lana ever did to him, better than anything he's ever done by himself in the privacy of the shower or his bedroom. He can't understand why it feels so damn good. It's not even a proper hand job, because the jeans are in the way, and her fingers stroking him through heavy fabric shouldn't feel better than sex.

But for whatever reason, they do.

Another flash of lightning lets him see a fleeting image of Chloe, her hand against him, her eyes intense, her lips parted. There's a kind of wonder and surprise on her face, an expression of awe and amazement he never would have expected to see aimed at him, and it rocks him to his core.

And then it's dark again, and there's nothing but the feel of Chloe's hand wrapped around him, moving up and down, over and over again.

Another groan makes its way out of his throat, and he suddenly realizes he's about to come in his jeans. He grabs her hand and stops her before it's too late.

"You don't like that?" she asks softly, the teasing note in her voice suggesting that she knows perfectly well how much he likes it. He likes it an awful lot. He likes it so much he doesn't want it to be over yet.

He still doesn't say anything, because he doesn't dare. He just turns toward her, tilts her head up, and starts to kiss her.

His body is burning already, aching for release, so his kisses are a little on the violent side. Almost instantly his tongue slides into her mouth, exploring, caressing, demanding. She doesn't seem to mind. He puts a hand on either side of her face and holds her, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs, kissing her deeply, over and over again.

Her hands slide around his neck, and she presses closer to him.

Somehow she falls over backward. He's not sure if he pushes her, or if she pulls him, or if maybe it's a wordless, mutual agreement. But suddenly they're lying together on the couch, his body pressing hers into the cushions, her arms around him, and he sighs with pleasure as he finds himself between her thighs, his hard-on pressed right up against her. There are two layers of denim between them, and yet it's the most intimate thing he's ever felt.

He moves against her, wishing he could get their jeans out of the way, but not possessing quite enough nerve to do it. Anyway, he's not sure he can wait that long. Another groan spills from him, and he's shocked to feel himself shuddering with need as he rocks against her.

"Clark," she murmurs against his ear.

He wants to say her name too, wants to whisper it over and over again, but he chokes it back, still afraid of saying anything, afraid that somehow, the sound of his voice will break the spell. He's not even sure he could say her name anyway, because right now he's so overwhelmed he can't do anything but moan. He's not capable of being coherent, because he's being buried under a landslide of sensation.

The way she smells, like flowers and spices, fills his head, and his body is aware of nothing except the way she feels under him, her flesh soft and warm and yielding against his. Her hands are stroking his hair, the nape of his neck, and he's on fire everywhere she touches. He's struggling to wait, to hold himself back and make sure she's enjoying this too.

But he's just too far gone to wait.

Thunder rolls overhead as he comes. He gasps and moans as his c*ck jerks fiercely, erupting in a violent, explosive climax that wrenches a long cry of agonized pleasure from him.

At last his cries fade to silence, and he presses his face against her neck as he collapses against her, utterly stunned by the intensity of his orgasm.

He still doesn't say anything. But this time it's because he's absolutely speechless.

Read Chapter 3 here.