Season 5, sequel to "Thirst"
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the WB and DC Comics, not to me
There must have been red kryptonite in the Coke. That was all Clark could figure, anyway. Because all of a sudden he found himself with his arms tightly around Chloe's waist, kissing her like there was no tomorrow.
Her lips tasted sweet, like apple pie and whipped cream, and he couldn't stop himself from running his tongue over the seam of her lips, trying to deepen the kiss. Her lips parted easily, and all of a sudden their tongues were sliding together, caressing and stroking and mating until his head spun. He heard a soft moaning sound, wondered where it was coming from, and finally realized it was him.
Red K in the Coke, he decided hazily. Definitely.
Chloe was his best friend in the whole world. They'd been friends since eighth grade, and he'd never kissed her like this before, at least when he was in his right mind. Which wasn't to say they hadn't ever kissed. Chloe had kissed him the day they'd met-- his first kiss-- but naturally that had been kind of an awkward, bumbling encounter, because they'd both been, what, fourteen? And then they'd almost kissed at the freshman dance the next year, but a natural disaster had intervened. They'd stolen a few other kisses together over the years, but their kisses had rarely been this... feverish.
The only time he'd ever kissed her even remotely like this was the time his friend Pete Ross had slipped a little red kryptonite rock into his pocket. Clark had immediately lost all his inhibitions, and he and Chloe had made out in the back seat of Pete's car, and then at the Talon, a local coffee house. Things had gotten pretty damn hot and heavy between them. But red K acted like a drug on him, and she'd been under the influence of some weird alien parasite that fed off adrenaline. Neither of them had really been in control of themselves.
He was in control of himself now, or ought to be. But for some reason he was standing here in his parents' kitchen, kissing the hell out of a girl he was supposed to be taking care of. A girl who needed to recover from a serious illness. A girl who needed to be treated as if she were fragile, not kissed like he was about to throw her down on the kitchen counter and screw her on top of his mother's cookbooks.
Her hands were tangled in the depths of his hair, their mouths were practically welded together, and he had his arms around her waist in an iron grip. She tasted good and smelled better, and pulling away from her was the absolute last thing he wanted to do. Exerting the last dregs of his self-control, he lifted his head.
"Chlo," he said, hearing his raspy breathing, hearing the hoarse sound of his own voice. "We really need to stop."
She didn't let go of his hair. Her fingers tightened in it, in a way that probably would have hurt quite a lot if he were human. Fortunately he was Kryptonian, and having his hair yanked on didn't bother him. He was invulnerable to pain, though obviously not to scorching kisses from sexy girls.
"No," she whispered, looking at him with wide eyes. "Please, Clark. Don't stop."
Her hazel eyes glittered like gold coins in the late afternoon sunlight, so imploring, so desperate that he could hardly restrain himself from kissing her again. "Chloe," he said again, trying really hard to get the gravelly sound out of his voice. He didn't succeed. "You've been sick."
"I'm not sick now." She moved her hand a little and began running her fingers over his ear, and he gave an involuntary shiver. Somehow she'd managed to pick up on the fact that he had a serious weakness to being touched there. Her fingers explored the whorls of his ear, then brushed over his earlobe, and he had to bite his tongue to stop another one of those moans from escaping. "I'm fine, Clark. Really. The doctor said so."
"He also said..." Her hand slid down to his throat and began stroking him beneath his ear, just behind his jaw, and his voice suddenly jumped up an octave. He swallowed hard, trying to get himself under control. "He said you needed to rest. This is not resting, Chloe. You need to go to bed."
"So take me to bed," she said softly.
Oh, God, she did not just say that. He shut his eyes. Obviously he was hallucinating or something, because Chloe had never said anything so forward to him in her life, not even when she was under some kind of influence. Kissing was one thing, but what she was suggesting was something else entirely.
The problem was, he liked the suggestion. He liked it a lot.
"Uh," he answered. "Chloe. You were really sick, and I think..."
His words trailed off as she slid her hands down along his spine. He could feel her palms burning his skin through his t-shirt as they explored the ridges of his muscles and bones. He already had one hell of an erection, and her touch was only making him harder. At last her hands paused on his lower back, just above the waistband of his jeans, and she pulled him toward her.
He was so strong that she couldn't possibly have forced him to move against his will, but apparently his will was taking a nap, because he didn't fight, just let her tug him forward. She slid to the edge of the stool, her legs parted, and he suddenly found himself between her thighs, pressed right up against her in an incredibly intimate way.
Need and desire and want roared through him, and he instinctively tightened his arms around her waist and dropped his face into her hair. She lifted her head and began scattering feather-light kisses over his throat, and a little noise escaped him, a sound of mingled lust and distress.
Part of him didn't like being kissed there. Only the day before he'd been attacked by a vampire-- his own girlfriend-- who'd bitten his throat and drunk his blood, with the intention of either killing him, or turning him into a vampire as well. He'd been utterly helpless against her attack because there had been green kryptonite, which made him weak and sick, in the room. When Lana had taken advantage of his weakness and bitten him, drinking his blood, it had felt like a bizarre perversion of sex, and disturbingly like rape.
He remembered what Lana had said when they talked about the incident this afternoon: I've never felt so close to anyone. The problem was, what she remembered as closeness, he remembered as a horrific assault. It hadn't been intimacy, from his point of view, and he didn't welcome being reminded of it.
But even though Chloe was kissing his neck, what she was doing to him was absolutely nothing like what Lana had done. What Lana had done to him had been painful and aggressive and frightening. Chloe's lips against his throat were soft and caressing and seductive. They soothed him, driving the bad memories away and filling him with a rush of longing, a craving for normal physical contact, the desire for a woman's touch that wasn't scary or horrifying or morbid.
She slid her arms around his waist, slipped a leg around behind his thighs, and pulled him closer, and he let his hips rock forward just a bit, so that his aching erection brushed against her. Even through two layers of jeans, it felt so good that all the breath rushed out of his lungs, and he had to gasp for air.
"Mmmm," she said against his throat. "Do that again."
He didn't really need to be asked. He moved against her again, with a little more confidence, and she pressed herself against him more tightly, digging her fingers into his back. Pleasure slammed into him so hard he couldn't prevent a moan from welling out of his chest this time.
"Oh, God," he whispered into her hair, moving against her harder and faster as his instincts took over, as need and tension wound more tightly within him. "OhGodChloeohGodChloeohGod."
Her hand slid between them and began to unbutton his jeans. Things were going too far, too fast, and in some vague corner of his mind he knew he should make her stop. For one thing, he had a girlfriend, and her name wasn't Chloe Sullivan. For another, Chloe had been sick, and she still needed to recover. He closed his eyes, trying to call up the image of her lying still and pale in a hospital bed, but all that did was make him hungrier than before, because the thought of her dying scared the hell out of him.
He remembered standing in the hospital, blinking away tears as he watched her motionless form, wanting to protect her but unable to do anything to save her. She was the one person in the world he relied on, the one person he knew he couldn't live without. And he'd come so close to losing her that he didn't even like to think about it.
But he hadn't lost her. She was alive, and warm, and right here. Alive... and in his arms.
He should take her upstairs, put her to bed, and superspeed out to do his chores or something until he got himself under control. But he was pretty sure getting himself under control was no longer an option, because she'd managed to undo his jeans. Her small hand began stroking him through the thin fabric of his boxers, and he discovered he just didn't have the strength to walk away from her. He was more desperate for her than he'd ever been for a woman.
He was hungry for her beyond all reason.
Read Chapter 3 here.