Season 2, "Rush"
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Read the previous chapter here.
Read the story from the beginning here.
No big deal. It's not like anything really happened.
Clark tries to keep those words in mind, but it's not easy when all he can think about is the way Chloe tasted, the way her body felt against his, the little sounds she made. What they did in the back of his pickup truck.
And he's not just hung up on what happened physically, either. He remembers the way she accepted him for what he really is without blinking an eyelash, and he knows she was wrong.
It was definitely a big deal.
Over the next two days, he tries to go back to a normal life. School, farm chores, homework.
The problem is that he's pretty much walking around in a haze of warm memories and sexual fantasies.
He can't focus on his teachers' lectures. He can't seem to read. He doesn't even notice Lana when he passes her in the hall.
His mind is on Chloe. The way she felt, the way she kissed him. The unmistakable admiration in her voice when she said, How cool is that?
Finally, he can't take it any more.
Chloe's just fine. She got back to school yesterday, and she seems like her normal, perky self. His heart pounding, he scribbles out a note, folds it tightly, and passes it to her in English.
She opens it, then smiles at him and nods, very slightly. His heart thuds harder than before, and suddenly he doesn't have any trouble focusing. Except he's not focusing on school work.
He's totally focused on tonight.
"So my parents are in Metropolis for the night." He's babbling, because he's nervous.
No. He's scared out of his mind.
Chloe is sitting on the couch, three feet away from him, and he isn't on red rocks or any kind of mind-altering substance, and she's parasite-free and totally in control of her own actions. It's just him and her, Clark and Chloe, together alone.
They've been together alone many, many times before. But this time, with the memory of everything they did together floating around inside his head... it's different. Really different.
His hands fumble as he puts logs into the fireplace. He hears her shift, hears her move off the couch, and then her hand is on his shoulder. He jumps violently.
"Take it easy, Clark," she says gently.
"I'm fine," he answers. He takes a deep breath and makes a conscious decision to display his alien powers in front of her again. He looks into the fireplace, narrowing his eyes, and flames blaze up wildly.
"Whoa," she says. "You're going to set the house on fire."
He blushes a little. When his heat vision first started, it was activated by arousal, although she has no way of knowing that. He has it under control now, or thought he did. But the way he just practically reduced the logs to ash, just because of the light touch of her hand on his shoulder, makes him wonder.
"So," she says, sitting down on the floor next to him and crossing her legs. She doesn't appear freaked out or scared by his alien powers. In fact she acts as if they're no big deal, which he appreciates. "What exactly did you have in mind tonight?"
He looks into the fire, and his cheeks heat as hot as the flames. He hopes she'll assume it's warmth from the fire, rather than embarrassment.
"Uh," he says. "Well, you know, when we were, um... I just sort of thought maybe... I mean, if you wanted to..."
His cheeks are redder than before, and he has to resist the urge to draw his knees up against his chest and hide his face against them. God, he's pathetic. He remembers how he was on the red meteor rocks, confident and totally sure of what he was doing. He wishes he was like that now. He wishes he could make a move on her without stammering and blushing like an idiot.
But a stammering, blushing idiot is who he is, really. He's sixteen and a virgin, a boy who hasn't developed any sort of confidence around girls yet, and it's not surprising he reacts this way. Not surprising at all.
Just embarrassing as hell.
"Yeah," she says softly, and her arm slides around his shoulders. "I think I'd like that."
Her voice is gentle and understanding, and immense relief that she isn't laughing at him sweeps through him. He turns his head and looks at her. In the crimson glow of the fire, her skin looks golden, her hair almost auburn. She's wearing a blue t-shirt that says Smallville High School, Home of the Crows! on the back, with the school's big red S shield on the front.
He likes the way that S looks on her for some reason. Maybe it's just the way it calls attention to her breasts. But for whatever reason, he thinks it looks great on her.
"Um," he says. "Okay. Well..."
Hesitantly, he reaches out and puts his arm around her, too. She leans her head against his shoulder, and for long moments that's all that happens. He holds her against him, enjoying the feel of her in his arms, and his heart begins to thud heavily. He can feel the blood rushing through his veins, can hear the pulse pounding in his ears, can feel his skin beginning to heat.
Just holding her makes him nervous. He isn't sure he can make a move on her without passing out.
But the need to touch her is burning hotter and hotter inside of him, until it grows so intense it begins to overwhelm his nervousness.
He lowers his head and breathes in the scent of her hair, the clean, sweet smell he associates with Chloe. Strawberries and cream, and beneath it the scent of her skin. His sense of smell is pretty acute, and to him she smells unique, like no one else in the world. He could find her in the darkness, in a crowd of a thousand other people, just by her scent.
He really wants to touch her, and his hand slowly begins to knead her shoulder, sliding over her shoulderblade, then slipping down and stroking over the bare skin of her arm. Her skin feels like satin, so infinitely touchable he just about passes out from the contact.
He remembers touching her elsewhere. He remembers what the inside of her thighs felt like.
What they tasted like.
Down, boy, he tells himself firmly. Because even though the images turn him on, they also scare the hell out of him. Touching her arm, he can handle. But the idea of going down on her again is just too much for a shy and naive Kansas farmboy. It freaks him the hell out.
Her hand lifts, slowly caressing his chest, and his heart begins to pound harder, such a loud, urgent drumbeat he's afraid she can hear it. Suddenly his jeans feel very, very tight, and he can feel himself throbbing with need.
He might be scared, but that's not stopping his body from reacting to her touch.
Her fingers stroke over the front of his t-shirt, exploring his chest, caressing his pecs and his ribs and his nipples. He kind of wishes she'd move her hand a little lower-- just to his stomach; he doesn't have the nerve to even think about anything lower than that-- but he can't quite bring himself to grab her hand and pull it down to his stomach.
His own hand is roaming a little more assertively, over her back, discovering the graceful line of her spine, the curve of her waist. His fingers itch to touch her ass, but he doesn't have that kind of nerve, either. There is just no way in hell his hands are moving across her state line right now.
Slowly, her hand moves down to his abdomen. She's stroking his muscles, sliding down to his navel, and then even lower, just above the waistband of his jeans. His skin is really sensitive there, and it's all he can do not to move his hips, not to writhe beneath her gentle touch.
His hands are moving all over her, without any sort of guidance from his brain. It's like instinct is starting to take him over. His nervousness and awkwardness are fading.
And then her hand brushes over the front of his jeans, and he jolts. The nervousness and awkwardness come roaring back.
She looks up at him and sees the shocked look on his face, and suddenly she bursts into giggles.
Annoyance wells up inside him. He doesn't like being laughed at. "It isn't funny," he says irritably.
"Oh, it totally is." She manages to get her giggles under control. "I mean, I remember what we did in the back of your truck, the way we... well. And here you're getting all freaked out just because I touched your jeans."
"It was different then," he says stiffly. A little part of him wants to grab her hand and put it back, but he resists the urge. God, he aches for her. But he can't. He just can't...
But he really wishes he could.
"Listen," she says, her hand stroking over his abdomen again. It feels really, really good, and it doesn't freak him out like the other thing she did, so he closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy it. "I don't think we're ready for the big cahuna yet, Clark. I really don't."
"You could be right," he answers. God knows he's thought about "the big cahuna" an awful lot in the past two days, but he thinks if they actually tried it he might just have a heart attack or something. But her hand is stroking the sensitive skin just beneath his navel, and he's starting to shake with need. "But I don't want you to go, Chloe."
"Oh, I don't intend to go," she answers.
"Good," he says softly.
She lifts her head and smiles at him. "Even without that," she says, "there are plenty of things we can do together."
He turns red, but this time he doesn't look away from her. He's the one who invited her over, after all. And he can't pretend he didn't have this in mind, because he very definitely did.
He grins at her, doing his best to channel the cocky, confident guy he was when the red rock was in his pocket. The guy who's still inside him somewhere. He pushes the naive Kansas farmboy away and does his best to embrace the inner bad boy.
"Show me what you have in mind," he says.
Read Chapter 13 here.