Season 5, rewrite of "Exposed"
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.
Clark knew he ought to be shocked at his own behavior. He had Chloe Sullivan pushed up against a brick wall in an alley, and she was wearing nothing but a few sequins, and despite the shadows, there was a very good chance someone was going to walk past and see them.
And the thought seriously turned him on.
He couldn't lie to himself. He wasn't shocked at his behavior. He was just plain horny.
A helpless little moan rolled out of him, and he pushed into her harder. Her hands ran over his shoulders, his back, his hair, and he remembered that all he'd wanted from this encounter was to feel her touch. And he'd been right-- the touch of her hands felt good. He needed to be touched in a big way.
But he needed other things, too. Which was why he was grinding his cock against her stomach.
"Wow," she whispered against his throat. "Who would have guessed? The farmboy is turned on by the thought of doing it in public."
The phrase doing it in public made his brain turn to Jell-o. He whimpered and shoved against her even harder.
No, he wasn't turned on by the thought of doing it in public. Really, he wasn't.
The fact that he was hard as steel and practically gushing precome didn't mean a damn thing.
Her hand slid down between their bodies and found his erection, exploring it, testing the width and length of it, and the light brush of her fingers almost dropped him to his knees. An image flashed into his mind, the memory of her dancing in the club, wearing diaphanous wings and looking purely angelic, while she danced in a way that made every man in the room think of sex.
Chloe, he thought, thrusting against her hand. My angel. My fallen angel.
He felt another surge of precome, and another of those soft little noises came out of his throat. Except this one wasn't quite as soft as he'd intended.
"Shhh." Her hand moved up and down. "We're in public, Clark. If you don't keep it quiet, someone's going to notice us."
The thought of being noticed sent a ridiculous spasm of excitement through him, and he shuddered all over, his cock jerking hard.
"You like that idea." Her hand moved on him steadily. "I guess I can understand that. You want to know the truth? I kind of liked stripping."
He thought of her up there, dancing, remembered the growing confidence of her movements, the way she'd pressed against the pole... He shuddered again.
She continued caressing him, and her voice spoke in his ear. "There's a little bad part of me, deep inside, that liked having all those men drooling over me." She stroked harder. "Especially you."
He couldn't deny he'd been drooling. God help him, he was still drooling.
He knew he shouldn't be standing here in an alley, letting her give him a hand job. He tried really hard to get sensible, Clark Kentish words together: We really need to get you dressed, Chloe, or We really can't do this here in the alley, because we'll get arrested, or even, You need to stop or I'm going to ruin my best suit.
But nothing would come out of his mouth except desperate, soft whimpers and low groans.
"So maybe we both have a little streak of exhibitionism in us," she said softly, and began to move her hand even faster.
He let his head drop back and surrendered totally, letting all thoughts of protest go. Right now he just couldn't bring himself to care about anything besides the feel of her hand stroking him.
Her fingers squeezed, stroking him hard, driving him inexorably toward rapture. His balls tightened, and his cock was so hard it hurt. But just as he felt an orgasm threaten, her hand slowed its rhythm. He moaned in disappointment.
He suddenly became aware that his thumb was stroking her nipple through the sequined top, although he had no idea when he'd started caressing her that way. His other hand was roaming all over her body, touching her ass and her back and her thighs, and he wasn't sure when he'd started doing that, either. But he didn't want to ever stop, because her skin was so soft and smooth that any guy in his right mind would want to touch her.
Her hands slid up to his waistband, and she began undoing his belt, then unfastening his trousers. He tried to formulate a protest, and couldn't. Even the fact that someone might see them couldn't make him protest.
Hell, if he was going to be honest, the idea kind of turned him on.
No. If he was going to be honest, there was no kind of about it. He was ridiculously excited by the whole situation.
And then she was pushing the fine wool fabric aside and stroking him right through his boxers, and his hips jerked convulsively, slamming his cock into her hand in a wordless demand for more.
She shoved down his boxers, and he glanced down, seeing the pale skin of her hand wrap around his cock. It was swollen and dark with blood, and his skin felt too tight, and the touch of her hand against his sensitive flesh made him gasp and squirm.
He found his hands fumbling at her sequined panties, pushing them down. She helped, dropping them to her ankles and then kicking them off.
Oh, God, he thought helplessly. Oh, God, I can't not do this, I just can't...
And then he was picking her up, wrapping his arms around her and positioning her against the brick wall.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he vaguely remembered he had a girlfriend, and he really ought to talk to her before he and Chloe did this. But he was pressed up right against the hot entrance to Chloe's body, and she was creaming all over him, and he couldn't wait. He simply couldn't. He'd make things right with Lana later.
Chloe caught him by the hair and looked straight into his eyes.
"We're in public," she whispered. "Better make it quick."
Quick sounded really good to him. He sank into her, all the way to the hilt, with a long, gasping sigh. Her body squeezed around him, welcoming him. And then he was thrusting hard, almost violently.
God, he'd wanted this so badly, and hadn't ever even realized it.
He'd never known sex could be this wet. This hot. She was slick with cream, slippery and soft and pliable, and their bodies moved together easily. He could hear the wet sound of their bodies sliding together, such a blatantly sexual noise that it made him even harder than before, so hard he ached with the need for release.
Driven by that need, he moved even faster, and then suddenly he was coming, his cock jerking as he climaxed long and hard. Ecstasy flowed through him like a riptide, a fast, irresistible current that pulled him under and swept him along, drowning in pleasure. He gritted his teeth together to keep from yelling, and he felt her pressing her face into his shoulder to muffle her own cries.
And then he sagged against her, drawing in frantic gasps of air, still holding her off the ground.
She wiggled. Apparently girls weren't into afterglow.
Or maybe she was just worried about being arrested. He probably ought to be, too, but right now he felt so damn content he just couldn't bring himself to care.
"Hey." Her voice was soft, but firm. "Let me go, Clark. We need to get dressed."
Sighing, he put her down and zipped his pants up. She grabbed her clothes, putting them on so fast he'd have sworn she had superspeed.
And then she looked up at him. He saw an uncomfortable look in her eyes.
"Uh," she said. "Well. I guess we got away with it."
Since there were no cops headed their way, he supposed she was right. Thank God. He could just imagine the look on Maggie Sawyer's face if she'd happened by and seen them screwing in the shadows. He'd had enough of Sawyer's sour looks.
"Yeah," he said, feeling stupid and awkward all of a sudden. "I guess."
He didn't know what to say, and neither did she, apparently. There was a long, uncomfortable silence, and then she gave a tiny shrug and turned toward the street.
"Come on, Clark. Let's head home."
He stood frozen for a moment. He felt like something needed to be said, but he couldn't seem to come up with anything that wouldn't make the situation more awkward than ever.
Silently, he followed her out of the alley.
"Check it out." Despite the awkward ending of their last encounter, Chloe was smiling broadly as she walked up the stairs of his loft the next day. "My first Daily Planet byline."
"No kidding." Clark had been staring out the window into the afternoon sunshine, but at the sound of her voice he turned around, grinning. "Congratulations."
"Well..." She gave a self-deprecating little smile. "It's not exactly the Torch, Clark. Page 78. At the bottom."
He took the paper from her hands and looked at the article, feeling as much pride as if he'd written the article himself. He scanned through it and raised his eyebrows.
"Hey," he said. "It says here Interpol was able to arrest Lyon due to an anonymous tip."
"Yeah." She smiled innocently. "Fancy that."
He stared at her, remembering her angry words when Sawyer had told them she couldn't touch Lyon.
Maybe not. But I can.
He'd thought she was just referring to the knee to the groin she'd given the guy. But he should have realized she'd had something else in mind. Something more substantial and permanent.
"Wow," he said, impressed by her resourcefulness and determination. He handed the paper back, and she put it down on the back of the couch. "Remind me never to piss you off."
She smiled. "You could never piss me off, Clark."
His gaze flickered down. "About that..." He decided the elephant in the loft needed to be discussed, and plunged awkwardly into the discussion. "I thought maybe I did. I mean, yesterday morning."
"Not at all." Her voice was airy and bright and totally unconvincing. "It wasn't a big deal, Clark. I mean, we'd just been through a lot, and we were both--"
She blinked. "Stop what?"
"That rationalizing thing you do. Cut it out. It didn't happen just because of everything we'd been through, and you know it."
"Fine," she answered, and her voice was suddenly brittle, and sharp enough to cut glass. "Then let's be honest with each other. It was just because you saw my boobs. It was a physical thing, nothing more."
"I saw some other boobs, too. You weren't the only woman up on that stage, Chlo. Boobs are actually surprisingly common."
She frowned at him. "What the hell are you getting at?"
"What I'm getting at," he said, "is that it wasn't all about your boobs-- which are really nice, by the way--"
"Yeah. Okay. So I'm trying to say that yes, you have nice boobs, but you do realize I wouldn't have just had sex with anyone I saw up on that stage last night, right?"
"Well, no. I guess not. You're not a total dog."
"Thank you, so much. Look, it wasn't just your boobs, Chlo. It was, I don't know, sort of a culmination of a lot of things. We're always hanging around together, always spending time together, and we've always been really close, and you're just so..." He shook his head. "I mean, take this whole Lyon thing as an example. You didn't just kick him in the balls. You took him down."
She shrugged. "Anyone could have done that."
"But they didn't. You did." He looked at her steadily. "You rock, Chlo. Seriously. I admire the hell out of you."
"And my boobs."
"Shut up. I'm trying to be serious here."
"I don't want to be serious." She scowled at him. "Maybe it's escaped your attention like it did yesterday, but you have a girlfriend, Clark."
"Well, no, I don't. Not any more." He felt a little nervous, but he didn't let himself break eye contact. "I went to Lana yesterday, right after you and I... anyway, we had a long talk. I think we both realized things weren't really working out between us, even before this happened. And... we broke up."
"Oh, my God." Her hand clapped over her mouth. "Did you tell her we slept together? She's my friend, Clark."
"I told her I'd been with another girl. I figured I owed her that much. But I didn't tell her who. I thought you might not want her to know right away, or that you might want to tell her yourself."
She stared at him, big-eyed. Her hand lowered. "Okay," she said slowly. "So what exactly do you expect me to do now, Clark? Fling myself into your arms? Have sex with you again? What?"
"I have no idea," he said honestly. "I think it'd be great if we tried to explore this. And I don't just mean sex. I mean a relationship. But if you want to do the Chloe maneuver and back off and pretend it never happened... well, that's up to you, I guess."
"We don't have a relationship." She lifted her chin with dignity. "I just think we need to admit it was all just one of those weird things that happen, and let it go."
"See, there you go again, backing off."
"What do you expect?" Her dark gold eyebrows lowered dangerously. "Maybe you haven't noticed, Clark, but I'm always the one taking chances, putting myself out there. And you're the one who always winds up backing away. Maybe I'm tired of exposing myself, always being the vulnerable one, and always getting hurt. Did you ever think of that?"
He remembered her soft, gentle voice from a year ago: I obviously still have those feelings in me somewhere...
And his own response, regretful but firm. I wish I felt the same way, but I don't. At least not right now.
The truth of the matter was, he did understand how she felt. It sucked to strip yourself naked, literally or metaphorically, and get rejected. Not that he'd rejected her this time, but she obviously expected him to. He'd rejected her too many times in the past for her to want to risk her heart again.
Disappointment roared through him, but he tried to keep his expression even and shrugged one shoulder. "Okay."
She turned away, and sudden panic caught at him. He remembered her words: I'm always the one taking chances, always the one putting myself out there. Maybe I'm tired of exposing myself, always being the vulnerable one...
"Chlo," he said. "Wait."
She turned around with an exasperated sigh. "What, Clark?"
He caught the hem of his shirt, pulled it over his head, and stood there, shirtless. She gaped at him.
"Excuse me, but what the hell are you doing?"
"Well..." He shrugged. "You said you didn't want to always be the one who took the chances, Chlo. You stripped in front of me the other night. I figure it's my turn."
She watched in reluctant, wide-eyed fascination as he kicked off his workboots and pulled off his socks. He hesitated, and she lifted an eyebrow.
"You so totally do not have the nerve to take your pants off."
He grinned, slowly unfastened his belt, and undid his jeans, then stepped out of them, dropping them to the floor. Now he wasn't wearing a thing except red boxers, and she stared at him with an arrested expression that made his stomach do a funny little melting thing. She spoke in a very quiet whisper.
"Oh. My. God."
He felt vulnerable and exposed, and guessed she'd probably felt much the same way in the strip club. But he remembered her throwing her dress aside in the alley, remembered how willingly she'd taken her clothes off for him, and he figured maybe this would convince her he was serious.
She stepped toward him and put her hands on his chest. Despite the fact that he was supposedly invulnerable, her hands burned his skin, and he tried not to shiver.
She smiled up at him, and he could see in her eyes that she'd decided to go for it. He was sure she still had doubts... but he also knew she had plenty of guts, and she'd obviously gotten her nerve up and decided to take a chance on this. To take a chance on him.
Her hands slid over his pecs, and he lifted an eyebrow.
"Hey," he said, echoing her own words back to her. "Are you feeling me up?"
"No." She gave him an evil smile and reached down to his boxers, stroking him right through the fabric. "This is feeling you up."
He gave a long, shuddering sigh. "I'm okay with that."
"Good," she said softly. "Because I can't help but notice you're still wearing an item of clothing."
His voice was low and hoarse. "Maybe you can help me take it off."
She smiled, and reached for his boxers.
"I think I can definitely help you with that," she said.