Legs

Manip by aqgalaxy. Used with permission of the artist.

Clark/Chloe
Season 8
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Inspired by aqgalaxy's manip above.

Chloe Sullivan's legs were amazing.

Clark Kent had seen them before, of course. When the two of them went swimming at Crater Lake, or took Shelby out for a long ramble, or just hung out on hot summer days, she often wore really short shorts.

But before this moment, he'd never quite realized how sexy her legs were.

Maybe it was the shoes she wore, four-inch, fuck-me heels that made every muscle in her calves and thighs more defined. Maybe it was the champagne-colored dress, so short it was barely this side of decent.

He wasn't sure. All he knew was, he couldn't take his eyes off her legs.

She'd just gotten out of her Yaris, and she was looking him over, too. "Not bad," she said, nodding approvingly. "Good to see you out of primary colors for once."

He looked down at his black jacket and frowned. "I like primary colors."

"Yeah, but they don't like you. Not the way black does. You should wear black all the time."

"I don't like black," he grumbled.

"Sure you don't. Then why do you have it in your closet?"

"Well..." He shrugged, embarrassed. "It's Kal's."

"News flash, farmboy. You and Kal are the same person."

"Yeah, but we don't have the same taste in clothes."

"You must like black, deep down," she said reasonably. "Otherwise you wouldn't run out and get a new black wardrobe every time you got exposed to red K. Anyway... it looks good on you."

He could feel his cheeks flushing, and hoped it wasn't visible in the shadows of the parking garage. "Thanks." He paused, then blurted out, "You look good in that dress, too."

She looked better than good. She'd recently grown out her hair, and it fell around her shoulders in long golden waves. The champagne dress clung to every curve-- and God, she had so many curves she ought to come with a warning sign. She definitely looked better than good. She looked awesome. She looked sexy.

She looked... leggy.

"Oh..." She looked down at herself and smiled ruefully. "I bought this a while back, but I decided it just wasn't me. It's a little too short. It shows too much leg. It works just fine for going undercover at a nightclub, though."

He didn't bother to comment that in his opinion, the dress was exactly the right length, and showed precisely the correct amount of leg. "You should fit right in," he agreed. "Remind me again what we're after?"

"I got a tip that Senator Johnson meets his mistress at this place."

Clark's eyebrows rose. "Gossip column stuff? Sounds more like Lois' beat than yours, Chlo."

"It might," she agreed, "if I didn't also have a tip that his mistress might be an agent for the Qurac government. This could be a big story, Clark."

"Okay," he said, dragging his gaze away from her killer gams and walking over to her. "So why am I here? Muscle? Or brains?"

"I didn't think you had any brains," she quipped. "Anyway, I asked you along basically because I thought you enjoyed helping me out."

"I do." Ever since she'd been rehired by Perry White, the new Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Planet, he'd begun helping her research her stories, and he was surprised to realize how much he'd missed journalism. It had been a while since he'd worked at the Torch, their high school newspaper, but he was beginning to remember his earlier aspirations of becoming a journalist.

The two of them had worked together on saving the world for years, but it had been a while since they'd worked together on writing stories. He was amazed to realize how much he enjoyed it. And he enjoyed being her partner, too.

Just her platonic working partner, of course, he reminded himself mentally. Nothing else. Even though she was wearing an incredibly sexy, too-tight dress that showed legs a mile long...

"Well, then," she said, "let's get a move on. We're a little early, but we can always kill time with a drink or a dance, I guess."

He watched her sashay toward the elevator, and suddenly the sight of her legs got the better of him. His brain went dead, and he completely forgot that they were supposed to be platonic working partners. Catching her by the waist, he spun her around.

"How much time do we have to kill?" he asked softly.

She blinked up at him, looking startled. As well she might, because they were supposedly just friends, and he didn't usually just grab her and stare at her like a hungry lion. "Um... fifteen or twenty minutes, I think."

"I have a better idea." His voice was a low growl, and he couldn't seem to force it back into its normal register. "A better way to kill fifteen minutes, I mean."

"Clark." Her eyes went wide, and he saw that she'd grasped his meaning, and was clearly shocked by it. "We're in public."

"There's no one around." He lifted her, pushing her back against the Yaris. Her hands rose and settled onto his shoulders, but she didn't push him away.

"Are you sure you didn't leave a red K rock in one of the pockets of your jacket by accident?" she asked, looking bewildered.

"Believe me, I'm sure. This is all me."

"Huh," she said as he lowered his head and began nuzzling her ear. "You should wear black more often."

"It isn't my clothes. It's yours. You should wear this dress more often."

He reached down and began stroking the satiny skin of her thigh, very gently, and she gave a soft moan. "Clark..."

The sound of her voice uttering his name in that sexy, breathless way made him shiver. "You have incredible legs," he whispered in her ear.

"Ah, I see," she answered, still sounding like she was struggling to keep things light between them. She was like that. She was serious as hell about journalism, and never joked about it, but she always tried to play down anything serious that might happen between them. He suspected that just like him, she was afraid that any sort of romantic involvement might screw up their friendship. "So this is all about my legs, huh?"

"Your legs are gorgeous," he agreed. "But so is the rest of you."

His hand slid up the inside of her thigh, where her skin felt unbelievably smooth, and she gave another little moan, and parted her legs for him. Ordinarily he was a little shy, but right now he couldn't quite help himself. His hand slid up, right between her thighs, and brushed over her satin panties.

She whimpered, and he was glad he'd gotten past his shyness and just touched her that way, because she obviously liked it. She felt really hot there, with a hint of moisture, and he kept touching her gently but relentlessly. She clung to his shoulders and shuddered.

"Clark," she whispered, breathless. "You are not seriously going to... in public... are you?"

He was totally going to. He'd apparently totally forgotten the platonic working partners thing, because he was enjoying this almost as much as she was. He could feel her getting wetter and wetter, until the satin was slick beneath his fingers. His hand moved a little faster, and suddenly her head dropped forward. She pressed her face against his shoulder in an attempt to muffle her cries as her body shook violently.

At last she collapsed against him with a gasp. She felt warm and boneless in his arms, and he lifted his hand away from her and wrapped his arms around her. He could smell the scent of her arousal surrounding him, hot and spicy, and he closed his eyes and breathed it in.

She smelled incredible.

Slowly, he became aware that he was turned on, too. He was hard, so hard he ached. They were going to have to take care of that, he decided, because there was no way he was walking into a nightclub with a massive hard-on.

He grasped her by the hips, lifted her against the Yaris, and leaned into her. She parted her thighs, and he found himself pressed right up against her in perfect alignment. It was his turn to moan.

"You're serious about this," she said, very softly. "You really want to..."

"I really want to," he agreed. "I think I've really wanted to for a long time."

She didn't argue, and he guessed she'd figured that out a while ago. She did, however, sound a note of caution. "But we're kind of in a parking garage..."

"I'll know if someone's coming, Chlo. Don't worry about it."

"What about security cameras?"

"I already checked. The one that has a view of us isn't working."

"Isn't working, or was taken out by a burst of heat vision?"

"I would never do that," he said, doing his best to look like a good little alien who didn't go around causing unnecessary property damage. "I swear, it was broken when we got here."

"Hmmm," she said, looking unconvinced. "Well... okay, then. If you're sure this is what you want."

"I'm sure."

She must have heard the conviction in his voice, because her hands lowered and went to work on his jeans. He closed his eyes, drawing in a tremulous breath.

Chloe Sullivan was unzipping his jeans. Holy shit.

He reached up and caught her panties with his thumbs, then pushed them down. She managed to wiggle out of them, and he tossed them onto the Yaris' roof, where they could be retrieved later-- because her dress was just too short to walk around in without panties. He didn't want other guys getting an eyeful.

But he definitely wanted an eyeful. He shoved up the hem of her dress and took a good long look at her, seeing the gorgeous feminine curve of her hips, the dark hair that shadowed her fragile flesh, the faint gleam of moisture on the inside of her thighs.

She was the most incredibly sexy girl he'd ever seen.

She shoved his jeans open and pushed down his boxers and took a good long look at him, too. He let her look, but the avid, eager expression in her eyes made him harder than ever, and suddenly he couldn't wait any longer. He lifted her again and leaned into her, and her arms and legs wrapped around him.

And then he was sliding into her hot cream, moaning again.

She moaned too, a little mmmmm sound that made his blood heat. They were both trying to keep it quiet, but the fact that she couldn't keep herself entirely silent sent a thrill through him.

She seemed really tight, and he pushed into her very carefully. He'd always been afraid of hurting a woman under these circumstances, but she didn't seem to be in pain. In fact, he was quite certain she wasn't in pain. She uttered another of those soft moans, and her hands dug eagerly into his leather-clad shoulders.

And then he was all the way inside her, buried deep in her wet heat, and it felt so good he thought he might come right then. He tried to hold back his climax, aware that women didn't think coming in ten seconds was good form. He gritted his teeth and tried to control himself, tried to hold still.

But she apparently didn't want him to hold still. She squirmed against him, and he could feel her inner muscles squeezing around him, and it drove him even closer to an orgasm.

"Chlo," he gritted through clenched teeth, "youreallyneedtoholdstillokay?"

"Can't." Her muscles squeezed him hard, and her voice was breathless with anticipation. "Please, Clark, don't make me wait for it... please..."

Her long, bare legs were wrapped around him, sexy and beautiful, and her wet, hot body was squeezing him, and there was just no way he could hold still any longer. He pulled out a little, then surged into her, hard and deep, and somewhat to his surprise he didn't come right away. He found himself thrusting, over and over again, his voice raised in a long, anguished groan that echoed in the concrete cavern of the parking garage.

"Yes," she whispered breathlessly against his throat. "Yes, Clark, yes, don't stop..."

Stopping was not really an option at this point, but he didn't bother to say so. He slammed into her harder and harder, driving frantically toward release. He had the vague notion that he ought to slow down, that he was probably going too fast, that she was going to think he was clumsy and awkward and totally unskilled... but oh God, he just couldn't do anything besides thrust.

Her body was still squeezing his fiercely, in long, hard, rhythmic contractions of her inner muscles. He had no idea if she was doing it on purpose, or if it was just her body's normal reaction to sex. But whether it was deliberate or unconscious, it felt awesome.

And then he felt her muscles contract really hard, and her head dropped back, and a long, low ohhhhhh rose from her throat. He could feel her muscles straining as her back arched, and he knew she was coming, and he couldn't hold back another second.

He pounded into her, really hard, and heat poured through him, radiant and dazzling as sunlight, and impossibly good. He was vaguely aware that he wasn't keeping his vocal responses down to a low moan. In fact, he was fairly sure he was crying out pretty damn loudly. But right now, he didn't really give a damn.

At last his long, intense orgasm eased off, and he slowly sank against her, pinning her between his big body and the Yaris.

"Hey." She shoved at him and spoke, her voice muffled by his shoulder. "I can't breathe here, buddy."

Neither could he. That was the problem. But he didn't want to squish her, so he drew a long, shaking breath and managed to straighten up.

He looked down at her. Her long blonde hair was tangled, her gorgeous dress was rucked up around her thighs, and she looked totally disreputable, almost like she'd been having wild public sex up against a car.

She gazed back at him with a soft expression in her eyes, the satisfied look of a woman who's just had really good sex. He had a feeling he had that same satisfied look deep in his eyes. He'd never felt this entirely warm, contented feeling after sex before.

He liked it.

He pushed her skirt back down over her hips, then reached out and snagged her underwear. He handed it back to her, and she hastily pulled it on while he got his pants fastened.

"Um," he said, feeling suddenly awkward. It dawned on him that he'd just had sex in a very public place, and that was really not a Clark Kent thing to do. "Well. I guess we better get to the nightclub before the senator gets busy with his mistress."

"Yeah." She looked down at the concrete floor, carefully avoiding his eyes, and he guessed that she felt as strange and uncomfortable as he did. "We have a job to do here. I guess... I guess we shouldn't have gotten... distracted."

He could feel the awkwardness settling down between them like a brick wall, and he didn't want that. The last thing he wanted was for this to mess up their friendship. But he didn't want to pretend it hadn't mattered to him, either. Deliberately, he pushed the bricks aside, metaphorically speaking, and reached out a hand to her.

"Chlo." He tilted her chin up and looked straight into her eyes. "I'm glad we got distracted."

She looked surprised, but some of the discomfort faded from her expression. A smile tilted her mouth and warmed her eyes. "Yeah," she agreed. "Me too."

"I guess we better get to work," he said, not without regret. "But maybe later..."

She studied him a moment longer, still looking serious. But then she grinned and tossed back her long hair in a deliberately sexy motion. She strutted off across the concrete floor, her heels clicking, and he followed her, mesmerized by her long, beautiful legs.

"So," she said, her voice sultry. "Tell me, is it just the black jacket, Clark? Does it make you behave like a bad boy?"

"I told you," he answered. "It's not the jacket. It's your dress. It's you."

"I'm just not sure I believe that. I wonder, will you go back to normal tomorrow, when you put your red jacket back on?"

"I can be a bad boy in the red jacket too," he said earnestly.

"Really? Are you sure?"

"Totally sure. I'll come over to your apartment tomorrow morning and show you, if you want."

She looked back at him over her shoulder, still smiling, and winked at him.

"That's definitely what I want," she said.

-The End-