Season 7, MHE for "Fracture"
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 Chapter 7 here.
Apparently he had a whole hell of a lot of erogenous zones.
Chloe touched him, exploring him very carefully and very thoroughly, and by the time she was through with him he was a quivering mass of jelly. By kissing the spot directly under his ear, she could make him scream. Her fingers caressing the back of his knee sent him into a frenzy. And when her hand stroked the inside of his thigh--
Well, within fifteen minutes he'd had a hell of a lot of the orgasms-that-weren't-quite.
"For a man of steel," she said at last, "you sure have sensitive skin."
He didn't answer. He couldn't answer. He lay panting on the couch, exhausted, boneless, and utterly unable to move. For a guy who could lift boulders like they were pebbles, he was pathetically weak right now. He couldn't even lift his own eyelids.
Chloe was sitting on top of him, her thighs straddling his. At some point in the past fifteen minutes-- they were all a blur of ecstasy in his mind-- he'd stripped off her jeans, and now she was on top of him, wearing nothing but a very skimpy pair of satin panties.
He ought to be going out of his mind with lust. But he was pretty well lusted out.
"Now it's my turn," she said, very softly.
"Chloe." He heard the whimper in his own voice. "I need a break. Please."
"No, you don't. All I have to do is touch you here..." She began stroking the spot beneath his navel again. "And you'll be ready for me. Won't you?"
Her fingers left a trail of heat wherever they touched, and he had to admit she was right. He was exhausted, both from a lack of sleep and from everything she'd done to him, and yet when she touched him there-- well, sleep definitely wasn't the first thing on his mind.
And neither was Lana Lang. It occurred to him, very vaguely, that he was supposed to be dating Lana, and that he really ought to have broken up with her before any of this had happened. But he just couldn't bring himself to get up and leave. He was too flooded with relief over Chloe.
Relief... and lust.
"Ahhhh." He moved helplessly beneath her hand. "Oh, God, Chlo, God..."
She peeled off her panties, and rubbed against him, her wet moisture stroking over the swollen shaft of his cock. He gave a startled gasp and arched up against her, groaning out her name.
"Clark." Her voice was very soft. "Do you really want this? Do you really want... me?"
At the uncertain note in her voice, he managed to drag his eyes open and look at her. "I want you an awful lot," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Chlo, when I thought you were dead... when I thought I'd lost you..."
To his horror, his voice broke. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, trying to get his self-control back, and wrapped his arms around her, yanking her down against his chest.
"I've never wanted anyone this much," he muttered thickly into her hair. "Never, Chloe."
And it was true. He'd never wanted Lana this way, never needed her like oxygen and food and water. He'd finally accepted the truth-- that Chloe was essential to his existence, and that he didn't ever want to face a future without her.
She seemed to accept his words as truth, because she moved against him, and his body slid into hers. He made a soft sound of pleasure, and the tears that had threatened to fall dried instantly.
She wasn't dead, and he was holding her in his arms, and her body surrounded him, soft and warm and very much alive. After all those hours of sitting slumped next to her dead body, grieving, it was a huge relief to know that she was all right. He wouldn't have to give a speech at her funeral, or feel a terrible pang of loss every time he picked up the Daily Planet. He wouldn't have to struggle through empty days without her, or never hear her voice on his cell phone again.
He had his best friend back.
No. He had the woman he loved back.
Their bodies moved together, very slowly and gently. He made a soft noise of satisfaction and pleasure, pushing more deeply into her, and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly.
They made love like that for a long while, exchanging gentle kisses, soft touches, as their bodies moved together slowly. He whispered into her hair, telling her how glad he was she was back, how glad he was that she was his. He wasn't sure why he was whispering, except something about these moments felt too sacred to profane them with any sort of loud noise.
She murmured his name in reply, over and over, sounding just as prayerful as he did, and he wondered what this had all been like for her. She'd died, and he wondered how badly it had hurt. He wondered if it had hurt to come back to life. He wondered if she felt just as scarred by the experience as he did.
He thought making love might heal them both.
Despite himself, his whispers were starting to rise to moans. Her voice rose too, and she rose up on her hands and knees and began to slide up and down him harder. He let his spine arch, slamming up into her, and he felt her inner muscles beginning to quiver in response.
He wanted to hold onto this forever, to hold onto her forever, but he couldn't stop himself from moving faster and faster. The instinctive drive toward release had him in its grasp, and he couldn't seem to slow down.
And then her fingers caressed him gently, just beneath his ear, and he surrendered almost instantly, coming inside her in a long, glorious burst of pleasure. He vaguely heard her crying out too, and he knew they were coming together.
Which figured. They did everything together, after all.
At last he dropped back on the couch, and she fell on top of him. Their bodies were slick with sweat, but he felt his skin cooling, felt all his muscles relaxing. He sighed and closed his eyes.
"You're sleepy," she murmured against his throat.
"Mmmm," he answered, the words a little blurry. "I was up all night with you, Chlo."
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I hate that I put you through that. But I'm all right now."
It was true. She was all right, for now at least. And she was in his arms, naked and warm. For the time being, everything was right in his world.
Except it wasn't, not quite. Guilt tickled vaguely at the back of his brain. He knew Lana was probably wondering where he was. He ought to go home, tell her the truth, and break up with her.
But he felt so good, so content, so happy, that he couldn't bring himself to move.
Just as he'd realized earlier, Lana had never meant that much to him. Somewhere deep down, Chloe had always been the one he loved. He thought with a touch of self-reproach that it shouldn't have taken her death for him to realize that.
Except it hadn't, not really. He'd known. On some level, he'd always known.
He felt himself drifting off to sleep, and he held her against him just a little more tightly.
"I knew it was you," he mumbled into her hair. "It was always you."