Dreaming of You, Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Clark/Chloe
Season 9
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.

He was having a dream. A really hot, really sexy dream.

In his dream, warm feminine lips trailed over his throat, whisper-soft and delicate as butterfly wings, yet leaving a trail of fire behind them. He shifted on the bed, and a low moan rose in his throat.

He'd been lonely for so long. Lonely, and alone. He hadn't had a girlfriend in a year now. Hadn't had sex in a year. And as a consequence, his body was overflowing with need and hormones, which was probably why he was having this dream.

He lifted his hands and found short, tousled hair. Chloe. Of course it was Chloe. If he had a sex dream nowadays, it was pretty much a given that it involved Chloe.

Not that she knew he had any sexual feelings for her, or had any for him. Hell, no. If she'd had any lingering romantic interest in him, it had died the day he'd announced that he was "dead" and turned his back on her, leaving her to deal with her own problems.

And deal with them she had. Fueled by anger, she'd rediscovered her long-dormant ambitions. She had returned to the Daily Planet, and was working as a hotshot reporter by day and Watchtower by night. She worked with Clark in both jobs, but treated him with a cool, detached, professional air, only speaking to him if she couldn't avoid it, and never joking or smiling with him the way she used to.

In short, Chloe was pissed with him. And he didn't blame her.

The irony was that he'd finally figured out what he wanted. It was her. On some level, it had always been her. But she wouldn't listen to his apologies, wouldn't talk at all, really. And that left him no recourse but to gaze at her soulfully and hope she'd catch some glimpse of what he felt for her in his eyes.

In the meantime, he could dream, and he did.

This was a good dream. The lips were moving down, along his throat, over his chest... He sighed, his body moving restlessly on the mattress. He let his fingers sink into her hair, exploring its silky texture. The faint scent of her vanilla shampoo drifted to him.

He loved that smell. It teased him every day at the Planet, drifting from her desk to his. She'd used vanilla-scented shampoo since he could remember, and the smell reminded him of other, better days, when they'd been so close they couldn't go a day without talking on the phone five times, when they'd hung out constantly.

Days when they'd been able to laugh together.

It reminded him of other times, too. Times when a sudden electricity had charged the air between them, turning their supposedly platonic relationship into something more, something fraught with a heavy sexual tension. Times when they'd kissed. Times when she'd touched him.

At any rate, it was the fragrance he associated with her, so it was no wonder he was dreaming about it. He drew in a deep breath, filling himself with the scent, and let his body move, shoving eagerly up against hers.

She was on top of him, warm and surprisingly solid, for a dream. She shifted her weight, straddling him. He moaned as his swollen erection pressed against her.

In most of the dreams he'd had about her, she'd been conveniently naked, but in this dream she seemed to be wearing shorts. He wore nothing but a pair of boxers, and despite the clothing, the friction of her body against his was amazing. He groaned and flexed his hips, rubbing against her eagerly.

Fire lit inside him, a desperate hunger, a violent need for release that had to be assuaged. His hips fell into a steady, rapid rhythm, and hers met his. He arched his head back on the pillow, and a low animal cry rose from him.

"Wait," she whispered.

He didn't want to wait. In his experience, sex dreams all too often shifted and swirled into something else entirely. If he waited, he might not climax at all, and he'd wake up throbbing and aching and unfulfilled. He didn't want that. He wanted to come, right now.

But her hands pressed down gently on his hips, stopping his frantic motions.

"There's no hurry," she whispered.

He wanted to tell her that he was in a hurry, but in the depths of his dream state, he couldn't seem to create words. All he could do was groan. And his groans grew louder as she bent her head to his chest, and her lips trailed down toward his abdomen.

Yes. This was turning into one of the best sex dreams ever.

Her hands tugged his boxers down, and then her lips brushed over the tip of his swollen cock. He felt himself spasm with need, and another of those animal cries broke from him.

Her lips caressed him for long moments, so gently they almost tickled the oversensitive flesh, and then her tongue was on him, wet and velvety smooth, stroking up and down the shaft, around the head. At the same moment her fingers began caressing his balls, taut and heavy with need. He groaned, mindless, writhing helplessly.

And then her mouth closed over him, and there was nothing but heat and suction and a wild maelstrom of ecstasy that swirled through him. Feral sounds escaped him as every muscle in his body stiffened for a long moment. He shuddered in rapture.

And then he was collapsing back against the mattress, a warm lethargy stealing through him. He blew out his breath in a long, contented sigh.

Best sex dream ever.

But then he felt her body slide up the bed, felt her curl up next to him, and suddenly he was aware that she was solid.

She was real.

His eyelids snapped open, and into the darkness, he spoke a single shocked word.

"Chloe?"

Read Chapter 2 here.