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 3 here.
Read the story from the beginning here.
She insisted on a shower. Of course she did.
He was a little worried that his high would wear off. But she refused to do anything else till they got a shower together. She had the annoying feminine tendency to want to be clean in intimate situations, and she didn't like him going down on her right after they'd screwed. It made her feel self-conscious, or something.
He didn't mind going down on her under any circumstances, but he didn't mind taking a shower with her, either. The wetter she got, the better he liked it. So here he stood, hot water sluicing over his shoulders, watching her scrub herself off.
She looked sexy. Well, of course she did. She was naked. Naked was sexy. But wet and naked was even sexier. She was all slick and soapy, her hair wet, and she just looked so hot he couldn't keep his hands off her.
She batted at his questing hands, not terribly sincerely. "Clark," she said sternly. "Kal. I'm trying to get cleaned up here."
He grinned at her use of the name he'd chosen for himself that summer in Metropolis. The honest truth was that he'd hated Kal after that summer, loathed that aspect of himself. Everything he'd done as Kal, every immoral, illegal, terribly wrong thing... for years he hadn't been able to think of that summer, or of Kal, without cringing in embarrassment and self-loathing.
It had taken a long, long time for him to accept that Kal wasn't all bad. Left alone too long, Kal admittedly got a little violent, a little crazy. But if Clark wasn't exposed to red K too long... well, Kal just wanted to have fun.
Having fun was a concept that Clark Kent tended to have difficulty with.
But he was having fun now. A hell of a lot of fun. This was a thousand times better than seeing some lame movie on a double date. Not that he didn't like hanging with his friends, because he did.
But sometimes, a little quality time with his girlfriend was what he needed most. And this definitely qualified as quality time. Hell, yeah.
His hands slid around her waist, and he pulled her toward him, shifting position so the water poured over them both. She squeaked, and squirmed against him.
"Yeah, baby. I am. You make me hard."
He thought he saw a rosy blush suffuse her cheeks, but it might have just been the heat from the shower. "When you're on cherries," she said, still wiggling, "you're pretty inexhaustible."
This was why he loved cherries-- well, at least the red K kind-- but he didn't say so. He figured he was in for a big enough lecture after this was all over. He didn't need to hand her any more ammunition for the Clark how could you intentionally eat those cherries? lecture he was bound to get.
He was a big boy, damn it. If he wanted to get a little drunk, that was up to him.
And right now he wanted to get drunk on her.
Now that she was nice and clean, as she preferred to be, he went down on his knees in front of her. He pressed his face into the warm, slick skin of her belly, just for a moment, drawing in the fresh vanilla scent of soaped skin. She smelled good, so good. He associated that scent with her, with being close to her, with being inside her. The fragrance made his hard-on throb.
The water poured over his shoulders as he leaned forward and began to explore her with his tongue.
"Clark." Her hands dug into his hair, as if she couldn't keep her balance any other way, and she quivered. "Oh."
By now he had a very good idea of how to please her. Practice made perfect, to quote an old axiom his dad had been fond of. (And okay, his dad had definitely not been talking about this particular activity, but it was true regardless.) He'd done this to her dozens of times. And yet it always seemed new. New... and exciting.
The taste of her, musky and sensual despite her recent cleansing, seemed to explode on his tongue. He moaned, and his own hands rose to her hips, pulling her closer. He found her clit, hard and swollen, and began to stroke it with his tongue in a slow and deliberate rhythm.
Her back arched, opening her to him even more. He slipped a finger up inside her and began to thrust gently. She was wet and slippery, and the feel of her-- so hot, so ready-- made something ignite inside him.
God, she was incredible. So open, so loving, so enthusiastic. There couldn't be another woman like her on the planet. He was damned lucky, and he knew it.
He made love to her with his mouth and his hands, caressing her wet skin, her back and her ass and her thighs, while his finger moved inside her steadily and his tongue stroked her relentlessly. He heard her gasping, felt the tension growing in her muscles, and he knew she was ready.
But he wasn't.
Before this went any further, he wanted to head downstairs.
He pulled away from her, despite her moan of disappointment and her grip in his hair. He rocked back on his heels and looked up at her.
"Hey," he said. "It's time for more pie."
She blinked, as if he'd spoken in Kryptonian, and her eyes slowly focused. She stared at him blankly, and then her expression grew dangerous.
"Excuse me?" she said. "You want more dessert? Now?"
He rose to his feet, turned off the cooling water, and shook himself like a large dog. Then he grinned down into her indignant face.
"I want you," he told her. "With cherries on top."
Read Chapter 5 here.