Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Note: This is for Toby, who has been so much more than patient. Hopefully more soon!
Chapter One is here.
Chloe was used to things blurring past her. More to the point, she was used to her husband blurring past her. Clark could zoom so fast he made a Ferrari look like it was standing still, and she’d lost her startle reflex long ago.
But she did jolt with surprise when a pair of hands grabbed her, yanked her away from the stove, and shoved her up against the counter.
A big body pushed into hers—a big and noticeably aroused body—and his mouth pressed hotly against her throat.
“Clark,” she protested, weakly. “I’m trying to finish dinner.”
“Don’t care about dinner.”
"Excuse me? I've spent an hour working on this dinner!"
"Don't care." His voice was hoarse. “Want you. Now.”
Well. Meatloaf or no meatloaf, she couldn't really object to that. After two years of domesticity, after far too many nights of would-be lovemaking interrupted by an infant's wailing, it was kind of nice to hear, actually. What was a girl supposed to say, except hell yeah, baby?
She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her face into his hair, inhaling the hot male scent of him. “Better let me turn off the stove,” she whispered into his thick, dark hair.
He didn’t appear to hear her. His hips were moving, pushing his erection against her insistently, and she opened her eyes, because this was very unClarklike behavior. Sure, Clark liked sex as much as the next guy-- but he liked meatloaf, too. Anyway, it wasn't like him to totally ignore her when she talked. It was almost like--
On the table, in a crystal vase they’d gotten for their wedding, sat a huge bouquet of red roses.
“Oh, Clark,” she whispered. “You didn’t.”
He wasn’t listening. His hands were busy undoing her jeans, and he appeared to be entirely focused on that task. She batted at his hands—gently, because batting at him too hard was a good way to break a bone or two.
“Clark,” she said, more firmly. “You’re under the influence. Stop what you're doing, right now.”
“I just want sex,” he grumbled against her throat. “Is that really too much to ask for?”
“I don’t mind,” she said, “except…” She looked him over, as best she could when he was pressed up against her, and sure enough, there was a long gash on one of his arms. “You got dosed with red K from the roses,” she told him.
“I can handle it,” he assured her, working on her jeans again.
“Clearly you can’t.
“Chlo.” His voice was low and sexy. “Stop talking, all right? Let’s just fuck.”
She knew he was under the influence then, because Clark Kent, mild-mannered Kansas farmboy, simply did not talk that way. Ordinarily, just the sound of that word was enough to make him blush. But he was very decidedly not blushing.
Still, there was nothing to be done about it now. She’d seen him like this before, and she knew how singleminded the red K made him. If he didn’t have sex, he’d probably go crazy or blow up or something. And since Rose wasn’t in the house, and it was just the two of them, they could do whatever he wanted, as loudly as he wanted.
It might be kind of fun, actually.
“Fine,” she said softly. “Let me take care of you, then.”
She unzipped his jeans and went to her knees.
Clark braced himself against the counter with his hands and arched his back as her tongue began to stroke around the head of his cock. He heard a strangled sound rise out of his own throat, and his cock jerked eagerly.
“More,” he muttered hoarsely.
“Don’t be in such a hurry.” Her breath brushed over his sensitized flesh, making him shudder. “Slow is good.”
“Fast is better.”
She chuckled softly, and her tongue began sliding up and down his shaft. So soft and warm and wet and...
So totally not enough.
God, she was going to kill him. He was going to die, right here and right now, as a result of inadequate sexual fulfillment.
She reached up and began toying with his balls, very gently, and her tongue slipped toward the head of his cock again. He groaned, and caught her hair in his hands, gently but firmly.
She must have heard the utter desperation in his voice, because she opened her lips, and he slipped into the heat and the moisture of her mouth. It was exactly what he needed. A low moan rumbled out of his chest, and he clutched at her, begging wordlessly for more.
She drew him into her mouth, and he struggled not to thrust, for fear of hurting her. Her mouth slipped up and down his shaft, and he groaned as pleasure built up inside him. He was hot, so hot, and he was going to come, right down her throat, and it was going to be so damn good—
And then she yelped, and yanked away from him. Seconds-- maybe microseconds-- away from coming, he whimpered in frustrated, anguished need, but she didn't hear him. She leaped to her feet and spun toward the stove.
“Damn it,” she yelled. “The green beans are on fire.”