The Wait is Over

Clark/Chloe
Season 6, end of "Rage"
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Rewrite of Waiting to Believe, prompted by BabyDee1: I'd like to see Waiting to Believe again, only this time I want them to go all the way.

So how long have you been in love with Chloe?

That was the question his mom had asked him earlier in the evening, and he'd sputtered and stammered and finally informed her that of course he wasn't in love with Chloe, they were just friends, come on, Mom, you know I don't feel that way about her...

Martha had just smiled, and told him to go. And so he'd gone.

Straight to Chloe.

Of course, he hadn't known that she was waiting in his loft. Honest, he hadn't. And if his mom hadn't said those things-- those crazy, silly, totally off-the-mark things-- about him being in love with her, maybe he wouldn't have wound up lying here on his old red couch, his arms wrapped around her.

Not that he was, you know, making love to her, or even cuddling with her. Heck, no. He was just... well... keeping her warm.

The problem was that, whether or not he intended to cuddle with her, she was a very cuddly armful. She wore a purple dress, so lowcut that his eyes had practically bulged out of their sockets when she first walked into the house this afternoon. And she felt nice and soft and warm in his arms, and she was pressed right up against him, and...

Well, he was a guy. And when a girl pressed right up against his front, he experienced certain physical responses.

It had nothing to do with the fact that it was Chloe, specifically. It was just his body's normal reaction to being near a girl.

Still, his body was stiff with need, and he wanted to rub against her, so badly he ached. He tried to distract himself, thinking of Thanksgiving dinner. It had been his first Thanksgiving without his dad, and he'd missed him. But his friends had been there, filling the void.

Most importantly, Chloe had been there, and that had made him oddly happy, on a day when he'd expected to be depressed as hell.

He bent his head and drew in the fragrance of her hair. He knew he was lucky she'd been here at all. Her boyfriend Jimmy Olsen was out of town, visiting his parents. Otherwise she'd have been with him, and Clark's Thanksgiving would have been spent moping alone.

He was really glad she was here, and not with Jimmy. He had the depressing feeling he was losing her to Jimmy, a little more every day, and in the end he might lose his place in her heart entirely. Because yeah, they were just friends, but very close friends. He didn't want her turning to Jimmy every time she wanted to watch a movie, or needed a lightbulb replaced, or wanted to vent about her editor, or found a mouse in her pantry. Helping her through the rough spots, hanging out with her, giving her unwavering, unquestioning support-- all that was Clark's place in her life.

For the first time, he admitted to himself that his place in her life was a lot like a boyfriend's.

Well, except for the lack of sex.

The thought of sex made something hot and feral flame in his veins. Somehow his hand had slipped around to her front, and he'd flattened it against her abdomen. Now he began to knead her there, right through the silky fabric, and he heard her breath come faster. His body throbbed in response, and his cheeks heated, because surely she couldn't miss his hard-on jolting against her like that.

But she didn't stiffen angrily, or try to get up and stalk away. Instead her hips moved against his, just a little. It felt incredible, and he bit down hard on his lower lip to stop a groan from escaping him.

His hand rubbed in a circle over her belly, and she stretched against him, a long, luxurious stretch that caused her ass to rub right along the length of his erection. He had to bite down harder this time, and he couldn't quite stop himself from responding. He rubbed against her, and she responded, the round curve of her ass stroking him again, up and down.

God, yes. He pressed his face into her hair, panting harshly, fighting to hold back the growls of pleasure that wanted to escape. Goosebumps rose on his skin, and a shiver ran through his body.

His palms itched with the need to touch her. He let his hand drift lower, let his hand run down her thigh. He found the hem of her dress, and let his fingers slip up under it. And still she didn't protest.

Her skin was like silk, so smooth he didn't know if she was wearing stockings, or if her skin was just that soft. He let his hand run up her thigh and discovered she was wearing stockings, because he encountered the band of lace holding them in place, and above it her skin was so incredibly warm and soft that another shiver racked him.

He hesitated, because this was not exactly just-friends territory, and it was getting harder and harder to pretend this wasn't happening. But then she parted her thighs for him, and he couldn't resist the invitation. He let his hand slide upward, brushing very lightly over the satiny material of her panties.

She trembled and moved against him. Her ass stroked him again, up and down, and he gritted his teeth, thinking he might just come in his pants. He wanted her to feel this good, too. So he moved his index fingers over her, in slow, deliberate circles, and she bucked up against him, driving him crazy.

She was wet, very wet, and her body trembled. He heard her heartbeat accelerate, heard the raspy, desperate sound of her breathing, and he knew she was close.

And oh God, so was he.

He wanted to rip off her panties, to sink into her heat and moisture, but he couldn't, because they were just friends, and they were both pretending that this wasn't happening...

Oh, hell, who were they kidding? Of course it was happening. She was about to come, and so was he, and there was no way of pretending it wasn't happening now.

He took a deep breath, gathering his nerve, and ripped her panties off.

She didn't scream or protest. Instead she rolled over, her mouth against his throat, kissing him wildly while her fingers fumbled frantically at his belt buckle. She undid his trousers, and then she grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him right over onto her.

Dazed and bewildered by her enthusiasm, he didn't put up a fight. He couldn't have fought her if he'd wanted to. He suddenly realized he'd been waiting for this moment for a long, long time.

And at last the wait was over.

The head of his cock slid into her body. She was tight, but she lifted her legs, wrapping them around his ass, and he managed to sink into her a little further. He couldn't hold back his groans any longer. A low sound escaped him, and he heard her making high-pitched, desperate sounds of need.

"More, Clark," she whispered in his ear. "More."

He didn't want to force his way in, but he pressed in, slowly, inch by inch, until at last he was deep inside her. His skin was slick with sweat, covered in goosebumps, and his breathing was as labored as if he'd run around the world.

Beneath him, she quivered, every muscle tense. He couldn't hold back any more, no matter how tight she was, no matter how worried he was about doing her damage. He withdrew, almost all the way, then thrust into her.

Her body arched beneath his, her hands dug into his shoulders, and a long cry of pleasure rose from her throat.

Okay. Apparently he wasn't hurting her. In fact, she seemed to like it. A lot. He did it again, and again. He could hear her sobbing with pleasure, and distantly, he was aware that he was crying out too. His mom was over in the house, and she might be able to hear him, and he really shouldn't...

But he couldn't help it. His voice was just as far out of his control as the rest of his body was. His thrusts came faster and faster, and her hips rose to meet him, in a wild, desperate rhythm. And then her hips lost the rhythm, and her body tightened around his, squeezing him.

Oh, God. She was coming... he'd made her come... and he couldn't... he couldn't hold back...

He threw his head back, grinding his teeth, and a long orgasm shuddered its way through his body, starting at his balls and radiating outward in long, pulsing waves. Heat and release and wild, exuberant pleasure rolled through him. It seemed almost endless, and he wasn't sure if his time perception had shifted, or if she'd just really made him come that hard.

But at last the heat faded into a pleasant sensation of warmth. He let himself collapse onto her, and the two of them rearranged themselves on the couch so he wasn't squashing her.

He wrapped an arm around her, putting his hand on top of hers. She turned her hand over. Their palms pressed together, and their fingers interlaced.

He fell asleep with her hand in his.

*****

"Maybe I'd just better get going."

He'd just waked her up, telling her that his mother had made banana pancakes, and now she was looking at him through shuttered eyes.

"You should stay and have breakfast," he said.

"I don't usually eat much for breakfast. Most days I just have a cup of coffee."

"You've got to wait for me anyway," he pointed out. "Unless you're planning on walking downtown. So you might as well have a pancake or two."

She hesitated, and in her eyes he saw a flash of vulnerability, instantly closed away. She shrugged. "Okay."

She was still wearing the purple dress, and the shrug made her breasts ripple. He looked down, drawn irresistibly by the movement, and she rose to her feet and scowled at him.

"Hey," she snapped. "Keep your eyes in your head."

His chin jerked up, and he felt his cheeks flame. "Sorry," he answered. "I just..." He couldn't think of any graceful way to say I was just admiring your boobs, so he changed the subject. "Look, Chloe, about last night..."

"Nothing happened last night," she said, brushing past him.

Rage lit inside him. He understood where she was coming from, because he had quite a bit of guilt for having made love to her while she was dating another guy, and he imagined she felt even worse about it. Still, he wasn't going to let her just pretend it hadn't happened. He reached out and caught her wrist, bringing her to a halt.

"Stop it," he said, letting his anger show in his voice. "It happened, Chloe. Don't insult both of us by pretending it didn't."

"Fine," she snapped. "It happened. I cheated on my boyfriend with another guy."

He sighed. "Chloe, I didn't mean for this to happen..."

"Neither did I." She glared at him. "Why do you always have to do this to me? Why do you always have to complicate my life?"

"Who's complicating whose life?" He blinked at her. "I'm trying to clean up the mess I made when I got out of the Phantom Zone. The last thing I really want right now is to get involved with anyone."

She gave a helpless little wave of her hands. "It's just that I had a good thing going with Jimmy, and now..."

"Chlo," he said gently. "If what you had going with Jimmy was all that great, you wouldn't have let this happen between us."

"Yeah," she said with a sigh. "And I guess if you really hadn't wanted to get involved with anyone, you wouldn't have let this happen between us, either."

"I guess not."

She looked at him for a long moment, then sucked in a deep breath, as if steeling herself for something.

"I'm in love with you, Clark."

She couldn't have shocked him any more if she'd told him she was an alien from the planet Vulcan. He gaped at her, stunned and yet strangely thrilled by her words.

Her gaze flickered downward, as if she couldn't quite look into his eyes. "I've spent years waiting for you, Clark. Years. And when Jimmy came along, I thought he might be enough to make me forget you." Her voice fell very low. "But he wasn't."

"Chlo." He suddenly found his voice. "I love you too."

She lifted her head and gazed at him, looking just as stunned as he had. Slowly, her eyes brightened. "Really?"

"Really." He'd finally realized it yesterday afternoon, while sitting at the dining room table. He hadn't wanted to admit it, not even to his mom, but he'd realized then that he wanted to see her across the table at every Thanksgiving for the rest of his life. "I love you, Chlo, and it's been driving me crazy seeing you with Jimmy. I wish I'd figured it out before you two started dating, but I guess I'm kind of..."

"Slow? Emotionally constipated?" She flashed her happy grin. "Not too bright?"

"All of the above," he admitted. He reached out, hauling her against his chest, and hugged her tightly. "But now I know. I finally know."

"Took you a long time," she said against his chest. "But I guess the best things are worth waiting for."

"Yeah," he agreed. "So. Want to go over to the house for those banana pancakes?"

"I think those pancakes are something that's worth waiting for." He heard her soft chuckle as her mouth moved seductively over his throat. "But as far as you're concerned... I'm done waiting."

"Yeah," he said, and lifted her, carrying her to the couch. "I guess you're right. The pancakes can wait, but I can't."

She laughed. "Clark Kent. Didn't you have enough last night?"

He fell onto the couch with her in his lap, and kissed the tip of her nose.

"I don't think I'll ever have enough of you," he said softly.

-The End-

Feels Like the First Time

Clark/Chloe
Season 3
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Screencap from Dynamic Duo.
Based on a prompt by writrgurl: I'd love to see a story where Clark loses his virginity to Chloe ...Something with humor would be great, where Clark's not the stud he thought he'd be (ten second man, anyone?).

"I have to admit, Chlo, I don't exactly know how..."

"It's okay, farmboy. It's not all that complicated. Most people figure it out without even checking Google."

"Yeah, but what if I hurt you?"

"Hurt me? Please. Clark, I know you lift a lot of hay bales on a daily basis, but it's not like you could rip me apart with your bare hands or anything."

"Heh, heh. Yeah, I guess not. Still..."

"Is this really your first time?"

"Yeah, Chlo. It really is. I, uh, guess you can tell."

"No. This is nice, Clark. You're a very good kisser."

"Am I really?"

"Yes. I could kiss you all day long."

"Thanks. But I don't think I can kiss you much longer without, uh..."

"Okay. Let's just get your jeans out of the way, all right?"

"Chloe!"

"What's wrong, Clark? Did you think we were going to make love with our clothes on?"

"I just... I mean, you just kind of grabbed my crotch..."

"Clark. You do realize your crotch is going to be intimately involved in this process, right?"

"I pay attention in health class, Chlo. I do know how it works."

"Then quit yelping every time I touch you, okay?"

"I just... well, the honest truth is I haven't even gotten to second base with a girl yet."

"I think you have now."

"Um. Yeah. Well, I meant before now. Um... are you going to take your jeans off?"

"I really think you need a refresher course, Clark. Of course I am. Otherwise, how are we going to...?"

"Oh, my God. Chloe, you're gorgeous."

"Thank you. I'm glad you think so. You look pretty darn good in the buff, too."

"I'm not, uh, totally..."

"Well, we can fix that. Let's get your shirt off..."

"Hey!"

"Look, it might not be necessary, per se, but I haven't seen your chest since last summer, when we went to Crater Lake. I think I've been very patient, but my patience is at an end. Strip."

"Uh... I've grown a little since then, I think."

"Oh, wow. You really have. Your chest would make Hercules envious."

"Thanks, but I'm not all that..."

"You're incredible. I mean that sincerely. This chest is a work of art."

"Yours is too. If I could just get this stupid bra off..."

"It's not that complicated, genius. Here, let me help."

"Oh, my God."

"As much as I'm enjoying this mutual admiration society, I'd like to move on to..."

"Yes. Absolutely. I totally and completely concur. By all means, let's move on. Just come over here to the couch..."

"Wait a minute, how did we get here so fast?"

"So fast? I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

"We were on the other side of the loft, and then there was kind of a blur..."

"A blur. Right."

"I'm serious."

"Sure you are. I might be in a hurry to make love to you, but I'm not turbo-powered, you know."

"Still. It was really weird..."

"Oh, you and your weirdar. Come on, Chlo, quit talking so much, okay?"

"Okay, but I still thought... ohhhh. Never mind."

"Oh. God. Is it always like this?"

"Um, I'm not exactly a great expert, Clark. But no, I don't think so. This is amazing."

"Ohhhhh. Yesssss."

"Hey. Excuse me. Are you, like, finished?"

"Mmmmmmm. Yeah, why?"

"Because that took like thirty seconds!"

"I'm sensing disapproval in your voice..."

"Clark, it's supposed to take a little longer than that."

"Like forty-five seconds?"

"No, Clark. This is not a time to be turbo-powered, trust me. You're supposed to go slow, so the woman gets some enjoyment out of it, too."

"Oh. You're saying you didn't like it?"

"Don't look so crushed, farmboy. I liked it fine, but I didn't like it quite as much as you did, if you get my drift."

"Oh, I see. So you didn't..."

"No, I didn't. See, it takes girls a little longer. I'm not a vending machine, you know? You can't just stick in a quarter and get a prize. It takes a little effort on your part."

"Okay, Chlo. I'm sorry. This was my first time."

"Yeah, I know. That's okay. I bet the second time will be even better."

"I don't think I could survive anything better."

"We'll find out, won't we?"

"Hey. What are you doing? Why are you grabbing... wait, Chlo, that's pretty much worn out."

"Is it?"

"Unnnnhhhh. Well, okay, maybe not totally..."

"Come on, Clark. Let's see if we can make it forty-five seconds this time."

"Ohhhhh. Okay. Maybe if we practice, we can work our way up to a whole minute."

"Maybe we can. I figure it never hurts to try."

-The End-

Easy

Clark/Chloe
Season 6, after "Zod"
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Screencap from Dynamic Duo.

"What do you think?"

She twirls in front of him, showing off her new red dress, and Clark feels a mixture of emotions, so complex and tangled he can't begin to sort them out.

Affection, sure. She's his best friend in the world, so affection is a given. But there's also a certain attraction he can't deny any longer, ever since that kiss she planted on him a month ago in the Planet basement.

And there's something a little uglier, too. He thinks it might be jealousy. Jealousy for the guy she seems to have fallen for, in only a month, and right after giving Clark the most amazing, spectacular kiss of his lifetime.

"It's nice," he allows, grudgingly, because he's pretty sure she bought the new dress for Jimmy, and that pisses him off more than he's willing to admit. "Kind of low cut, though. Makes you look kind of... trampy."

She quits spinning, and glares at him. There's a golden glint in her eyes that he recognizes as the precursor to a burst of temper. Chloe's his best friend, but she doesn't take crap from him.

"Trampy?" she echoes. "Don't be stupid, Clark. It's no lower cut than the suits I wear to the Planet."

Since one of the great joys of his life is standing behind her at her Planet desk and staring down the abundant flesh of her cleavage, he can't really deny that. But this dress is crimson and satiny, and it looks a lot more sexy than her suits somehow. "It's just... well, if you wear that out on a date, he's going to think..."

"I don't know if I have a problem with that," she says, smiling a little. "I mean, we have been dating for a month."

The jealousy ignites inside him like a match held to gas, flaming up into pure, hot rage. In a sudden flash of memory, he remembers her running to him, her arms sliding around his neck, the softly whispered words, I don't know if I'll ever see you again... and the kiss.

God, the kiss.

He can't forget it. He can't get it out of his head. And it pisses him off hugely that she seems to have totally forgotten it already. That she's dressing up for Jimmy, Jimmy, in the expectation of...

She looks at him, her expression becoming slightly uncertain, almost wary, and he guesses his fury, his inner turmoil, is reflected in his eyes.

"Um," she says, turning back to the full-length mirror. "Well. I guess I better get my makeup on..."

He recognizes his cue to go. He'd just dropped by her apartment for a minute, anyway. Just because. Because he and Chloe drop in on each other all the time, for any excuse or none at all, just because they like to hang out together.

He wonders how long that'll last once she starts sleeping with Jimmy. Once they're seriously involved, is Jimmy really going to put up with her spending hours in Clark's company every day, or talking to him on the phone five or six times? Or will Jimmy act as a wedge between them, slowly pushing them apart?

He has a feeling he already knows the answer, and he doesn't like it.

In fact, he hates it.

"If you're going on a date, Chlo, don't wear that dress," he advises. The jealousy inside him makes his words harsher than usual. "It really does make you look easy."

"Easy!" She spins around, looking outraged. "It does not!"

"Does too," he snaps back, aware that he sounds like a four-year-old but not quite able to hold back the words. "But maybe that's exactly what you want Jimmy to think."

"Yeah," she retorts. "Maybe it is."

The rage inside him is burning higher, flames reaching for the sky. He stretches out a long arm and grabs her arm.

"The problem," he growls, holding her wrist captive, "is that other men might get that idea, too."

"They might," she snarls back. "If they weren't impossibly obtuse, anyway."

He resents that, because he doesn't think he's the obtuse one here. He wanted to talk about their kiss, damn it. He's not the one who was all over Jimmy Olsen right after they kissed. Not that Jimmy Olsen is his type. But that's not the point.

The point is, she blew him off. He came to the Planet with every intention of discussing it, and she was the one who backed away.

He shouldn't have let her do that. He should have insisted they talk. But he didn't. He let her push him away.

And if he lets her get away with pushing him away again, then tonight she's going to be screwing another guy.

At the thought, the jealousy and rage inside him builds into an inferno. No way is he going to stand aside while Chloe goes off and gets busy with Jimmy Olsen. Not after that kiss she planted on him.

"Fine," he says through his teeth. "You're easy. That's good to know."

And he lowers his head and kisses her.

It isn't a nice kiss, one of the shy, fumbling, stop-me-if-you-don't-like-this kisses he specializes in. It's harsh and possessive and even a little violent. He kisses her hard enough that her lips part, almost involuntarily, and his tongue slips between her lips almost instantly, exploring, taking, demanding.

He hears her make a tiny sound, a noise of surrender and submission, and the inferno inside him shifts, alters. It burns just as hot as before, but it's not rage and jealousy any more.

It's lust.

No... it's more than lust. It's the emotion that filled him when she kissed him in the darkened basement that night. It's more than lust, more than friendship, more than anything he's ever experienced. It's emotions he doesn't even have a name for. All he knows is that he can't fight it.

Just one kiss, and he's hers.

It occurs to him that she's not the easy one here. He is.

Her mouth is soft and yielding against his, giving him everything he asks for. Her hands lift, and her fingers curl in his hair, exploring, stroking. He's aware of his own hands moving, sliding down her spine toward her hips, but he doesn't seem to have any control over them. They're heading where they want to go, with no input from him.

His palms cup her ass, and his fingers dig into the soft, sweet curves, pulling her against him, just a little.

He's hard, very hard, and he doesn't know exactly when that happened. Maybe the minute his lips touched hers, or maybe even before, when he was yelling and checking out her cleavage at the same time.

He isn't sure. All he know is that he aches, and he needs more contact, right now.

Her soft abdomen is pressed up against him, and he rubs, because he can't seem to hold still. It feels good, so good, and a little moan is torn from his throat, low and needy and almost desperate.

He didn't rub against her this way on that night in the Planet. He hadn't gotten the chance. He'd had to go save the world.

But tonight, there is no looming crisis, and no one needs saving. He can do whatever he wants to do.

And what he wants is this.

She's pressed up against him, warm and soft, and he can't stop moving against her. Their mouths are melded together now, in one long, unending kiss, and their bodies seem to be melding into one as well.

He needs more. Pressing against her abdomen is good, but it isn't enough. His hands tighten on her ass, and then he's picking her up, as easily as if she weighed nothing at all, and positioning her just right.

Her skirt gets rucked up around her waist, and he presses right up against her silken panties. Even through his jeans he can feel they're hot and wet, and an overwhelming need pulses through him. He gives another little moan.

She pulls back just a bit, and he hears her chuckle. "And you said I was easy."

"Didn't say you were easy," he mumbles. "Said you looked easy."

"From where I'm standing," she retorts, "you look like the easy one."

He knows she's right. He's easy. For her, he's easy. He remembers coming back from the Phantom Zone, remembers trying to talk to her about the kiss she laid on him, and for the first time he realizes that if she'd let him say what he wanted to say, the two of them would be dating now.

Dating, hell. The two of them would have been involved in a hot and heavy affair by now.

Better late than never, he figures.

He lowers his head, kissing her again, and shifts her, reaching up under her skirt, ripping off her panties. He hopes she'll take the hint-- which, let's face it, isn't exactly subtle-- and she does. Her hands reach down and undo his jeans, and then shove his boxers down, out of the way.

He gives a little sob of relief. Since she kissed him he's thought of this so often, wanted this so much, but he'd begun to believe he'd already lost her.

That thought fires off a whole chain of thoughts in his head. He hesitates, pressed up against her warm, wet, intimate flesh. His body is throbbing with a wild need, but he can't just jump into this without knowing...

"Hey," he says hoarsely. "Is this really what you want?"

She sighs, and drops her head against his shoulder. "Men," she growls. "They always want to stop and talk just when things are getting interesting."

He can't stop a smile from curving his lips. "I just..." He sighs. "Didn't you tell me that you were planning to... well... that tonight, you and Jimmy..."

"Clark..."

He sighs, and lowers her to the floor, despite the indignant twitching of his erection. He can't talk coherently when he's right up against her. Even so, he's so hard that coherence doesn't come easily, but he tries, because this is important. "Because I really want this, Chlo. I really want you. But if you and Jimmy were going to..."

"Oh, don't be stupid," she says impatiently. "Of course I wasn't going to. Jimmy's a nice guy, and I have to admit I've enjoyed going out with him, but I can also admit he's not the one I really want."

A little balloon of helium expands inside his chest, making him feel light and happy, despite the insistent throbbing of his body. "So you weren't really..."

She sighs. "I put this dress on for you, Clark. I knew you were coming by, and I... well, I just bought this dress. It's pretty. I thought it might kind of make you look."

It had definitely made him look. "But you said you and Jimmy..."

"I might have, well, implied a few things. But we don't have a date tonight."

He replays her words in his head, and realizes she had in fact done a lot of implying, without actually saying much of anything. Even so, he can't let it go. As much as he wants to be inside her, he need to clarify this first. "I thought you and Jimmy..."

"He's a nice guy, but I'm not interested in him that way," she says gently. "In fact, we talked last week and decided we were better off as colleagues and friends." She utters a soft laugh. "I guess it wasn't the most mature thing in the world to make you think we might get together tonight, but the way you looked... well, it was worth it."

He growls, but it's mostly for show. "Glad to have amused you."

She grins, but then her smile shifts into a more serious expression. "I won't lie to you, Clark. He and I, way back in the summer after freshman year... well, we were involved..."

Jealousy lights in him again in an instant. She'd called a halt to their budding relationship back then, and apparently gone right for Jimmy. What the hell?

"So the two of you..."

She sighs. "Yes, but only because I wanted you and couldn't have you."

"Chloe," he says, trying to hold back his anger, "you could have had me. At the spring formal, I was totally into you. I was about to kiss you, remember? You're the one who said we should go back to being friends."

"Yes, I remember. But I also knew that you were... conflicted, Clark. You know you were."

He wants to deny it, but he can't. He'd been torn between Chloe and Lana Lang, and they both knew it. He thinks maybe that if he and Chloe had gotten involved, that might have put a stop to his inner conflict. But then again, it might not have, and then he would have embroiled them all in a big, painful mess.

"Anyway," she says softly, "back then, I used Jimmy to forget about you. That was wrong, Clark. I know better now, and that's why I wouldn't use you that way. Believe me, I wouldn't. I'm here because I want to be."

He sighs with relief, because the throbbing of his erection has grown intolerable. "Okay," he says softly. "So do I."

He lifts her again, and flexes his hips, sliding right into her.

She's so wet and so soft that he can't hold back a gasp of pleasure. She gasps too, squirming against him, and he closes his eyes, overwhelmed.

She slides down easily onto him. Her legs wrap around him, her bare heels digging into the back of his thighs, and he sighs with pleasure. He withdraws, then thrusts into her, holding her hips steady with his big hands, and she cries out and writhes again.

It's all so simple. So... so easy. He should have just done this when he got back from the Phantom Zone. The minute he got back, he should have just picked her up, headed straight into the supply room or back to his loft or whatever, and made love to her.

He should have. Because this is right.

He's withdrawing and thrusting in a steady rhythm now, sliding into her in long, easy strokes. The pleasure increases with each movement, sending him higher and higher. His spine arches, and he feels sweat breaking out all over him, adhering his t-shirt to his skin. Beneath his hands, she's sweating too, and he can feel her trembling.

"Chlo." He bends his head and buries his face in her hair, inhaling the sweet vanilla fragrance of her perfume. The smell is as familiar and comfortable to him as apple pie or hay or growing corn fields, and yet the scent of her isn't just familiar-- it's strangely exciting. "Chlo... Chloe..."

"Clark." Her hands dig into his shoulders, and her voice quavers. "I've waited for this for so long... so long..."

So has he, and he hadn't even known he was waiting. But suddenly he's tired of waiting. Damn tired. He wants her to be his, in every way. His hips jerk, moving harder and faster, and he hears himself crying out.

Heat pours over him and through him, and he has to fight to keep his hands from clenching too hard and hurting her. The scent of vanilla fills his head, and the feel of her against him, the sounds she's making, her lips against his throat, all combine to drive him to the edge of insanity.

Part of him wants this to go on forever, but he can't hold back any longer. He lets himself go, and a long explosion of rapture takes him out of himself. He hears someone screaming and thinks it might be him, but if it is, he can't hold the noise back. The ecstasy is too intense. Her body is spasming around his, in hard, tight bursts, and he hears her crying out, and he knows that she's coming right along with him.

It's a long time before he can breathe again. At last he sucks in a long, shuddering breath, and all his muscles relax. He finds himself slowly sinking to the floor, unable to stand any longer.

She cuddles into his lap, their bodies still linked, and nuzzles his throat. He wraps his arms around her and holds her close.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I almost ruined everything."

"No." He hugs her. "I almost ruined everything. I didn't have to let you back off. I could have done this a month ago."

"Maybe we both messed up a little."

"A little." He smiles into her hair. "But we fixed the problem. And it was a pretty easy fix, right?"

"Yeah." He hears her chuckle against his throat. "Pretty easy, all right."

He laughs too, because he has a feeling she's talking about him rather than the problem. And he's okay with that. She's right.

Where she's concerned, he's easy.

-The End-

I Was an Intergalactic Alien Love Slave

Clark/Chloe
Season 5
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Sequel to I Had Sex With a Space Alien.

"I was an intergalactic alien love slave."

Clark Kent is half asleep, but at the words, he cracks one eye open against the morning sun. "That's kind of harsh," he mumbles. "I mean, yeah, we made love all night long, but it's not like you were screaming for mercy or anything."

"Not me, silly." Chloe Sullivan whacks him lightly with a rolled-up newspaper. "It's our Inquisitor reporter again."

"Unnnhhh." Clark rolls over. His muscles are all nice and warm and loose, and he feels incredible. Sex apparently does a body good. "Was this with the guy with three penises again?"

"So she says. So I guess you're off the hook. Must be some other alien."

"Yeah," he agrees. "Must be. I think you've checked my equipment out pretty damn thoroughly over the past week."

"Well," she says seriously, "you never know with aliens. I suppose you might be hiding a couple of retractable ones."

He rolls his eyes. "Chloe," he says. "I don't want anyone but you."

She smiles at him over the paper. "That's uncharacteristically sappy of you, Clark."

"Even if I did..." He indulges in a long, bone-cracking stretch. "I wouldn't have the energy for any other woman. You're killing me, Chloe."

"Yeah." She chuckles wryly, tossing the Inquisitor aside with all the care it deserves-- which is to say, not much. "You look like you're on the verge of death, all right."

He imagines that the comfortable glow he feels is reflected on his face. "I'm serious. You wore me out last night. I couldn't have sex again if my life depended on it."

"Really?" She blinks at him thoughtfully, and then the corners of her mouth curl up in a slight, impish smile. "Are you absolutely certain?"

Something about that smile makes him less absolutely certain than he was just a moment ago. He shifts a little on the bed, and shrugs. "Are you telling me five times wasn't enough for you? Aren't you a little sore?"

"Maybe." She leans over him, planting an arm on either side of his chest. "But that just means you'll have to make love to me very, very slowly."

He feels a throbbing ache, low in his body. Totally not a hard-on, because he's just not capable of that right now. His tire's gone flat-- and unlike the mythical alien the Inquisitor reporter's been sleeping with, he doesn't have any spares. But despite that, there's a certain warm pressure that makes him want her to move closer.

"Uh," he says, and hears his own voice, gravelly and hoarse. "Maybe after breakfast?"

"Maybe," she says softly, "I'll have you for breakfast."

She straddles him, a leg on either side of his thighs, and yanks her robe off. Beneath it, she's stark naked, and he feels himself throbbing harder.

"Hey," he says, pretending to frown. "Which of us is the intergalactic alien love slave here?"

She smiles mysteriously, and lowers her mouth to his chest. Her lips brush over his nipple, and he groans. He has his answer.

"Oh, Chlo." His voice is more gravelly than ever. "I don't mind being your love slave at all."

*****

It's been a week since they first slept together. He certainly hadn't expected to have sex with her when she'd shown up that day. He'd been filthy, having just done his morning farm work, up to and including mucking out the stables. She'd suggested lunch-- a perfectly typical friend thing for them to do-- and he'd headed into the house to take a shower.

And to his everlasting shock, she'd followed him up the stairs and come into the shower after him.

He hadn't minded. Hell, no. Chloe had been his best friend since middle school, and he'd always had a certain attraction to her. But he'd never imagined that his attraction could blossom into a craving for her that was so intense that he couldn't get through a night without her. But it has.

He's her love slave. They both know it.

But he's pretty sure she's his love slave, too.

*****
Her mouth teases his nipple for long moments, then slides down over his abdomen. He groans as her lips brush delicately over his cock. But then she pulls back, looking apologetic.

"Your skin, Clark."

He manages to restrain a growl of annoyance. It's not her fault. "Sorry," he says, keeping his eyes clenched shut. "I know it gets too hot."

"I'm sorry. I wish I were heatproof, but I'm not."

He no longer has a flat tire. He's inflated, pretty much to maximum pressure. He lies there, quivering, aware that if he opens his eyes, he's going to set the ceiling on fire.

They seem to run into this problem a lot.

His eyes itch and burn unmercifully, more insistent than the pulsing of his erection, and he wants to crack them open. Just a little. Just to let a tiny bit of the heat escape...

But no. He knows if he opens them at all, he's going to lose control over his heat vision entirely, and explode. He doesn't want to set the house on fire again.

But God, it feels so good when he...

Down, boy, he tells himself firmly. You can't let it go.

"We need to go downstairs," he mumbles.

It's the best solution to the problem they've come up with-- letting his heat vision explode into the fireplace, where it can't do any damage, and thus keeping his skin cool enough for her to touch. But she shakes her head.

"Not yet," she whispers.

He squeezes his eyelids more tightly. Not yet? What does she mean, not yet? It's not like she can touch him. He's too damn hot. So why on earth--

"Touch yourself," she whispers.

He's so shocked at the suggestion that his eyes almost fly open. No. No way. She is not seriously suggesting that he... that right in front of her, he...

No. He can't do that.

"I can't touch your skin when it gets this hot," she whispers, her voice soft, seductive. "But you can."

"I just..." He can't seem to form words. He's suddenly stumbling over basic English like it's a foreign language. "I, uh, downstairs? The fireplace?"

"No," she says, softly but inexorably. "Right here."

His cock pulses against his abdomen, unbearably hot, and his eyes torment him, driving him toward desperation. "I can't," he mutters, feeling his skin blaze hotter with a flush of embarrassment, feeling sweat beading all over his body. "I can't... I don't..."

"Oh, come on, Clark." He hears a flicker of impatience in her voice. "You've touched yourself before."

"But not... in front of..."

"I want to watch." Her voice strokes over him, as soft and velvety as her lips were, and he shudders.

And then, slowly, he reaches down and takes his cock into his own hand.

*****

He is her slave. Totally and completely. Because as embarrassed as he is, as much as he never, ever imagined himself doing this in front of someone else... there's no way he can say no to her.

Even to him, his cock feels hot. It's swollen with need, pulsing with every beat of the blood rushing through his veins, and he gives a strangled groan as his hand closes around it, giving him what he needs so badly.

"That's it," she whispers. "Now move your hand."

He moves it, just a little, one slow stroke downward. A long ache of need throbs from his cock right down to his balls, tightening them, and in his eyes he feels an answering throb of heat. He arches his head back, desperately fighting to keep his eyes closed, and a low, pulsating groan rises from him.

"Again," she whispers.

"No. Chloe. Can't..."

"Yes, you can. And you want to."

He does want to. God, he wants to. He wants release worse than anything. He doesn't care about embarrassment and he doesn't care about torching the house and he doesn't care about anything except coming, giving into a long, intense climax, while come explodes over his belly and his chest in long liquid gushes and a long stream of heat rushes from his eyes...

"Unnnhhhh."

It's all he can say. He's totally lost the capacity for English. He moves his hand upward, another slow stroke, and he can feel the precome leaking from him, wetting his cock, moistening his hand, so copious it's dripping onto his abdomen.

His eyes burn like coals, unextinguishable, all but irresistible, and his body is damp with sweat. He moves his hand downward again, writhing helplessly against the sheets, fighting against his need for release, fighting against the desperate burning in his eyes and the tight coil of need in his balls.

"Clark," she whispers. "I want to watch you come."

He can't, not in front of her. He can't... he can't...

"Faster." Her voice is just as irresistible as his need. "Let it happen."

He's her slave, and so he gives in, and lets his hips do what they want to do. His cock drives eagerly into his hand, sliding easily against the slick palm. His thrusts come faster and faster, in violent, short surges that send warm waves of pleasure washing through him, and suddenly he remembers how to speak English. Well, a little of it.

"Fuck." His voice is a low growl, sliding upward toward a higher pitch. "Oh, God, Chlo, fuck fuck fuck..."

His cock jerks, fast and hard, and he feels thick hot fluid spurting all over his abdomen, spasm after spasm of it. He cries out, coherent words lost in a long animalistic wail of pleasure, and his eyes slam open. All he can see is the red and orange of heat vision, and all he can feel is a wild ecstasy, heat burning all the way to his bones, searing him to his core. He knows he's setting the ceiling on fire, but he just... does... not... care.

At last he gasps and collapses, boneless, against the mattress. He wants to pass out, but there's that pesky fire burning. He struggles upright and stands on the bed, pats it out, and then slowly falls back down onto the bed, as limp as a bowl of Jell-O.

"Chlo." His voice is low. "God. I really am your love slave."

She curls up against him, nuzzling her face against his shoulder. "And I'm yours."

Despite his exhaustion, he drags his eyes open and looks down at her with a flicker of interest. "Oh, yeah? That sounds promising. What are you willing to do for me, exactly?"

"Rest for a minute," she says, stroking his hair. "And then we'll find out."

He smiles, and wraps his arm around her, holding her close.

He can't think of a better way to spend a morning.

-The End-

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.

I'm a Girl Watcher

Clark (paired with Lana, thoughts of Chloe)
Season 5
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 lay on his couch in the loft. Shadowy darkness enveloped him, but in his head he saw sunshine glinting off the lake, and heard laughter.

He'd spent the afternoon at Crater Lake with some of his friends. He couldn't do a lot of swimming there-- the lake had gotten its name because it had been formed when a very large meteorite crashed there, and the remnants of that meteorite still littered the lake bed-- but he didn't mind sitting on the beach, watching.

In fact, watching girls was one of his favorite summer activities.

He closed his eyes, remembering what his lady friends had worn. Lois Lane had been wearing a very skimpy cherry-red bikini that showcased her impressive assets. Publically, he and Lois didn't get along well. But in the privacy of his own head, he could admit that Lois had really nice--

His mind drifted onward. Lois was pretty, no question, but so annoying that he just couldn't think of her without a growl of annoyance. But Lana... Lana was pretty and sweet.

Lana Lang was his girlfriend. After years and years of longing for her, the two of them were finally dating. They'd even had sex, although it had been while his powers were missing in action. A while ago, in other words.

But even if he and Lana weren't quite intimate right now, she was well worth watching. Her dark hair, glinting with deep burgundy highlights, had hung down her back, long and thick, and she'd been wearing a slightly less revealing hot pink bikini. She'd looked awfully pretty.

And yet as he thought about her, another figure kept intruding. A blonde figure.

His third girl friend. Not girlfriend. Just Chloe, his best friend in all the world. He remembered her heading down the beach to join them, the way her blonde hair had blown loose around her face, the way she'd smiled brightly when she'd seen him. She'd been wearing a one-piece, because Chloe had always been a little self-conscious about her body.

Which was stupid, because she had a terrific one.

He sighed into the darkness, remembering the sunny yellow-striped swimsuit she'd worn, and how it had clung to her abundant curves. She had boobs that were almost as big as Lois', but her hips were wider, more feminine. He liked a girl with a nice butt, and Chloe had a really great one, although he knew she didn't like the fact that she couldn't squeeze into size two jeans the way Lois and Lana could.

Which was just dumb, because there was a lot to be said for a nicely rounded butt you could hold onto when you--

He cut that thought off, because he'd never held Chloe that way, and never would. Well, okay, there'd been that one time when he'd been on red K. But they hadn't gone all the way. Quite. Anyway, she didn't remember it, so it was like it never happened.

Except it had, and even two years later, he vividly remembered the feel of her nice plump ass in his hands...

All of a sudden his palms itched, like he wanted to hold her that way again. He sighed again, and squirmed on the couch, trying to get comfortable. He had a bit of a woody, presumably because he was lying here thinking about girls. Even though he was an alien, he was a pretty normal eighteen-year-old guy, and the thought of girls in swimsuits was definitely enough to make him hard.

Any girl. Not just Chloe.

Still, Chloe had a nice ass. And nice cleavage, too, even if her bathing suit hadn't been as lowcut as Lois'.

He remembered watching Chloe as she'd gone for a swim. She wasn't the world's greatest swimmer, but he'd enjoyed seeing her splashing, diving under the water, and then coming up with that big smile on her face. He remembered that when she'd come up out of the water, her skin had glistened with droplets.

He remembered seeing the beautiful swells of her breasts gleaming in the sunlight, wet and slick with lake water, and the way the sight had driven all the breath right out of his body.

He felt kind of breathless now, in fact.

No. Actually, the truth was he was breathing pretty hard. He shifted again on his couch, feeling his cock throbbing. His jeans. He really needed to undo his jeans.

Not that he was going to cream them or anything. He just needed, well, a little more room.

He fumbled with the fastener, haste making his big fingers clumsy. Finally he got his jeans unzipped. He let his fingers trail over the hot bulge of his cock, still covered by the light cotton fabric of his boxers, and sighed.

Just thinking of Chloe, dripping wet and lit by sunshine...

But of course it wasn't just Chloe. It was Lana and Lois too. Of course it was. He was a normal heterosexual guy, and the sight of all those scantily clad female bodies today had just been too much for him.

He remembered Chloe stepping out of the water, remembered the way sand had clung to her feet. It had been cute, he thought, seeing her little toes covered in sand...

His cock throbbed worse than before, and he scoffed at himself. He was getting turned on by sandy toes now? Seriously?

Still, the scoffing didn't help. His erection swelled, aching almost painfully, and he let his fingers stroke up and down just a little faster. A pulse of pleasure went through him, and his hips responded instinctively, pressing his cock up against his palm.

He surrendered to the inevitable, and let his fingers close around the swollen shaft.

Even through boxers, it was a relief. He let his mind drift, thinking of cleavage shining with diamond-like droplets, toes covered in sand, wet tousled golden hair, and a bright smile.

None of which thoughts had anything to do with his girlfriend.

Lana, he thought, a little desperately, but somehow he couldn't seem to come up with a single image of his girlfriend. Lois, he thought, trying to picture her very impressive boobs. But that, too, was a blank.

All he could see was Chloe, walking along the lake shore. Away from him, so he had a perfect view of her lovely rounded ass and her sand-covered feet...

He heard a low groan and realized it was him, and it suddenly dawned on him he was about to come in his boxers. He shoved them down in a violent, desperate movement, wrapped his hand around himself, and pumped hard.

"Chloe," he moaned, and came like a rocket.

Pleasure and release poured over him like summer sun and warm lake water. His come spurted all over his t-shirt, in rush after rush of scalding heat, and he heard himself calling Chloe's name, over and over again.

Thank God Lana wasn't around, because that would be a little difficult to explain.

After what seemed like an incredibly long time, he fell back against the couch, panting. His cock was already softening in his hand, so he let it go and stared blankly up at the rafters.

Shit. Who would have thought he could get so worked up remembering the sand on Chloe's toes?

Just a little fantasy, he told himself. Everyone has fantasies about people they aren't in love with. Playboy bunnies, gorgeously unattainable actresses, the hot housewife down the street... everyone's fantasies get out of hand every now and again.

But just because he got hot thinking about Chloe's cleavage, or her butt, or her toes, didn't mean he had any kind of thing for Chloe.

He was dating Lana. He was in love with Lana. It was Lana who occupied his thoughts, most of the time. And he needed to keep it that way. He just wouldn't let himself think about Chloe's body any more. He'd make sure that all his thoughts of that nature were about Lana.

Warmth filled him, along with exhaustion. It was late, and he'd had a busy day sitting on the beach and watching pretty girls in swimsuits. He was too tired to even get up and walk into the house. His eyes drifted shut, and he slid into sleep, the warm summer breeze blowing in from the window like a blanket.

But despite his resolution to think about Lana... his dreams were filled with Chloe's sandy toes.

-The End-

Lollipop, Lollipop

Clark/Chloe
Season 2, "Rush"
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Based on a prompt by chloista4ever.
Cap from Dynamic Duo.

That lollipop sure is lucky.

No, wait, I didn't mean that. I meant... uh... well, I came in here for something, didn't I?

She keeps licking that lollipop. And sucking on it. Sort of like...

No, Kent, no. That is not a nice boy thought. Shut up, will you?

But it really does make me think of...

NO. I said shut the hell up. Think about something else. Like chores. Yeah, chores aren't sexy. I have to put in the new fence today. All those posts... gotta slam them down hard... and thrust them right into the dirt... gotta thrust them really, really hard...

Hold it. I don't like where this is going.

Yeah, actually, I do.

Damn it, could she possibly stop doing that thing with her lips? I mean, the way she's sucking on that lollipop, it's really...

Shit. My jeans are awfully tight.

Chores, Kent, chores. Think about thrusting.

No, wait. Don't do that. Think about other stuff. Think about anything that doesn't have to do with those gorgeous pink lips wrapping around your-- your--

Jesus, where do I get these ideas? It's not like I read Playboy. I mean, not much. Not nearly as much as I'd like to, anyway. I shouldn't even be able to visualize her mouth on me that way.

But I totally can. Like a movie in my head. A really, really dirty movie. Oh, yeah, baby...

Shut UP, Kent. Jesus. Take a cold shower.

She's saying something. What is she saying?

I can't hear anything. There's like this roaring in my ears, and I can't seem to look away from her mouth. Maybe I could read her lips...

Or maybe I could just kiss them, and go from there.

What???! For crying out loud, she's my best friend. Friend! As in platonic! I can't kiss her!

But God, I wish I were that lollipop.

Couldn't we be friends with benefits? No, no, that's a bad idea. I so do not need the complications. I mean, yeah, that's one lucky lollipop, but...

Look at it. It's melting away in her mouth. Oh. My. God. I'd like to melt in her mouth. Or in her hands.

Only in my head do M&M commercials sound like sex. I'm a perv.

Chloe, will you have sex with me?

I didn't just say that. Did I? No. That was just in my head. But I should say that. I really should.

Except she's my friend, my 100% absolutely positively purely totally platonic friend that I never ever ever have sexual thoughts about. And she never has sexual thoughts about me either.

But wait. Really? She never has those thoughts about me? Then why is she giving head to a lollipop right in front of me? Can she really not know know what she's doing, and how fucking sexy it is?

Oh, how the hell should I know? What if she doesn't know how sexy this is? What if it's all completely innocent, and she's just having a snack? Then I'd say, Chloe, have sex with me, and she'd say, Kent, have you gotten into the catnip again? And I'd feel really, really stupid, and she'd laugh at me, and things might get really, really awkward...

Nope. Can't do it. Can't. Just can't. She means too much to me. I can't risk screwing things up between us, just because she's doing obscene things to a lollipop and making me incredibly horny. I just can't.

But damn.

Damn.

That is one hell of a lucky lollipop.

-The End-

I'm Your Angel

Manip by worias. Used with the permission of the artist.
Clark/Chloe
Season 5, rewrite of "Exposed"
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Rewrite of my story You're My Angel, based on a prompt by worias (original story idea prompted by Khyla).

"What are you doing in here? Are you lost?"

They'd been caught in the file room red-handed, and Clark Kent gulped audibly. "Um," he mumbled. "Um, we were just looking for..."

"Oh, don't be shy." Fortunately, Chloe Sullivan could think her way out of situations faster than Clark could-- which was ironic, since he was the one with superspeed-- and she put her hand on his back, pushing him forward. She flashed her beaming grin at the guy who'd caught them. "He's here to dance."

She remembered the sign on the Wingate's door: Ladies' Night. She could tell Clark remembered, too, because he blushed bright red, shooting a glare at Chloe. She smiled innocently at him.

"Are you the replacement Rocco sent over?" the guy asked.

"Yes," Chloe answered promptly. "He was really sorry to see him go."

The guy looked Clark over with a detached but careful gaze, as if Clark were a farm animal he might be interested in buying. Clark flushed redder under the scrutiny, and Chloe tried not to be amused by his obvious discomfort. At last the guy shrugged.

"Take your clothes off," he said. "Let's see what you've got."

*****

"And now," the announcer said over the PA system, "making his first appearance at the Wingate... please welcome the Guardian Angel!"

Chloe was seated at a table, sipping her Coke and trying hard to ignore the parade of male flesh in front of her. She was here to listen in on the conversations of the patrons and try to clear Senator Jack Jennings of murder, not to admire the talent. Besides, she shouldn't enjoy seeing men exploited this way. Men were people too-- hard though that was to believe sometimes-- and she had absolutely no interest in seeing them treated as sex objects.

Well, okay, that wasn't totally true. The truth was that she liked rippling male muscles and sculpted torsos as well as the next girl. Still, she'd managed to pay attention to the conversations around her, for the most part.

But when the "Guardian Angel" strutted out on stage, she totally forgot why she was here. Her mouth fell open, and all the breath left her lungs in a rush.

Clark was dressed all in white. He wore a tight sleeveless shirt, and even tighter white jeans, the clothes enhancing his musculature rather than obscuring it. Unlike the other guys who'd been featured on the stage, he didn't sport a single sequin. But on his back he wore a pair of big feathered white wings.

She looked at the bulging biceps, the tight butt, and the gorgeous flat abs, not to mention the impossibly beautiful face, and wondered why on earth she'd ever let their relationship stay at the just friends level.

Oh, right, he was dating Lana. Her friend. So all that masculine beauty was off limits to her.

Still... she could look. Couldn't she?

The simple truth of the matter was that she couldn't help looking. Clark moved across the stage in time to the music-- some loud, fast rock song she didn't recognize. He wasn't dancing, exactly. He was... well, just as she'd thought earlier, he was strutting.

She remembered how red Clark's face had been earlier. When he'd taken off his clothes, he'd looked like he wanted to drop through the floor and disappear. But now he moved in a totally confident manner, without a trace of self-consciousness.

Apparently Clark had somehow accessed his inner Kal, the bad-boy self who was normally only released when Clark got near red meteor rocks. Chloe could easily imagine Kal up on that stage, grinding his hips to the beat and grinning his bad-boy grin.

She couldn't imagine Clark doing the same thing. Yet there he was.

And that grin was directed straight at her.

He wasn't blushing any more. In fact, he looked like he was having the time of his life. He reached up and yanked on the t-shirt, and it fell apart. He tossed it aside, exposing a broad expanse of rippling muscles beneath golden skin, and every woman in the audience squealed and whistled and applauded. Chloe did too, just to look like she belonged here.

It wasn't like Clark Kent actually made her squeal. She was totally over that. Really.

Okay, Clark happened to feature prominently in a lot of her sexual fantasies. Maybe most of her sexual fantasies. But that was just because he was a great-looking guy.

She looked at his bare chest, beaded with sweat under the hot lights of the stage, and sighed despite herself. Lana was a lucky girl. If she herself had that chest at her beck and call-- well, she'd never let Clark out of the bedroom.

His hands slid down his abdomen, slowly and sexily, and then he tore off his jeans. She couldn't quite tell if they were the tearaway kind of jeans, or if he'd just used his superspeed to remove them. Regardless, suddenly he was standing in front of a crowd of women, wearing nothing but a g-string, wings, and a dangerous grin.

The other women whistled and clapped more loudly than ever, but this time she couldn't join them. She could only stare, flabbergasted. Those thighs... that abdomen... that... that...

Well, even in a g-string there was no mistaking that Clark Kent was huge.

The music ended, and Clark made his way off the stage. Eager, clutching hands groped him as he passed, stuffing bills into his g-string, and he grinned down at the women who touched him as if half an hour earlier he hadn't been blushing scarlet at the idea of stripping on stage. Clark, she thought, was really taking his role to heart.

He paused next to her table. She gazed at the portion of his anatomy which was at eye level, unable to look away.

"Hey," he drawled. "I'm up here."

She tore her gaze away, blushing, and looked up to find him grinning down at her. He looked evilly amused.

"Uh," she said. "Um, I didn't, uh..." Ruthlessly she yanked her mind back onto their purpose here-- a purpose that didn't involve ogling gorgeous guys, particularly not her best friend. "So did you find anything out?"

"Yeah," he said. He dropped to his knees and knelt by her chair, staring intently into her eyes. "But we can't talk about it right here. Why don't you slip me a twenty so it looks like we're doing business, and then I'll meet you out back."

"Um..." Awkwardly, because being this close to Clark made her feel like a fifteen-year-old again, she extracted a twenty from her little beaded purse. She considered him for a moment, then reached down and slid it into his g-string.

"Hey," he said. His voice was deep and teasing. "Are you feeling me up?"

"I don't think so." She ran her finger along his abdomen, from the navel to just above his skimpy garment. "This is feeling you up."

She heard his quick intake of breath. "Chloe."

"Just trying to protect your cover," she said innocently. "We wouldn't want you to get fired."

He leaned a little closer, so that there was barely an inch separating their lips. In his eyes she would have sworn she saw a glitter of lust if she didn't know better. But of course she did know better. He was just acting.

"Thanks," he said. "Don't forget to meet me out back." His voice went low and sexy. "I'm looking forward to it."

He rose to his feet and strode away. She stared after him, admiring the gorgeous taut buttocks, the powerful muscles of his back, the way he moved like a panther, his lithe, predatory grace hinting at barely restrained strength.

She wasn't the only one staring, either. There was some other guy up on stage now, but absolutely no one was looking at him. Every female eye in the place was trained on Clark.

Hands off, ladies, she thought. He's mine.

She blinked, startled by the vehemence of the thought, and shoved the unexpected possessiveness away. Clark wasn't hers. He was dating Lana, not Chloe, and she needed to remember that. Just because Clark had incredible shoulders and beautiful biceps and an impossibly gorgeous ass, that didn't make him hers. They were just friends. Always had been, always would be. Just friends.

She watched him disappear backstage, still wearing the feathered wings. He really did look like an angel, she thought. A very, very masculine angel. She remembered the wicked gleam in his eyes, the way he'd so clearly enjoyed strutting his stuff, and smiled.

He'd looked like a fallen angel.

Suddenly a voice behind her caught her attention. She turned her head slightly, straining her ears and wishing for Clark's superhearing. A woman at the table behind her was speaking in a thick Slavic accent.

"That new fellow-- who is he? I want him."

You can't have him. He's mine.

The unfamiliar feeling of possessiveness rose in Chloe again. She pushed it away impatiently and continued to listen in on the conversation.

"I don't know," the man sitting with her replied. "He's new. For five hundred K, you know I don't ask any questions."

Five hundred K? What on earth? Chloe frowned, confused.

"And for that much," the accented voice answered, "you better not answer any questions, either."

Chloe turned just enough to get one quick glimpse of the woman, and her reporter's mind recorded the details. Blonde hair coiled on top of her head, high, elegant cheekbones, cold blue eyes. The woman wore a green suit, with an emerald necklace gleaming at her throat. She was beautiful, but there was a dangerous glint in those blue eyes that Chloe didn't like in the least.

The conversation was the first real hint Chloe had gleaned that something strange was going on at the Wingate. She strained, trying to hear more through the noise of the crowd, but suddenly the lights went on, the music stopped, and a loud voice spoke.

"Everybody freeze!"

*****

It took a couple of hours for Chloe to get free of Detective Maggie Sawyer. Eventually she was let out with a warning-- thank God for that, because her dad so would have killed her if she'd been arrested. Clark, being "talent," was still tied up. She hoped like hell he wasn't going to be arrested, because his parents would have his head on a platter for sure. And then she'd feel guilty, because this had, after all, been her idea.

She was burning up with curiosity about the woman she'd overheard, so she made her way to the Planet, which was only a few minutes away by car, and checked the license plates she'd photographed earlier. She'd overheard Sawyer say the woman was the daughter of a foreign diplomat. Only one of the cars had a diplomatic plate, so she checked it against the database and rapidly found its owner, a woman with the last name of Lyon, who resided in the UN tower downtown.

She leaned back in the chair and tried to put the limited puzzle pieces together, but without success. A woman who worked at the Wingate had been murdered. She'd apparently been involved with Senator Jennings somehow. And now there was another woman who was apparently buying men, for really significant sums of money.

Not that Clark wasn't worth half a million. He totally was, at least as far as she was concerned. Still, that was a hefty chunk of change.

She decided she didn't have enough data to solve the puzzle, or even come up with a reasonable hypothesis. She needed to get back to the Wingate. But she knew that Clark, who was invulnerable to everything up to and including bullets, was in no immediate danger, and besides, he was still in the custody of the cops.

Her eyes drifted closed, and she let herself indulge in a pleasant daydream of the way he'd looked in those wings, and very little else. She remembered the sweat beading on his chest until his skin glistened, and imagined herself sliding her hands over the damp, golden flesh of his chest...

A hot ache blossomed between her thighs, but she tried her best to ignore it. She breathed slowly, trying to get control of herself. It was stupid for her to have this reaction to thoughts of her best friend. Just because he'd been almost totally naked, and mere inches away, and she could have so easily put her hands all over him...

Her train of thought didn't do much to calm her down. In fact, she was pretty badly wound up. She thought longingly about sliding her hand between her thighs and releasing the almost unbearable tension.

But no. This was her workplace. She couldn't be caught doing something like that. Even though it was the middle of the night, she wasn't the only workaholic in the building, and if someone caught her...

Anyway, she was trying to clear someone of murder here, and that was a lot more important than her physical needs. Besides, Clark might not be in danger, but if that woman was buying men for nefarious purposes, then the other male strippers of the Wingate might be in danger. She needed to get a move on and figure out what was going on.

Her stupid body was just going to have to chill out for a while.

*****

When she got back, the cops were gone. And so was Clark.

At first she thought he'd run off on some trail, trying to find an answer to the puzzle, but when she questioned the few male strippers who were left in the changing room, they told her he'd left with Lyon-- and he'd looked sick.

"All doubled over," a redhead with pecs to die for told her. "Practically crying in pain, looking like he was going to throw up. The woman said something about taking him to the emergency room. She thought it might be his appendix."

The emerald, she thought, grimly angry with herself for not realizing. It hadn't been an emerald at all.

It was kryptonite.

*****

The UN tower was on West Washington Street, and Chloe found the apartment without any trouble. She got in with no trouble as well, breaking and entering being one of her many useful talents.

The first thing she spotted was a Polaroid picture someone had carelessly dropped on the floor. It was a snapshot of Clark, wearing his g-string and wings, his face contorted in pain.

She snarled and dropped the snapshot on the carpet, then began pacing around, looking for clues.

The computer was turned off, but it was still warm, so she guessed the woman had left the apartment with Clark only moments before. Hoping she could find something useful, she flipped the computer on and waited impatiently for it to boot up.

Unfortunately, it was password protected. She tried a few passwords at random, then gave up. She didn't have time to try to break through a zillion layers of security. She had to rescue Clark.

She stalked restlessly around the apartment, looking for some clue as to his location. She found a box with snapshots of various good-looking men, all clad in g-strings, and inferred that Clark was not the first gorgeous guy to be abducted by Lyon. She also found an empty syringe, which she guessed had contained some sort of sedative. If you were going to abduct heavily muscled guys, drugging them was probably a sensible precaution.

None of which gave her any hint where to find him.

She walked back to the computer, frowning, and stared at it thoughtfully. It occurred to her Lyon might have been using the printer for something, because it was still turned on.

Experimentally, she reached out and pressed the "print" button again. The printer whirred, and she picked up the sheet of paper that came out of it.

It was a fake passport, with Clark's picture on it.

Her heart started to thud heavily. Lyon must be taking him out of the country, which almost certainly meant an airport. She needed to get to Metropolis International Airport and find them somehow, before they got on a plane.

Clark. Oh, Clark.

She did her best not to overreact. No one other than herself and the Kents knew of Clark's "allergy" to kryptonite, so Lyon had presumably been wearing kryptonite by coincidence, not because she knew it had an effect on Clark. Sooner or later she'd leave Clark's side, and then he'd recover almost instantly, no matter what sort of drugs she might have injected him with. Drugs had no effect on Clark.

But he must be feeling sick and miserable from the kryptonite. She hated to think of him trapped on a plane with Lyon for hours. For all she knew, such prolonged exposure to kryptonite might just kill him.

She headed for the door, then stopped, arrested by a thought. She'd researched a story on the medical transport system in Metropolis last month. Some other reporter had gotten the byline, of course, but she'd done a large quantity of research for him. She'd learned all about air ambulances in Metropolis, and where they could land. And she remembered that there was a helipad on the roof of the UN Tower.

What if they were taking Clark out of here by helicopter?

It was a long shot, she knew, but it couldn't hurt to check the roof.

*****

Chloe Sullivan was no athlete, but she made it up the three flights of stairs in record time. She burst out onto the roof and saw a helicopter sitting there, its rotors whirring.

Another sprint, and she had yanked the door open. A single glance told her Clark was inside, seated between Lyon and her bodyguard. He was hunched over in abject misery, and she doubted he even noticed her presence.

But Lyon certainly did. The other woman barked out a sharp command, and the helicopter began to rise into the air, with Chloe half in and half out.

Hanging on desperately with one hand, she grasped Lyon's necklace and yanked it hard. The delicate gold chain snapped under the rough treatment, and Chloe flung it free of the helicopter with all the force she had. She glanced down, seeing that they were already forty or fifty feet above the helipad.

If she fell, she was going to break every bone in her body.

Even as she had the thought, Lyon shoved her, hard, and she felt herself falling.

*****

"It's all right." His deep voice was soothing. "I've got you."

Expecting to find that she'd been splattered on the rooftop of the UN Tower, she slowly opened her eyes to find herself in Clark's arms.

"Oh," she said. Her voice sounded shaky to her own ears. "I thought I was going to die."

"I'd never let that happen." He grinned at her. It was his honest, open, farmboy grin, but somewhere in his eyes she saw the glint of the bad boy, too.

She glanced down and realized he was naked.

Well, mostly naked. He still wore the g-string. Still, it was a damn good thing they were up here, rather than down on the streets, or he'd be stopping traffic for sure.

"Um..." She frowned, seeing the helicopter safely tethered to the roof. "How'd you do that?"

"I jumped down and caught you, then I found a hook, jumped up and attached it to the copter, and reeled them back in. Lyon's no danger, don't worry. I tied her and her bodyguard up."

"I may not have gotten As in physics," she said slowly, "but I don't think it's possible for you to have gotten out of the helicopter and jumped down here fast enough to catch me. I mean, unless you were..."

"Flying?" He smiled. "Don't be silly, Chlo. I can't fly. Not even with wings on my back."

She shook her head at him and returned his smile. She wasn't sure how he'd done it, but it didn't really surprise her that Clark had managed to break the laws of physics. It was something he seemed to do on a regular basis.

"Thanks," she whispered, putting a hand on his cheek. "You really are a guardian angel. My guardian angel."

His smile faded, and he looked into her eyes, his expression suddenly intent. He lowered his head, and she realized he was going to kiss her.

And she wanted him to.

But then he lifted his head, gazing at something across the roof. She turned her head and saw Detective Sawyer approaching, stalking across the flat rooftop with two uniformed cops flanking her.

"The cavalry's here," he said.

"No," she said, letting her arms tighten around his neck. "The cavalry already arrived."

*****

"So here's what's been going on." Clark spoke earnestly to Detective Sawyer, all hints of the bad boy eradicated. "Apparently the lovely Ms. Lyon was abducting guys from the Wingate and selling them into a life of sexual servitude in other countries. Melissa was a close friend of one of the guys who disappeared, and when she started asking too many questions and tried to go to the Planet, Lyon had her 'taken care of.' It had nothing to do with Senator Jennings. Yes, they were... close... but he didn't kill her. Lyon did."

Sawyer nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Kent. I’m glad you’re all right. Now..." She nodded to the other cops, who untied Lyon's hands. "I’m afraid Ms. Lyon is free to go.

Clark blinked. "Excuse me? You can’t just let her walk away."

Lyon got to her feet and walked toward them. She bestowed a really nasty smile on Clark. "Diplomatic immunity."

"That's right," Sawyer agreed, looking like she'd bitten into a rotten apple. "As a consulate guest in our country, Ms. Lyon can't be arrested or tried for any crime she commits on our soil... not even murder. I'm sorry. But I can't touch her."

Chloe felt rage bubble up inside her. This woman had killed a woman and abducted men. She'd abducted Clark, with the full intention of selling him into slavery.

"Maybe not," she answered. "But I can."

She spun around and slammed her fist into Lyon's face. The other woman yelped, clutching her face as blood streamed from her nose. Chloe looked up at Clark, seeing him smile at her with something very like admiration.

The smile faded, though, as the bodyguard walked toward them, helped Lyon to her feet, and steered her back toward the helicopter.

Chloe couldn't believe the bitch was just going to be let go, after everything she'd done. She looked back at Sawyer, unable to keep the accusing look out of her eyes.

Sawyer gazed back at them both. "Some people live above the rules," she said, her voice terse. She didn't sound any happier about it than they did. "Guess what? That’s life in Metropolis. You want justice…I suggest you stay a little closer to home."

Clark and Chloe stood shoulder to shoulder, watching Lyon climb aboard the helicopter. She gave them a nasty, jeering grin and blew a kiss in their direction.

And then the helicopter lifted into the air, and she was gone.

Chloe gritted her teeth, angered by the thought that Lyon could get away with kidnapping, even killing, with impunity. But at least she was on the cops' radar now. Hopefully the Metropolis PD would keep a closer eye on him from now on, and this wouldn't happen again. That was the single positive outcome of this situation.

No, she thought. The other positive outcome was that Clark was safe.

She looked up at him, seeing his disheveled dark hair blow wildly in the breeze from the helicopter. He smiled down at her and wrapped an affectionate arm around her.

"Come on, Chlo," he said. "Let's get out of here."

*****

"So," she said. He was dressed in his customary jeans and flannel, his shaggy hair hanging over his forehead, and he looked like the farmboy she'd always known, but she couldn't quite forget that dangerous gleam in his eye. "You kind of seemed to enjoy that."

"What, the stripping?" He lifted his chin. "Of course I didn't."

She slanted a look up at him. "Come on, Clark. Be honest. You were really having fun up there on the stage."

He sighed, and lowered his head a bit. "Well," he said, very softly. "It was kind of... different. I mean, ordinarily I do my best to blend in, and it's not like women fall all over themselves when they see me..."

Except me and half the population of Smallville, she thought.

"But all those women were staring at me, Chlo. I could hear their heartbeats, and I knew... I knew they were enjoying looking at me. It was kind of..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Intoxicating."

Like red K, she filled in mentally, remembering the way he'd reminded her of Kal. He had been high, in a manner of speaking. High on the feminine admiration he rarely allowed himself to notice.

And then an uncomfortable thought crossed her mind. She squinted at him. "Could you hear my heartbeat?"

"Yeah." He swallowed. "I could hear it more clearly than anyone else's, actually. It was kind of, uh, fast."

It was her turn to blush. Great. She'd been drooling over Clark, and he knew about it. Not that he hadn't seen her staring, but that could have been part of their cover. Her heartbeat, however, wasn't something she had conscious control over.

"Look," she said, trying to fight back her blush, "we're just friends. We both know that. You're in love with Lana, and I'm just the sidekick. I get that. And you know, the fact that I happened to be in the audience when you were up there onstage, well, it feels a little awkward, but really, it's no big deal. We're both adults, right?"

"Yeah," he said, very softly. "We're both adults."

It was true, she realized. They were adults, and they could do anything they liked. Anything at all.

But no. They couldn't. Because he was dating Lana, and she was just his friend.

A quick flash of rippling muscles beneath golden skin filled her mind, and she blew out her breath in an irritated sigh. She was never, ever going to be able to look at him as just a friend again, and she knew it.

Clark came to a halt. He turned his head and looked at her for a long moment, and there was a strange intensity in his green eyes. She stared back, unable to look away. Their gazes locked and held.

And then he picked her up in his arms and supersped into a nearby alley.

*****

"Clark," she whispered as he lowered her feet to the ground, wrapped his arms around her waist, and leaned into her. "What are you doing?"

He pushed his hips against hers, and she heard him hissing with pleasure at the contact. She could feel his erection, hard and hot, even through his jeans. "What do you think I'm doing, Chlo?"

"Well, okay. I guess a better question would be, why are you doing it?"

"Because I can't help it." His voice was a harsh rumble in her ear. "The way you looked at me, Chlo... the way your heart was racing..."

She tried really, really hard to stop her body from responding to the pressure of his, with absolutely no success. "Maybe you haven't noticed," she answered tartly, "but you're a nice looking guy, Clark. That doesn't mean I want to screw you."

"Chloe." He lowered his head, and his lips brushed over her ear. She shivered despite herself. "I'm tired of lying to myself. I'm tired of you lying to yourself. We both know what we want, okay?"

"But Lana..."

"Don't want Lana," he mumbled into her hair. "I want you."

Tears sprang to her eyes. She wanted to believe that, more than she'd ever wanted to believe anything. And there was a desperate sincerity in his voice that made her think it was true. At least it was true at this moment.

She knew she shouldn't do this to Lana, that she should make Clark back off and take some time to think about what he wanted. But he was warm and powerful against her, his skin hot and satiny beneath her hands, and...

Well, she just couldn't say no to this.

"I want to see you," she whispered, sliding her hands up beneath his shirt.

He laughed softly. "You saw pretty much everything I've got a few hours ago, Chlo."

"Not quite everything." Her hand slid down over the front of his jeans, and he hissed again. She turned her head and saw that his eyes were clenched shut, his teeth bared.

She stroked her palm over him, up and down, and he gritted his teeth together, but a low moan escaped him anyway.

"I want to see you," she whispered, and unzipped his jeans.

*****

He was huge, so big that her questing fingers barely closed around him. She held him in her hand gently and began to stroke, and his body jerked as he flung his head back.

"Ahhhhhhh. Chloe."

"Shhh." She continued sliding her hand up and down. "We're in public, Clark. If you don't keep it quiet, someone's going to notice us."

He quivered violently, and a low groan rumbled in his throat.

"You like that idea." Her hand moved on him steadily. "I'm not surprised, considering the way you got off on stripping. Maybe you should consider that as a career path, Clark. You're beautiful. You were meant to be looked at."

He moaned again, and she felt precome spilling from him, wetting her hand. She felt herself growing moist, too, and an ache blossomed between her thighs.

His hands were all over her, as if he couldn't stop himself from touching her. His fingers caressed her nipples, making her tremble, and she moved her own hand even harder. Even in the shadows of the alley, her skin looked pale against the flushed rose of his cock.

His hands fumbled at her skirt, shoving it up around her waist, and he ripped her panties off and flung them aside. And then he was lifting her by the waist, trembling as he pressed against her, his hard flesh right up between her thighs.

"Oh, God." His voice was hoarse. "Oh, God, I can't not do this, I just can't..."

She heard the desperate plea for approval of his actions in his voice. Her hands slipped around his neck, and she kissed his throat and spoke very softly.

"I want you to do this, Clark."

He gasped with relief and moved his hips, flexing them so the broad head of his cock was right up against her. And then he hesitated, shaking.

"We're in public," she whispered. "Better make it quick."

His hips jerked, and he sank into her deeply. She gasped at the pleasure of it, the long, slow slide of his satiny flesh inside her, and her hands gripped his shoulders with sudden desperation.

And then he was moving in her, hard and fast, his skin slick with sweat beneath her hands, his breath coming in frantic gasps. She threw her own head back against the brick wall and let the pleasure roll over her in surges, each wave breaking higher and higher until ecstasy overwhelmed her. She cried out, forgetting where they were, forgetting everything except the sensation of his body in hers.

He gave a long, low moan, and then she felt him shuddering all over as he came, liquid heat gushing inside her in spasm after spasm, until it overflowed and spilled down her thighs.

And then he sagged against her, drawing in frantic gasps of air, still holding her off the ground.

She wiggled, and spoke softly but firmly. "Hey. Let me go, Clark. We can't stay here."

Slowly, he pulled away from her. His eyes were downcast, like he didn't quite dare look into her face. Her heart sank.

He zipped up his jeans, and she pushed her skirt down. Apparently they'd gotten away with it, because there was no squad car blinking at the end of the alley.

But Clark didn't look like a guy who'd just gotten what he wanted. He looked like a guy who was stricken with guilt and remorse. Fear lodged in her chest, the fear that by making love to him, she'd ruined their friendship.

She didn't know how to live without Clark. He was her friend, her partner, her guardian angel.

"Come on," he said at last, his voice harsh. "Let's go home."

*****

"Check it out." Despite the awkward ending of their last encounter, she couldn't stop herself from smiling broadly as she walked up the stairs of his loft the next day. "My first Daily Planet byline."

"No kidding." Clark had been staring out the window into the afternoon sunshine, but at the sound of her voice he turned around, grinning. "Congratulations."

"Well..." She offered a self-deprecating little smile. "It's not exactly the Torch, Clark. Page 78. At the bottom."

He took the paper from her hands and looked at the article, and she couldn't miss the pride in his eyes. He scanned through it and raised his eyebrows.

"Hey," he said. "It says here Interpol was able to arrest Lyon due to an anonymous tip."

"Yeah." She smiled innocently. "Fancy that."

He stared at her, looking impressed. "Wow," he said, handing the paper back. "Remind me never to piss you off."

She smiled. "You could never piss me off, Clark."

His gaze flickered down. "About that..." He swallowed audibly. "I thought maybe I did. I mean, yesterday morning."

"Not at all." She tried hard to sound cheerful, but she knew it was totally unconvincing. "It wasn't a big deal, Clark. I mean, we'd just been through a stressful experience, and we were both--"

"Stop that."

She blinked. "Stop what?"

"That rationalizing thing you do. Cut it out. It didn't happen just because of everything we'd been through, and you know it."

"Fine," she answered, letting her voice get sharper. "Let's be honest, then. You were feeling horny because you'd gotten a chance to let out your inner exhibitionist, and I was the only available female."

"Chlo..." He closed his eyes, looking unhappy. "It wasn't like that."

"Sure it wasn't."

"It wasn't." His voice rose angrily. "I wasn't turned on because of all those women watching me, okay? I was turned on because of you watching me. The way you stared at me... the look in your eyes... the way your heart pounded..."

He fell silent, and at her startled glance, he turned away, as if afraid he'd said too much. She stared at his broad back for a moment, then crossed to him and put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"You're incredibly sexy," she told him.

He laughed softly. "I'm glad you think so."

"It's true. And I'm certainly not the only one who thinks so. But the thing is... you have a girlfriend, Clark."

"Well, no, I don't. Not any more." He still didn't look around at her. "I went to Lana yesterday, right after you and I... anyway, we had a long talk. I think we both realized things weren't really working out between us, even before this happened. And... we broke up."

"Oh, my God." She clapped her hand over her mouth. "Did you tell her we slept together? She's my friend, Clark."

"I told her I'd been with another girl. I figured I owed her that much. But I didn't tell her who. I thought you might not want her to know right away, or that you might want to tell her yourself."

"Oh." She felt a warm affection fill her. "That was very honorable of you, Clark."

"No," he said, and she clearly heard the self-annoyance in his tone. "I should have broken up with her before I made love to you. But I...well, I just couldn't seem to help myself, Chlo."

The warmth inside her grew, shifting slowly from affection to something else, something more. "I'm glad you couldn't help yourself," she said softly.

He glanced around for the first time, and she saw a flash of nervous vulnerability in his eyes. "So I'm not quite sure where you want to go from here..."

She smiled. "I think I want to see you naked again."

He blinked, clearly startled, and then that slow bad-boy grin curved his mouth. "You've already seen me naked," he pointed out. "So this time, do I get to see you naked, too?"

"Definitely."

"That's good." He reached out, taking her hand and pressing it flat against his chest, and his expression grew more serious. "Because you make my heart pound too."

Sure enough, she could feel it thundering beneath her palm. She smiled up at him. "I bet I can make it pound even harder."

He laughed softly.

"Okay," he said. "Let's get to work on that."

-The End-