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Your thighs tremble against the broad stretch of Clark’s shoulders, and he moans—moans—like the taste of you is something decadent.
Gun to your head, you couldn't even begin to guess at how many times you've come.
Clark has been off-world for three weeks, some mission halfway across the galaxy that kept him out of your bed and off fighting some planetary warlord.
It's the longest you've been away from each other since you started sleeping at his place more than your own.
You didn’t even get a text before he was floating outside your window, the soft sounds of his knuckles rapping against the glass enough to wake you.
He kissed you right there on your balcony. He was still smoking from flying through the atmosphere, smelling like ozone and heat when you wrapped your arms around him and dragged him closer.
It didn’t take long for the two of you to fall into bed, the thin layer of your panties tossed somewhere across the room along with his suit. It came off in ribbons around your greedy hands, some other worldly tech shedding itself so you could touch all the impossibly soft skin hidden beneath it.
“Fuck–“ You’re spread out across the plush mattress, sheets bunched around your hips as you writhe and moan. “Clark, oh God–”
Clark is flat on his stomach between your legs. His hair mussed from where your fingers carded through it.
His eyes—those bottomless, bright eyes—are half lidded and reverent as he stares up at you like you’re the sunrise. His hands are heavy where they grip your hips, thumbs brushing over the dip where your thighs meet your pelvis, teasing but grounding. Anchoring.
His tongue drags slow and heavy over your pussy, the same way he kissed you. He slides one hand under your ass, keeping you tilted up for him, greedy palms kneading your skin like he wants to memorize the exact shape of your body all over again.
“You have no idea,” he groans, breaking away just enough to speak, chin slick, eyes dark, pupils blown wide, “what this does to me.”
It’s true. You don’t know what it’s like for him, not entirely. You don’t know how loud you are in his head.
The sound of your pulse hammering under the layers of your skin. The flutter of your lashes. The heat blooming just beneath your navel. The slick parting of you when you clenched around nothing as he kissed his way down your stomach.
You’ve talked about it before—quietly, breathlessly, the few times he let himself admit how different this is for him. What it’s like.
You smell like heaven to him. That’s what he said once. Whispered it, almost ashamed, as if saying it out loud might make you think less of him and not want him even more.
"It’s just…I can smell you. All the time. It's so much. Sometimes…I...get hard just walking past you."
And he smells it before he even tastes you, the attraction. The lust. That intoxicating blend of sweet, wet, need—it makes him dizzy.
You don’t even want to think about how fast Clark's brain must be processing this, processing you.
The exact temperature of your sweaty skin under his fingertips. The microscopic twitches of your muscles when he sucks just right. The slick sounds echoing like church bells in his ears—turned up way too loud for any normal man, but Clark just basks in it.
He’s tuned into you like a conductor reading sheet music. It’s all information to him, and he uses it. Adjusts. Reacts. Learns. Like he’s memorizing the precise rhythm of your pleasure. Like he needs it, maybe even more than you do.
“Don’t–” you pant, voice breaking as his tongue works in slow, devastating circles. “Don’t stop, baby, don’t–”
“Right there?” he mumbles against your clit, breath hot, his lips dragging slow and deliberate over the bundle of nerves until your thighs twitch.
Two thick fingers part you open—giving his tongue more room to drag lower, circle your entrance, then fuck inside with maddening, slow strokes.
You’re already losing it. Your thighs are shaking, back arched, moaning through your teeth because there’s no break, no rhythm—just Clark devouring you like he’s got nowhere else to be for the next hundred years.
"You're so good at this," you murmur, voice shaking. "Fuck–you're so good, Clark."
His grip on your ass falters for half a second, like the praise knocked the air right out of him. He whines. No hesitation, no shame. Just a pure, involuntary whimper from the back of his throat. He leans into you harder, groaning into you like he wants to bury himself inside your taste.
It’s filthy, the way he eats you. Soft and sweet and worshipful—but filthy.
Clark is sloppy with it, lips wet and glistening, chin slick with arousal, tongue flicking and curling with obscene precision. You’re soaked, and he doesn’t care. He loves it. Loves licking it up, loves when it drips down his chin, loves when you clutch his hair and sob his name like you’re about to break.
He tastes every inch of you. The clean sweat from your inner thighs. The tang of your skin. The pulse of arousal that weeps onto his tongue when he flattens it over your pussy and drinks.
You cry out, hips jolting. He growls at the sound, rutting his hips against the bed like he’s about to come from the taste of you alone.
Wouldn't be the first time.
Your hands twist in his hair, spine arching off the mattress as arousal swirls through your stomach. The pleasure clouds your mind, makes you feel hazy and dazed like you’ve been spun in a circle hundreds of times over.
Clark makes it sensory. He always does.
He listens to how your breathing shifts when he does certain things. Tilts his head to hear which angle makes your moan hitch in your throat, or what pressure makes your thighs clamp tighter around his head.
He feels every tremor in your body before you even realize you’re about to come—and fuck, does he chase it. Groaning, shaking his head back and forth like an animal, moaning low like he’s desperate to pull every drop of pleasure from you.
“I can smell how close you are,” he rasps, flushed and slick-chinned between your thighs, voice half-wrecked with awe. “Please come for me. Please, I need it, I need to taste it—”
He’s so desperate, so eager, tongue fucking into you faster now, nose brushing your clit with every push. You yank at his hair—those thick, dark curls—and pull him in harder, grinding against his face without shame.
And he loves it.
Groans louder. Moans into your pussy like you’re making him lose control. He’s gripping your hips so tight now, holding you to his mouth, letting you use him. Like he wants it. Like he’s meant for it.
“Shit, Clark, I’m—” You gasp, thighs squeezing. He moans again, hips jerking against the mattress hard enough to shake the frame.
"Come for me," he breathes, voice low and hoarse against your pussy. His lips drag over your clit as he speaks, and you shudder. “Please, sweetheart. I need it. Wanna taste you when you come. Please let me have it.”
That does it.
Your vision whites out. Your back arches off the bed. You sob his name like it’s salvation, and Clark moans loud enough to shake the walls as he laps up every last bit of you like a man dying of thirst.
And still, he doesn’t stop.
Clark groans into your pussy, brows pinched in ecstasy as he laves his tongue over your clenching hole. He drags it out, listening to and feeling how your body lights up all around him to draw the pleasure from you in waves.
It’s not until you’re breathless and twitching, dragging your hands from his hair to his shoulders in a weak attempt to pull him up that Clark lifts his head just barely.
Lips shiny, face flushed, his voice thick and wrecked when he speaks next. "Can I keep going?”
It’s not cocky. It’s not for show. He’s begging.
Begging you to let him keep eating your pussy.
You nod, dazed. Your chest is still heaving, thighs still shuddering around his shoulders—but you could never bring yourself to say no to him. Not when he’s so pretty, so polite.
Clark sinks down with a groan of relief, dragging his tongue back through your spit soaked folds like a man possessed.
Like a man in love.