The rain lashed against the penthouse windows, a rhythmic counterpoint to the frantic beat of your heart against Clark’s bare chest. He wasn’t Superman right now, not in the cape-and-tights sense. He was Clark, your Clark, his glasses discarded on the nightstand, his eyes dark pools of blue fire fixed solely on you. He knew you knew his secret, had for months. It was the knowing that made this possible, this terrifying, exhilarating surrender to the sheer force of his perception.

His lips traced the shell of your ear, his breath a warm gust that sent shivers cascading down your spine. "Your heart," he murmured, his voice a low rumble you felt more than heard. "It’s like a hummingbird trapped against my ribs." His hand, impossibly large and warm, slid down your side, over the curve of your hip, coming to rest possessively on your thigh. "And your scent... god, sweetheart..." He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. "Like summer rain on warm earth, and something else... something rich and dark and... mine." He nipped lightly, and you gasped, arching into him. He could smell your arousal, the subtle shift in your chemistry as wetness bloomed between your thighs. It wasn't just a scent to him; it was a complex, intoxicating symphony.

His fingers trailed higher, skimming the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You whimpered, anticipation coiling tight in your belly. He saw it, of course. Saw the minute flutter of your pulse point in your throat, the dilation of your pupils swallowing the iris, the faint blush spreading like dawn across your chest and breasts. "So beautiful," he breathed, his gaze intense, almost unnervingly focused. "Every tiny change... I see it all." His thumb found the damp lace edge of your panties. "So wet for me already." He hooked a finger, pulling the fabric aside with agonizing slowness, exposing your glistening folds to the cool air and his heated gaze.

The first touch of his fingertip against your clit wasn't just a touch for Clark. It was a detonation of sensory input. He felt the precise, minute tremors that raced through the bundle of nerves under his pad. He heard the sharp, choked-off gasp you made, the rush of blood singing through capillaries beneath the skin. He saw the flush deepen, spreading down your abdomen, saw the way your inner muscles clenched instinctively, seeking pressure that wasn't yet there. His own cock, thick and heavy against your hip, throbbed in response, a low groan escaping him. "Fuck, baby... feel that? Feel how you react?" His voice was thick, strained with the effort of restraint.