Synopsis: Clark Kent’s self control is a tenuous thing. It’s pulled tight inside of him, edges fraying from stress as years of want push at its seams. Just like the strap of your dress, it’s holding on by a thread.
Authors Note: my humble contribution to KENT: A Clark Kent Furniture-Breaking Collaboration this collab was organized by my dear friend @tw1sters and features some of the most talented people I know!!! I could not be more grateful to be apart of your genius.
Warnings: MDNI 18+ r is wearing a dress (for the plot), dry humping, fingering, p in v, slight exhibitionism, size kink, Clark Kent is somehow even stronger than he looks, Clark curses ONE time, destruction of company property, destruction of readers dress, r doesn't know Clark is superman, gratuitous use of italics
DT: the sweetest people ever, @anon-188 @maiamore and sam who read TWO different drafts of this to help me decide what direction to go in. @theworstwolvie for helping me figure out how to break the damn desk. And @artficlly who read this fic so many times and helped me edit despite the fact that she has never watched superman, my love is yours forever
You have no trouble taking responsibility for your actions.
You own it when a typo makes the final print on Monday's paper. You leave a handwritten note after accidentally eating someone's else's lunch. You use the same hands that spilled coffee all over Lois' new blouse to order her a new one. It's the mature thing to do.
With that being said, you refuse to take responsibility for things that aren't your fault.
Jimmy only got blurry photos because you were running too fast? He should have upped his shutter speed. Perry yelling because he forgot to forward the copy for an advert? Maybe it's time to admit he needs an assistant. Clark can't seem to make eye contact? Well, it's not your fault your tits look so good in this dress.
Okay maybe that last one is kind of your fault.
After all, he was fine until he saw the dress.
He'd met you at the door, nearly vibrating in that anxious-but-also-happy-to-see-you way that really only looks cute on him. Offered to check your coat like the gentleman he was raised to be.
His fingers brushed over your bare skin as he helped you take it off and he was fine. You giggled something about chivalry and southern manners and he was fine. Lois wolf whistled at you from across the room and he was fine.
Dimpled cheeks bloomed pink, blush creeping all the way up his neck and threatening to stain his crisp white dress shirt with how bright it burned. His eyes, pretty, blue and sparkling went so sweetly blank. His eyes darting back and forth in a frantic dance between your face chest.
You would be lying if you said you hadn't picked the dress out with this in mind. A cowl neck, draped oh so delicately over your chest. High enough to still be appropriate for a party with your boss and your bigger boss. It goes to the floor, stopping just an inch short of the familiar marble tiles.
Your specific Clark-shaped torture exists in the details.
Straps that threaten to spill off your shoulders at any moment, skinny and sliding with every movement (he'd blushed up to his eyebrows last summer when you wore a tank top to the company picnic).
A slit, one that drapes just right when you sit, exposing your knee and upper thigh when you cross your legs (like the skirt you wore to the bar three weeks ago, the one that made him choke on his drink when your leg bumped his).
The color, rich and pretty. The same shade as your favorite blouse (the one you wear at least once a week because of the way his eyes linger when you walk in wearing it).
No, these little flourishes are hardly your greatest weapon.
It's the view from above.
If some one were about, oh maybe six feet four inches tall, they'd get an eyeful of something else.
A carefully chosen lace bra, eyelash edges that flutter against your skin and underwire that makes everything look a little extra bouncy. A small bow in the center so the skin between your breasts looks just as pretty. It's price tag ate a concerning percentage of your paycheck.
Clark's lips part, a sharp inhale you're the only one close enough to hear.
The rest pays for itself. Your lipstick earns its keep when you press a thankful kiss to his cheek -chaste enough to still be seen as friendly- firm enough to leave a mark on his cheekbone. A brand, in Lois' words.
A necklace sits just below your collarbone, designed to catch the light and his eye. The girl at the jewelry store had called it an investment piece, and you're highly satisfied with your first dividends.
Perfume you put on a credit card, something sweet and sultry. Spritz with the intention of making him lean a little closer. Something that latches onto his senses and lingers when you walk by.
You thought victory was certain, your nails dug so deep into the cracks of Clark's self restraint that it has no choice but to finally, finally give.
Clark gave you a choked excuse and then all but ran away.
No awkward compliment, no offer to get you a drink, not even a vague apology (what he usually does when you catch him staring at your chest: "Gosh sorry- I'm sorry, I was just uh… Yeah sorry.").
He just evaporated. The last thing you had expected, the last thing you had mentally prepared for.
You found Lois, found the open bar, and then found a corner table where you could- in her words "Keep track of Smallville." You'd thought he would come find you, that you'd be treated to more of that cute stutter and embarrassed blush.
One hour passed, your drink nursed with slow sips. The burn trickling down your throat like a physical manifestation of anticipation.
You didn't find Clark, but you felt him.
The weight of his gaze trapped you from across the room. Despite the distance, you could feel his blue eyes following your every movement.
You just couldn't catch him.
As if sensing it, his head would turn the second you tried to make eye contact. The only signs that he had been looking in the first place being the heat on your skin and the subtle bounce of his hair.
Clark Kent, the same man who knocked his water bottle off his desk last week (twice) had suddenly become the master of a graceful escape.
Every time you took a step closer, he took one back.
If you dared to join the same conversation and he'd find an excuse to leave it.
The world's most well-dressed game of cat and mouse.
An hour pass of this, your frequent reprieves back to the table where Lois waited with a sympathetic smile. Then another, the clock ticking on while a fresh glass was poured and your pretty, clicky heels started to make the arch of your foot ache.
By the time it turned to three you'd given up, planting yourself in the shadows with what can only be described as defeat. Even under the heat of his stare, and with Cat's assurances that you look so fuckin' hot babe you start to shrink.
Like a slow leaking balloon, your confidence deflates. You may be willing to set the trap, expense all the effort that comes with it. You'll laugh at his charming stupid jokes, flutter your lashes and touch his arm. You won't however, continue tothrow yourself at a man whose made it clear he's not interested in anything more than looking.
"For the love of God just go talk to him!" Lois agonizes. She's been on you case for the last hour, since you planted yourself at this table and refused to move. "He's a guy, sometimes you have to spell it out for them."
You fix her with a glare, gesturing down to yourself with a tired wave of you hand. "Are you saying this doesn't spell it out?"
She melts, eyes softening at your tone.
"I don't chase Lois." You say, downing what's left in your glass with a huff. "This is as obvious as I get."
You lean forward in your seat, bracing to press your forehead against the table for extra dramatic flair when you hear it. Sharp, embarrassing, and straight from the nightmares of every woman who has ever worn silk.
Your strap snaps with the last flourish, detaching itself from the front of your dress.
The neckline falls without any further encouragement, slipping down past your bra and hanging there. Your hands scramble to catch it, fumbling as you pull it back up and then hold it there in a half-baked attempt at modesty.
Lois gets distant, her voice and hushed "oh my god oh my god oh my god" getting further and further away as your already fragile ego splinters completely.
"I need to go." You finally manage to choke, humiliation burning your entire face.
You look across the room, the elevator a miserable distance away. An embarrassing amount of people between it and you.
She nods, reaching into her purse and pulling out a single key. "For Perry's office." she says, pressing a it into your palm. "I'll bring you your jacket."
You don't have the presence of mind to ask why she has it, too. busy being grateful for the escape.
The six steps to his office are the longest they've ever felt, the heavy glass door slamming shut behind you.
The party instantly muffles, falling to a distant static. You can still hear all the mindless chatter, voices trading niceties back and forth. The clinking of glasses and the gentle under toe of the band. Still, it's enough to finally let your own thoughts break through.
You let the dress fall, pressing your head into your hands as you let the full breadth of your mortification wash over you.
Is this the universe telling you to finally give it up?
Tears start to well, prickling at the corners of your vision. Humiliation sits in your throat like an hot branding iron, making it impossible to swallow.
You'll go home after this. Slide your jacket back on and pull it tight around you. Wear it like armor as you shuffle through the crowd. Maybe you can steal another one of those appetizers on your way out. Or better yet, just order something when you get back to your apartment. Yeah, that sounds good.
Get home. Take off the stupid dress. Burn it. Gorge yourself on takeout. Numb the pain of your epic failure.
Re-download one of those apps. Swipe right on some blue-eyed guy with dark hair and pretend you're not thinking about Clark.
Maybe you'll even call out Monday, give yourself an extra day to lick your wounds. You won't even text Clark to tell him you won't be in like your normally do. No, let him worry. Maybe you should re-download Linked-in too, never go back all together-
Your spiral is interrupted by a soft knock at the door.
It pushes open before you can tell her to come in. You pull at the corners of your eyes as your pull your hands away from your face. Two mean swipes under your lashes, punishing yourself for almost letting tears fall.
"Thanks Lo, I owe you-" You're halfway through the sentence when you finally look towards the door.
Fuck. Not Lois. Not Lois. Not Lois. Not Lois. Not Lois. Your brain screams, too surprised to process who is actually in front of you.
"Clark." You manage to choke out.
He's not much better, standing in the door way with the knob still in his hand like he's been frozen in place.
The party trickles in from behind him, noise pushing into the room from behind his broad shoulders.
It takes following his gaze to remember why you came in here in the first place.
"Door!" You remind him, hands scrambling back to cover your chest.
Clark snaps into action, face flushing as he finally steps inside the threshold of the office. He pushes the door shut harder than is probably necessary, the hinges groaning with the force of it. He stays there for a moment after it clicks, as if deciding something before throwing the lock on it too.
"Sorry." He mumbles, turning around to face you. His eyes fall again, quick and precise, as if not even of his own accord. He turns his whole face toward the ceiling, blinking hard as if trying to wipe the image from his mind. "Sorry. Lois told me you uh- well that you-"
"That my whole tit was out?" You finish for him, voice a little more pointed than you intended.
Clark groans, as if pained by your word choice. "Gosh, don't say it like that." He all but pleads.
You wonder if he can hear your eyes roll.
"What would you prefer I say Clark?" You ask, grumbling as you let the neckline fall again, too pissed to care. "That I gave half the Planet a peep show?"
Venom drips from every word, probably the harshest you've ever been with him.
You're going to kill Lois. You just have to get out of this room without killing him first.
Clark finally finds it in himself to look at your face, his expression crumbling. "You were crying." He says.
There's no question in his voice, no accusation. Just concern. It's enough to have your eyes burning all over again. The terror of being seen by the one person you've been dying have notice you, at the exact moment you'd never want them to witness.
"No I wasn't." The denial rolls off your tongue with ease. "I'm fine."
You both know it's not convincing.
Mercifully, Clark drops it.
Raking a hand through his hair, Clark lets out a long exhale, looking between the door and you as if weighing his options.
You. The door. You. The door.
His eyes fall on you again, this time starting at the floor and working his way up. Blue washes over your skin, raking up your legs, lifting past your hips and where you're leaning your weight onto Perry's desk. Then further, climbing over your arms and lingering for just a moment on your breasts. He pushes up one more time, back to your face and the frown you're sure is set on your lips.
For the first time all night, Clark Kent steps closer.
He shrugs off his jacket, placing it gently on the backs of one of Perry's chairs. He could have thrown it, but God forbid the Kansas boy act one ounce of careless.
It almost pisses you off. No, not almost. It does piss you off.
Soft to a fault, considerate bordering on infantalizing.
Your brain whirs, chest pounding with every barb you hold back. The sting of his rejection burning brighter with every inch that disappears between you.
He approaches you like a wounded animal, as if you might spook. Like you're the one who's spent all evening running like a deer through traffic. He's been stuck in your headlights for the past two hours.
"Can I?" He asks, pointing to where the strap of the dress sits limp on your shoulder.
Not trusting yourself to speak, you nod.
Clark smiles, that million-dollar-mega-watt-double-dimple smile.
It's enough to shake your anger in it's conviction.
He picks up the strap, holding it between his index and thumb as he leans in closer for a better look. Eyes squint behind the lenses of his glasses, humming as he studies the threads.
"Looks like the seam just popped." He says, breath fanning over your skin.
"How can you tell?" You ask, not the real question you want answered: Why do you know that?
Clark hums, flexing the strap in his fingers so you can better see the end. "There's no tearing in the fabric, see?" He runs the tip of his fingers over it. "Just loose threads."
His other hand grabs the neckline presumably to check that as well, but because of how it was draped, the movement causes the slightest touch- his knuckles brushing over the curve of your breast.
Clark lets go as if he's burned, taking a step back as his hands drop to his side.
Once again, his gaze darts to the ceiling. "I um." He stutters, clearing his throat with what might be the worst fake cough you've ever heard. "I could repair it." he offers, sounding painfully altruistic. "If you wanted."
His reaction is too on par for you to even be upset by it. "That's okay." You brush him off, "I'm never wearing this dress again anyway."
Clark's head snaps back down, brows furrowing. "That's too bad." He says, a twitch playing at the edge of his lips.
Your frustration boils over, spilling from the edges and turning the whole room on tilt.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean Clark?" The words come out angry, like a dog barking with teeth and spit.
Clark is taken aback, eyes widening with surprise.
"I'm sorry, I just didn't think you liked this dress so much." You bait him.
Clark's back straightens, jaw setting. His eyes frost over. The way they do when he has to defend a source or when Perry tears into him for being late. He's in a trap and he knows it.
Luckily, he's still dumb enough to bite.
"It's a nice dress is all." He tries to play it off, keeping his tone casual despite the obvious shift in the air between you. "You look beautiful."
You nearly double over, the urge to laugh so strong it almost shakes your resolve. Almost.
"No." You say instead, simple, clear.
Clark's eyebrows nearly touch his hairline. "No?"
"No, you don't get to do that Clark." The words are hissed through closed teeth. "The last thing I want right now is yourpity."
The emphasis is impossible to miss, it's implication making the word curdle on your tongue. It's a lie too. You want more than his pity, you want his validation, you want his softening gaze and tender touches. You want him to tell you that you aren't crazy, that this thing wasn't all in your head.
"My pity?" Clark repeats, confusion evident. "What are you talking about-"
"Oh my god!" You cut him off, groaning into the words. "I'm not stupid! Okay? I thought you liked me. So I got dressed up, made myself all pretty and I thought tonight would be the night he finally makes a fucking move, but then you didn't."
It all comes out rushed, words jumbled with emotion and spilling out faster than you can think of them.
"Actually, you spent all night avoiding me!" You're nearly yelling now, you can feel your voice pitching higher, the way it does when you get frustrated. Your throat burns with it, a knot tying itself to your better judgment and trapping it deep within your chest.
The venom keeps coming, purging itself from you like sick. Your insecurity and hurt lays itself out in front of him so you can point to every flaw he must have found.
"It's fine, I get it. I misread the signals." You sigh, "But you don't get to do come in here and act all sweet with your puppy dog eyes and curly hair and big stupid arms and-"
"Puppy dog eyes?" Clark interjects, his brow furrowed and throat bobbing.
"Not done." You remind him, pairing it with a firm glare. "-And tell me I look beautiful. That's just cruel."
The words hang heavy between you, and even with Clark's interjection you can't seem to stop. It's as if the flood gates have opened and every ounce of hurt has no where to go but out.
"I mean I did this for you!" You're almost yelling, throat scratchy as the words claw their way through it. "I thought maybe if I just looked pretty enough you might finally admit that you want me-"
"Stop." Is all Clark says. His voice is soft, hesitant at best and hurt at worst. You can hear it, the soft lilt of pain that clouds each syllable. One word and it's enough to make your chest ache.
"No! I'm allowed to be angry Clark! You bring me coffee, you walk me home, you blush when I kiss your cheek and there was that time when I was sick and you brought me soup and who does that-"
"Stop." Clark repeats, firmer this time. His eyes have gone darker, an edge in his voice that wasn't there before.
"Don't get me started on everyone else." The room is spinning now, making it impossible to see through your fury. "You never leave Cat those little sticky note doodles like you do for me! Clark, even Lois said you're into me and she never gossips so I thought-"
"-You were different. That you were one of those guys who do what the say and mean it and that maybe just maybe this could be something." You wave at the space between you, heart clenching and hey-when-did-he-get-so-close? "But obviously that's not what you want so now I just feel like a fucking idiot-"
Everything stops. Your rant, your hands, your breathing, your train of thought and the tears brimming at your lash line. All of it comes to a screeching halt, your entire body freezing mid-sentence because suddenly Clark Kent is kissing you.
Clark Kent has a hand on either side of you face and is kissing you.
Clark Kent's nose is slotted against yours and his eyes are shut and- did he take off his glasses?
Clark Kent's body is pressed to yours and he's kissing you so thoroughly you have no choice but to melt into him.
Your shoulders sag, your back arches, your chest presses to his and every single bit of anger leaves you with one soft sigh into his mouth.
Clark's reaction is instantaneous, his hunger doubling down. A low hum vibrates from the back of his throat, sounding something like satisfaction. Slowly he guides you backward, his long legs tangling with yours, his usual clumsiness replaced with a surety you've never seen on him before. It turns your spine to cotton candy, your entire body erupting with goosebumps Clark doesn't stop until you hit Perry's desk, pushing closer until you're pinned between it and him.
You're left spinning, dizzy from the lack of oxygen and him.
When you pull back there's hardly an inch left between you, neither of you willing to go any further. You exchange exhales like secrets, breathing heavy enough you to fog windows. By the time you finally open your eyes, Clark is already looking at you, his pupils blown wide enough for you to see your own wrecked reflection.
"I want you." He murmurs, voice rough with something you've never heard before. "I want you so much it hurts."
He kisses you again before you can respond. Your hands curl into his dress shirt, clutching it in your fists and anchoring yourself to him. The desk digs into your back. painful and awkward and you don't even care, you're too busy being consumed.
It's not the kiss you expected. Clark, sweet, chaste, overly polite, has-a-different-ring-tone-for -everyone Clark kisses you like he's trying to steal the air from your lungs. It's overwhelming, the kind of kiss you've only read about. The kind of kiss you thought only existed in movies and dramatic rain-soaked confessions. It's a kiss bred that can only be bred from one thing: restraint, years of it.
It's the Clark you've only caught glimpses of. The Clark with a temper. The Clark who stands up straighter when you're next to him. The Clark who doesn't take no for an answer and makes you walk on the inside of the sidewalk. The Clark who fills out every inch of his broad chest and impressive height.
His teeth nip at your bottom lip, eliciting a gasp and taking the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth.
The kiss dissolves from there, a frantic mess of spit and teeth as you try to beat each other at the game of taste.
Clark's hands are just as hungry as his lips, roaming over your body like he's trying to memorize it by touch alone. They're everywhere, splaying over your back and pulling you into him, grabbing at your hips and sliding over your ribs. You can't keep track, one second hes tracing over your collarbone and the next he's running along the seam of your dress, following it all the way down to your upper thigh.
You're not much better, flat palms roaming over his abdomen, up his arms and over his shoulders. Your follow his muscles and their defined curvature, the scaffolding of Clark Kent. Until finally they rest against his pecs, delight sparking as you catch the frantic beating of his heart beneath your fingers. Still, you push against them, not hard, just enough to get his attention.
Clark looks even more ruined than before, licking his lips as if to savor the taste of you. Your lipstick is smeared around his mouth, blotchy and obvious. His hair is a mess, sticking in every which direction. Your hands must have been there too.
Your questions die on your tongue, caught in the barbed wire of still-processing mind.
Clark knows you well enough to answer them anyway.
"Two years," he says, pressing his forehead to yours, just a moment. Then he pivots, pressing a kiss to the skin between your brows before straightening back to his full height.
His hands reach just under the curve of your ass, grabbing at the skin of your upper thighs and then using it to lift you the few inches onto Perry's desk. He gives you a moment to settle, lets you smooth out your dress and shift your weight before stepping forward between your legs. He braces a hand on either side of you, refusing to lose any closeness in the new position.
"I was afraid." He admits.
You nod, "I know that this is scary, but Clark I think we could work-"
Clark laughs, not a full bodied chuckle, no this is lighter, more nerves than actual humor.
"No, that's not-" He huffs, an embarrassed smile painting his lips. His hand finds one of yours, taking it in his and guides it to the one place where his want is undeniable.
"You were scared of a boner?"
Clark groans, dropping his head into the crook of your neck and heaving an exasperated sigh. "You're not making this easy."
You hum, the hand that he had been holding gets bolder, cupping his bulge in your palm.
"Not trying to." You tease, angling your head and scraping your teeth over the shell of his ear.
Clark shivers, his hands coming up to grip your waist, clutching just a little tighter than necessary, the subtle possessiveness of it enough to make your pulse jump. He absentmindedly thumbs at the fabric that's started to bunch there.
"Do you know how hard it is to be around you every day and act like I don't want you?" He asks. There's something so serious in his voice, something that makes you hesitate. "It's all I think about." he admits. "You're all I think about."
Your vision narrows, the sound of the party and the memory of your anger all disappearing until all that's left is Clark.
"Its bad enough on a normal day." He explains, "You walk into every room and it's like the sun is shining on me. I can barely keep it together when we make coffee at the same time,." He lets out a long slow breathe, leaning back enough to give you another appreciative once over.
You can't help the giggle that bubbles up, the way it curls off your lips. You're not happy to hear he's been at war with himself, especially for so long, but it is nice to know he's been just as tortured as you.
"I want you because of you, okay? I want your brain, I want your laugh, I want all of you." He takes your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look in his eyes as he speaks. "But God, this dress? The second I saw you in it I knew I was done. I knew if I let myself get too close I wouldn't be able to…"
He trails off, graze drifting down to wear your neckline has started to slope again.
"My mother raised me better than to think that just because a girl wears a pretty dress I'm entitled to look at her, touch her, want her." Clark swallows, pulling himself back up to your eyes, his own slightly more wild now. "I was taught respect, boundaries, how to be gentle. Things this dress makes it very hard to remember."
You hands get bolder again, one stays on his bulge, palming it just enough to make him his. The other lifts up to his belt, sliding the tips of your fingers between his waist band and shirt, using the leverage to pull his hips tight into yours.
Clark groans at the contact, at the heat between your bodies.
"I was afraid if I let myself get too close tonight, I wouldn't be able to stop." He swallows hard, eyes falling shut as you close your thighs on either side of his hips, wrapping them around his waist.
You roll your hips against him, slow, deliberate. Your voice is low when you speak, almost unrecognizable to your own ears, "So don't stop."
He shakes his head, a half-hearted protest rumbling low in his chest.
"I don't know if I can be gentle." He sounds ashamed of it, hands squeezing your waist again.
You blood turns hot, this time with something even more insidious than anger.
"Fuck gentle." You lean in, pressing your lips close enough for Clark to feel the vibration of your next words. "I need you show me how much you want me."
Somehow, this kiss is even better than the first two. It's more open, each of you accepting your hunger for what it is. There's an under tone to it that wasn't there before, brought on by the goosebumps creeping up your arms and outline of Clark's hard-on pressed against your stomach.
It's less forgiving, no room for brushing off or pretending it's something that it isn't. You've laid all your cards on the table and now it's time to let the chips fall.
You pull at his shirt, lifting it out of his waistband and sliding your hands under the fabric. You slip under his undershirt, exploring the untouched skin of his stomach and ribs. He reacts to your touch so beautifully. Muscles that ripple under your fingers and a shiver rocks up his spine.
Clark groans, body curving over yours as he presses even harder against you. His hands pull at your skirt, bunching it up until the slit exposes both of your legs. Satisfied, he pulls you even closer, not stopping until he's pressed tight to your core. His hips roll, pressing his bulge against you with unforgiving pressure.
The friction is enough to have you gasping against his mouth, your body igniting with every grind. The thin material of your panties is useless, doing little to subdue the pleasure. All you manage to do is dampen the front of his slacks, leaving the fabric strained and glistening.
You can feel every ridge, the hard curve of his cock and the way its throbbing against you. The heat coming off of his body is overwhelming, but when you undo his belt and slide your hand into his briefs, its unlike anything else.
Warm, even wet where's started to leak pre. The angle makes it impossible to wrap your hand fully around it, but even with just his tip in your palm it's obvious he's big.
Big enough to make your thighs tighten around him, to make your breath catch and your cunt throb just a little louder.
Clark breaks the kiss then, hissing through his teeth as you polish his slit. His hand wraps around your wrist, holding it still.
He doesn't pull away, keeps his lips close enough for you to feel the vibration of his words against them. "Don't." He whispers, voice darker than you've ever heard it. "I won't last if you keep doing that,"
"Good," you hum, delighted at the idea. "I wanna make you feel good Clark." You roll your palm over him again, for emphasis.
His hips stutter, another gasp pulled from those pretty lips.
Your victory is short lived however, with Clark pulling your hand from his pants in one quick move. He laces his fingers through your own and then places them on the desk beside you.
"Thought I was the one with something to prove?" He asks, pecking your lips, smiling when you try to chase them. "I'm supposed to be taking care of you."
He repeats the movement with your other hand, squeezing them both before pulling his away, a silent command. "Can't do that if you make me cum in my pants."
Clark's hands draw back slow, sliding up your arms to your shoulders before finally beginning their descent. The draw a slow map over your body, caressing down your sternum, to your breasts. He lingers there for a moment, frozen over the still intact strap of your dress. He thumbs at it, dragging his nail over where it connects to the neckline.
It's quicker this time, one purposeful tear that leaves the entire front of your dress completely limp.
"Clark!" Your hands instinctively reach to cover, only to immediately be pinned by Clark's once more.
His eyes never lift, chin tilted down to keep his hungry gaze exactly where he wants it. The entirety of your bra is visible now, lace tight enough to leave imprints. "I'll fix it." He says, licking his lips. "Or buy you a new one." Curls tickle the skin of your chest as he leans to press a kiss to the space between your breasts.
You lean your head back, rolling your neck and pushing your chest further into his face. "We should be quick." You say, voice airy and unconvincing.
Clark grunts in protest, but you feel nod anyway. He lifts his head back to you, pressing his forehead to yours as he speaks. "I'm gonna fuck you." He says, matter-of-fact, as if he's just telling you the sky is blue and Lois is bossy. It's the same voice he uses during interviews, deeper, firm and straight forward. It sends a spark of thrill directly between your thighs.
How are you supposed to argue with that?
He keeps going, speaking between kisses.
"Then-" a peck at your collarbone.
"-I'll take you home-" over your pulse point.
"-And-" pressed to your jaw.
"-Make love to you" against your lips.
It's impossible not to melt, heat pulling into a knot at the base of your stomach, burning bright and wanton. Your hands turn to fists at your sides, thighs spreading as wide as possible to accommodate him. You nod, eyes squeezed shut as you sigh against him. You're still trying to find friction between your legs, using every muscle in your abdomen to grind against him.
You crane your neck, arching your back enough to feel the sting as you chase his lips. Clark's hands glide under your dress, lifting up under your thighs and pulling you to the edge of the desk. Clark finds the waist band of your panties, deft fingertips dipping into the elastic.
Your eyes fly open, shooting Clark an accusatory look.
He ignores your offense, pulling them free from between your legs with a chuckle. "Quicker." He says, silencing any protests with another feverish kiss.
You can hear the shuffle as he stuffs the ruined fabric into the pocket of his pants. You're too distracted to comment, gasping as cool air hits your cunt.
It's not cool for long, hot hands sneaking up the inside of your thighs and making themselves known. Clark isn't shy with his touches, not the way you ever pictured him being.
He explores your cunt with what can only be described as enthusiasm, long fingers swiping between your folds once to gather wetness, then a second time, doubling back to his time. He traces over each curve, pushing the hood of your clit up with his thumb and rolling over it. He circles the nerves a few times, testing pressure and speed, different combinations until-
"Clark!" You whimper into his mouth, one of your hands flying up from the desktop to grab at his neck. Half for balance, half for an anchor.
Another gush of wetness slicks his palm, and Clark hums in approval.
His fingers go further, abandoning your clit for the promise of something hotter. He traces your entrance with a careful finger, pressing against it's edges with curiosity, nodding as he feels you drip from the source. As if you're a story and he's drafting notes.
When they press inside you, his index finger alone has you startled. There's no pain, but the depth he reaches is a promise that it will be unavoidable. He only gives you a few moments with it, pumping in and out to his top knuckle just twice before sliding his middle finger in next to it.
This time you feel the stretch, your cunt pulling tight around his fingers, pulsing as if to pull him deeper.
"You're so wet." Clark whispers, voice rich with wonder. "I'm so sorry I ignored you baby."
You're not sure if he's talking to you or your cunt, you're not sure if you care either way. The deep timbre of his voice is enough to have you dripping down his wrist. The way he touches your body as if commanding it to feel good.
"Gonna take my time later, I promise." He says it into the plush of your breasts, lips closing over the skin where your cup ends. He tugs at it with his teeth, pulling it down to expose you completely. "But right now I need you to cum."
He licks a flat stripe over your nipple, pulling back just enough to blow over it. His breath is cool enough to make your shiver, the bud immediately perking up at his attention. He pulls into his mouth with a soft moan, gently suckling at it with the reverence most men save for religion. Clark's fingers work in tandem, curling inside you over and over again until he finds that spongy spot that makes you cry out. Your eyes roll, back arching into his mouth.
"Oh my god." You gasp, cunt fluttering around his hand as he presses the pads of his fingers into it again, massaging over it with a careful rhythm. You breathing is staccato, uneven pants that leave dark spots in your vision. Literally blind with pleasure.
He's so precise, an attention to detail you swear you've never seen him have at work. His thumb slides back up to your clit, driving up the underside of it and pressing down.
Your legs start to shake, the hand around his neck turning into a claw, your nails digging into his skin as your orgasm builds faster than you ever knew was possible.
Your dress is ruined, sure Clark can fix the strap but you're not sure there is a strong enough bleach to take care fo the stain you leave when you cum. You don't squirt, no Clark is careful not to press you that hard. Its more of a gush, your body pulling do tight you nearly force Clark's fingers out of you completely. You don't know if your vision blacks out or if you close your eyes but everything disappears, every one of your senses abandoning you until all that's left is the reach of his fingers and the feeling of his wet mouth around your nipple.
When your body comes back Clark is breathing just as heavy as you, his eyes squeezed shut. He pulls back form your tit with a wet pop, a string of spit connecting your nipple to his lips. The skin is tender where he had been sucking, swollen and sore in the best way. Like its been claimed by his hunger. He brings his fingers out from between your legs, holding them up for you to see. They catch the light like sin itself, sticky, hot and covering in your slick.
Your face burns with embarrassment, an offer to wipe it off on your skirt on the tip of your tongue when Clark brings them between his lips.
You're left shaking, cunt throbbing with every second that passes. Clark holds eye contact making it impossible for you to look away from the scene in front of you.
His fingers are clean when he pulls them out, the blue in his eyes completely eclipsed. "Taste even better than you smell." He says. or compliments? Smell? You don't have enough mind left to question it, too busy pulling him into yet another messy kiss.
The feeling of his lips and they way move against yours, it's the most intoxicating part. You've never much cared for kissing, never found anything about worth while. Always seen as a stepping stone from one form of intimacy to another. But with Clark it feels like the main event, like you could spend hours just kissing him and it still wouldn't be enough.
You can taste yourself, a unique tang that only serves to remind you of how happy he looked to have you on his tongue. It's dexterity as he traces the backs of your teeth, then slides over your own as if to pin it in place. It's impossible not to wonder what it would feel like between your legs.
Your hands fumble with his waistband, pushing it down until finally, finally-
He's just as big as you expected, worse even.
Pretty enough to make your mouth water, thick enough to make your thighs shake.
He's leaking like a faucet, tip red and angry. It looks as irritated as his kiss-bitten lips.
Clark grabs his wallet from his back pocket, pulling a condom out before tossing it onto the desk beside you.
"Really?" You ask, unable to stifle your giggle.
Clark flushes, the most he's looked like himself all night.
"What? I'm a gentleman not a prude."
He rips the package with his teeth, then lets out a tortured as he rolls it down his length.
"Look at my dress," you tease. "Don't you think gentleman is a bit of a stretch?" Your free hand flicks at the lose fabric of your neckline, taking the opportunity to shove your tit back into your bra. The look in his eyes makes you think you might want the extra support.
He looks down at your ruined bodice, eyes drifting to the mess between your legs.
"Fair enough." He mumbles, pumping his shaft before dragging his hand through your cunt, coating it in your slick and the using it to lube his cock. He repeats it a few times, not stopping until he's slick too. "I promise, later I'll be a gentleman."
Your pulse burns at the implication.
"Exactly how many times are you gonna 'make love' to me tonight Clark?"
Clark tilts his head as if doing a mental equation. His body moves without it, stepping to the edge of the desk and grabbing the backs of your thighs, pulling them apart to make room for himself.
The first touch of his cock has you shuddering, a cocktail of anticipation and nerves as he slides himself through your folds, nudging your clit with his tip.
"Two more." He says, lining himself up with your entrance. He holds there, looking into your eyes one more time, giving you one last change to back out.
You stare at him for moment, at his blown pupils and the scratch marks you left on his neck. At his swollen lips and the look in his eyes that spells one thing: devotion. You nod.
Clark notches himself at your entrance, and before he pushes in, he places one more soft kiss to your lips, a complete antithesis to the heady ones you've grown used too. This one's delicate, meant to soothe and relax. A sneak peek at sleepy mornings and this elusive gentleman.
Your body welcomes him home, cunt relaxing enough for him slide a few inches in without any resistance.
Clark tears himself away from your lips with a groan, ragged and tortured as if punched from his chest without warning. "Maybe three." He corrects.
You skin is buzzing, cunt fluttering around the unfamiliar heat of him inside you. You're both so worked up, wound so tight that you can almost track his pulse this way. His body screaming for release.
He waits, jaw ticking with restraint as he tries to let you adjust to him. His grip is iron clad on your thighs, sharp enough to sting, surely you'll have bruises in the shake of his finger prints. You couldn't be happier at the idea.
Your ankles lock behind his back, using your leverage to pull yourself another inch or two down his cock.
Clark opens his mouth, as if he wants to speak, protest, or apologize. Knowing him probably all three.
"Are you still sure?" He asks.
You almost feel your frustration from before bubble up, almost.
"You're literally inside me."
"No, I mean-" he sighs, letting his hips roll just a little further into you, slowly carving out a place for himself. "About the gentle thing? Because I don't know if I can-"
"Clark." You whisper, copying his soft kiss and carding your hands through his hair. He's dazed when you pull back, already dancing on the brink of pussy drunk. "Fuck me."
You kiss him again, but this time with an edge, tugging his bottom lip between you canines and pulling it back.
It's with his lip between your teeth that Clark finally bottoms out. One swift thrust that leaves you gasping, surprised enough you accidentally bite down.
Blood blooms on your tongue- not a lot, hardly a break in the skin but enough to make panic blossom.
"Oh my God-" you're rushing out an apology, frantically turning to either side of you looking for a box of tissues when Clark pulls all the way out.
Your gaze snaps back to him, convinced you've ruined it.
Clark's eyes are shut, a low rumble vibrating through his chest, something almost akin to a purr. He drags his tongue slow across his lip, collecting the drops of crimson in one careful drag.
He thrusts back in, no warning this time, just a sudden burning stretch and overwhelming fullness.
You can't help the yelp that's escapes you, louder than you have any right to be in your bosses office with every single one of your co-workers just a hundred feet away.
Clark adjusts his position, stretching his arm across the desk to hold the farthest edge, crowding into your space and smothering every single one of your senses in him.
His hips rock into yours hard, not thrusting so much as grinding into you, deliberate rolls of his hips that give you absolutely no where to go, no way to escape them if you wanted to.
You've never felt this full, your limits pushed this much. Like he's rearranged your anatomy to make room for himself. His pelvis is flush to yours, his angle precise enough to make it press against your clit too.
A glass breaks outside, a sudden clatter and the hush of conversations failing. It only lasts a moment, barely a blip before the chatter resumes but it's enough to make the reality of getting caught suddenly sink in.
You cunt draws even tighter around Clark, betraying every rational thought.
Clark's reaction isn't much better, his hips stuttering for just a moment when suddenly-
The sound of wood splintering echoes through the room, hardly interrupting your breathless pants and the slap of skin.
Clark is unbothered, ignoring it entirely.
You on the other hand, have to look. Craning your neck over your shoulder you spot it immediately, in the center of Perry's desk, exactly where he'll pull his chair up Monday morning, a distinct hand print.
You don't get to linger on it, pulled away by Clark's hand under your chin.
He pulls you into a searing kiss, mouth slotting over yours as if he's trying to swallow you whole.
Then he really, truly, in every sense and human understanding of the word, begins to fuck you.
His hips draw back, hands holding your body in place as he slams back in, a merciless and unrelenting force rocking your body.
The kiss wasn't to placate, you realize as Clark inhales a startled moan. It was to smother.
The thought makes you burn, too distracted by his thoroughness to care about anything else that exists outside the walls of the private office.
When Clark pulls away, you look over at the door, at the floor to ceiling windows you hadn't bothered to think about until now. Only you don't look at them fear, no worried thought about what if someone- no.
You're hypnotized by the reflection, with integrated blinds blocking your view on the other side, you're left with nothing more than a mirror.
It's incredible to watch, the way Clark's body seems to swallow yours, dwarfing it as he hulks over you and drives his cock into your cunt over and over and over.
The desk rocks with each movement, dramatic enough you're thankful that the downstairs copy room is empty. Your eyes track the movement, the flex in his biceps when he pulls out to just the tip, and the way his dimples pop when he sighs with pleasure.
The desk starts to rattle beneath you, the noise getting louder with every plane of existence Clark's rocks you past. You're distantly aware of it, too busy watching the reflection of Clark falling apart.
The curls at the back of his neck are wet, his thighs shaking with every single thrust, especially when he buries himself to the hilt in your cunt. His soft pants exhaled against your ear with every drag through your walls.
You're so close, some how already so close.
You wonder how much of it is lies in the build up, in the best finger bang of your life and years of emotional foreplay. How much of it is him, the ecstasy of watching someone as gentle as Clark dissolve into little more than a caveman and the satisfaction of knowing it's all your fault.
Clark is close too, you can tell. His breathing begins to falter, cock twitching every time he starts to pull out.
One more drag over your g-spot and you're losing it. Equally as intense as before, if not more so.
Your entire body bears down on Clark, your orgasm babbled out through desperate pleas for him to join.
"Cum Clark." You beg, "please, please cum."
You hardly recognize your own voice, the sound of it bouncing through your mind like an echo chamber.
Clark doesn't make you wait, couldn't if he tried. One more deep thrust and-
The desk gives out, a sudden, dramatic, drop to the ground.
Clark's hands hold you without faltering, his grip on the aback of your legs enough to keep you in place, holding you midair as he finally finally cums.
Your legs draw tight around his waist, your arms locking themselves behind his neck.
If you thought your orgasm was mind-breaking, than Clark's must have been the kind to melt your soul. He lets out a sound unlike anything you've every heard, an almost painful cry of your name as he buries himself in you one more time.
It's nearly a minute before you stop feeling the condom balloon inside you. Before Clark stops shaking and he lifts his head from where he's buried it in the crook of your neck.
"Oh my god." He whispers, something between devastation and amazement.
You giggle, pressing a quick peck to his lips. "I know, Perry's gonna kill us." You whisper back, tone half-playful and half-honest to goodness kind of terrified.
Clark just shakes his head, "No, I mean Oh My God, it's never felt like before." He breaks into the greatest smile you've ever seen, bright enough to make you forget about the devastation on the floor.
Delight climbs up your bones, settling beside possessiveness and for the first time in years- your satiated libido.
"But yeah." He adds looking around the wood at his feet, "He can never find out this was us."
Clark carries you away from the debris, carefully keeping your bodies connected through slow steps until he's satisfied that you're safe from any sharp edges.
When he pulls out it's with a hiss, setting you down softly and steadying you for those first few moments when your legs decide if they're going to give out or not.
Your eyes keep drifting back and forth between Clark and the rubble, watching with fascination as he pointedly ignores the fact that he caused it.
It's enough to make your curiosity spark back up, a tug in your stomach telling you it was more than just a few missing screws.
Tonight though, you can ignore it. There's better things to focus on, like the hickey dotting Clark's collarbone, and the absolutely abysmal state of your dress. The way he ties off the condom and tosses it into the tiny little garbage can that once sat under the desk (then ties that bag off too, topping it with a double knot just to be safe).
Tonight you can focus on the way his jacket swallows you when he pulls it over your shoulders, the smug look on his face when he pulls it tight over your chest. How he guides you through the party crowd with a sympathetic smile and a whispered 'She's not feeling good.' To your friends.
Tonight you'll even ignore Lois' smug smile, her pointed wink and mouthed 'Your Welcome.'
Tonight you can add a few more more things to your list of things you won't take responsibility for.
One: Whatever the fuck happened to Perry's desk.
Two: The broken straps on your dress, seriously Clark is buying you a new one.
Three: The splinter Clark will find embedded in the skin of his pinky (you will clean it and kiss it better though).
The only thing you might take a little responsibility for is the six hour presentation about 'appropriate' workplace conduct that HR will force everyone to sit through on Tuesday morning. Something brought up after a pair of torn panties are found in the elevator (you won't take responsibility for the fact that they fell out of Clark's pocket because you couldn't resist the urge to squeeze his ass mid-kiss).
Clark will sit next to you with a painted on, oblivious smile and a hand on your thigh under the table. His email will flash with a tracking notification for two new dresses, and by the end of the week Perry will have come in to find a brand new desk in place of the old one.
Maybe he can teach you about owning up to things. Or maybe you can just watch him assemble it with goo goo eyes and a smile. Either way, you think you'll be okay, as long as you avoid cheap furniture.
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