clark olofsson x reader who he accidentally knocked up?? said reader is kind of his opposite in that she's a goody two shoes
Knocked Up, Knock Out (Clark Olofsson x Reader)
Summary: After finally convincing the pretty bank teller to go out with him, Clark finds himself more interested in her wallflower personality than he means to be. He almost feels bad about skipping town on you. Or he would, if he cared about that sort of thing. When he robs the bank six months later and sees the very obvious swell of your belly, he is, for the first time in his life, speechless.
Word Count: 6657
Warnings: Vaginal fingering, oral sex f!receiving, PiV sex, pregnancy
A/N: I LOVE CLARK. I LOVE THIS AWFUL MAN SO MUCH.
MDNI, fic under the cut
Clark straightens his spine and checks his reflection in the window before he pushes open the door to the bank. His eyes scan the tellers along the desk, landing on you with a resolute smile before he saunters over. “Älskling. You are looking… particularly ravishing today.” He leans against the smooth wood surface of the counter and flashes you his best grin. The panty dropper.
You offer him a tight smile. “Back again. To make a deposit now, or just to waste more of my time?”
Clark smirks, undeterred by your usual, cold demeanour. “What can I say? I’m entranced by your beauty. I don’t bank here, but I wish I did.”
You tilt your head to the side. “I’d be happy to assist you with opening an account, but you’d have to give me your name for that.”
Clark leans in, lowering his voice and glancing side to side before dropping his eyes to your mouth. “I’ll tell you. Just you. But you must promise me something in return.”
You lick your lips unconsciously, and Clark’s cock jumps in the tight confines of his pants. “I know better than to make promises to strangers.” There’s a teasing edge to your voice, and Clark can almost taste the sweet edge of victory.
“Clark. Clark Olofsson. Remember that name, pretty. You’re going to be hearing it on the news one day.”
You roll your eyes, but heat curls low in your stomach at the way he’s looking at you. “Perhaps I will, Mr Olofsson. If you’d give me your personnummer also, I could have an account opened for you, just like that.”
Clark chuckles, glancing down to where your fingers rest on the counter before sliding his own under the partition to lace with yours. “Clark Olofsson is more than a number, älskling. Come to dinner with me tonight, I’ll show you.”
Your eyes drop to Clark’s fingers, to the way the long digits engulf your smaller ones, and you swallow. “I’m not easy, Mr Olofsson. If that’s what you’re thinking you can forget it.”
Clark’s smile is wide and genuine as he releases your fingers. “I’d never think so, not for a moment. I just want to spend the evening in the company of a great beauty. You wouldn’t deny me that, would you?”
You roll your eyes even as a blush stains your cheeks. “Well no, I suppose not.”
“You know my name. And I,” Clark taps his fingers playfully on the glass in line with your nametag. “Know yours. So we’re not strangers anymore, are we?”
You smile then, despite the lingering feeling of apprehension in your gut. Clark is disarmingly charming, and more forward than anyone has ever been. You’d denied him three times in the past two weeks, and yet he’d come back again and again, undeterred. So you tell yourself it’s just to get him to go away. You tell yourself it’s just to help him move on from his strange fixation on you. But when Clark Olofsson flashes you a boyish grin and a wink, your stomach fills with butterflies and a desire that you won’t let yourself acknowledge.
*
“And you’ve been with the Handelsbanken for… how long?” Clark skewers a piece of chicken and brings it to his lips, chewing animatedly.
“Two years,” you say, cutting your meatballs into little pieces. Clark has never seen anybody do that before, and he finds it hopelessly endearing. “I’d like to manage accounts, one day.”
Clark nods. “You’re smart enough to do it.”
“Tell that to the manager.” Your voice raises in pitch, a blush staining across your cheeks as you stab aggressively at a piece of meat on your plate. “He doesn’t believe women should ever leave the checking counter. Pretty faces for the customers.” You scoff, and Clark watches this tiny display of heated rebellion with rapt attention. A way in.
“You’re much too smart for that. Smarter than him, I’d bet.”
You look up then, offering him an embarrassed but genuine smile. “You’re kind to say so, Clark.”
Clark. Clark likes the way you say his name, the lilt you put on the single syllable like a song. He watches you pop a little piece of meatball into your mouth and he considers how your lips might look stretched around his cock. It hadn’t been part of the plan, to seduce you, but then you were a pretty girl and he was Clark fucking Olofsson, so really he should have assumed it from the beginning.
“Have you ever been into the bank at night?”
You frown. “Not after work. There’s a security guard, but otherwise the place is deserted. Why would I?”
Clark shrugs. “I’ve always wondered what it’s like, behind the glass and the pretty girls.”
Your smile returns. “It isn’t so glamorous. There’s the manager’s office, a staff canteen. Oh and the vaults, of course.”
The vaults. Clark leans in. “Tell me something secret, älskling. Something only an expert would know.”
If you think the question odd, you don’t say so. Clark pours you another liberal glass of wine whilst you mull over the question. “I suppose… do you know how the vault works? I think it might be the most impressive thing in the whole building.”
Clark has to really fight to keep his smile small. You were perfection, a few glasses of wine and you’d opened exactly the door he’d hoped for. The only promise sweeter now was the warm wetness between your legs, and it wouldn’t be long at all until Clark could bury his tongue and his cock inside you.
“I assume it works as all safes do. A code, a little dial to click, click, click.” Clark cranks an imaginary knob, and your eyes light.
“No, you see! Everybody thinks so, but it’s so much more complicated than that. For one, the door itself is impossibly thick. You couldn’t drill through it with any drill ever invented.”
“What about a bomb?” Clark teases. “Stick some explosives to it and…” he leans in, his hand finding your knee under the table. “Boom.”
Slick heat pulses in your core at the touch of his fingers against your skin, but you don’t dare move a single muscle even as your heart hammers in your chest. “Wouldn’t work. Too thick.” Your words come out breathy, and Clark walks his finger down the inside of your knee, brushing against the flushec flesh of your thigh. “Plus there are hidden deadbolts, and a series of mechanical locks that work on a timer. Even with the codes, the door won’t-“ you gasp at the brush of fingers against the hot, damp cotton of your panties. “Open.”
Clark’s cock throbs against the front of his pants at the pretty blush on your cheeks and the way your eyes flutter closed at his touch. You’re wet, but he expected that. Even if the words coming out of your mouth were damn bad news, listening to you tell him about the vault is getting him hard. You’re a little bossy when you’re explaining things to him, and he’s looking forward to fucking you dumb.
“So you say the vault is essentially… uncrackable.” Clark asks, pushing your glass across the table and tapping the rim. “Drink.”
You lift the glass mechanically, taking large gulps of the wine to distract yourself from the way Clark’s fingers press and prod at the front of your underwear. Your head swims with the alcohol and the dizzying pleasure throbbing in your core, and you gasp as one of Clark’s fingers slips into the elastic of your underwear to part your folds.
“The only way in would be… through the ceiling. The managers offices above are… the ceiling is just concrete. You could drill through that.”
Clark hums. “It would take days. Not so much of an…” he dips his finger lower, testing the pad of it against your entrance before pushing inside. “In and out job.”
Your lips part around a soft moan as Clark eases into you, curling his finger back against your sensitive walls before withdrawing it and pushing in again. “Clark.”
“I’m sorry, älskling. I get carried away, when you talk to me.”
You hum, fingers gripping the edge of the table as Clark’s thumb brushes against your clit, rubbing the sensitive bud in time with the in and out of his finger. “I’m just a teller.”
“No,” Clark coos, adding a second finger and tapping your mostly-empty glass again. “You’re an important, professional woman. I bet there’s plenty of cash in your drawers, isn’t there? My responsible little girl.”
You hum again, swallowing hard. “I… s-suppose so. I have maybe fifteen or twenty thousand kronor in my drawer. Same for the other girls.”
Clark does the math as he winds you closer to your climax. “Tens of thousands of kronor, entrusted to you. You’re a hell of a woman.”
You groan as your orgasm hits, squeezing your eyes shut as your pussy clamps down around Clark’s fingers. You buck against his thumb and Clark tries to keep up the pressure on your sensitive bundle of nerves as you wriggle. “Fuck, Clark.” You whisper, and it feels dirty hearing a word like that come from the uptight, reserved teller he’d been charming for the better part of a month. Not that he’s surprised, of course. Clark Olofsson knew how to please a woman. Everybody said so.
Clark withdraws his fingers when you stop shuddering, and he sucks them into his mouth to taste the sweetness of your release before swigging the last of his wine. He’s got what he needs now, but his cock aches in his pants and he’ll be damned if he’s going home to his own hand. He’ll be goddamned if he’s going to do that.
“I need to have you, älskling.” He says, dropping a handful of bills on the table. He pushes to a stand, and your eyes drop to the prominent bulge at the front of his pants. Clark lets you look, tilting his hips towards you. He’s never been ashamed of his cock, or the times it decides to make itself known. Fucking was his goddamn right as a man, why would he pretend otherwise? It was pointless.
“I’m… I don’t usually do that. On the first date.” You chew your lip into your mouth, and Clark fights against a bolt of irritation at your sudden retreat.
“Do you usually cum at the dinner table? Or is that just for me?” Your blush darkens, spreading down the sides of your neck, and Clark rounds the table to offer you his hand. “Give yourself to me tonight, älskling. You’ll never forget it.”
Clark doesn’t invite you back to his place, and you wonder if that’s because he has a wife or because he doesn’t have any intention of calling you again. His hand slips up under your skirt as he drives to your place, and you decide you don’t much care either way with the wine dulling your cognitive processes and his fingers shooting throbs of arousal through your core. “Just you wait,” he mutters, a smirk pulling lopsidedly at his lips. “You’ve never had it like Clark Olofsson. The things I’m going to do to you.” He chuckles, fingers kneading at your thigh, and you shift against the seat.
“I’m not usually like this.”
Clark nods, hooking his fingers into your waistband from behind as you fumble to unlock your apartment door. He nuzzles against the side of your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin. Of course you’re not. You’re a good girl. They’re all good girls, until they get a taste of Clark and then they’ll do anything for him. It’s the same story all the time, and Clark doesn’t mind one bit.
You step into your apartment, Clark still attached to your neck as his fingers graze along the waistband of your panties. He detaches long enough to glance around the space, eyes flicking over framed photographs on your wall. He doesn’t need to see you posing with your parents or getting a piggy back from your brother. He doesn’t need to know you. The next part comes easier if he doesn’t, actually.
You walk quickly, leaving him in the hallway as you head into the kitchen and pour two glasses of water. “Thirsty?”
Clark grins, leaning against the kitchen counter. “For you.”
You choke on your water, and Clark bites his lip to stifle a laugh at just how awkward you are. It’s unusual. It’s cute. “That’s a line.” You say eventually, once you’ve regained your ability to breathe.
Clark shrugs. “I invented it. I’m the first person ever to say it.”
You roll your eyes, but he isn’t joking. “Alright, Clark Olofsson. You wanted to have me, and now tonight you do.” You place your glass down on the counter, trying very hard to exude a bravado you don’t feel. “The question is, what will you do with me?”
Clark’s smile widens, his eyes darkening as he crosses the distance and cups your jaw in his big hands. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time,” he murmurs softly before closing the gap between your mouth and his. His lips are warm and silky, the plush fullness of them a welcome pressure against yours as he presses your mouth open and licks his tongue against your teeth. You open for him, a low moan vibrating out of your throat at the way he claims the kiss, holding you close and steady as his tongue tastes every inch of your mouth. Your hands lift to wrap around his neck, even though he’s much taller than you and it’s an awkward stretch to reach. You tangle your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and tug, and Clark releases your mouth to gasp.
“Oh, you want to play, älskling?” He teases, hands dropping from your face to your waist so he can drag your body flush with his. “You want it a little rough?”
You nod, though you can’t really imagine what rough might look like to a man like Clark. His pupils expand and you watch in real time as the green of his irises dissolves into the dark pitch of his desire before his mouth reclaims yours with a hunger that leaves you breathless. His hands drop to your ass, lifting you up and depositing you on the kitchen counter. He pushes your knees apart and moves between them, and you shuffle to the edge of the worktop and wrap your legs around his hips so the growing bulge of his erection is pressed firmly against your center. His hands are everywhere, pawing up under your shirt to grope at your breasts, dragging down the smooth skin of your back and tracing the ridges of your spine, squeezing your ass cheeks to press you firmly to him so he can rut against your core through the soaked fabric of your panties. His fingers slip into the side of your underwear and pull, exposing your wet pussy to the air. You moan, breaking the kiss to look down at the point where his hand disappears beneath your skirt.
“Are you ready for me? Are you ready for the best sex of your life?” His voice is throaty and thick with lust, and your clit throbs in response.
“Show me.” You whisper, parting your legs wider and hooking your own fingers into his belt. Clark wastes no time at all in unbuckling his belt and pulling down his zipper. He only bothers to shove his pants to his knees, the awful ache in his cock won’t allow him any more time than that. He wraps a hand around your thigh to keep you in place as he pushes into you, a deep moan rumbling out of his chest at the hot, wet tightness of you.
“Goddamn,” he chuckles. “Goddamn, älskling.”
You suck your bottom lip into your mouth, shifting and flexing against the sudden intrusion. You’re still wet from the orgasm he’d given you in the restaurant so it doesn’t exactly hurt, but you’d hoped for more buildup. Clark sets a pace right away, pulling out and thrusting back into you quickly. You brace a hand on his shoulder and watch him, devouring the look of concentrated bliss on his face as he fucks you. His nails dig into the meat of your thigh as he pins you to the counter, cock slamming into you over and over again. His free hand lifts to wrap in your hair, pulling your face close so he can kiss you messily as he moans into your mouth. His hips stutter against yours and he groans loudly against your lips. You squeeze around his cock, and he almost whimpers as he pulls out and steps backwards.
“Are you… done?”
Clark smirks. “Seems so.”
You swallow your disappointment. “Oh.”
Clark tucks his cock back into his trousers. “Did you?”
“I… no.”
Clark twists his mouth to the side. “I think you did. I felt it happen. Maybe you didn’t realize.”
This is the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard, but the thought of arguing the point with him makes your skin crawl. “Maybe.”
Clark pauses, fingers on his belt buckle. He rakes his eyes appreciatively over you, the mess he’s made of your hair, the way your skirt is hiked up around your hips to reveal the glistening remnants of his cum as it leaks out of you. “You’re beautiful.” He says, stepping back between your legs to cup your cheeks and kiss your mouth. “I love you.”
You do roll your eyes then, because he’s endearing and charming and so completely full of shit. “Alright, Clark.”
He scowls, pouting his bottom lip out playfully. “You don’t love me? After all that?”
You roll your eyes again, but your stomach flips over with a mix of arousal and something dangerously close to actual affection. “You’re persistent.”
Clark’s face transforms into a grin that lights up his handsome features. “I’m incorrigible.”
You wonder where he picked up the word. You wonder if he went to college, or what kind of books he liked to read. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”
Clark beams at that. “There’s only one Clark Olofsson, älskling.”
His eyes unfocus for a moment and he drops his hand to the front of his pants. “Oho, look at that. We can go again.”
You open your mouth to protest, but Clark silences you with a deep kiss as he lifts you from the counter and walks you back into the hallway.
“End of the hall,” you mumble into his mouth, and Clark carries you into your bedroom, dropping you unceremoniously on the bed before covering your body with his.
Clark Olofsson doesn’t really have much of a refractory period. A few nice words from you, and he was completely hard again. You open so easily for him, your insides slick with his cum, and Clark pushes your legs out and up, bracing your thighs against his forearms so he can slam into you harder and deeper than before.
You whine, chewing your bottom lip into ribbons at the rough pounding. Clark’s cock bumps against your cervix with every thrust, producing a dull aching pain that you’ll feel later but can’t bring yourself to care about right now. Not with the way his length brushes against your g-spot with every thrust and the fucked-out, perfect look on his pretty face.
You reach down between your bodies to rub at your own clit, and Clark’s grin is almost feral as he pulls back to watch. “That’s it.” He coos. “Cum for me. Cum on my cock, älskling.”
It doesn’t take much, not with the way he’s filling you up. You know exactly how to touch yourself to bring your orgasm to a climax, and you don’t wait for permission before tumbling over the edge. “Oh, fuck. Oh god, Clark!” You moan, fluttering around him erratically as your release washes through you.
Clark doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything quite so pretty as your face when you cum. Though the feeling of you squeezing his cock, milking every drop of his seed from him is dangerously addictive. He could get used to it. He could come back for you.
He pulls out with a wince, watching his cum ooze out of you to soak into your sheet. Clark reaches down to scoop at the mess, pushing it back into you and fucking his fingers in and out of you. You whine softly and try to shift away, but Clark keeps going until the pearly slick stays inside you. He doesn’t know why he does it, only that he wanted to see you all filled up and Clark isn’t in the business of questioning himself when he wants something.
“Are you… staying?” You ask as he’s buckling his belt for the second time that night. Clark doesn’t stay, not usually. But he looks at you and the excuse dies on his tongue. You look small and vulnerable sitting up in your bed, your flowery comforter pulled tight around your chin. Clark feels a little stab of something in his chest, and he removes his belt again and shoves his pants to the floor.
“Of course I am. You think I’d sneak away like a thief in the night?”
You shake your head and pull back the covers for him, a sweet smile on your face. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s slept over.” You say quietly.
Clark sighs, turning you onto your side and wrapping his arm around your waist. “It’s been a long time since I’ve slept over anywhere.” It’s the most honest he’s been all night, though you’re not to know it.
Clark closes his eyes at the soft snuffling of your breathing, and he presses his nose against your hair. Tomorrow he will go, and he will not look back. But tonight? Tonight he could pretend that he were a different man, a man with no grand plans and a heart to give. It wasn’t true, Clark Olofsson was destined for the biggest of things, but there was peace in pretending for a little while.
You wake to the sound of his goddamn belt clinking, and a harsh expletive as Clark trips over a book on your bedroom floor. You turn your bedside lamp on, glancing at the drawn shade. Still dark out.
“Most people sleep until the sun rises, Clark.”
He freezes, turning to you slowly like a criminal caught in the act. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Sneaking out after all.”
Clark shakes his head, holding his hands up. “I have an important meeting first thing. And whilst I don’t mind that I smell like sex, the shareholders…” he trails off, and you feel your face heat.
“Oh. I mean of course. Right.”
“Last night… you were fantastic, älskling.” He says, crossing the room and bending at the waist to press a kiss to your forehead. “I won’t forget you.”
You hum. “I won’t forget you either.”
Clark’s grin is boyish and ridiculously pretty. “Of course you won’t. I’m Clark Olofsson.”
*
You groan at the agonizing burn in your ankles, shifting from one foot to the other. Your manager had suggested you could use a stool for long shifts, but he’d looked so faux-sympathetic and so smug that you’d had to decline. Fuck him and his misogynistic bullshit. Being a woman didn’t make you any less capable of doing your job. Being pregnant didn’t either, though your ankles had swollen up and your widening hips ached all the time.
“When are you going on break?” Heather whispers to you from the next counter.
“No more breaks.” You say with a pained smile. “But I’m off in an hour.”
She returns your smile with a knowing one of her own. “The last few months are the worst. Everybody says the first three, with the sickness, but the pain at the end is something else. Still, not long now, eh?”
You nod. “Not long.”
Not long until you’d get to meet your baby and spend a few blissful months learning how to be a mother. You were terrified. You couldn’t wait. There was nothing that could put a damper on that overwhelming, constant feeling of excitement. Not your shitty manager, not your swollen ankles, and certainly not thinking about the green eyes and sexy smirk of C-
“Attention, attention! Can I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen! This is a robbery!” Your head snaps up at the familiar, low voice, your stomach bottoming out as you drop to a crouch underneath your counter. You reach for the panic button under the desk, a recent addition to the bank that nobody had ever used before. You press it, and nothing happens. You lift your head just a little, just enough to see the main floor, and your eyes meet his immediately. He’s on the other side of the room, but he’s looking right at you. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, and you fight the urge to smile back at the asshole.
“Ladies, ladies.” He says, crossing the room and stopping in front of the teller furthest away from you. “I have a big sack here.” He puts a white cotton bag on the counter and winks at the woman behind the glass. “You know what to do, you’ve seen the movies. Put all the money from your register in the bag, please and thank you.”
The woman moves mechanically, emptying her reserves into his bag.
“I thank you.” He says, flashing her the grin that had once disarmed you so thoroughly before moving on to the next teller, and the next. You glance around the room, at the customers lying on the floor and the other tellers frozen at their stations. Where was the manager? Where was the fucking security guard?
You watch in horrified slow motion as Clark approaches you, and you’re forced to half-stand so you can scoop kroner notes out and shove them through the gap in the bottom of the glass.
“älskling,” he whispers.
“I’ve triggered a silent alarm.” You say in response, not meeting his eye. “The police will be on their way so you’d better get out of here.”
You don’t think anyone else can hear, but you can’t be sure.
“You did that?” He asks, and there’s genuine hurt in his voice.
Your head snaps up, eyes meeting his as you narrow yours into a glare. “Of course I did. You’re nothing to me.”
You try to ignore the awful twisting in your gut at the wounded look on his face as he turns away from you. You can’t allow yourself to feel sorry for him. Not after his disappeared without a trace, and certainly not now he’s back to rob the goddamn bank. You think back to your conversation with him over dinner, his seemingly superficial interest in the workings of the bank. You were a fucking idiot.
Clark barrels into Martin, and you curse under your breath as the aging security guard topples over and goes sprawling to the ground. He has a bad heart and you know his wife, and you’re pushing open the door into the main room without thinking about it, dropping to your knees to help the man to his feet.
Clark is about to run. He’s got a sack full of money and no interest in getting into it with some old guy in a uniform, but then you shout and you’re there and Clark’s eyes drop to the enormous swell of your stomach and his heart stops beating.
“Hey, you’re okay,” you soothe the man, rubbing your palm against his back as he huffs and puffs.
You narrow your eyes at Clark. “Look what you-“
“Mine?” The word is out, cutting you off mid-lecture, and you press your mouth into a tight line at the possessive word.
“Mine.” You snap.
Clark swallows thickly. “Älskling.”
You can’t let this happen. You can’t, certainly not with so many listening ears. “I wasn’t lying about the alarm.”
Clark looks at the hard set of your face, and the security guard who is on the verge of regaining his wits, and his shoulders sag. He drags his eyes over your pregnant belly one last time before he hoists the sack over his shoulder and runs for the door.
*
You’re expecting the knock on the door, and it comes just before midnight. You slip off your chair at the kitchen table, checking your hair in the hall mirror before you open the door and let Clark step into your apartment.
“I should have moved.”
“But then I wouldn’t have been able to find you.” Clark says this so simply, like your reason for wanting to move couldn’t possibly have anything to do with him, and you scoff.
“Who says I wanted you to?”
Clark brushes past you and heads straight for the kitchen, leaning heavily against the counter. The sight of him there brings hot flashes of memory to your mind, of your thighs pressed open as he fucked you in that very spot. “I missed you.”
You hum, hand going absently to your stomach to rub against the fluttering you’d grown so used to.
Clark watches, his heart seized with an unpleasant longing. “Did you miss me, älskling?”
“No.”
He bites the corner of his bottom lip, and you let your eyes drink in the sight of him. His hair is longer now, sideburns too. It suits him, though you’ve never been all that into facial hair. He looks older, rougher somehow.
“It’s been seven months, Clark. Almost eight.”
Clark’s eyes drop to your stomach. “It’s mine, isn’t it?”
You shrug. “It might be.”
Clark is already shaking his head as he pushes off from the counter and crosses the room. He towers over you up close, and his hands are warm, wide weights as he presses them to your rounded stomach. “You’re a good girl. There wasn’t anyone but me. It’s mine.”
You swallow thickly. “I don’t expect anything from you, Clark.”
It hurts Clark to hear you say it, even if it’s exactly what he wanted to hear. He doesn’t want to be a father, he has no fucking idea how to do that, but it still hurts to hear it from you.
“We could get married. You know, do it all properly.”
You laugh then, you can’t help it. The thought of Clark Olofsson robbing a bank one day and marching you into a chapel the next is just too damn funny. “Be serious, Clark.”
Clark rubs over your stomach, brows furrowing into a frown. “I am. I want to do right by you.”
“You think I want to marry a criminal?”
Clark’s frown deepens. “I have rights to my child. If I want to.”
This sends a skitter of fear down your spine, but you force the feeling away and fix a condescending smirk on your face. “You want to get the authorities involved, do you?”
Clark’s forehead smooths out as his expression darkens. “Don’t threaten me, älskling. Nobody threatens Clark Olofsson.”
You hum, stepping out his grip just as the baby in your stomach begins a series of fluttering kicks. “Or what? What’s the great Clark Olofsson going to do, huh?”
It’s stupid to goad him, and you realize just how stupid as a slow, lazy smirk spreads across his face. “Give yourself to me tonight, älskling. You’ll never forget it.”
It shouldn’t work. It shouldn’t fucking work and you’ll blame months of celibacy and fucked up pregnancy hormones later. But right now, you’re dragging Clark into your bedroom by the collar of his stupid leather jacket and shoving him onto your mattress.
He huffs a laugh as he works his jeans open, tugging his half-hard cock from the confines and thumbing roughly over his tip. You straddle him, slapping at his hand until he releases his cock so you can wrap your fingers around his base and line him up with your entrance. You hadn’t bothered to put on underwear when you’d slipped your nightgown on, a shamed part of you had known this was inevitable from the moment you’d locked eyes with him earlier that day. The magnetic, poisonous pull of Clark Olofsson had you hooked.
The smirk slips from his face as his lips part on a moan, hands flying to grip at your hips as you begin to roll against him. “You used me.” You murmur, planting your hands on his chest for leverage so you can rise up and drop back down on his cock.
Clark wants to argue, but there are no thoughts in his head, nothing at all but the rounding of your belly and the swollen, heavy sight of your tits straining against your nightgown.
“You p-pumped me for information,” you groan, tilting your pelvis so your clit is dragged against the rough thatch of hair at his base. “So you could rob the fucking bank.”
Clark moans softly, his hips lifting to meet your as you quiver and clench around the thick length of him. “You got… something out of it.” He huffs.
You bark a startled laugh, lifting one hand from his chest to press to your stomach. “Sure I fucking did.”
“You want me to say I’m sorry?” Clark asks, pinning you against him as his hips snap up to fuck brutally into you. “Clark Olofsson doesn’t apologize.”
“I figured.” You moan. “I don’t care about that. I want to level the field.”
Clark isn’t sure what you mean, his brain can’t process what you’re saying even though he’s the smartest person in any room and considers himself ahead of the game in almost everything. But then you lift up off his cock and crawl up his torso, and your stomach blots out all the light in the room as you press your soaked pussy to his face. “Gunna use you, Clark.”
Clark groans, the sound coming from deep in his chest as he wedges his hands against your thighs and pushes your legs apart. You’re dripping with arousal, and he laps at your slick like a man starved. You brace your hands on the headboard, resting your weight on your knees so you don’t actually kill him as Clark’s tongue works between your folds and flicks roughly against your clit.
Clark knows you’re going to forgive him after this. He’s good at everything he tries, but he’s the fucking king at eating pussy. Love of the game, is what it is. He loves the way you taste, the sounds you make, the feeling of your thighs pressing against the sides of his head as you rock down against him. Your pussy is like wet silk, the little throbbing bud of your clit fits perfectly against his tongue as he suctions his lips around it and draws dark little whimpers from your throat. Your wetness soaks his mouth and his nose and runs down his jaw, and he moans against you as he devours every sacred inch of your delicious cunt.
“God, Clark,” you sob, grinding sloppily against his face as the coil of pleasure in your abdomen snaps with a blinding, weightless sensation. You wail as you cum, thighs squeezing the life out of him as you rock and buck against him, riding out the best orgasm of your life. Clark does his best to keep up, his tongue licking enthusiastically at you as he swallows every drop of your arousal.
His own cock is a leaking mess by the time you roll off him. “My turn?”
You laugh. “I’m not sucking your cock. My gag reflex is sensitive with the baby and I threw up about a thousand times in the first trimester.”
Clark frowns, reaching down to jerk himself in a loose fist just to relieve some of the tension. “I’ll fuck you, then. Can’t knock you up while you’re knocked up, can I?”
You groan, but you’re already parting your legs, and Clark settles between them. He presses a kiss to your stomach, hands roaming over the swollen flesh. “Does he hear his daddy?”
You roll your eyes, but the erratic kicking against your uterus suggests that the baby does like his voice. Clark’s eyes widen and he grins, kissing your stomach again. “You look so good like this, all fat with my child.”
You hook a thigh around the back of his legs. “Stop it.”
Clark laughs, bracing his arms either side of your head as he grinds his bare cock against your soaked pussy before nudging against the tight, wet heat of you. Clark buries his cock in you again, feeling the steady pulse of your muscles against his length, and he dips his head to kiss your mouth so you can taste yourself on his tongue.
It’s quick, like you knew it would be. Clark lasts just a minute, an enthusiastic minute of fast, hard thrusts. He moans your name, and you squeeze tightly around him to milk every drop of his pleasure as he shoots his load deep inside you.
He doesn’t pull out right away, resting his face in the damp crook of your neck as his sensitive cock pulses and softens. In the end you have to push him, tapping lightly at his shoulders to get him to pull out and release you.
Even as he rolls to the side, Clark wraps his arms around you and presses his lips to your temple, and you’re too tired to tell him to move away. Besides, it feels nice to be held, even if it’s just pretend. He chuckles to himself. “This makes me a motherfucker, you see?”
You roll your eyes. “You’re something else, Clark Olofsson.” You turn in his arms, fixing your eyes to his. “But you’re not a husband. And you won’t be a father, not to my child. My father was a criminal too. I guess I should have seen the signs with you. He committed insurance fraud and went to prison. It ruined us.”
Clark’s face is unreadable, a sharp line between his brows and his jaw set tightly.
“I won’t do that to my child. I won’t have them grow up with that shame.”
Clark feels an unpleasant ice in his stomach. Imagine thinking he was the same as some petty insurance fraudster? Imagine lumping him in with common criminals and worse, with shitty fathers? He is Clark Olofsson! Soon to be the most accomplished, the greatest-
“My father was a drunk.” He says. He doesn’t know where it comes from. He’s never said the words out loud. “He didn’t care about me or my mama. I wouldn’t be like that. I won’t be.”
You swallow hard at the open sincerity on his face. The mask has slipped, just for a moment, and you see the boy underneath wearing the weight of insecurity like a millstone around his neck. You lean in, pecking his lips gently. “You could be more than this, you know. If you wanted.”
Clark laughs, and the mask snaps back into place so efficiently you wonder whether you’d imagined the slip. “Of course I could. But being the best at being the best was not my thing, so I decided to be the best at being the worst.”
You smile sadly, reaching up to brush a lock of hair away from his eyes. “I’m going to see you on the news one day, aren’t I?”
Clark grins, rolling onto his back and closing his eyes. He’ll be gone when you wake up, and you won’t wonder where he went. That was the way of things. He sighs, the smile slipping from his face as he settles into his exhaustion. “You’re damn right, älskling. You’ll see my name in lights. Clark fucking Olofsson.”
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