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Lois Lane had kissed Superman in front of the entire Planet.

Well, okay, maybe it had just been Perry, and Lombard and Jenny the intern, as well as a few others who were limping out of the rubble, but that was far more than enough. Perry’s been watching her since; looking for some sign of post-traumatic stress, she supposed. Concern, she knew. And she loved him for that. But it created a bit of an awkward situation in the workplace, with Clark as their new freelancer.

No one can connect Clark to Superman. Which means she has to be careful how others connect her with Clark. Luckily, none of the staff was close enough, on that horrible day, to have seen his face clearly; they saw them from afar, and that suits both of them, helps keep the secret. She teases him, playfully; she acts like she’s not interested, when she can never quite stop herself from turning her head and watching as he walks away. The jeans we wears sit nicely against that round, perfect ass. Jenny notices. “It’s nice,” she comments with a smirk.

“Eh,” Lois replies with a cool shrug of one shoulder, though she feels a distinct flush on the nape of her neck. And in her belly.

“Lane’s macking on Superman now,” Lombard scoffs, leering. So smarmy.

“No one says ‘mack’ anymore, Lombard,” Lois teased, her grin teasing and lopsided, friendly though in no way encouraging. There’s one man who gets those smiles, her real smiles.

“Uh-uh,” Jenny agrees, shaking her head and chuckling. Lois notices that the girl flirts shamelessly with Clark. She kids him about it, at night, when they can finally be together without pretense, sitting on her couch together, his arm around her shoulders.

“Keep up, Smallville,” she shoots at Clark as she shoulder-checks him, heading to the copier. Lombard snickers. Perry watches from his office. It hasn’t escaped him that, no matter how she tries to make it look, she favors Clark above the other stringers.

“Trying to, Ms. Lane,” he replies, giving her that wide, bright, sincere grin of his. Her knees feel like they might buckle for a moment, and she turns her head back in the direction she’s striding before she collides with a wall.

“Your tie is crooked,” she murmurs with a gentle smile, reaching up—and up and up, it always feels like, when she’s touching his face, or his soft black curls—to fix the offending article of clothing, giving the knot a tug, and then smoothing the rest of it down his solid, contoured chest, her hands lingering there. They’re in the break room; it smells of cheap coffee and deli meat, hardly conducive to romance.

Their mouths meet nevertheless, tangling with tantalizing warmth; his lips could pry open a vault, if the taste of her mouth were behind it. He wraps an arm around her waist, the crook of his elbow sliding down to hook her backside against it, and lifting her effortlessly against the edge of the counter, pressing into her. She squirms, her skirt bunching up her thighs, her panties so temptingly close to the firmness rising at the front of his jeans.

She thinks of the night before, of rolling in her smooth cotton sheets, his body rough and brawny and hirsute against hers. Their mouths twisted around one another, hot moist velvet; the fresh, brackish flavor of her sex was still wet on his lips, and her flesh was still tingling, still coarse with gooseflesh from her orgasm, her nipples hard and pink as berries. She’s on top, sliding herself down the length of his shaft, both of them gasping at the feel of it, new and wonderful each time. He pumped into her, his hips moving upward, so deep, her position spread open across his lap making the ride intense, powerful. The dark ginger hair at the crux of her thighs mingled with the black fur of his groin as they grind together.

They break off the kiss; even Clark seems breathless, their faces flushed. His hand is on her thigh, the inside of it, stroking softly against the stoking; he pulls it away quickly and lets her slide from the break room’s countertop. She adjusts herself, grinning, giving him one last kiss and a smile.

She sits at her desk, staring blankly at her computer monitor. Another hilarious coworker has sent her internet Superman fan erotica. It never compares to the real thing, she thinks with a sigh, scratching her scalp with the tip of her pen. She sticks it in her mouth a moment later to reach for something with both hands, and when she’s settled again, she’s reflexively moving it between her pink lips, in and out, in and out.

Lombard stops by her desk and snorts a raunchy sort of laugh. “Know what you’re thinking about!” Her eyes widen and she drops the pen self-consciously, fumbling to close her browser screen. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She meets Clark’s eye; he’s blushing. She surprises herself by doing the same.

“Get back to work, Smallville,” she muttered, flittering her glance away, her smile tugging insistently at the corners of her mouth.