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It had been an honest to goodness mistake, a tiny crack in Clark’s control but you couldn’t get your mid off of it. It was fast — one moment you were kissing him, feet firmly on the ground, his hands pressed into the small of your back pushing your body against his, and then the ground was gone and all you had was the feeling of his chest under your palms and a sense of weightlessness that made your head spin and fanned the flames of your arousal. You’re not that high off the ground, but you feel a thrill run through you anyways. It takes some time for him to notice, but when he does he’s lowering you immediately, apologies tumbling out of his mouth faster than you ever thought possible.
“Clark, baby, calm down,” you laugh, palms still pressed into his chest. “You didn’t do anything wrong, it was an accident,” you soothe, but it does nothing to ease the concerned crease out of his brow.
“A mistake that could’ve gotten you hurt,” he says, as he gently drags the pads of his thumbs over your cheeks. “I could’ve let go by mistake,” he says when he sees you begin to form an argument. You watch the way his jaw tenses and his eyes go a little stormy, and you sigh, bringing a hand up to cradle his face.
“But you didn’t. It was only for a second anyway, and we weren’t high enough for any lasting damage. It would’ve been like jumping off the bottom step. I liked how it felt too. I felt so weightless for a little bit,” you say, closing your eyes and leaning into the warmth of his hand. Clark scoffs but he doesn’t argue, just leans back down so he can kiss you, puts his hands on your hips and walks you backwards until your knees hit the back of the couch.
“Sit, let me make it up to you,” he says. His hands are already sliding into the waistband of your pyjama pants as he pushes you until you’re seated. He’s kneeling before you can accept his offer, pulling them the rest of the way down and leaving them in a heap next to him. He presses a soft kiss into the inside of your knee, then nips at the soft flesh of your thighs as he moves up, his hands strong on the backs of your thighs as he settles in between your legs, broad shoulders keeping your legs spread.
“You don’t need to make it up to me Clark, you didn’t do anything wrong,” you say, even as you’re fisting his hair, pulling him closer to where you need him until you feel his breath over your clothed core.
“Let’s just pretend I do,” he winks, flashing his dimple at you as he pulls your underwear down, presses his mouth to your core. You let him pretend with your head thrown back and your fingers buried in his thick, black curls. You let him pretend until you’re practically dripping with sweat and sensitive, and when he finally comes up for hair he presses his lips to yours. You forget about your brief foray into flight as your mouth falls open and he makes you taste yourself on his tongue as he slips his own pants and underwear off.
“You forgive me?” he asks, guiding your hand so you’re wrapped around him. He exhales when you pump him, eyes locked on the way you drag your bottom lip through your teeth as you pretend to think about it. When you shake your head he just grins, leaning down so he can kiss at your neck. He makes a night of apologising to you, pressing himself into you until you’re sure you’ll be feeling him for days to come.
Without Clark to distract you, you begin thinking about that night throughout the work week; that brief moment where you were floating and all you had to hold onto was him — strong and steady beneath your hands while he kissed you so hard it sent little shots of electricity through your entire body. Once you start thinking about it you don’t stop. It’s not just the memory you think about either. The possibility of more plagues your mind. Even now, clenched around two of Clark’s fingers you can’t help but imagine what he’d feel like up in the air, your legs wrapped around him as he held onto you.
“What are you thinking about sweetheart?” he asks, using his other hand to make you look at him. He doesn’t stop, just keeps pumping nice and slow, pushing his fingers in to the base before slowly pulling them back out, the heel of his palm snug against your clit. You don’t even try to lie.
“Floating with you, like this,” you motion to where his fingers disappear into you.
“No.”
His tone is sharp, final. It’s not an invitation to state your case, but then again, you have never needed one.
“Clark,” you say, bringing a hand up to cradle his face. You’re trying to ignore the drag of his fingers inside you as you piece together a cohesive, persuasive reason as to why he needs to hear you out. “Clark, baby, listen,” you sigh out when he curls his fingers in you just right. You pull his face to yours, let your lips brush over the outer shell of his ear. “I like the way it felt even when we were just kissing. I bet it would feel even better if you were in me, bet I’d squeeze real tight,” you whisper.
“Won’t feel good when I drop you,” he grunts, speeding up. Your toes are curling and you can feel yourself beginning to come undone but you push through.
“You won’t drop me. Too strong and … and attentive, fuck. I need you like that, can’t stop thinking about it.”
He exhales when you tighten around him. “Gosh, you want it that bad huh?” he asks, voice wavering only slightly as he pushes the heel of his palm into you, brings you over the edge. He waits for you to come back to him, presses gentle kisses into the side of your face while you catch your breath. “I’ll think about it,” he says, pulling his fingers out of you and bringing them to his lips. You clench around nothing when you hear him groan, feel him twitch against your thigh as he cleans them up, dark lashes resting against his cheek bone when he shuts his eyes. You smile.
When it came to you, Clark’s ‘I’ll think about it’ always meant yes.
It’s been a busy week for you, chock full of tight deadlines made tighter by delayed responses from clients who didn’t seem to realise that you couldn’t finalise designs unless they approved the mock-ups you sent them. Your entire week consists of late nights and early mornings as you follow up with clients, change the most minuscule detail and have to wait an unreasonable amount of time for them to respond again. You get home on Friday when it’s almost midnight, the week’s work etched into your aching muscles. You hear Clark in the kitchen before you see him, humming a tune as the smell of pancakes floats through your apartment.
“I’m just getting changed,” you tell him when you hear the beep of the stove turning off. You drag yourself to your room, and you’ve just about managed to unbutton your shirt when you feel his arms wrap around you and pull you into the solid muscle of his chest. He just holds you like that for a moment, buries his nose in your hair as he sways gently from side to side, and then he’s pushing you forward slightly so he can help you take your shirt off. He makes quick work of your bra, and you shiver when he slides the straps down your arms.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he kisses into your neck, a hand coming around to cup your breast while the other expertly works the zipper on your skirt. When he’s got it he pushes your skirt down impatiently, practically lifts you out of it when it falls in a heap at your feet. He wastes no time turning you around, kissing you hungrily as he presses his body into yours.
“What’s gotten into you?” you ask when he finally lets you up for air. His eyes are dark, face flushed as he squeezes at you. You can feel him pressed against your thigh, hot and thick against you.
“You’ve been busy with work all week, I feel like we haven’t spent time together,” he pouts as he dips his head so he can kiss at your neck. He’s tugging at the band of your underwear, and he presses kisses down your torso as he shimmies it off of you. “It must be so busy, you must be so stressed,” he says when he finally comes back up. He pulls his shirt over his head and you feel that familiar tug of longing in the pit of your stomach as you watch the ripple of his muscles. “Let me help you relax,” he offers, his hand coming down between your legs.
Embarrassingly — predictably — you’re wet already and he has no problem sliding one, then two fingers into you.
“I think you missed me just as much,” he smiles down at you. You don’t respond, just stretch up on your toes until he gets the hint and leans down to kiss you, free hand working to undo the tie on his sweats so he can push them down. You help, practically clawing at him until he’s free.
“You aren’t wearing underwear,” you gasp, when you reach down to slip his briefs off and find none. He just shakes his head, attaches his lips to your neck as he pulls his fingers out of you. He pushes them against your lips and you open, dazed as he slides himself between your folds at the same time that he pushes his fingers into your mouth. Your head empties as he rocks his hips gently, lets you clean him up.
“Gosh you’re good, making me feel so good just like this,” he whispers into your neck as he picks up the pace. The hand on your hip is firm as it guides you, and you can’t help the whimpers that fall out of your mouth every time his tip slides over your clit. “There you go, come on get nice and ready for me honey,” he encourages.
When he finally pulls his fingers out of your mouth he puts his hands on the back of your thighs. “Jump, wrap your legs around me.”
You obey, just wanting more.
“Make sure you hold on, hold on tight for me,” he says. That’s his only warning and then you feel yourself floating, a little further up than last time but still not too high. You wrap your arms around his neck, feel him shiver when you press your chest up against his. “Still want this?”
You nod, and he just kisses you. You don’t realise his hand is no longer behind one of your thighs until he’s lining himself up with you. You don’t feel the difference really, and you’re squeezing around him when you start thinking about just how strong he is.
“Woah, easy there,” he grits out as he pushes into you. It’s slow, as he gives you time to adjust to the feeling of him. When he’s eventually got himself buried in you, you feel so full it’s unreal. Your fingers come up to bury themselves in his hair as you squeeze your thighs around his hips.
“Move, please Clark,” you say against his lips, aching for him to relieve some of the pressure you feel. He doesn’t move, but you feel his hands on your backside, fingers digging into the flesh as he moves you, slowly at first as he tries not to dislodge himself and then faster once has the hang of it. You’re whining into his neck, fingers digging into the tight muscle of his shoulders. You’re not used to this; normally you have the couch or your bed or even the floor to support you but up here it’s just Clark — strong, dependable Clark — holding you up. It makes your head spin thinking about it. You feel breathless, the air knocked out of your body every time Clark slides you back down his shaft. His face comes into the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing the skin there, making your toes curl and your walls tighten around him.
“Not gonna last if you keep doing that,” he complains after a particularly harsh clench, but he doesn’t stop. He keeps nipping at you as he guides you along him, his fingers digging into the flesh of your backside almost painfully hard. You know you’ll bruise and he’ll feel bad, but you look forward to it. It’s worth it for this. You feel your stomach tighten every time you open your eyes and see the floor beneath you, see the shadows your bodies cast as you float above it. You feel a slight breeze, and then your back’s against a wall. You lean back, and you’re about to unwrap your thighs from around Clark — they’d started aching at least ten minutes ago — but he stops you.
“Keep them there a little longer okay, just need a hand free,” he explains as he slides his hand between your bodies presses down on your clit. You buck into him, head falling onto his shoulder again as he kisses along your neck, hot, wet, and messy. “You’re doing so good for me, you feel so amazing around me. This really gets you going huh, squeezing me tighter than normal,” he pants out, hips moving erratically. He’s close, and you can’t help the way your arms tighten around him as he moves his fingers faster, pushes you towards your climax.
He’s not waiting much longer because soon you’re coming undone, his name ripped from your throat as your head goes fuzzy.
“That’s it, honey, just let go, relax for me,” he coos as he fucks you through it, chases his own high. Before you know it, he’s lowering you down and your back hits the soft surface of your mattress, but he doesn’t stop — just unwraps your legs from around his waist so he can push your knees to your chest.
“Just a little more,” he pants, thighs slick with sweat as he presses himself against you. “Oh, go– oh gosh,” he’s moaning into your ear as he fucks you, pressing kisses to your forehead as you whine. Every drag of him inside you feels like it sends shocks up your body; every nerve feels exposed, raw. It’s not long before he’s spilling into you with a cry of your name, careful not to put too much weight on you as he leans forward, breathing deep.
When he’s ready he pulls out of you with a sickeningly wet sound, kissing you gently when you whine.
“That live up to your expectations?”
“More than,” you smile, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “You know you can’t take that out of rotation now right? Floating sex is here to stay,” you say dreamily.
He just laughs, presses a kiss to your chest.
“Whatever you want.”