“Clark Kent and Lex Luthor,” he says, his eyes shining, smile wide. “I like the sound of that.”
Is it your fault if you see flashes of skin in your mind’s eye? Tanned dark skin on top of black satin sheets, glistening in the blue-gray light of the moonlight through he windows of the high rise. Glistening with sweat, baring the marks of your fingers, the scratches of your nails.
Is it your fault if you feel yourself flush at the thought of corrupting him? Bending down to kiss him when he least expects it, your fingers lacing in the belt loops of his jeans, drawing his hard body against yours. Crushing your mouth to his neck, grazing your teeth down the gentle slope to his shoulder blade.
Is it your fault if you can feel your cock hardening at the thoughts of what sounds he would make? Soft sighs as your fingers travel down his waist, over taut skin and even tauter muscles. Gasps when he can’t quite catch his breath when you unzip his jeans.
Is it your fault if the first thing you do when you tell him to wait there is make a hard left, get in your car, and head straight to the Kent farm? Because this isn’t Clark. This isn’t the kid you’ve come to know pretty well. You don’t know what’s wrong with him, and part of you wants to not care, but damnit…
If you’re gonna taste him, it’s gonna be him that you’re tasting.
rated r
Is it your fault if you see flashes of skin in your mind’s eye? Tanned dark skin on top of black satin sheets, glistening in the blue-gray light of the moonlight through he windows of the high rise. Glistening with sweat, baring the marks of your fingers, the scratches of your nails.
Is it your fault if you feel yourself flush at the thought of corrupting him? Bending down to kiss him when he least expects it, your fingers lacing in the belt loops of his jeans, drawing his hard body against yours. Crushing your mouth to his neck, grazing your teeth down the gentle slope to his shoulder blade.
Is it your fault if you can feel your cock hardening at the thoughts of what sounds he would make? Soft sighs as your fingers travel down his waist, over taut skin and even tauter muscles. Gasps when he can’t quite catch his breath when you unzip his jeans.
Is it your fault if the first thing you do when you tell him to wait there is make a hard left, get in your car, and head straight to the Kent farm? Because this isn’t Clark. This isn’t the kid you’ve come to know pretty well. You don’t know what’s wrong with him, and part of you wants to not care, but damnit…
If you’re gonna taste him, it’s gonna be him that you’re tasting.