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Could we have like a ‘at work’ nsfw thing, or a drunk reader or maybe like a work trip? not sure but im so glad requests at open!

Heatwave in Montana (+18)

Clark Kent x female reader

Sinopsis: A work trip to Montana was supposed to be simple: secure an impossible interview for the Daily Planet. But after too much wine, one hotel room, and months of unresolved tension, you realize Clark Kent has become far more dangerous to your heart than any assignment ever could.

Warnings: 18+ Explicit Sexual Content, Unprotected Sex, Explicit Language, Multiple Orgasms, Heavy Sexual Tension

WC: 11,100 words approx.

The work trip had only one objective: to get businessman Jonathan Hitman to grant an interview to discuss the massive investment he had made for technological advancement in Metropolis. This was no ordinary investment—we're talking about millions of dollars allocated to improving communication networks, smart transportation systems, and even clean energy for the entire city. That was why Perry White, the editor-in-chief of the Daily Planet, had placed all his bets on this mission. Hitman was a difficult man, the kind who rarely agreed to speak with the press, and when he did, it was because he himself chose the journalist. So the only way to get close to him was to travel to Montana, where an extremely exclusive conference of businessmen was taking place—the kind that not just anyone could attend. And there you would be, waiting for the right moment to ask him for a few minutes.

Perry was very direct, as he always was. He didn't beat around the bush or use pretty words; he got straight to the point because time at the newspaper was gold. He called you into his office, with that desk always littered with papers and half-empty coffee cups, and said without even fully looking up:

"An interview—that will put it on the front page, and it needs to be there," he said before sending you off, in that tone that left no room for a "no" in response.

You accepted, because after all, it was work. And work paid the bills, the rent on your apartment, the food, and those little indulgences you treated yourself to from time to time. Besides, it wasn't the first time they had sent you on a complicated mission. You had already done harder things, like interviewing furious politicians or covering protests where people threw things at you. So you steeled yourself with patience, packed your suitcase, and flew to Montana. Somehow, after hours of travel, boring conferences, and handshakes with people you would forget by the next minute, you ended up in an elegant restaurant after dinner. It was one of those places with dim lighting, white tablecloths, and crystal glasses so thin they looked like they would shatter with just a breath. There were many people there, all of them major businessmen, company owners, men and women in expensive suits with measured smiles. And of course, Jonathan Hitman was there, at the center of it all, surrounded by people who wanted to sell him something or ask for a favor. You had also been invited, like all the conference attendees, but you had the luck to be seated at that table, right next to the man you needed to convince. It was pure chance, or perhaps a sign that things might go well.

But that wasn't the real problem. Oh no, of course not. The real problem had arrived much earlier, and it had nothing to do with interviews or important businessmen. Your problem had arrived yesterday—well, actually a few days ago, when you had your period. And now, to your misfortune, your phase was ovulation. You knew that phase wasn't good for you; it never had been. You were single, you lived alone, you had a huge king-size bed all to yourself, and normally you could take advantage of those days to come home, take off your clothes as soon as you walked in, put on something comfortable, and "relieve stress" without anyone seeing you. But you hadn't been able to do that because of the work trip. You had been in hotels, on planes, in conference rooms, sharing a room with a colleague or sleeping poorly due to the time change. And somehow, you hated that stage of the month with all your soul. You believed that women found men attractive even when they really weren't. You had read piles of articles on evolutionary psychology, like the ovulatory shift hypothesis, which said that during those days, women felt more attracted to men with pronounced masculine traits—strong jaws, broad shoulders, and deep voices. Even men who had previously seemed plain to you, with nothing special, now had marked features, as if someone had passed a beauty filter over them. But to your bad luck, only one woman shared the table with you in that restaurant. The other six were men, pure businessmen in elegant suits and expensive wedding rings, including the big one, the important one, the one you had to convince for the interview. And despite that, despite there being so many men around, your gaze was only on the man beside you. The man who adjusted his glasses from time to time, pushing them up with a finger. The man whose arm brushed against yours when he leaned over to get wine, or when he laughed at some bad joke. The man who smiled and quickly lowered his gaze, as if embarrassed to be seen smiling.

Your gaze was on Clark. And that made things worse.

It was your second year at the Daily Planet. You had been there a while now, long enough to know almost everyone in the newsroom. And in fact, it wasn't the first time something like this had happened with him. Before working at the Planet, you had a clear rule: no getting involved with people from work. It was a rule you had set for yourself after a bad experience at a previous newspaper, where things got complicated and you ended up changing jobs. So when you arrived at the Planet, you decided you would just ignore everyone in that sense, that they would be only colleagues, nothing more. But then a month passed, and one day Clark approached you. He told you that Perry had asked for you both to collaborate on a series of articles about scientific topics. You looked at him, looked at his features, his square jaw, his eyes so clear a blue that they seemed to shine under the fluorescent light of the office, and you swore your own eyes lit up when you saw him. You don't know if it was real or just your imagination, but something happened. You didn't stop thinking about him for days. You smiled for no reason, got distracted staring at the ceiling, remembering how he had said your name. Until your ovulation passed, and then everything went back to normal. You looked at him, and he was just Clark, the kind colleague, the shy guy with glasses. But the assignments kept bringing you together. Perry paired you up often because, according to him, you made a good team. You stayed late at the office, drinking coffee while editing notes. He helped you with the science topics that sometimes got complicated for you, and you helped him with writing interviews, which he wasn't as good at. And then another month came, and another, and Clark owned your thoughts during those days. Only during those days. But it felt so real, so intense, that it seemed like it would last forever.

So that day was the same. It started from the moment you took the flight to Montana. Clark sat next to you, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You watched his profile as he read a document—his defined jaw, that little dimple that formed on his cheek when he smiled. Then, when he crossed glances with you, you noticed a slight blush on his cheeks, a rosy color that was barely visible but that you caught instantly. That always happened; you noticed the little things about Clark. No one else saw them, surely, but you did. Now, seated beside you after the conference, in that luxurious restaurant, he brushed his shoulder against yours again, and a shiver ran down your spine. You took your wine glass with a trembling hand, trying to hide it, and saw how he also took his with his large hand, veins visible under the skin, long and careful fingers. He was a man with such an innocent face, with that way of adjusting his glasses and laughing softly, but with a body so... perfect, so broad-shouldered, that you couldn't think only good things about him. Your mind wandered to other places, to other things, to images that made you press your legs together under the table.

He was smiling, laughing, even though you yourself knew the jokes at that table weren't really that funny. They were rich men's jokes—about money, about yacht trips, about things you couldn't care less about. But you had to laugh if you wanted that interview, so you put on a fake smile and nodded along, while inside you could only think about Clark, about his leg so close to yours, about his elbow brushing your arm.

"So you both work for the Daily Planet," said businessman Hitman, looking intently at the two of you. He had a well-trimmed beard and a gold ring on his pinky finger. His gaze was intense, the kind that makes you feel like he's reading your mind.

You inwardly lamented. You had drunk nearly six glasses of wine to control your thoughts about Clark, but it hadn't worked. If anything, the alcohol had only made you hotter, made your skin more sensitive, made every brush from Clark feel like a small explosion. Even so, you made an effort. You looked professional—after all, you worked at the newsroom and they spoke your name with recognition because you had built a career before arriving at the Planet. You had worked at small newspapers, at local magazines, until a year after joining the Planet, you had already made a name for yourself in journalism.

"Yes, of course," you answered with a polite smile, trying to keep your voice from trembling. Beside you, Clark also nodded, adjusting his glasses with that characteristic gesture of his.

"I remember you now," a man on the other side of the table suddenly said. He was a gray-haired gentleman with two days' worth of stubble and a curious look. He stared at you, and you looked back without understanding at first, raising an eyebrow. The man smiled, as if he had found a piece of a puzzle. "You're the woman who interviewed the president of Wayne Industries, Bruce Wayne, two years ago. Right after he announced that multimillion-dollar investment in renewable energy. It was a very long interview; it came out in all the international newspapers."

Jonathan Hitman, who until that moment had been looking at his wine glass with boredom, lifted his head and looked at you with interest. His eyes settled on you in a new way, as if he were only now truly seeing you.

"Wayne Industries?" Hitman asked, leaning forward slightly. "That man never gives interviews. How did you get him to agree?"

You took a sip of wine to buy time, to calm your nerves. You could feel Clark's gaze beside you, also attentive, also curious. You nodded gently, trying to seem modest but confident.

"That was me," you said, and your voice came out firmer than you expected. "I did that interview when I was working in Italy, at a newsroom there. It took me three months to get it, but in the end Bruce Wayne agreed because he was interested in the angle I wanted to take—no scandals, no talk about his personal life, just the technological side and social investment."

"Incredible," said another businessman, a young one in a blue suit. "I read that interview too. It was very well written, very detailed. You asked questions no one else had dared to ask."

"And with very few words, you got him to explain complicated things in a simple way," added a woman at the far end, the only other woman at the table. She smiled at you with respect.

Hitman nodded slowly, as if he were evaluating you. He had his arms crossed over his chest, and his gaze was no longer bored but curious. You were achieving something; you could feel it.

Then the woman who had spoken earlier, the only other woman besides you at the table, pointed at Clark with a nod of her head. She wore an elegant black dress and a pearl necklace that reflected the candlelight.

"And you," she said, looking at Clark, "you're the one who interviews Superman, right? The Daily Planet journalist who always gets the exclusive stories about the man of steel. I've seen your byline on several articles."

There was a silence at the table. Hitman looked at both of you, first at you, then at Clark, with an expression that mixed surprise and skepticism. He raised an eyebrow, as if he didn't quite believe it.

"Really?" Hitman asked, and his tone was questioning, as if he were testing your word. "You interview Superman? The one who flies through the skies of Metropolis that no one can pin down for more than five minutes?"

Clark adjusted his glasses with a quick motion, and for a second you thought you saw something strange in his eyes, like an odd glimmer that vanished instantly. He nodded calmly, with that tranquil way he had of doing things.

"Yes, I've been fortunate enough to interview him several times," Clark said, in his soft, measured voice. "He's someone who… trusts me, for some reason. I suppose he likes the way I tell the stories."

You nodded as well, without hesitation. It was true; Clark was the only journalist who could get Superman to speak. No one knew how he did it, but he did it. And that had earned him considerable fame within the newspaper, though he never boasted about it.

Hitman looked at both of you in silence for a moment. The noise of the restaurant continued around you—the clinking of glasses, the laughter from other tables—but in that moment, all of it seemed to disappear. The businessman had his fingers interlaced on the table, and his expression shifted from skepticism to something resembling decision.

"Then you have your interview," he said finally, in a firm voice. "Tomorrow, my assistant will send you the address of my hotel. We need to meet and get this interview done. But I want it to be long, I want it to be detailed—none of those half-page pieces other newspapers run."

He said all of this while looking at both of you, but his gaze lingered on you a couple of seconds longer than on Clark. Especially on you. As if you were the one who had truly convinced him. Maybe it was the Bruce Wayne thing, maybe it was your way of speaking—you didn't know. But you smiled, professionally, nothing more. Without showing the immense relief you felt inside, nor the way your heart was beating fast, nor the heat you still felt in your chest from having Clark so close.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Hitman," you said, and your smile was perfect, trained by years of dealing with difficult people. "We won't let you down."

Hitman nodded one last time, stood up, and the other businessmen did the same. They said goodbye with handshakes and polite phrases, and then he left, accompanied by an assistant carrying a black briefcase. The others at the table started talking among themselves, complimenting you because Hitman never granted interviews, telling you it was the first time in years he had agreed to speak with the press. Someone said you must be very talented; another said it was a matter of luck. But you only nodded without really listening. Because Clark had brushed your arm again, this time unintentionally, as he stood up from his chair, and all your attention was on that small point of contact, on that spark you felt on your skin, and you knew the night was not yet over.

Clark rose from his chair with a smooth motion, stretching his legs a bit after so many hours of sitting. He adjusted his glasses with that familiar gesture, running a finger over the bridge of his nose, and then leaned slightly toward you. His mouth drew close to your ear, so close that you felt his warm breath graze your skin, and when he spoke, it was in a whisper, low, only for you, as if what he was about to say were a secret he couldn't share with anyone else at that table full of people.

"I think it's late; we should get some rest, don't you think? We'll get what Perry wants," Clark said, and his voice sounded so near that it sent a shiver down your entire spine, from the nape of your neck to the base of your back.

He was already standing, looking down at you with those blue eyes that seemed to shine even in the restaurant's dim light. You looked up to see him, and his closeness made you blush instantly. You felt the heat rise up your neck, up your cheeks, to the tips of your ears. You nodded, quickly—perhaps too quickly—because you didn't trust your voice at that moment. You knew that if you opened your mouth, what would come out would be a nervous stammer or something worse, something that would betray everything running through your mind.

When Clark turned to retrieve his jacket from the back of his chair, you saw your opportunity. You took advantage of the fact that no one was watching you. The others at the table were too busy talking among themselves, laughing at something a bald businessman had said, exchanging business cards. So you downed the wine glass still in front of you in one gulp, feeling the cool liquid go down your throat. But it wasn't enough. Next to it was another glass, the one you had ordered for a toast at the beginning of dinner and had barely touched. Without thinking twice, you drank that one entirely as well. Bad idea. Very bad idea. The wine hit you all at once, like a hot wave that blurred your vision slightly and made your legs feel a bit weaker than usual.

You stood up from your chair and felt even more nervous. The alcohol hadn't calmed you; it had only made everything more intense: the restaurant lights seemed brighter, the sounds of conversations louder, and Clark's presence—waiting for you a couple of steps away—more overwhelming. You wobbled for just a second as you got to your feet, but long enough for Clark to look at you with a small smile, as if he had noticed your two extra glasses. He didn't say anything; he just waited for you patiently, with that tranquil way he had of being in the world, as if nothing ever rushed him.

You left the restaurant and the Montana night enveloped you. The air was cool, much cooler than inside, and it helped clear your head a little. But only a little. You began walking down the sidewalk toward the hotel, and you saw some people ahead and others behind. All the guests would be going to the same hotel, of course. That hotel was close to where the conference was held and also close to where businessman Hitman was staying. Hitman was staying at a luxury hotel, one of those exclusive places not just anyone could enter, with a private entrance and black cars parked outside. Unlike where you were staying. As you walked, with the sound of footsteps on the pavement and the occasional laughter from the people around you, you remembered the hotel Perry had booked for you. It wasn't the best, that was for sure. It was expensive—yes, because Montana during conference season wasn't cheap—but it had few amenities: small rooms, thin walls, and worst of all, you only had one room with two beds, not two rooms with each person having their own space. At first, it hadn't bothered you. When Perry told you that you would be sharing a room, you were more focused on getting the interview, on impressing Hitman, on doing your job well. You had nodded without giving it much thought, thinking that after all, you were coworkers, two adults, nothing out of this world. But that was before. Before your ovulation became this monster you felt inside you, before every brush from Clark burned your skin, before you couldn't stop looking at his hands, his neck, the way he moved.

Your sensitivity had sharpened so much that you blushed again just thinking about it. You walked beside Clark, a step apart, but that step felt like an eternity. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye; he surely noticed your red face, but he didn't say anything about it. Instead, he smiled that wide, genuine smile that appeared on his face so rarely, the one that brought out that little dimple on his left cheek.

"We did it," Clark said, and his voice sounded proud, happy, as if he truly valued what they had accomplished together at that dinner.

You smiled, nothing more, nodding as you continued walking. The cool air moved your hair, and for a second you managed to think clearly.

"Yes, I think… now we just need to focus on doing it well," you added, and your voice came out a little shaky, but not as much as you expected. You were proud of yourself for having maintained your composure during dinner, for having said the right things, for having gotten Hitman to agree. That was what mattered, that was what you would remember tomorrow. Or so you tried to tell yourself.

Clark nodded, and for the rest of the walk, he talked about unimportant things. The weather, how the cold in Montana felt different than in Metropolis. The conference, some speaker who had said something funny. You listened without really hearing, because your mind was elsewhere. You watched his profile as he walked, the way the streetlights illuminated his face, and you realized he had no idea how you felt. He spoke so calmly, so unaware of the storm inside you, that you felt guilty. Guilty for thinking of him that way, for wishing his arm would brush yours again, for imagining things you shouldn't imagine about a coworker. He was just being kind, just doing his job, and there you were, cheeks burning and heart pounding as if you had run a marathon.

You arrived at the hotel. It wasn't the luxury of where Hitman was staying, but it wasn't bad either. It had a wide entrance with a slightly worn red carpet and a neon sign that flickered softly. You entered and looked around. In the lobby there were several people; most had attended the conference. You recognized them by their suits and the credentials some still wore around their necks. There was a group of older men laughing near a small fountain, and a woman in a shiny dress talking on the phone in a corner. The noise of conversations bounced off the faux marble walls, creating a soft echo.

You entered with Clark, and he walked toward the elevators. He pressed the button with one long finger, and they waited in silence. The lobby hallway felt warm after the cold outside, and the heat made the wine feel stronger in your head. When the elevator door opened with a chime, you stepped inside with him, and more people started getting in behind you. There were many, too many for the size of the cab. Hurried people, tired people, people who just wanted to get to their rooms and sleep. They piled in, crowding together, and you felt the space grow smaller by the second.

Then Clark acted. Without saying a word, without making any fuss, he took your waist with one hand. But it wasn't just any touch. His fingers settled on your hip with a gentle firmness, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and he positioned you in front of him, carefully turning you so that the people still entering wouldn't hurt you. You ended up facing his chest. So close that you could see the fabric of his shirt—a dark blue that fit him perfectly—and beneath the fabric you could guess the shape of his muscles. Your heart beat so hard, so fast, that you couldn't even hear the sounds of the elevator. Everything was a dull throb in your ears.

His perfume flooded your nostrils. It wasn't a strong scent, the kind you could smell from yards away. It was something softer—like real soap, clean, fresh. But mixed with something that could only be him, something that made you close your eyes for a second to breathe deeper. It got worse when he tilted his head down, close to your ear again, and whispered:

"Carefully."

Two words. Just two. But your senses got lost there. In his low voice, in his warm breath, in the way his hand still rested on your waist as if it were the most natural place in the world. You kept your eyes open by sheer force of will, but you saw nothing other than his chest, the rhythm of his breathing, the way it rose and fell gently. You were supposed to be thinking about the interview, about Hitman, about Perry, about everything you had accomplished. But you couldn't. The only thing that existed was Clark, his hand on your hip, the heat seeping through the fabric of your dress.

You were on the eighth floor of the hotel. The elevator climbed slowly, stopping at each floor to let someone off. At every stop, the little jolt of the elevator made Clark squeeze your waist a bit tighter, as if to steady you, to keep you from moving. And you wished that ride would last forever, while at the same time wanting to run away so your heart would stop beating so wildly.

When the elevator reached the fourth floor, where several people were getting off, there was a sudden jolt. Nothing dangerous, nothing serious—just that little jerk that old elevators sometimes make when braking. But that movement made Clark squeeze your waist harder, pulling you a little closer against him. You closed your eyes. You closed them tightly, biting your lower lip to keep from making any noise, to keep from gasping, to keep from betraying what was happening inside you. The heat of his body enveloped yours, and you felt every inch where he touched you as if it were a brand of fire.

Then the woman standing next to you—an older woman in a fur coat with dyed blonde hair—started moving to get out. She was getting off on that same floor, seeming to be in a hurry. She pushed her way through the crowd without much courtesy, and to get out quickly, she bumped Clark with her shoulder. Clark, who was holding you, shifted slightly from the shove, and in that movement, his hand slipped down. It wasn't intentional. You knew that. It was the woman's push, the jostling, the lack of space. But his hand slid from your waist downward, grazing your backside for barely a second. One second. That was all. But that second felt like an hour.

You opened your eyes and felt them fill with tears. Not from sadness, but from everything. From the shame, the guilt, the longing, the wine in your head, the exhaustion—everything you had been holding in for hours. Your eyes were glassy, bright, and you felt a lump in your throat. You gasped involuntarily, a small sound that escaped your mouth before you could stop it. Quickly, very quickly, you pretended to cough. You brought a fist to your mouth and coughed twice, hard, to cover the gasp, so that no one would notice, so that Clark would think it was just a tickle in your throat.

Clark didn't say anything at first. His hand returned to your waist, but this time with less firmness, as if he weren't sure whether he should keep touching you. His fingers trembled slightly—or maybe that was your imagination. Then he lowered his head to your ear again, and his voice came out in a whisper so low you could barely hear it over the noise of the elevator.

"Sorry," he whispered, and his voice sounded strange. It wasn't the calm Clark of always. There was something in his tone, something tense, something restrained. As if he, too, were feeling things he didn't know how to name.

The elevator kept climbing. On the fifth floor, two men got off. On the sixth, no one. On the seventh, a young couple pecking each other on the cheek. And you were still there, pressed against Clark, with his hand on your waist, with his apology floating in the air between you.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime on the eighth floor. The metallic sound traveled down the empty hallway as the white ceiling lights flickered faintly, as if the hotel were also tired at this hour of the night. You stepped out first, with quick but slightly unsteady steps, because the wine was still doing its work in your system. You walked down the carpeted hallway, feeling the soft texture under your shoes, and reached the room you had been assigned. You inserted the key—that plastic card that sometimes failed—and had to try twice until the little light turned green and you heard the click of the lock.

You walked in and brought your hands to your head for a second, just to organize your thoughts, just to remember that you had to breathe. You left your things on the bed—your bag fell onto the white bedspread with a dull thud—and you wobbled slightly as you released the weight. But you were perfectly sober, you knew that well. The wine hadn't clouded your judgment, not entirely. What was happening was that your senses were running at a thousand miles an hour, as if someone had turned up the volume on everything you felt. Every noise, every light, every brush of your clothes against your skin felt amplified, more real than it should have been. You sighed deeply, bringing a hand to your chest, and out of the corner of your eye, you looked at Clark.

He was behind you, closing the door carefully so it wouldn't make noise. He was taking off his jacket—that dark blue suit that fit him so well—and hung it on the coat rack by the entrance. His shoulders looked so broad without the jacket on, and the long-sleeved shirt he wore underneath clung to his arms in a way that made you have to look away. You couldn't look. You couldn't. You approached the mirror that was above the room's desk—a large mirror with a dark wooden frame—and looked at your face. Nothing out of place. Your cheeks were flushed, yes, but that could be the wine or the heat of dinner. Your hair was a little messy, but nothing serious. You bit your lip, something you did when you were nervous, and told yourself that you had to get control of yourself. That you were a professional. That the next day you had a very important interview with Hitman. That you couldn't let a simple phase of the month ruin everything you had built.

You turned to say something to him, to break the uncomfortable silence that had settled between you, and then you saw him. Clark was standing a few steps away, staring at you. But it wasn't just any look. His cheeks were red, very red, as if he too had drunk too much wine, even though you knew he had only had two glasses. His blue eyes shone behind his glasses, and his hands were still at his sides, as if he didn't know what to do with them. You didn't understand why he was looking at you like that, with such intensity, as if he were studying every one of your movements, every little gesture you made.

You smiled, trying to show him that everything was fine. That nothing was wrong. That the thing in the elevator had been an accident and was already forgotten. A wide smile, the best you could muster at that moment, even though inside you felt like the butterflies in your stomach were about to fly right out of your mouth.

"I'll put on my pajamas," you said, pointing toward the bathroom with your finger. The finger was trembling. You saw it tremble, and you hoped Clark hadn't noticed, but of course he noticed. He noticed everything. He always noticed everything.

You took a step toward the bathroom, intending to lock yourself in there for a few minutes, breathe deeply, splash water on your face, remember who you were and what you were doing there. But you didn't get far. Clark reached out his arm and gently took your arm. He didn't hold you tightly, it wasn't a rough grip, it was just a touch, but that touch stopped you cold. His fingers encircled your wrist, and you could feel the warmth of his skin even through the fabric of your blouse. You looked at him without understanding, raising an eyebrow.

"Are you drunk?" Clark asked. His voice sounded strange, deeper than usual, as if the words had difficulty coming out. His eyes didn't leave yours.

You looked at him without understanding at first. The question seemed odd, out of place. You had drunk, yes, but you weren't drunk. You were perfectly aware of everything: the beating of your heart, the way his hand was still on your arm, the silence that had become so heavy you could almost touch it.

"What?" you asked, and your voice came out higher than usual, like a squeak.

Clark took a deep breath, as if he were preparing to say something important. His chest inflated and deflated slowly, and when he spoke again, he did so carefully, measuring every word.

"I need to know if you're drunk," he said again. His tone was strange, tense, and you looked at him more closely. Then you saw him blush. Not just his cheeks—his ears too, even a little of his neck. He smiled, but it was a nervous, trembling smile, nothing like the calm smile he usually had. "No… don't misunderstand. I want to make sure that… I don't… confuse things," he said, as if it cost him effort, as if he were building the sentence brick by brick in his head before releasing it.

"Confuse the…? I'm not drunk," you answered, and you looked at him with wide eyes. You could feel your pulse in your wrist, where he was still touching you, and you knew he could feel it too. It was impossible that he couldn't.

Clark nodded, but he didn't let go of your arm. Instead, his thumb traced a small circle on your skin, almost unintentionally, as if it were an automatic gesture. Then he lowered his gaze for a moment, as if gathering courage, and when he looked up again, his eyes had a different gleam.

"No… I'm sorry about what happened in the elevator… don't think that… I… the woman bumped me and my hand slipped," Clark assured you, and his voice sounded hurried, as if he were afraid you might think badly of him. He brought his free hand to the back of his neck, a gesture he made when he was nervous, and ran his fingers through his hair.

You shook your head. A quick, almost abrupt motion.

"I know, Clark. You don't have to… even if it had been… I… that's the least of it," you said, and you felt the words tripping over each other, all wanting to come out at once. You swallowed and continued, without thinking, because if you thought too much you would regret it. "What you did, I mean, I'm worse because I've been thinking about other versions of you."

The silence that followed was so deep that you could hear the hum of the minibar under the desk. You realized in the very second the words left your mouth that you shouldn't have mentioned that. Your eyes opened wide as saucers, and you felt the blood rush to your face all at once, from your chest to the roots of your hair.

"Maybe I am a little drunk," you corrected quickly, raising your free hand as if you were defending yourself from something, "but I'm of sound mind, and I know you're a good person, and… don't make me talk… God, I'm talking too much," you said, and your voice sounded nervous, almost on the verge of hysterical laughter.

Clark didn't smile. On the contrary, his expression became more serious, more intense. He took a step toward you, and without realizing it, you took one step back. He didn't let go of your arm, and his other hand also lifted, as if he wanted to hold you but didn't dare.

"What are you talking about?" Clark asked, and his voice was now a deep whisper. He interrogated you with his gaze, with those blue eyes that seemed to look inside you, that seemed to want to pull the truth out of you by force but with tenderness. "What other versions… of me? What have you been thinking?"

You stepped back again, and another step, as he advanced slowly, as if he were following a trail. You didn't realize where you were going because you were too focused on his eyes, on his mouth, on the way he moved toward you. Your back hit something cold and hard. The wall. You had backed up to the far wall of the room, right next to the bed that had been assigned to you. You were trapped between the beige wallpaper and Clark's body, which was now so close you could feel the heat radiating off him.

You looked at him. You couldn't help looking at his lips, parted, moist, so close that if you tilted your head a little you could…

No.

You couldn't.

You shouldn't.

"I… it's work… it's work," you repeated, as if it were a mantra, as if you didn't want to forget it. The words came out on their own, mechanical, while your mind filled with images you shouldn't have. Your voice trembled. "It's work and…"

You didn't finish the sentence. You couldn't. Because Clark did something you had never seen him do. He brought his hands to his face, slowly, as if he were making an important decision, and took off his glasses. He folded them carefully, with those long, firm fingers, and set them on the nightstand a step away. Without his glasses, his eyes looked bigger, brighter, and his face seemed more open, more vulnerable. He looked at you intently, without filters, without the little glass shield he always wore. And in that gaze, there was something that chilled your blood and boiled it at the same time.

You didn't think. You couldn't think. Your body moved before your head. You clasped your trembling hands together and took hold of the fabric of his shirt. You grabbed it tightly, making a fist against his chest, and pulled him toward you. There was no time to hesitate, to ask, for anything. Your lips found his, and you kissed him.

It was a messy, clumsy kiss, full of an urgency you didn't know you had. Your teeth clashed with his at first, because neither of you had calculated the angle well, but quickly you found a rhythm. His lips were soft, softer than you had imagined, and they tasted slightly of wine and something else, something that could only be him. You slipped your tongue in without thinking, and he responded immediately, as if he had been waiting for that signal all night. The kiss became wet, hot, full of little gasps that escaped your throat without you being able to control them. His hands found your waist again, but this time it wasn't an accidental brush. He held you firmly, pressing you against the wall, and you felt his entire body against yours: his firm chest, his legs against yours, the way his heart beat as fast as yours.

Suddenly, Clark separated his lips from yours. The cold air of the room hit your wet mouth and made you shiver. He was agitated, breathing heavily, and his eyes were half-closed, lost, as if he had just woken from a dream. His cheeks were burning, and his lips were red, shiny.

"I think you're drunk," Clark said, his voice broken, barely a thread of sound. It didn't sound like an accusation; it sounded like a desperate attempt to find an excuse, to put on the brakes, to remind himself that he couldn't do what he so badly wanted to do.

You didn't let go of him. Your hands were still clutching his shirt, and you could feel the fabric wrinkling under your fingers. You kissed him again, shorter this time, just a quick brush, but with the same intensity. When you separated your lips, you spoke quickly, before fear could get the better of you, before you could regret it.

"Clark, it was because of you," you said, and your voice was a hoarse whisper, different from how you had sounded before. Your eyes filled with an honesty that hurt. "I haven't stopped thinking about you since we arrived, and I decided to drink, but the alcohol just messed me up and…"

You were trembling. Your whole body was trembling. You couldn't finish the sentence because you didn't know how to explain what you were feeling—that mix of shame and desire, of wanting to run and wanting to stay glued to him forever. You looked at him, and there was a strand of saliva between you, a little shiny bridge that broke when he moved his face slightly further away. It was intimate, too intimate, and you felt like you were dying of embarrassment, but you also felt like there was nowhere else in the world you wanted to be.

Clark looked at you. He truly looked at you, with those blue eyes that were now dark, dilated, full of something you had never seen in him. Something that was not the kind coworker, the shy boy, the serious journalist. It was something else. It was hunger. It was desire held back for too long. Without saying a word, he brought his face close to yours again, but this time slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted. You didn't pull away. His lips brushed yours once, softly, like a question. You answered by pressing against him, and then the kiss changed.

It wasn't messy this time. It was deep, confident, full of something you had both been keeping inside. His hands traveled up your back; one tangled in your hair, and the other settled on your hip, squeezing. The kiss proved that his desire was mutual, that it wasn't just in your head, that all those times you had thought that maybe he felt something too, it wasn't your imagination. Clark kissed you as if he had been waiting for you, as if he had wanted to do it for months, since that first time Perry had put you both together on a project. His tongue found yours, and the kiss grew deeper, wetter, and you let out a low moan that was lost between his lips. It was real. It was all real.

Clark kissed your neck. It wasn't a shy or quick kiss; it was something slow, deep, as if he wanted to savor every little piece of your skin. His lips settled right where your neck meets your shoulder—that sensitive area you didn't even know you liked so much—and he sucked gently. Your body reacted before your mind could process it: a shiver ran from the nape of your neck to the tips of your toes, and your hands rose on their own, searching for something to hold onto. They found his hair. Your fingers tangled in his dark curls—those curls you had so often glanced at sideways in the office, wondering how they would feel to the touch. They were soft, much softer than you had imagined, and they had a texture that made you want to squeeze them, mess them up, lose yourself in them.

You enjoyed everything. Every caress, every brush, the way his mouth moved across your neck, leaving a wet, hot trail. You gasped near his ear, unable to contain yourself, and felt him tremble at the sound. Your breath hit his skin, and every little moan that escaped your mouth made Clark hold you tighter, as if he were afraid you would disappear.

Clark wasn't just in love with you. You knew that somehow; you felt it in the way he looked at you, in how his hands trembled when he touched you. But there was something else—something he knew and you didn't. Clark could smell your ovulation. He had done so from the first moment you met at the airport, before taking the flight to Montana. His sense of smell was a thousand times better than a human's, thanks to his Kryptonian origin—something you had no idea about.

Ever since you arrived at the Daily Planet, he had noticed that there were certain days when you looked prettier. Your hair looked neater, shinier, as if it had its own light. Your eyes sparkled differently, and there was something about your skin, your scent, that drew him like a magnet. He couldn't explain it, but he knew it. Your body spoke a language that only he could hear, and that language told him you were in your fertile days, that something inside you was calling to his most primal instinct.

It must have been his Kryptonian gene, the one that made him different from all humans, the one that sharpened his senses to impossible levels. You had cast a spell on him just by standing there in front of him, with your suitcase in one hand and your ticket in the other, smiling nervously because the flight had been delayed. That night, when he saw you in that red dress—that dark wine red that clung to your skin as if it had been made for you—he couldn't help but see you as so beautiful. His eyes involuntarily dropped to the curve of your breasts, to the way the fabric marked every one of your movements, and he felt guilty. He felt bad for looking at you like that, for thinking of you that way when you were only coworkers. But now, with his hand beneath your breasts as he sighed, with you so close he could feel every beat of your heart, he didn't care about anything. Nothing he had thought before, none of the rules, none of the warnings he had given himself.

"Oh, Clark," you said, and your voice was a hoarse whisper, full of a need you barely recognized. "How much I've needed you."

The words came out on their own, unfiltered, without thinking. You didn't care how they sounded, didn't care if it was too soon or if you should hold something back. Because in that moment, with his arms around you and his mouth on your skin, everything you hadn't said for months collapsed like a house of cards. You had needed him. On every one of those ovulation days when you couldn't stop thinking about him, on every night when you were alone in your king-size bed imagining what it would feel like to have him beside you. You had needed him and hadn't known how to tell him.

Clark pulled his mouth away from your neck just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, bright, and his cheeks were still red. He brought one hand to your back, sliding his fingers until he found the zipper of your dress. The little metal clasp—the one you had pulled up so carefully before dinner—now gave way under his fingers. He pulled back a little more to look at you, to ask you without words if what he was about to do was okay. You nodded. You didn't hesitate for a second. There was nothing in the world you wanted more than that.

You felt the zipper go down your back. The metallic sound was small, but in the silence of the room it sounded enormous. His fingers traced your spine as the zipper opened, and you felt each one of his knuckles brush your skin. The dress began to loosen, to lose its shape, and then Clark ran his hands over your shoulders, sliding the fabric down with a slowness that drove you crazy. The curve of your back was exposed first, feeling the cool air of the room on your hot skin. Then the dress fell, sliding over your shoulders, and your breasts were revealed. The red fabric bunched at your waist, and you stood there, in front of him, torso bare and heart beating so hard that surely he could hear it.

Clark nearly lost his breath. His eyes traveled over your body as if it were the first time he had ever seen a woman, as if he had never seen anything so perfect. His mouth opened slightly, and he had to swallow before he could do anything. The dress fell completely, forming a red circle at your feet, and Clark kissed you again, but this time it was different. He kissed you while lifting you, picking you up off the floor as if you weighed nothing, as if you were made of feathers. You wrapped your legs around his waist without thinking, as if your body knew exactly what to do. And then you felt it. The bulge in his pants, pressed against your intimate area, so close you could feel his warmth even through the fabric. You moaned at the feeling—a low moan lost in the kiss—and squeezed him tighter with your legs, pulling him even closer, seeking more contact, more pressure.

Clark walked toward the bed without letting you go, without stopping kissing you. You felt his chest against yours, the warm skin of his arms around you, and when he felt the edge of the mattress against his legs, he let you fall gently onto the bed. The white bedspread wrinkled beneath your back, and Clark stood in front of you for only a second—long enough to bring his hands to the collar of his shirt and undo the buttons. He did it quickly, almost desperately, and when the fabric fell away to reveal his chest, you lost your breath. It wasn't just that he had muscles; it was the way they were shaped, the perfection of every line, every curve.

He leaned over you, and his mouth found yours again, but only for a moment. Then he began to move lower, kissing your chin, your jaw, the base of your neck. He kept going down until he reached your breasts, and when his mouth enveloped one of them, you closed your eyes tightly. His tongue made slow circles around your nipple, and his lips sucked gently, sending waves of pleasure from your chest to the rest of your body. While his mouth worked on your breast, you felt his fingers. They traveled down your stomach, brushed the waistband of your underwear, and then kept going down until they found your entrance. You were so wet that you felt your vaginal lips parting easily, welcoming his fingers. He didn't insert one, didn't insert two. He ran three fingers over your entrance, brushing it, playing with it, feeling how wet you were without actually entering. The mere brush of his fingers against your sensitive skin made you arch your back, spread your legs a little more, seek more. You gasped. A hoarse gasp that filled the room.

Then Clark inserted his fingers. One first, slowly, feeling how he opened you up. You were so wet that he entered without resistance, and you felt every centimeter of his finger inside you. Then a second, and the stretch was delicious, exactly what you needed. He moved them slowly at first, preparing you, getting you used to the sensation. His mouth was still on your breast, sucking, gently biting, and his fingers moved inside you in small circles, searching for that spot that would make you tremble. He found it quickly. When his fingers touched that place, your entire body tensed, and a long, sharp moan escaped your mouth.

He kept moving, faster now, in and out, and you felt your whole body tighten like a string about to snap. The pressure grew and grew, and you couldn't think, you could only feel.

"So wet for me," you heard him whisper.

His fingers inside you, his mouth returning to your breast, his other hand on your hip holding you tight. Then it came. Your climax exploded like a giant wave that swept you away, shaking you entirely. You gasped so much you ran out of air, your back arched off the bed, and your legs trembled around Clark's waist. You lost track of time, of space, of everything. There was only that immense pleasure that traveled from the tips of your toes to the crown of your head, making you vibrate from within.

Clark left your breast, pulled his fingers slowly out of you, and you watched as he looked at them, shiny with your juices. Your body was still trembling, shaken by small contractions, lost in ecstasy, when you saw his mouth go lower. You didn't think he would do that. But Clark went lower, and lower, until his face was between your legs. His mouth went straight to your entrance, and the sensation of his hot, wet tongue touching that sensitive area made you moan so loudly that you had to put your trembling hand over your mouth. You bit the palm of your hand to keep from screaming, because the walls of that hotel were very thin, very simple, and the last thing you wanted was for someone to come interrupt you. Not now. Please, not now.

His tongue licked from your entrance to your center, slowly, as if he were tasting something delicious. He closed his eyes as he did it, as if he wanted to concentrate on the flavor, on the sensation, on you.

"You taste so good, better than I imagined," Clark said.

You put your free hand in his hair, tangling your fingers in his curls again, and squeezed when his tongue entered. He sucked your juices, drank from you as if he were thirsty, and he didn't stop. You were still trembling from the previous climax, but you felt another one approaching. Another one. Your hips trembled uncontrollably, moving on their own against his mouth, seeking more.

His tongue made circles, sometimes entering, sometimes licking, and his lips sucked that small part that made you see stars. You trembled when his tongue entered again, deeper, sucking everything you could give him, and the second climax came faster than you expected. Your thighs closed around his head involuntarily, and you felt your body shake again—another wave of pleasure that left you breathless, thoughtless, with nothing but his name on your lips.

"Clark," you said against your hand, just a whisper, but he heard you. He always heard you. And he kept sucking, kept licking, until you felt the third one approaching, and you couldn't take any more, but you also didn't want him to stop.

You didn't realize when Clark took off his pants and his underwear. You were too lost in the pleasure, in the way his tongue kept moving between your legs, in how your hips trembled on their own against his mouth. The third climax came like a wave that completely swept you away, shaking your entire body, making you squeeze your thighs around his head while you bit your hand to keep from screaming. Your eyes squeezed shut and stars exploded behind your eyelids. When you managed to open them again, Clark was above you, and you didn't remember seeing him move.

But you felt him. You felt him very clearly.

His member was hard, brushing your entrance. The tip was red, shiny, dripping, needy. Every time he moved slightly, the head of his penis brushed your vaginal lips and made you shudder. He was so hot, so close, that you could feel every beat of his blood against your skin. Clark gasped, and that gasp mixed with yours as he leaned in to kiss you. His lips found yours in a deep, messy kiss, and you moaned as you felt his member move again, brushing your entrance, teasing you, making you want more. But you kept kissing him, your tongue intertwined with his, tasting the trace of you that still lingered on his lips.

You reached your hand down without thinking, without hesitating. You slid it between his body and yours, and your fingers found his member. It was thick, thicker than you had imagined. Hot, hard, and so wet at the tip that your hand slipped easily. Clark felt your hand around him and moaned against your lips. It was a low, hoarse moan that you felt vibrate from his chest to your mouth. His hands, which were braced on the sheet on either side of your head to keep his body from falling completely onto you, gripped the fabric so hard his knuckles turned white. He was holding back; you could feel it. He was making an enormous effort not to let go completely, not to crush you against the mattress and take what he wanted.

But you didn't want him to hold back.

You moved your hand up and down slowly, feeling every centimeter of him, the texture of his skin, the veins that stood out under your fingers. You caressed him slowly, enjoying how he trembled every time you reached the tip, the little sounds that came from his throat. Then you brought his member to your entrance. You didn't insert it; you just played with it. You ran the hot red tip between your vaginal lips, up and down, feeling how it got wet with your juices, how it slipped easily. You had it right there, at the door, and every time it brushed your clitoris, you trembled all over. You were the desperate one. You were the one who couldn't wait a second longer.

You positioned his member at your entrance. The head barely pressed, and you already felt your body welcoming it, your muscles opening to receive him. Clark looked at you. His eyes were dark, bright, and in them was something you had never seen before. Fear, perhaps. Or concern. Or both.

"I don't have a condom," he said in a whisper. His voice trembled, and it wasn't from cold.

You looked at him. You didn't hesitate. There were no doubts in your body, no doubts in your mind. You had waited for this moment without knowing it; you had desired it for so long, and now that you had it there, brushing against you, hot, needy, you weren't going to let a piece of plastic get in the way. Not tonight. Not with him.

"Fuck me, Clark," you begged, and your voice sounded so needy you barely recognized yourself. You brushed his member against your entrance again, soaking it even more, feeling the tip sink in barely a centimeter. "Fill me tonight, please. I need it. I've needed you so much."

You guided him. You took his member in your hand and directed it toward your entrance, squeezing gently to let him in. The head pressed, and your body opened for him. When he entered you, both of you gasped at the same time. You felt him fill you, how every centimeter entered slowly, opening you, getting used to you. He felt how you squeezed him, how your walls enveloped him, hot and wet. And in that moment, Clark kissed you. His lips found yours in a deep, slow kiss, as if time had stopped. Both of you kissed while he sank completely into you, while you felt him reach the deepest part, unable to go further. You ran out of air, but you didn't want to separate your mouth from his.

He began to move. At first it was slow, unhurried, giving you time to adjust to his size, to get used to how he filled you. Each thrust was gentle, measured, as if he feared breaking you. But you didn't want gentle. You didn't want slow. You wanted everything. You wanted to feel sore the next day, you wanted bruises on your hips from how tightly he had held you.

"That's it, you can take it," Clark said in your ear, and his voice was a deep whisper that ran through your entire body. His hot breath hit your skin, and every word he said made you squeeze him tighter.

"Oh, Clark," you moaned, and your hands went up to his back, scratching him gently, feeling the muscles moving under his skin. "Give me everything. I've wanted it so much. So much."

Then he started. It wasn't slow, it wasn't gentle. Clark began to thrust harder, faster, deeper. Each slap of his hips against yours made the bed creak, the headboard hit the wall, your body move upward with each thrust. He took your jaw with one hand, squeezing gently so you would look at him, and kissed you again. It was a messy kiss, full of teeth and tongue, while he kept moving inside you. Then he lowered his face to your neck and kissed you there, right where you had dreamed of him kissing you, and the pleasure was so much that you didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

One of your legs was stretched out to the side, foot planted on the bed, and the other leg Clark had. His hand circled your thigh, squeezing, lifting it a little higher so he could bury himself deeper, reach that spot that made you see stars. The scene was exquisite. You looked up at him from below, his body covering yours, his face buried in your neck, his hips moving in a rhythm that drove you crazy. You moaned so much you went hoarse, each moan mixing with the sound of bodies colliding, with the wetness trickling down your thighs, with the smell of sweat and sex that filled the room.

You had an orgasm in the middle of that fierce onslaught. It came without warning, like a lightning bolt that split you in two. Your walls tightened around him, your legs trembled, and a muffled cry escaped your mouth before you could cover it. Clark felt you squeeze him, felt you come around him, and he slowed down. His thrusts became slower, gentler, just to let you tremble, to let you enjoy every second of your orgasm without it being too much. His lips kissed your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, while your body shook in small spasms.

When you were ready, when the tremors calmed and you were breathing normally again, Clark began to move again. He started over, first slow and then faster and faster. His hips slapped against yours in a rhythm that hypnotized you. He hid his face in your breasts or your neck—you weren't sure—you only felt his hot breath against your skin, his muffled moans vibrating in your chest. You felt him tense. His body went rigid on top of yours, his muscles hardened, and his thrusts became shorter, faster, more desperate. He moaned your name. It wasn't a normal moan; it was deeper, hoarser, as if he were using the last drop of air left in his lungs. That sound, that way of saying your name, made you feel another orgasm. The fourth, the fifth—you had lost count. But you felt it approaching, growing from the deepest part of your belly.

Then it happened. Clark held you so tightly you could barely breathe. His arms wrapped around you and pressed you against him as if he wanted you to be one person. He sped up so much that his movements became blurry, fast, chaotic. And at the last moment, when you felt you couldn't take any more, that the orgasm was about to explode, Clark buried himself in you to the deepest point. He stayed there, pressed against you, not moving, and you felt him fill inside you. Warm, liquid, abundant. His body trembled on top of yours, and that tremor triggered yours. You shared the orgasm. You came around him while he came inside you, and it was so intense, so perfect, that for a second the entire world disappeared. Only the two of you existed—your bodies pressed together, your ragged breathing, and the sensation of having arrived somewhere neither of you had ever been before.

The orgasm slowly dissolved, like a wave that reaches the shore and recedes, leaving only a deep calm. Your body was still trembling with small spasms—those you can't control—and you felt everything: Clark's heat on top of you, the weight of his body pressing you gently against the mattress, the way his ragged breath hit your neck. Little by little, his chest rose and fell more slowly, and his arms, which had held you so tightly before, gradually relaxed.

Clark didn't move. He didn't want to separate from you. Instead, he held you as if you really were a couple, as if you had been sleeping together for years and not just hours earlier being coworkers who exchanged awkward glances in the office. He buried his head in your neck, right in that hollow where your shoulder meets your neck, and stayed there. His nose brushed your skin, and you felt his warm, calm breath. He didn't say anything. There was no need. His arms wrapped around you completely; one of his arms went under your neck like an improvised pillow, while the other hand rested on your hip, caressing you with slow, gentle thumb strokes.

You were tired. Very tired. Your legs were still trembling a little, and you felt the muscles in your belly slightly sore from all the squeezing, from moving in rhythm with him. But it was a good pain—the kind that reminds you that you've done something you've wanted to do for a long time. You closed your eyes and curled up against Clark, feeling his arms around you, feeling his warmth envelop you like a blanket. Your head rested against his chest, and you could hear the beats of his heart—slow and strong, like a drum lulling you.

Your mind began to wander, as it does when you are about to fall asleep. You thought about the work trip, about the interview with Hitman the next day, about everything you had accomplished that night. And you thought about what had just happened. Maybe it wasn't so bad, you told yourself. Maybe that was also part of the trip—a way to relieve stress amid all the pressure. Perry always said you had to relax to perform better, and you had certainly relaxed. A small smile formed on your lips as you thought that. It wasn't an excuse, not really, but in that moment, with the heaviness of sleep on your eyelids, it seemed like a reasonable way to look at things. It wasn't love, it wasn't anything complicated. Just two people who needed each other at a given moment, who found each other and gave each other what the other was asking for without words. That was all. Or that's what you tried to believe so you wouldn't be scared by how intense everything had been.

Clark kissed your shoulder. It was a soft kiss, barely a brush of lips on your skin, and then another, and another, on the same spot. His kisses were slow, lazy, as if he were savoring the moment without hurry. After a few seconds, his mouth went still on your skin, and you felt his breathing become deeper, more regular. He had fallen asleep. He had fallen asleep on top of you, with his head buried in your neck and his arms around you as if he never wanted to let you go.

You didn't move. You didn't want to wake him. Besides, you were too comfortable to think about moving. The heat of his body kept you warm, and the darkness of the room enveloped you like a caress. Exhaustion won, and as you listened to his calm breathing, you felt your own eyes closing on their own. You no longer thought about anything. Not about the interview, not about Perry, not about Hitman. Only about the weight of Clark on your body, his arms around you, the scent of his skin, the softness of his breathing. And so, little by little, you let yourself be carried off to sleep, curled up against him, feeling safer than you had felt in a long time.

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