Wet warm heaven, Richard thinks with that part of him still capable, and his fingers do a natural progression from tracing the contours of ears to sliding into thick dark hair and he's tugging, directing the flow, though certainly his lover doesn't seem to need instructions and has taken to it like one born to suck cock.
Lips stretch over him, sinking him deep and deeper, nursing at him as he groans, throwing his head back, testing the limits of that confident mouth with the push of his hips. The back of the throat has its own suction, pulling on the head of his cock and sending tremors up his length that spill the pleasure outward, up. He bites his lip, afraid if he starts to beg, he'll say too much. Clark, I love your mouth on me. God, I've wanted this for so long, you get me so hot, I've spent so much time thinking about this, about you, ever since I saw you with your shirt off and then I started noticing your mouth... Among other things, he has beat off to thoughts of this in Baghdad, late at night when he's finally given sleep up for lost but can count on the roll of his hips to bring some relief, eventually.
He wants to look down into the deep of Clark's blue eyes, thrill to that extra connection between them, the intimacy of eye contact on him while Clark blows him. An uninterrupted look can be hotter than body parts in motion, he thinks, but his head is tipped back and his cock is disappearing down an agile throat and there's nothing he wants more now than to come except maybe to see the look on Clark's face as he does it, watch as Clark hums satisfaction around his mouthful and sets him to writhing but he keeps his eyes shut.
"Please...oh, yes, please," finally escapes him, and he combs his fingers through that thick hair and Clark is sucking him, drawing it out of him in a bright glittering tide and Richard's pushing back now because he can't help it, fucking the swollen lips on him and they're both moaning.
He shouts, hips throttling up in the most intense orgasm he's had since he started dreaming this and that attentive mouth milks him as he comes, suckling every drop, soft on him until he's fully expended and the bow-tense arch of his back unstrings, settling him on the bed. He pants and strokes the face between his hands and collapses.
Eventually he's going to have to open his eyes. He throws an arm over his face, mumbling protest when sharp nails dent his hip, squeezing to get his attention. It's actually a physical wrench to open his eyes and confront reality.
Lois is wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist and giving him a direct, even look. "Richard," she says.
"Hunh?" he grunts, still happily settled in the moment, clinging to suspended stolen happiness.
"Where did you go?" Her eyes are intent, her brow carrying that little furrow that means she's curious, not really certain. Vulnerable for sure.
"I'm here," he replies.
He's never lied to her before, so she accepts this at face value. I want to make this work, he wants to tell her, but it's hard to tell when it's okay to acknowledge a problem. He opens his mouth to tell her he loves her, knowing it's true but not even wondering anymore when "in" got dropped from the equation.
"Richard. We need to talk," Lois tells him, sitting up cross-legged, her long silk blouse falling around her bare thighs.
Richard knows it's bad because she hasn't asked him for favors in return.