Third story to the Hanging on, Letting Go Series, and follows Ruination

Feedback: Encouragement and constructive criticisms are always welcome. Flames are destroyed with my freeze breath.

This story is Explicit and is D/s with mild DD/lg kink going on (BEWARE!) Read responsibly.

Chapter 1/5

Nobody but you

'Body but me, 'body but us

Bodies together

I love to hold you close

Tonight and Always

-Zayn - "Pillow Talk"

Kara's eyes snap open, a rush of adrenaline pumping through her. Blinking to focus her eye in the semi-darkness of the room, she finds him gazing down at her. He's leaning on his elbow, head resting in the upraised palm of his hand, a wistful smile on his face. The room's only illumination, the twinkle lights from the tiny Christmas tree on her wardrobe chest, causes his gray eyes to sparkle a little in the dim light.

"Hey…hey, it's okay," he soothes, running his other hand down her arm to thread his fingers with hers. "Bad dream? Was it about the hospital?"

She doesn't recall a dream, only an intense insistence that she must awaken and a fear that he would be gone when she did. "No," she replies, shaking her head. "Did you sleep at all?"

"I haven't figured out how to sleep yet without taking my eyes off of you," he replies, giving her his 1000 watt smile.

A compliment mean to charm worries her instead. She's never seen him sleep, and doesn't know if he does so peacefully or fitfully. It's one of the symptoms for which Eliza warned her to be on the lookout. Rolling towards him she places her hand on his cheek. "You need to sleep, baby," she urges, the concern evident in her voice. She's taken to calling him 'baby' recently, something he's seen in several of the rom-coms he's limited to watching. He likes that too – likes being someone's 'baby'—likes belonging to someone again.

"I will," he declares, but she's not sure if he's just placating her. "When I get back to the DEO."

"Oh!" she remembers. Kara turns her head to look at the digital clock on the bedside table. 11:50 PM. "You have to be back in 15 minutes."

"There's still enough time," he promises, the dimple on one cheek deepening. Mon-El tugs her more tightly against his body.

"Enough time for wh—?" When he pulls her close, she feels his insistence against her belly, just before his lips swoop down to capture hers.

He wastes no time on sweet, searching kisses, but chooses instead to go straight for what he wants—her tongue wrapped around his, the soft friction of their taste buds lighting their fire. Once the spark is lit, he moves down her neck, his tongue leaving damp spots as he finds the places that make her pant with need. "I can't get enough of you." He brands her with whispers against rapidly heating skin. His hips surge, his rigid cock seeking friction against her silken belly.

"Mon-El," she breathes. The entire canvas of her skin tingles from his touch, from his hands in her hair, his mouth on the sensitive column of her neck, and his erection making itself impossible to ignore. As always, she tries to give as good as she gets, caressing the shifting muscles of his back before moving a hand around to the front to close around his cock. Her thumb brushes at the milky white pre-ejaculate there, enough to make her wonder how long he had suffered in silence before she awoke.

"Will you have me again?" he inquires, moving back to her mouth, biting gently on her lower lip. "Will you take me inside of you before I have to leave?" He knows her answer, but loves to hear her say it all the same.

"Yes, Mon-El," she replies without hesitation. She hasn't yet found the strength to deny him – or even try to. Her need for him is constant, like her own heartbeat. Her fingers wrap gently around his erection, enough to tease but not to satisfy, and his eyes slam shut in response. She smiles, but ruins it by biting down on her lower lip. He opens his eyes just in time to catch this action, one she knows drives him wild.

Mon-El glides a hand down her body, cupping and squeezing a bare breast as he goes; her breath catches while he provides a lascivious moan of appreciation. She needs no words from him about the perfection of her breasts when the primal noises he makes tell the tale. After thumbing her nipple to a hard peak, he leaves her breast, brushing along the sensitive spot on her hip before seeking out the rising heat of her thatch. His fingers find her already sodden with desire. With only minutes until he has to depart, there's no time for teasing or cajoling for seduction, and now there is no need.

"Turn on the light," he commands. "I like to see your face when I take you."

He uses the voice; the one that threatens mysterious reprisals should she question or deny. The voice that causes her core to constrict and throb relentlessly, her wetness to intensify. She knows that part of him wants her to rebel, so that he can punish her. But she also knows that it pleases him when she follows his commands. Here, in this arena, when they're naked and skin-on-skin, Kara loves nothing more than pleasing him. It makes her wet to please him.

She turns away from him and reaches for the switch on the bottom of the lampstand. Mon-El runs a hand down her spine, her back a vast open canvas he can't resist. When she turns back she's holding a square package in her hand, already ripping it open with her teeth.

'Since you're so eager, I think I'll let you do all the work." He smirks at the confused expression on her face before grabbing her around the waist and rolling onto his back, taking her with him. Her breasts crush against his chest and his hands snake down her body to grasp her lush bottom. Mon-El presses on her ass, rolling her against the stiff steal trapped between their bodies. "Fuck," he hisses. Ral was right. It's such darkly satisfying word.

"Me? On top?" she asks.

"That's the idea, sunshine. You're going to ride me until you come, and I'm going to watch you. Put the condom on," he instructs.

Kara sits up, her ass resting on his thighs, freeing his erection from its torturously pleasant entrapment. Closing her fingers around him, she pumps him twice before pinching the tip of the condom and rolling the rest of it down his shaft. "Now what?" she asks. She's pretty sure she knows what to do next, has read enough on the subject, but she likes to be told. Likes it when he tells her.

Mon-El gives her hip a little spank, not enough to bruise, but enough to sting, Kara's pelvis bucks forward in response—another rush of wetness taking her by surprise. "Sit up on your knees," he instructs, "and move closer." When she does as directed, Mon-El slides his hands behind his head as though preparing for a show. "Now…take my cock in your hand and place it at the entrance of your clutch."

"My clutch?" she echoes, having never before heard him use this word.

"Your pussy," he clarifies, providing the English word he'd heard used. "'Clutch' is what we call it on Daxam."

"I like that better."

"I do too. You know why?" When she shakes her head he smiles. "Because when I'm inside you, you clutch me so, so tight."

Kara giggles. "Now what?"

Watching her face carefully, he concludes, "I think you know what to do…."

"I like it when you tell me," she confesses. Kara blushes sweetly at the revelation of her secret. She rubs the tip of his spear through the sopping wet seam of her 'clutch', teasing her swollen clit. His heart swells inside his chest, and if he could take it out and hand it to her, he would. This Kryptonian goddess of his—his—truly is everything he's ever dreamed of in a woman.

"Do you?" he marvels. "Do you like it when I tell you what to do?"

"Uh-huh," she nods. Her long locks fall past her shoulders, creating a frustrating veil to rudely obstruct his view of her pert breasts.

"I want you to sit on my cock. Take me inside as deep as you can."

She commences upon his words, using her own body weight, inch by inch adjusting to the divine stretch of her core as he fills her. She observes his reaction through heavy-lidded eyes as she lowers her body over his. He struggles to keep his eyes open, gritting his teeth and gripping the back of his head as her wet, clasping heat envelops him.

"Can you take it all?" he asks, knowing she can.

"Uh-huh," she whines, nodding her head. "I can take it all." Just when she thinks he's bottomed out, Mon-El spread his knees wide and she sinks down another inch. She wants to cry from the joy of it; his cock deeper than he's ever been before. Kara places her hands on his belly for balance.

"That's my good girl," he praises, his voice deepening with arousal.

Kara's hips wiggle, both in response to his praise and from an instinctual need to settle her body on his, to find the place where their two bodies become one. Mon-El hisses at her tiny movements, pleasure rippling through him like electrical current, running under his skin from his balls to his toes and back to his scalp. Kara moans, closing her eyes and biting down on her lips, her fingers clawing at the stripe of hair on his belly. Mon-El realizes that she's awaiting her next instruction.

"I want you to move," he tells her. "Up and down, side to side, front to back; it doesn't matter. Just find a rhythm that feels good for you."

"What about you?" she asks.

"Oh, my sweet Kara, it's going to feel good for me no matter what you do."

"Okay."

"Just one thing: move your hair behind your back so I can see your breasts bouncing."

"Okay, Mon-El." Without removing her hands from his belly, she tosses her head like a shampoo model, and if it were possible, Mon-El would have grown even harder inside of her. Instead, his hips buck beneath her. "Rao!" she cries, as their pelvises clash in a way that sends white hot pleasure spreading out from her core.

He grips tightly to the hair at the back of his head, holding his hands in place. He wants nothing more than to grab her hips and hold her steady as he slams into her from below, but she has so much to learn and that would teach her nothing, but that he doesn't keep his word. And if he wants to push her limits, he must continue building trust.

When she moves, she tests the angle first by lifting almost entirely of him and then sinking slowly back down, and then again. On the third time, she drops her body weight and slams back down, throwing her head back and drawing a yawning breath as though she's just ascended from the depths of the ocean.

Kara primes herself, slowly dragging his cock out of her and then dropping back down upon him with bed-shaking force. Over and over, her head thrown back so that the ends of her hair brushes against his thighs. She hopes her breasts are bouncing enough to his liking.

"That's good, sunshine," he tells her, his voice rasping with desire. "Why don't you try moving back and forth? Slide your hands up to my chest and lean forward a little."

She follows suit, finding this new angle and rhythm easier to maintain. Now that her clutch is primed, the undulating of her hips and the way his cock drags in and out at her whim, spirals her tension up and up and up. She whimpers, "I'm so close, Mon-El."

Mon-El loves that sound; when she whimpers his name, begging him to let her come. He can feel how close she is to unspooling, feel the tiny flutters beginning around his cock, and he has to dig deep for the control to keep him from coming in anticipation of her climax. "Don't you come," he commands, his voice daring her to disobey.

"I won't, baby," she promises, shaking her head frantically back and forth. She wants it so bad; senses it just on the horizon. But her body refuses to rebel against the wishes of her lover. "I won't come," she vows again.

"Sit up," he orders. "Cup your breasts for me. Like I would do it."

Still rocking her hips back and forth, she sits up and cups her breasts in both hands as commanded, squeezing them tight and pressing them upward like he would do. But her hands aren't hot like his, don't feel as aren't as forceful. Her breasts perform better for him, her nipples rising to his attentions, the delicate skin around them calling a rush of blood to its veins.

"Pinch them," he says. "Pinch and tug them until they're nice and tight. Don't forget to keep moving. Gods, you look so beautiful, Kara, riding me like a queen."

Speeding her rhythm, Kara pinches and tugs on her nipples and though there's an elementary reaction, a slice of arousal streaking to her core, it's not the visceral reaction her body has when Mon-El does it. When he does it, she's set on fire. When he does it, the streak of white hot pleasure that races from her breast straight to her core is like a tear in her soul. It feels like he's torn a hole in her soul and he's attempting to climb inside and join her there. Her own actions elicit but a shadow of that pleasure.

"How does that feel?" he asks. Kara's expression is one he has found directed at him far too frequently during their acquaintance – frustration.

"It doesn't feel as good as when you do it," she admits, her lips forming into a pout. He wants to kiss that pout straight off of her face. "It doesn't make me ache like you do."

She's so open and so pure, trusting him with her truths, and he loves her all the more for it. But this development, this discovery, is clearly upsetting to her. "Try touching yourself," he directs. "Play with your clit."

"Okay," she sighs. It's not what she wants to hear, but she does it anyway, because it's what he's requested. Her fingers slide into her folds, where their bodies meet, the wet noises of his cock sliding in and out of her clutch sounding incredibly erotic to her ears.

Kara loves the symphony their bodies create, the soundtrack of their lovemaking; the groans, the moans, growls, whimpers, mewling whines, the slap of skin on skin, the squelch of his repeated plunge into her burning depths, the gasps for breath, cries, screams, and the final sigh as they settle in each other's arms after the storm passes.

When her fingers find her clit, blindly and from flawless memory, this too she finds disappointing. Before Mon-El, before his perfect fingers and superhuman smile and before his slate-gray bedroom eyes, she used to bring herself off just fine. But now she knows how it's meant to be and there's no going back. She's become numb to her own touch. "Damn it," she groans, but not in a good way.

Surprised by the curse, Mon-El's half closed eyes snap open. His girl is floundering and he can't have that. Knowing Kara, she will take it as a personal failure.

"I need…."she mumbles.

"Tell me."

"I need you to touch me. Why won't you touch me?"

"You haven't asked me to touch you," he replies, as if the answer should be obvious.

"Please," she begs him, her eyes boring into his. "Please will you touch me?" Kara no longer has trouble with asking for what she wants, begging for it. Sometimes she even makes her voice sound as pathetic as possible; the more pathetic, the quicker he rushes to fulfill her needs. Beg for something, get something; there's beauty in the simplicity of it.

"How badly do you want me to touch you?" he asks. He doesn't want to give in too easily. This was supposed to be about using him as a tool to find her own pleasure, and giving in seems like waving a white flag of surrender. On the other hand, he thinks, his fingers are tools too….

"I need you so bad, Mon-El!" she whimpers. That sound that makes him feel like a god; makes him want to flip her on her back, throw her legs over his shoulders and pummel her clutch with every ounce of superhuman strength he has until he burns himself out inside of her. "So bad," she begs, nearly mindless with it. "So bad it hurts, baby."

Kara, seeking new sensation, anything to help get her there, changes her rhythm by adding a circle of hips to her back and forth motion, creating an elliptical orbit around his cock. Her breath catches as if she discovers a feeling she's been looking for, but has been stubbornly eluding her all this time. Her hands grip at her hair, tugging at it as she reaches and reaches, her head tilted back and her eyes closed. "Pleasepleasepleaseplease," she repeats.

It's her prayer to him, or to her body, or to Rao for all he knows. But he does know that it must be answered, because though he not's sure she understands this fully yet, he suspects that her body is so submissive to his sexual will she won't climax without his permission. He's been training her all along, once he saw how perfectly compliant she was on their first night together when she gave him her virginity. On subsequent encounters he would encourage her to come on his timetable, and when she complied, he began commanding her to come. When she got too close, before he was ready, he would pull out or stop his actions until she cooled off enough to make it worth cranking her up again.

Tonight he simply commanded her not to come and she complied without question. Simply because it's what he desired, it's what pleased him. It's a beautiful thing when two people are so perfectly matched in the bedroom.

He unclasps his hands from behind his head and delves a thumb into her folds, locating the swollen bundle of nerves with ease. He does nothing more, simply allowing her own movements to massage her clit against his thumb. "Thankyouthankyouthankyou," she cries with each brush of his thumb.

"Ask me if you can come," he instructs, training her in the next step. She's so perfect, she hardly needs but one lesson for a notion to stick. "Ask me nicely."

Kara drops her hands, one landing on his belly, and the other landing on the wrist of the hand touching her clit. She applies just enough pressure to have her gasping at the electrical shock that slams into her core, though it's not enough to spark her elusive orgasm. "Please?" she begs, whines. "Please can I come, Mon-El?"

"Is that asking nicely?" he teases. "What will you give me, sunshine?"

"Anything," she promises breathily. "Anything! Just let me come." Her voice goes dangerously into the tone of commands, so she scales it back to begging. "Please?"

"Will you get on your knees and suck my cock tomorrow?"

"Yes!" she agrees, hurriedly. "I will suck your cock so good," she vows, her eyes holding his without looking away.

"Who do you come for, sunshine?"

"You!' she cries. "Only you, Mon-El."

"Such a good girl," he commends. Ready now to end her torment (and because time flies when you're having fun), he reaches his other hand to clasp a breast, pinching and tugging at the nipple until she pants with the pleasure of it. At last, electrical stimuli races through her body at light speeds, jumping from nerve cluster to nerve cluster until it reaches the most sensitive nerve collection of all. His thumb works that cluster, pressing and circling until, finally, she comes apart above him.

There's little time left for pleasantries, so when she flies off the edge he grabs her hips both to steady her and also to help her ride him through it. Her instinct is to stop, to let it wash over her like a wave upon the ocean's shore and allow it to carry her out to sea. But he wants her to fight it, to swim against the current, until it pulls her under and tosses her about, stealing all her breath and her control. He wants to wring every last ounce of pleasure from her.

"I can't," she cries, shying away from the excruciating intensity of the orgasm for which she worked so hard. She's never been more beautiful; head thrown back, fingers digging into his chest, a sheen of sweat making her glow, and her skin blushing a rosy red that he put there. His goddess. His personal deity. "Mon-El?" Her cry asks for a reassurance he's only too happy to provide.

"You can," he reassures. Finally, he bucks his hips upwards, holding her hips in place with each stroke, seeking his own release now. She ripples and spasms uncontrollably around him, clenching him so tight in her grip he questions what wonders he performed in his past life to deserve her. The need gathers strength in his lower spine and spreads to his balls, both arresting entirely as if their molecules ceased vibrating, hovering there on the precipice before…explosion.

"Fuck, Kara!" he growls, his jaw clenched, as tightly as her core is clamped around his cock. His lungs seem incapable of taking in air, his body and brain too occupied with pumping his seed out to allow a contingency plan for intake. And though he's certain it only lasts for a moment, it feels like it goes on and on, his body giving to her, and hers prepared to take it so eagerly. "Gods!" he shouts, the feeling of tension relieved so powerful it overtakes him.

When the last of him is spent, they collapse in each other's arms, moist skin sealing them together like one double-backed creature with eight limbs. But he can only hold her to him for the space of a breath or two, until he must roll her over, and carefully extract himself from her warmth. There's a mutual groan of disappointment when their connection is broken.

A quick glance at the clock as he walks to the bathroom tells him he has two minutes to make it back to the DEO without arousing the ire of the Powers-That-Be. He wraps the used condom in toilet paper and throws it in the trash, he stares down at it for a moment, disturbed by his sudden hatred for the device. At the sink he fills a glass with cold water before switching the tap to hot, waiting a moment for the water to change temperature and then soaking a washrag. Mon-El enjoys these moments after sex, when he can take care of her in more tender ways.

Entering the bedroom again, he finds her sitting on her ankles, her hands on her knees, waiting for him. This ritual has become familiar to her now – anticipated – after only a few evenings together. Hi eyes studying her, he wants so badly to tell her, as she drains the proffered glass of water, the sleek column of her throat working to swallow the refreshment.

'I love you,' he thinks, the words soft and adoring in his own head. 'I want you always,' he adds. And then, the words he'll never speak aloud, 'Losing you would be the end of me.'

Taking the glass from her, he sets it on the bedside table and when he turns back to her she's standing up on her knees. He begins by wiping her face with the warm, wet cloth and then moves down to her chest and shoulders. He'll work his way down her arms, under her breasts, to her belly and eventually to her thatch and between her thighs. He hasn't long to complete this task, but he refuses, for her sake, to withhold even one moment of the ritual.

As he cleanses her, he begins to talk. As he stood staring at the reviled condom in the garbage bin, an idea formed in his mind's eye. It would push her limits—push their limits—but there was no harm in asking. If she said no, he would accept it, as a good caretaker should.

"I was thinking about tomorrow," he begins. "I was wondering if you would do something for me."

"I already promised I would." Her fingers brush against his waist as he cleans her thighs of the evidence and result of her desire.

"Not that," he chuckles, leaning down to kiss her lips. He forces himself to drag his lips from hers before he gets too invested. It's so easy to get invested in the slide of her tongue against his.

"What is it then?"

"When you go to work, I want you to go without panties."

She thinks about it for a moment, finding the idea frighteningly…titillating. Imagining if people notice that her skirt has no panty lines. "I'll be thinking of you all day long and how you know I'm thinking of you. And knowing that you're thinking of me, thinking of you. Wanting you."

His breath catches. She really is an extraordinary student, a prodigy of sexual submission. "That's right," he nods. Then, just to be certain they're communicating clearly with one another, he adds, "You absolutely don't have to if you don't want to. It's your choice."

"I want to," she decides. His grin in response to her decision is like a floodlight of happiness. How could she ever want to withhold that from him? Even now her body begins to want him again, her nipples tightening in arousal. Would she ever have enough of him? It doesn't seem possible. "You have to go," she reminds him. "Before they send a tactical team looking for you and find you in my bed."

"I can think of worse ways to die," he jokes. He dresses at speed, already tying his bootlaces by the time she responds.

"That's not funny," she says, soberly. "I don't like that joke." It's so easy to remember the day they spent locked in adjoining impenetrable cells by CADMUS, and how he believed it was his time to die and worse…that he didn't deserve to live. She didn't understand what he meant by that, but she plans to find out, preferably before he lets it destroy him. "No more jokes about you dying."

"Yes, ma'am," he replies. "No more jokes about me dying. Understood. Besides, why would I want to when I have so much to look forward to tomorrow?" His eyebrows waggle on his forehead and he looks so adorably ridiculous she can't help but giggle.

"Good," she says. "Take the front door," she instructs. "I'll lock up after you. And please get some sleep." Mon-El threads the zipper of his jacket and pulls the tab no more than an inch before he's distracted by the red of her lips.

"I promise." He steals one more kiss, tipping her chin up to meet him with the tip of his index finger. Tearing himself away, he gazes into her cornflower blue eyes one last time before steeling himself to leave. "Who's my good girl?" he prompts.

"I am," she replies, reaching forward to finish zipping his jacket.

"Yes…you are," he smiles, a genuine and heartfelt expression of affection. 'I love you.' Mon-El kisses her one kiss, sweet and chaste, but lingering over her lips, loathe to tear himself away.

"Hmmmm," she hums. "Parting is such—"

"—sweet sorrow," he finishes. He recalls their tryst together in the DEO gym, when she'd first quoted the words from a famous writer of this world. Though she had yet to explain the story of their origin, she'd taken to saying the phrase every time they parted ways after making love. It was a quaint expression, and for them, always accurate. "I'll see you tomorrow," he whispers against her lips, before disappearing in a whoosh.

The sound of her front door closing registers in her ears almost at the same time as his farewell.

TBC