I woke up and found myself sprawled across Clark's broad chest. He was gently rubbing small circles over my back. I looked up at him through my lashes. The room was dark—we had moved to my bedroom. Moonlight shone through the large sliding glass doors that led to a balcony, casting his sculpted features in a bluish relief.

"So, I guess this means you're my boyfriend."

I felt the rumble of his chest as he chuckled.

"Lo, now that we've got that out of the way, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

It was easier now to talk to him. In the half-light of the moon, I convinced myself that he wouldn't be able to read my emotions so well, that he wouldn't know how vulnerable I felt.

"Why were you so upset with me earlier?"

"Earlier?"

"Yes, earlier tonight. You were spitting mad."

"I don't know. . . . I mean, after that night, I wasn't sure where things were gonna go. We didn't talk about it and then you were gone. . . and then I didn't hear from you very much—"

"Lo, I called you as often as I could."

He did call often—much more often than before, and he practically emailed me every day. Why was I being so weird about this?

"I know, I know. It's just . . . I was lonely . . . and worried."

"You were worried about me?"

"Maybe a little." I admitted. He was quiet for a moment and then he shifted my body up so that he could look into my eyes. He threaded the fingers of his right hand in my left hand. I could feel his breath caressing my cheek when he spoke again.

"Lois, you have to know that I am not the kind of man that would enter into this kind of relationship and treat it lightly."

"You're right, I do know that about you. I don't know why I was so upset—chalk it up to cabin fever or something. I've been going stir-crazy here waiting and wondering what's been happening. I was beginning to think I was cracking up—I could swear at some points I was actually hearing voices."

"Yeah? What did the voices say?"

"Not like that. Not voices—just voice. One. I don't know what it was. Forget about it."

"C'mon, tell me about it. I want to know."

I hesitated.

"What does the voice sound like?"

"Are you making fun of me? You think I'm losing it."

"No, not at all. I mean, does the voice sound like it's afraid, or vengeful?"

"You mean like a ghost or something?"

"Yeah, something like that. "

"I don't know, I'm not explaining it right."

"C'mon, try again."

"OK. It was like when I was alone and feeling sad, I would just get a feeling—an impression of a voice telling me not to be sad. Or if I was worried, the voice was telling me not to worry, that everything was going to be fine."

"That doesn't sound so bad. It actually sounds helpful. Like this 'voice' cares about you and is worried about you."

"Yeah, well, the problem is that the voice keeps getting stronger. Before I only felt the information. Now I am actually hearing a voice."

"Leave it to Lois Lane to have the only conscience that speaks out loud to her."

I smacked him as hard as I could with the pillow. He retaliated by tickling me and then hugging me close to his chest and kissing my forehead.

"C'mon, I'm kidding. Don't worry Lois. We'll work this problem out. I bet there is a scientific explanation for it. There usually is."

I traced the outline of his jaw, lazily stroking the slight cleft in his chin with my thumb. His eyes were dark with desire, almost black in the shadows of the moonlit room. I pressed my mouth to his and sucked on his bottom lip. It was a slow duet, an aching tangle of tongues as we each explored one another, savoring the experience as if this was our first time. My heart skipped when I heard a primal growl erupt from his lips. I felt his hands sliding over my skin, singeing me, overwhelming my senses. Lost in the crush of his kiss, the rest of the world seemed to melt away.

His lips were on my ear, tongue darting out to trace the inner curve. My eyes fluttered closed as Clark caught the lobe between his teeth, biting it gently. His hands deftly traced the contours of my throat, my collar bone, my shoulder, pressing me closer to him, molding my body into his, demanding, entreating, in answer to my own ravenous need. I whimpered aloud when I felt his mouth trace a path down the column of my throat.

My nipples brushed against his granite chest, instantly hardening at the contact. I felt the brush of his palms against my swollen breasts, and trembled as he trailed a fiery path of hot, wet kisses over my skin. His dark head dipped lower, taking one puckered bud into his mouth, sucking fiercely, causing me to groan and writhe against him wantonly.

He stilled abruptly.

"Shh."

"Don't shush me. I can't he—"

He covered my mouth with his hand, which had the immediate effect of raising my ire.

"Lois, please. I think there is someone trying to get in the apartment. Stay here. " I nodded, finally understanding his brusqueness and watched him pull on his slacks and shirt as he slunk out into the living room.

~*~*~

Moments later I heard an exchange of voices and then the tinkling laughter of Martha Kent. I exhaled the breath I wasn't aware I'd been holding. I slipped into pajamas and went to join them in the kitchen when I smelled coffee brewing. I suddenly realized how hungry I was, since we missed having dinner.

Mrs. Kent was turned away from me and Clark was standing next to her leaning against the counter, facing me. His hair was disheveled—he looked like he'd been sleeping. I supposed that was the story he'd given his mother.

She turned to me and called a greeting, remarking on how I still looked tired and wondered if I was feeling better—I'd been suffering from a stomach virus off and on for the past few weeks.

"Yes, I am feeling a bit better. It was the smell of fresh coffee that drew me out here."

Clark started gesturing to me, pulling his shirt collar together and making faces. I had no idea what he was trying to tell me, and I was sure that my lack of understanding was evident on my face. He gave up trying to get me to understand his pantomime.

"Lois, there's a draft in here. Why don't you go get your robe?"

"Clark, I'm fine."

"I'd hate for you to have a relapse or to catch a cold. Let me get it for you. It's on the chair next to your bed, right?" He dashed into my room and brought the garment in question to me and wrapped me in it while I continued to protest.

"There, that's much better. Believe me, you'll thank me later."

"But I'm really not cold!"

"If you're trying to cover up that hickie on Lois' neck, you needn't bother about it—I already saw it."

I could feel the color flooding my cheeks.

"How--?" Clark stammered.

"Oh Clark, I'm not stupid. Besides, your shirt buttons are mismatched."

"Way to go, Smallville."

"Me? Remind me to never to be on your team in charades."

"Oh, like I am supposed to know that this," I clasped the lapels of my robe together tightly and pulled a face, "is the international symbol for cover-up-that-hickie-before-my-mom-figures-out-that-we've-been-shagging-like-bunnies.'!"

"O-kay. I did not need to know that." Martha said evenly.

"Lo-is" Clark snapped at me. Only then did I realize what I had just said.

"I really said that out loud, didn't I?"

"Yes. You really did."

"Oh God!" and then I turned and ran from the room.