She's never really been comfortable with him looking at her. She doesn't mind him watching her when they're making love, or just being together, but she doesn't like it when he regards her with the same intensity he 'uses when he's trying to finish a business deal', in her words. He understands this, and he doesn't push it.
On the other hand, he's not going to ignore the opportunity he has now, when she's stretched out on top of the covers, sound asleep and wearing nothing but a skimpy tank top that ends just below her waist--when it's not rucked up around her ribs. So he sits next to her, one leg drawn up and the other stretched out, and looks at her, mapping her body with his eyes.
Lex is pretty sure Chloe doesn't realize that he doesn't just see her body when he looks at her. Like many men, he's visually oriented. So when he looks at her, he doesn't just see what's there. He remembers the taste and scent of her skin, the soft feel of it under his hands and his mouth, the way she whimpers and moans when she's close to orgasm. They're good memories, untainted by mercenary greed or complicated games or the facade of ennui. Chloe doesn't have any ulterior motives when it comes to their relationship--it's a refreshing change from the rest of his life. Small wonder, then, that he likes to remember.
He lets his eyes travel down her body, almost lazily, starting with her face. As she's asleep, there isn't much there to interest him. He lingers briefly on her lips, remembering the first time he kissed her. Soft and welcoming and parting for him eagerly, letting him into her mouth without any hesitation. She tasted of apples, he remembers. It suited her.
The clean line of her neck and her collarbone comes next. It's a sensitive area for her; he can make her whimper with a kiss barely breathed over her throat. The dip in her collarbone is just the right size for him to rest the tip of his finger and feel her pulse beating. She laughs at him when he does that; she doesn't understand how much he needs to do that, needs to feel her alive and warm and vital next to him. He'll never tell her, either. He doesn't need to.
The tank top covers her breasts and part of her stomach, but it's so worn he can see the outline of her nipples through the fabric. She doesn't care for her breasts all that much; she says they're too big, or too annoying, or whatever's irritating her that day. Lex, on the other hand, is rather fond of her breasts. They're round and soft and her nipples blush a pretty shade of pink when he sucks them and turns them into hard nubs. She's got a birthmark right above her left breast that he likes to kiss, as well. He likes the way she looks in a bra, especially the blue one he bought her. It's just enough of a push-up that it does wonderful things to her cleavage.
His gaze moves down to the flat plane of her stomach, but he doesn't go below her navel just yet. Instead, he remembers the soft silky feel of her skin against his cheek, the way she looks when he's got his head on her belly. Clean scent of raspberries from her shower gel and the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. He almost dozed off once, settled between her legs with his face nuzzling her belly. Oddly enough, she didn't mind.
Back up now, to her arms--the left one's a bit weaker, a bit thinner, than the right. She's never blamed him for that; neither has Clark, although Clark was too busy blaming himself. Her skin's fair enough that he can see the blue lines running under it, on the back of her hand and the underside of her arm. Once he used his tongue and traced every vein he could find. Chloe started out giggling and ended up making soft little pleading noises in the back of her throat, writhing under him.
Her hands are slender, with long fingers and short nails, generally unpolished. She's got calluses on some fingers from writing, and smaller ones on her fingertips from typing. He likes the way they feel against his body. Judging from her inability to keep her hands off him, so does she. At first she was a bit tentative with him, unsure about what he liked and what was okay. He 's taught her a lot since then.
He doesn't bother much with her legs this time. Another time, perhaps, he'll focus on them and the way they feel wrapped around his waist or draped over his shoulders. But today he's less concerned with her legs than what's between them. Does that make him a typical guy? He doesn't really care either way.
The first time he touched her sex, she gasped and bit her lip, unused to anyone touching her there but herself. Her outer lips were puffy and damp with her juices; he stroked her gently until she opened for him and his fingers slipped inside. She was hot and soaked and she clenched around him when his finger slid deep inside her. It didn't take much to make her come that time.
He's continually surprised by how responsive she is to him. Whenever he reaches between her legs and the soft curls there, she's always slick and warm and ready for him. She's so tight around him, too--even now, after they've been together for months, he's careful about not hurting her. Or he tries to be, at any rate--sometimes lust gets the better of them both.
Given that he's her first lover, he's surprised by how uninhibited she is. She'll try almost anything, from toys to videos to phone sex. Yet the one thing that makes her self-conscious isn't anything particularly outrageous. She's just uncomfortable with him performing oral sex on her. It takes her a while to come that way, and she's always worried about the scent and the taste bothering him. He keeps explaining to her that it's something he enjoys, but he's fairly sure she doesn't believe him.
The truth is, he loves going down on her. It's a sensory overload he can't get enough of--the wet silk of her inner lips, the musky scent and salt-sweet taste, the way her thighs feel clamped around his head and the vibration of her moans running through her body. He smiles a little, remembering the first time he'd introduced her to the concept of restraints in sex. He'd cuffed her wrists to the headboard and settled in for a leisurely exploration of her body before finally ending up with his head between her legs. She'd been pleading and begging and writhing under him, panting for air, her skin glistening with sweat, and he'd drawn it out as long as possible before letting her come. It was one of only three times he's been able to make her scream.
He almost reaches out a hand to touch her, to smooth his palm over the curve of her hip, but decides against it. He doesn't want to wake her, and although she's a sound sleeper, she wakes easily if someone touches her. Besides, he's content to sit and watch her now. It's a luxury he doesn't get when she's awake. But now, he can sit and watch--and remember.