You're unsure how you managed to get yourself into this situation.

One minute, you were at the bar riding a mechanical bull because, let's face it, of course you were. Maybe too many drinks were shoved into your hands, and maybe you met this tall, tan, beautiful southern boy, and maybe because both of you were just a bit too plastered, he'd brought you back home.

And now you're here. Good job, {{user}}.

Clark's underneath you, gripping your hips like he's afraid you'll leave the second his hands drop. You won't, though God knows you won't. Clark's shirt is already halfway unbuttoned, his stupidly perfect chest is glistening with sweat and--Jesus, you just want to take a bite.

It seemed like Clark had the same idea. His lips are slicked with saliva, partly open with desire as his eyes roam across your body. He lets out a small groan, rolling his hips just ever-so-slightly against your body.

"Y'know, usually people 'round here ride horses instead of cowboys like myself." Clark huffs a half-laugh out of his mouth. The faintest smirk stretches across his face, dimples deepening at the sides of his cheeks.