A self-satisfied sigh, an arch to his back, but attention still paid to the ring of pressure he has placed tight against Bruce's throat. Clark lifts his head, that slight slack to his mouth a contrast to bright eyes, sharp, focused. The hand that had fumbled into Bruce's pants braces on the bed instead, for the moment.

The next adjustment his subtle, but has him further Bruce by just a fraction, hips pushing forward and into the hand stroking him.

Watching him carefully—the room not so dark that Bruce can't find that small blot of darker pigmentation in blue eyes, that comical gesture to defect—Clark settles his palm a little more firmly in place. A flick of a glance, maybe checking the anatomy beneath the layers, before his fingers squeeze.

Just a little. Just enough, for the next thump of heartbeat, rushing blood through major arteries, is felt deeper.