In the slim clip of time when Clark is pseudo-distracted removing his glasses, Bruce kisses the sharp angle of his jaw, and higher near his ear, then easily swayed back to his mouth. His good hand tucks in at Clark's side below his ribs, inching further now and again as they shift - by necessity, this is a nice car but still a car - doing nothing more complicated than finding new, better angles, for the scrape of stubble and warm slide of lips and tongues, noses not bumping (and also bumping, pleasantly).

When they began, his pulse had jumped out of control every time they brushed close; uncertain, paranoid, a vicious internal clash of fascinated desire and extreme guilt. Most of all, unused to it. As they progressed, he got the hang of mastering this, too, and his heart obeyed. Remained in his control, in all but the most intense of encounters.

Now. His heart beats, unfettered, pulse ticking up. Lets himself feel it, feel everything, feel Clark. Bruce puts his trust in the other man that he can breathe harder, in between kisses, and forget to crush himself under his own iron will. It's alright, he wants it and he's wanted, in a cramped car backseat and tasting like quorn pizza still. He curls his fingers against the other man's side, does something slow and tender with his mouth. Expensive leather doesn't squeak. Just creaks a little, very faintly, like sighing.