"No," Clark says, shifting so he can more carefully negotiate Bruce's pants down past his waist, all layers of fabric gathered, peeled back, tugged down his thighs. A flash of what could be an apologetic look, but no apology actually leaves him. "But I thought about that. Tying you down at both ends, tearing whatever you were wearing away. I think you'd like that."

He moves out of the way so he can rid Bruce of clothes completely without any more damage than a loosened waistband. An easy fix. Just drop it off at a drycleaners. Long tears through fabric would be more irreparable, easily replaceable when money is no object.

Clark's hands find Bruce's bared thighs, digging in his fingers in a manner that feels, to him, extremely gentle, but feels to Bruce like granite, a jolt of near-painful pressure at each fingertip. "But I want you to be impatient, not me."