He loops one hand around the cuff's chain, giving himself something to grab onto besides air, or dig fingernails into palms. The desire to touch Clark is almost more powerful than the ache between his legs— and that is significant. With some fingers pushing inside of him and some more fingers curling around the root of his cock like a ring put there on purpose. Bruce's knee jerks in a spasm of pure arousal, nerves all overclocked.

You're going to kind of fuck me with your pants on?

is not the q-and-a chain there, but, half delirious, Bruce considers it. Instead he lets out a rough exhaled laugh.

"You've never needed to actually touch me to get me hard." Panted, his knee still hitched up against Clark's side - as much as he's permitted to move. "You could sit on the other side of the room and tell me what you want to do, and I'd be like this. Granted, maybe not as quickly." Haha. Bruce scrubs his head back on the pillow, trying to talk himself out of the impulse to rock back onto Clark's fingers. His cock twitches at the careful, but pointed touch. "You know how bad I always want you. Or you should. You should know that getting off with you occupies a permanent portion of my fucking brain, now. Christ, Clark."

That last, bitterly exasperated, like will you. Move. Already.