Even though they're bound, Bruce finds a way to press their palms together, or close enough. Stretch his fingers out, make sure everything is in working order. Admire him laid there like that, too. But he stays close, grinding slow and heavy into Clark. Nothing between them but sweat and red marks.

"What," Bruce asks, nuzzled against the side of his face, "were you worried about?" Low and warm, able to pick up that Clark isn't slamming his foot on the brake, but fine with slowing enough to chat before he does anything about his arousal, insistent as it is. He skims his hands down Clark's arms, presses thumbs into the tender spaces inside his elbows, palms over a substantial (if wrapped up) gun show. Listens.