One knee presses into the underside of Clark's, pushing it out further, getting his legs wider. It gives Bruce room to press down, slowly rut his hips into Clark as he makes a mark at the base of his neck. On an expanse of skin that is just waiting to become perfect again. Bruce is strong enough to hold this position, hands keeping him balanced just above Clark's back. Thinking about his own a little, at the same time, if he should really be torquing forward like this in such a repetitive motion, but finding himself unable to reel it in. Observing that. Hm.

"Too late."

For the stove. Your apartment has blown up, sorry.

Bruce gets his self-control back under his own thumb, and levers himself up. Hands skimming down Clark's side, looking at the almost-mess he's made of his butt. Plans skew sideways, then, after a silent moment of consideration, during which Bruce enjoys the vicious satisfaction of yanking himself back from the brink. He could come in another minute, he's certain. Just here like this. But there are many feelings to experience, and not all of them have to be an orgasm.

Whatever plan is neatly folded up and discarded (for now) in favor of moving, shifting back across the bedsheets that should probably just give up, at this stage, to the end of the bed. With thumb and forefinger, Bruce tweaks where he'd pinched Clark, a teasing overture before he settles in to get his mouth on him. This is not something he does often - a bit more in the extended foreplay department than he tends to have time for, given his proclivities - but there's no squeamishness or hesitation as he spreads him open and licks in, harsh stubble and calloused hands and all.