His hand comes to Clint's hip, once he has turned to his knees, the shape of his body like an offering: back sloped, thighs spread, without question to be taken and taken well. There is nothing quite like the sight of such a man exposed and ready to receive him; nothing quite like the rush of possession as he again mounts him and presses steadily within: the broad oil-slick head of his cock slipping in first, and then the long glide of his shaft, and his hands upon Clint's hips pulling him back to meet him. He breathes out when again their hips meet, his pressed fully to a tight backside, the hot grip and clasp around him tempting him to a quick hard thrusting and a quick spilling within him, the release of his pent-up lust and tension.

Instead he finds some reserve of patience, and begins to thrust smoothly again: an easy rocking rather than the brutal fucking that would bring him quick relief, his hands steady on Clint's hips. Within and withdrawing again, and again and again, not frictionless but a glide, a perpetual cycle, a relentless motion, and he bends low over the man's body, leaning into him, his mouth finding the exposed nape of his neck.