Phil manages to get a grand total of fifteen feet into the apartment before he's got Clint all over him, stuck to him like a magnet. Clint takes his face into his hands and kisses him intently, exploring his mouth like it's the first time, like he'll die if he doesn't get enough. Phil slips his arms around him, his hand sliding under the hem of his shirt to rest on his warm skin, and Clint practically melts against him.
"Hey there," Phil says when Clint gives him a second to breathe, chuckling. "What's got you so riled up?"
Clint rolls his eyes. "You know exactly what, sir."
Phil raises an eyebrow at him. "Can't say that I do."
"You wore the toppy aftershave," Clint tells him, looking excited. "I've been smelling you all day long. Been driving me crazy."
Phil frowns. "I have toppy aftershave?" He's in no way averse, because he definitely was thinking about going home and doing obscene things to his boy; it's just that he didn't know he had a tell like that. Then again, if anyone in the world were going to notice, it would be Clint.
"Did you not know?" Clint says, looking at him strangely. "You always wear this one when you're feeling extra dominant. God, when I smell that on you, I just want to-"
"What do you want to do, Clint?" Phil says. "Show me."
Clint strips off his shirt and drops to his knees, looking up at Phil with pure adoration in his eyes. Phil can't help himself; he reaches down and runs his fingers through Clint's hair briefly before pulling back, waiting to see where this is going.
Clint bends down, putting both his hands on the floor as he leans in. But just before he reaches his target, Phil jerks his foot away, and Clint comes close to kissing the carpet. He gives Phil a hurt look, but Phil just smiles at him. "I said I wanted to see," Phil says. "I didn't say I was going to let you do it." He puts his foot on Clint's back, holding him down. "I think you might have been right." He presses in harder, the heel of his shoe digging in. "Maybe I am feeling extra dominant today."
"See?" Clint says, slightly muffled by the way his face is pressed against the floor.
"Quiet," Phil tells him, pushing down hard once before taking his foot away; to his credit, Clint doesn't move. Phil leaves him there, walking away towards the living room. Phil stops after a few feet, turning and looking back at him.
"You coming or not?" Phil asks, and Clint starts to stand. "Hey," he snaps. "Nobody told you to get up." Clint sinks back down again, but he doesn't look particularly happy about it. Clint hates this part- not dealbreaker bad, not enough that he won't put up with it, but just enough and in the right way for Phil to use it against him.
Clint crawls towards him, and Phil's certain that he doesn't have the slightest idea how hot he looks when he does it. He's probably thinking that he looks like an idiot, like he's making a fool of himself, but that's not true; he's humiliating himself, and there's a marked difference. He looks stunningly attractive crawling across Phil's floor, the picture of submission, and Phil just wants to ruin him.
He stops in front of Phil, sitting back on his heels and looking up, his face bright red from shame. Phil puts his foot forward. "Now." Clint leans down again, lowering his head to Phil's shoe, kissing it softly before sitting back again. Phil raises an eyebrow at him. "Well, that was a sorry-ass piece of work," he says, taking Clint by the shoulder and shoving him down. "Don't waste my time. Get back down there and lick it."
Clint's in quite the mood, because he doesn't hesitate to obey. He drags his tongue across the polished leather, carefully following the toe, the instep. They're in good headspace for this today, matching up nicely. Clint wants to do whatever he says, wants to be the best he can be, and Phil wants to make it just as hard as he possibly can, just to see, just to make Clint prove how much he wants this, how much he wants Phil.
Phil's cock is already pushing at the fabric of his pants, growing more insistent; he doesn't have any particular shoe kink, no more than the next kinkster, but Clint's obeisance is almost too hot to handle. He ignores it for the moment, though, grabbing Clint by the hair and pulling him away. "That's enough, boy," he says. He looks at Clint speculatively for a moment. "Take your cock out."
Clint looks grateful, if a little confused. He unzips his jeans, shimmying them down far enough to expose his hard cock. Phil's pleased at the way he carefully avoids touching himself without permission; he's learned so well, and it's all for Phil, every last bit of it. There were people before Clint, it's true, but he doesn't want any after. There's no way in hell he's giving Clint up.
"Put your hand on your cock," Phil tells him. "Stroke it for me."
Clint sighs as he obeys; he really must not have been lying about being riled up, because he doesn't seem all that concerned about making it look good. He just does it fast, like he's going to sneak by Phil, like he's decided that begging for forgiveness is better than asking for permission- it's Clint all over, really.
Phil lets him do it, lets him work himself up higher and higher. "Are you going to come?" he asks, when Clint is working frantically, pushing up into his hand. "Answer me."
"Yes, sir," Clint moans.
Phil bends down to look him in the eye. "Then stop."
Clint must have been very close, because he jerks his hand away, even as he makes a frustrated noise. His hips work up against nothing, but he doesn't come.
"So you know how to do one thing right," Phil says. "Stand up. Take your clothes off." Clint stands, though it looks like he'd really rather not be moving at all. He pushes his jeans and boxers down, and with a considering look at Phil, folds them neatly, setting them aside, picking up his shirt from where he dropped it and folding that too. "Get me a cup of coffee."
Clint looks shocked. He not so subtly cocks his head at the big window that faces the kitchen, the one that he'll have to stand right in front of to get to the coffee maker. The blinds are down, but the slats are open, and anybody who walked by would get a free peep show. Granted, they'd have to walk by the third floor, so it's not like it's a problem; still, Phil knows it bothers Clint.
"You heard me," Phil says, because that's exactly why he said it. "Have you just decided not to obey?"
"No, sir," Clint says, and despite the fact that he's cherry red at this point, he squares his shoulders and walks to the kitchen. Phil watches him go, admiring the view for a moment before he walks to the couch, sitting down. He starts to put his feet up on the ottoman, but on second thought, he has a much better idea.
He can hear the grinder whirring, the coffee dripping. If Phil knows anything about Clint at all, Clint's in there trying to do anything he possibly can to speed this process up, but woe betide Clint if he comes back with a cup of weak coffee. Phil really, really wants to get his cock out, to get himself off as quickly as possible, but he holds off, knowing how much better it'll be if he waits for Clint to get back, sees his plans through.
Clint comes back some minutes later, gingerly carrying Phil's favorite mug, far enough away from his body that it won't accidentally splash him. When he gets to the couch, he very, very carefully kneels, presenting the coffee to Phil.
Phil puts the cup to his lips, taking a long, slow sip; just how he likes it, nice and dark, a little hint of sugar. "Get the lube," he tells Clint, not looking up from his mug, and Clint hops up and scurries off. He comes back, looking incredibly eager, and Phil makes him sweat a little, taking another sip before he speaks. He points to the ottoman. "Kneel. Face away."
Clint sets the lube down and climbs onto the ottoman, spreading his knees out and waiting for Phil's inevitable order. "Get ready for me," Phil says, still methodically drinking his coffee. Clint slicks up his fingers, leaning forward and bracing himself on one hand as he pushes one finger inside himself, two, and Phil realizes that he's paused with his coffee halfway to his open mouth. He forces himself to take another drink; if he's gulping it down to expedite this process, that's between him and God.
Clint's fingers are working quickly now; he's shaking a little, so overwhelmed that he's trembling, and Phil's not certain his own fingers are exactly steady. Clint is moaning softly, his back arching as he pushes three fingers in, as deep as he can get them, rocking on them to get as much as he can.
Phil has a quarter-cup of coffee left, and he gives up and slams it, ignoring the burn. "Enough," he says, his voice coming out far smoother and surer than he feels, and Clint takes his fingers out, breathing shakily as he waits. Phil stands up, fumbling a little as he unbuckles his belt, shoving his pants and underwear down around his thighs. He steps in and guides himself into Clint's ass, pushing all the way in with one long thrust; he has to stop for a moment then, panting and getting it back together enough that he doesn't come immediately, which really sounds like the best idea ever.
Clint is making desperate noises, begging wordlessly, and Phil wraps his hands around his hips and starts moving, pulling him back onto his cock, fucking him hard and fast. Clint is so hot and tight and perfect, just like he always is, and Phil wonders how and why he doesn't spend every waking moment doing this, just fucking and fucking and fucking, because he would give up a whole lot of things for it.
He's almost there, so close, but there's something else he wants, something he has to do. "Touch yourself," he orders, and Clint goes down on one shoulder, reaching underneath him, crying out when he takes hold of his cock. "Such a good boy," Phil says, and Clint makes a sound that might be a sob. "You did so good. Just perfect. Now come for me."
Clint all but screams when he comes, and Phil doesn't even make it another ten seconds before he comes with him, leaning forward and clutching him, holding him to himself protectively, possessively. He presses his forehead to Clint's back, making noises that sound wrecked even to his own ears. There is absolutely nothing that could convince him to change this moment, nothing that he would possibly trade; if it were up to him, it would never end.
It's all he can do to get them cleaned up and onto the couch, Clint curled up in his lap; Clint is not a small individual, and it's a little like getting sat on by a big dog, but right now the contact is so much more important than anything else. Phil snags the blanket from the back of the couch, pulling it over the both of them, hugging Clint close.
"Mmm," Clint says, nuzzling his neck. "Now you smell like coffee and sex."
"Better than aftershave?" Phil asks, stroking his back.
"Different purposes," Clint tells him. "Don't really want you to go to the office smelling like this, but I certainly like it."
"Good to know," Phil says, resting his chin on the top of Clint's forehead. He's already making plans: a little aftershave surreptitiously applied to the collar of Clint's shirt, a little on his pillow- he's going to make Clint regret giving him a weakness like that.
That's not true. Clint's not going to regret it. He's going to love every minute of it.