I’m panting, gasping really as Jackson presses me flat against the wall of rock, both of his hands under my shirt now, his palms a damn song against my skin as they press up over my ribs, as they move slow over my flesh like they’re trying to ensure that I’m here, that I’m real.
And suddenly, quite suddenly, I realize that I do not at all want to be wearing this shirt anymore. That I don’t want to be wearing anything – that all I want in the entire world –
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