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 –
No, not want – need –
Is to have my skin bare against Jackson’s – flush, with nothing in between, not even air – nothing but sweat -
Jackson groans, though, and turns his face away, ripping his mouth from mine.
“What?” I breathe, my voice trembling as my hands again go to his cheeks, trying to turn his face back to me, wanting hi
