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Summary
“Wait,” Nice murmurs, out of reflex.
But Lin Ling doesn’t. He keeps going, pressing harder into Nice’s lap, chasing friction and heat. His shirt is still on, buttons half undone and clinging to one shoulder, and Nice feels the frustration rise, the need to pause, to strip properly, to fold things the right way, and then Lin Ling grabs his hand and drags it under his shirt, over his chest, over the quick, uneven thump of his heart, and says in a breathless murmur, “Touch me here. Like you mean it.”
Nice’s world narrows to the skin under his palm. Hot. Bare. Imperfect.
So he touches.
