That doesn't help, that migration. She can't think when he's kissing or biting here there, the thin skin right under her ear. That, and she can quite clearly feel the effect all of this is having on him and it's making her sweat. Her head tips back and the moan she lets out is louder than strictly necessary (how much is necessary, here?) but all her carefully cultivated self-control went right out the window this morning anyway. So.
She freezes momentarily and pulls her hands away, but they don't go far. She has them in between the two of them and he can hear the buttons of her jeans popping as she opens her fly. She has to get these off. She has to get all of this off right now.
Despite that, she's afraid to let him see her body, which is irrational. He has already seen her body. Rich is not shy about sharing what he calls "his nudes," a series of photographs and paintings, mostly of her. Whatever is between Lee's legs is always hinted at, though obscured - she wouldn't do them otherwise - but the rest of her body has been up for public consumption for months. Michael already knows what he's going to find when he gets her shirt off - that she's very pale and very thin, all rib and collarbone, but that her chest has a slight swell to it, not big enough to be called breasts but not entirely flat, either. She's not really sure what's going on there.
But she has to take it off, they can't do it through a hole in a sheet. "Take it off." She's panting. "Please." He could rip it off, she wouldn't care. What's a shirt? She has a million of them.