Michael doesn’t hesitate. He reaches for the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it up between them, not waiting for Lee to let him sit up; this works until the fabric reaches his mid-back, too much friction worrying at the edge of his sunburn. He flinches, annoyed, not wanting to move.
Stubbornly, he shifts his—and Lee’s—weight onto his shoulders and head and arches up, just enough to put some space between his back and the bed. Once he’s yanked the shirt as high as he can, he flops back down with a grunt and peels the rest of it carefully off. “Ugh, Jesus,” he swears, flinging it across the room.
The pain still hasn’t quite risen above the level of ‘irritating,’ though. It’s far from drowning out the fact that Lee’s naked torso is lined up with his now, that they’re pressed right against each other the way he likes and that she still wants him even though he’s ashamed of himself. His arms wrap around her again, he kisses her again, and it’s sexual and needy in a way it wasn’t before.