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    Summary

    “Why does he have to open it between jobs?” Lambert grumbled quietly to Eskel in the breakroom, glaring down into the tepid depths of the filter coffee in his hands. It was difficult to not stare when Geralt waltzed into the breakroom with his overalls open to the belly button. His entire torso was a work of fucking art. Literally, in all ways. Lambert had to stop himself staring at the tattoos, because that inevitably led to staring at the rest; the amazing fucking chest, the ripped abdominals.

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