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Summary
Ian’s voice is low and quiet in his ear. “Eight minutes, huh? How many more minutes do you want to make it? How long can you last like this, Mick? Just like this.” He presses himself against Mickey before easing off, soft as a air.
Mickey doesn’t answer, because Ian’s hands keep moving over the sheet and it’s like he’s being traced, like some sort of chalk outline with the middle colored in.
