✮

the two screamed in excitement to see their father, it was michael’s week to have the kids which was perfect time for you. schedule was full with meetings and meetings back to back due to your clothing line coming out with another launch.

“hello michael” you said as you moved your sunglasses to act as a headband for your hair, removing the car key from the ignition. transferring the backpacks from the passenger floor to the seat so it’s easier to grab.

“no need to be formal” michael responded, “i prefer hi daddy” he added while walking up to the passenger side of the car, you rolled his eyes and waved him off out of annoyance. the oldest, minnie pops her seatbelt buckle out before attempting to help her younger sister daisy out of hers. she successfully got the chest clip but due to little strength in her thumbs, minnie was having trouble to unbuckle the buckle part of the car seat.

“i got it” michael spoke, “thank you for helping” he praised minnie before placing his thumb on the red buckle and click, the metal prongs detached in a swift before picking up daisy from her five point harness car seat.

you snagged the backpacks off the passenger seats before exiting out of the vehicle, bending down to pull the lever for the driver’s seat to move forward, creating space for minnie to get out.

helping the oldest out of the car, you glanced up to see daisy already in michael’s arms. head resting on his shoulder, her small hand placed on michael’s chest with a little pout on her face.

“how was school?” michael asked, bouncing daisy in her arms as she shook her head refusing go answer. letting out a chuckle before he turned his attention to minnie.

“school was fun” minnie answered, “we watched beauty and the beast since its friday” she contiuned, you shut the car door. standing behind minnie with a smile on your face as she was going on and on about her school day.

now heading to the front door, it was you and minnie hand in hand walking in front of michael.

your ex husband eyed you up and down from behind in the meantime, you wearing a matching green velour tracksuit with your khaki 2004 coach hampton demi bag on your shoulder, the pink straps from your thong poking out. when it’s time to go up the few steps, your jacket rises up a bit and since your track pants were low rise, the small yet noticeable ‘𝓜’ tattoo on your lower back made its appearance.

michael smirked at the tattoo before he bit his bottom lip, thinking back on the time you got it.

“you look good”

“michael please shut up”

author’s note: this SUCKSSS for now, will definitely create some headcanons + maybe more blurbs. my homegirl is now harassing me to write more

“what did she just say?” Michael asks, voice low. He’s still leaning over me, looking straight at the TV, face blank.

I’m a little stunned, because I can’t believe I just heard that either. I tap his chest gently, and he moves off me, allowing me to sit up. I reach for the remote and turn the tv off, then stand, unsure of how to react because one, now the whole world knows we had some kind of confrontation, and two, she kind of just threatened me. And three… now I need to tell Michael that I cussed out his ex wife.

But more importantly… I’m lucky she didn’t have me shot? Who even says something like that? Perhaps if I didn’t know this industry better, I might’ve laughed this off, but… people have gotten got shot over less.

Michael stands up. I can see his mind is racing as he smoothes his palms down his pants. “What is she talking about? What happened on that flight?”

I hum, and briefly consider lying, but… what would that do? I clear my throat, stomach twisting. “She basically told me that you were a dog who’d come home eventually when he was done playing in the street, which I assumed was me. So I told her that we’d been fucking raw for two months and that I might even be pregnant, and I hope that news ruined her year. Then I said I didn’t give a fuck who she was.”

Michael stares at me for a long moment, then he half smiles. He looks like he’s about to full on grin then he fights it. He rubs the bridge of his nose and ducks his head, then huffs. “Daphne,” he scolds gently.

“It just came out of me. She was being rude, and like cornering me on a plane. I just snapped.”

“You think you’re pregnant?”

“No, I had my period last week,” I mumble. It kind of explained why I’d been so emotional over the note. As well as being hurt. The day after I’d thrown my phone across the room, Aunt Red had visited. “And why is that the bit you’re focussing on? She just said she could’ve had me shot.”

Michael blinks, realising I’m right. He steps back towards the bed and sits, rubbing his jaw. “We need to get you a security team. I don’t think you should go out for a while, just until things calm down.”

“Do you think she’d actually organise something like that?” I ask quietly.

“People get worked up over smaller things, Daphne. If she was bold enough to say it…”

“I don’t think she’d actually do it now. Everyone just heard her say that on national TV.”

Michael hums. There’s a knock on the door, and I hear one of his security guys ask for a word. “Just a minute,” he replies loudly, “what’s your schedule like for next week?”

“I have a gig tomorrow,” I say as he stands.

“Doing what?”

“It’s a shoot for a lingerie brand. All day.” I tuck my hair behind my ears, sighing. Michael just looks at me. “What?”

“Lingerie?”

I don’t know what that tone means, so I frown.

“Is it necessary?”

“I chose to do it,” I reply, still frowning. “Is that a problem?”

“What’s it for?”

“Lingerie.” I frown harder.

“Like print, or what?”

“Print. A magazine. Why?”

Now Michael’s frowning, glancing over me in my mini pink nightgown.

“Why?” I press again. When he doesn’t answer me immediately, I get irritated. “What is it!”

“Just, don’t want…” he mutters, rubbing his jaw again. “never mind.”

“Mikey, I’ve done bikini shoots before, this is no different.”

“I know, I’ve seen them,” he mutters, not looking at me as he walks towards the door. I raise my eyebrows. “I just don’t want people looking at you like that anymore.”

“Well, tough.”

He hums, low and annoyed, and I grin as he opens the bedroom door and steps out. I climb back into bed, just as my bedazzled cell phone starts ringing on my nightstand. I glance over at it.

It’s my dad.

I answer. “Hello?”

“Is this the woman your mother was telling me about?” He all but shouts down the phone, “the one on the news tonight?”

“That’s Michael’s ex wife, yeah.” I glance at the bedroom door, wondering what he’s discussing with his security guy.

“What a nasty piece of work. I’m gonna be making some calls and putting in a report to some guys I know in the city right now. Your mother is furious.”

“Dad, I don’t—”

“No one threatens my baby,” he says sternly, “I don’t give a damn who she is. Speak to your mother.”

The phone rustles.

“Daphne?” Mom’s voice comes through, “my angel baby, what happened? Are you safe? Where’s Michael?”

“He’s just outside the door, his security team is here and I’m fine.”

“Why would she say that!”

“I was a bit of a bitch to her, mom.”

“So? We’re girls, we can be a bit of a bitch to anyone! She wanted to harm you physically, that is going way too far. Speak to your father.”

The phone gets passed back to my dad, and for the next ten minutes he informs me of his next steps. He tells me who he’s called, and when I should expect to be contacted by them myself.

“She’ll find out who the hell we are, I’ll tell you that. Some of us don’t feel the need to shout about who we know, some of us work in silence.”

When I finally manage to calm my parents down, it’s very late. I’m just hanging up the phone when Michael comes back in, looking tired. “Who was that?”

“My own two person militia,” I chuckle. “Parents.” I add. He smiles softly. “They’re furious. And you know it’s serious if dad’s ranting about making calls at half eleven at night.” I giggle.

“It’s not funny, Daphne,” Michael murmurs, “you should be taking this seriously, like they are.”

I go quiet, smile fading as Michael comes to sit next to me on the bed. “This industry is a legacy and money making machine. People have big egos, especially if they’ve got a household name behind them. Lisa has been pissed off several times, humiliated in public and private. People have been hurt for much less.”

“You’re scaring me,” I whisper.

“I’m sorry baby, I just want to deal with this properly.”

“You want us to go back into hiding?” I ask, heart sinking into my stomach.

“No,” he replies softly but sternly, “just let me and your dad handle this, I don’t want you to worry.”

I smile softly at him, “okay.”

We get ready for bed, or really I wait for Michael to get ready, then he climbs in beside me. I snuggle up to him, breathing in his scent like a crack addict. “Thank you for coming over,” I whisper, feeling very cared for and protected.

Michael puts his arm around me, then his fingers trace themselves through my hair softly, brushing against my temple. I tip my chin up to look at the profile of his face in the dark and see he’s staring at the ceiling. “I can’t let anything happen to you,” he murmurs.

I lean up to kiss his jaw affectionately. Then he turns his head towards me, capturing my lips. I hum, loving how our lips settle together, how sweet this kiss feels. We peck each other gently a few times before I pull away, attempting to have some self control. I rest my head on his chest, and drift off a lot faster than I thought I would.

The next day, Michael comes with me to my lingerie shoot. As do several of his big security guys.

I’m greeting everyone, doing my thing, though most people are distracted by the fact Michael is just lingering on the sidelines of the set in dark clothes, big shades on, arms folded, like he’s my bodyguard too. He doesn’t introduce himself, either, which just makes everyone nervous.

I hear his name whispered a few times as my hair and make up are done. Then I’m shown the pieces I’m to wear. It’s like a more gothic, rock star vibe. A lot of black and reds. Not really my usual style but with the darker make up and bigger hair, it works.

As the set is still being put together a little with some small adjustments being made, I wander over to Michael as I do up my robe. “You know we can see you, right?” I tease. He smiles, reaching out to touch me. “You’re making everyone nervous.” I add.

“Can I see?” He asks, pulling at my robe. I smirk and undo it again, showing him the red set. I’ve got sheer red tights on a lot of gold jewellery. Even the heels they’ve given me are red with gold accents. If they did this set in pink I’d probably steal it. “This is very sexy,” he murmurs. My cheeks heat, but I smile coyly, giving him a little spin. He touches my hip gently, tracing the band of the panties. “I love this.”

“Easy,” I giggle. I’m aware the majority of the people on this set are watching us, even if they’re trying to be discreet. It occurs to me after a few seconds that perhaps he’s doing this on purpose. A territorial display for the other men on site.

“Daphne, we’re ready for you,” one of the organisers says, approaching carefully. She glances at Michael quickly, gripping her clipboard.

“Be right there,” I say lightly, then turn back to Mike. I shuffle over to him and kiss his cheek, “try to look less like a vampire over here, okay?”

He hums, but I’m already walking away, heels clicking. I shed my robe and move into position, getting quick low down from the photographer and art director on what they’d like me to do.

I find taking pictures, and being in front of a camera pretty easy, so the next few hours slip by without an issue. I change a few times, pose with the props they want me to, all the while trying my best not to sneak looks at Michael who’s edged closer and closer to the monitor where my shots are showing up. He doesn’t say anything for a while, but with every picture taken he nods. When the arts director plucks up enough courage to engage him in conversation, it takes all of five minutes before he’s fully involved.

“Chin down,” he says, standing beside the photographer, everyone watching in a mixture of awe and curiosity as he takes control. I follow his instruction, fixing my hair as I do so. “Push your ass out just a little bit,” he’s all professional, but the moment he adds that little touch of praise: “Just like that, well done.”

My vision turns hazy.

I do as I’m told, but I’m on auto pilot at this point. Cheeks tingling with an intense blush. The photographer is just nodding, ecstatic, capturing shot after shot rapidly as Michael tells me what to do.

“This is fucking phenomenal,” he compliments, looking down at his camera, then he’s back to taking pictures, and Michael’s just grinning at me. “Beautiful.”

They change me into a black set, full get up with little fastenings around my thighs, holding the stockings up. I’m in thin six inch heels, sliding a blazer on. “Do you have anything else?” Michael asks, watching.

The stylist is flustered immediately. “Um, like what?”

“She looks great in fur.”

“We have a leopard print one!” Someone calls from the racks. Michael nods, and even with his shades on I know he’s looking me over, taking me in as I stand there in lingerie and heels, hands on my hips.

I’m smirking, and so turned on I’ve actually lost my ability to talk and he’s just basking in it. I can’t believe he’s taken over this, and yet this seems exactly like his kind of thing. Directing, styling. All of it. It’s so fucking hot, I can’t stand it.

I’m back in front of the camera, dressed in lingerie and fur, balancing one leg up on a crate with an unlit cigarette in my mouth.

Michael’s back to watching the monitor, that small approving smile playing on his lips as he watches me pose. When I turn, flicking the long fur coat back from my body, and glance over my shoulder, he grins.

“That’s a wrap!” Someone calls, and the shoot finishes. The coat is slipped off my shoulders and I’m giving a robe to wrap up in immediately. I walk over to Michael, eagerly seeking another hit of praise.

“Look at these,” he says, bringing me closer, showing me the monitor where all the images taken have come up. “You look incredible,” he compliments, and I feel the eyes of some of the staff on me, on us, again. “Can one of you send this to me, actually,” he says, pointing to the shot on the screen of me glancing over my shoulder, fur coat mid-flick, revealing half my ass and my leg propped up on a crate.

“Of course, Mr Jackson, we'll have them printed for you.” the art director agrees, already scribbling down an address for him to post the photos too. “We can send you others too, if you want to pick some more out.”

“Oh my gosh,” I murmur, flushing and step away, heading back towards wardrobe to change. By the time I do, and it’s time to go, I’ve got a little gift bag of all the sets I wore to take home as a little thank you.

Michael and I step out into the street, exhaling with quiet relief when there’s no paparazzi. His driver opens the door for us, and we slip into the town car that has the blacked out windows this time. “How did I do?” I ask Michael once the door clicks shut. I rummage through the bag of lingerie and see a few extra pieces thrown in that I didn’t wear, and coo happily.

When Michael doesn’t answer me, I look up. He’s watching me, and only slides off his dark shades when I look at him. “Come here,” he murmurs. I’m moving immediately, crawling onto his lap.

When our lips meet, I’m straddling him, and all that unspent lust comes rushing back. I moan into his mouth, wrapping my arms around his neck. He leans to the right, and I giggle as I hear him tapping around for the button to raise the partition between us and his driver.

Then he’s kissing me back, pulling my hips closer, until I’m flush against his body and he’s gripping my ass with those big hands. “I think we should work together,” he murmurs as I tilt my head back and he kisses my neck. “You looked magical on camera.”

“What do you want me to do?” I ask breathlessly, head spinning.

“Perform for me in a short film,” he replies, kissing along my jugular vein, sliding his hands up my back. He grabs a handful of my ass over my yoga pants and squeezes.

“A short…” I trail off, not really concentrating, “What? like porn?”

“No,” he replies immediately, but then he’s chuckling, low and sexy, breathing in my scent as he pushes his face into my breasts. I blink rapidly, not sure I’m following because all my mind can think about is something else entirely. “No, I make short films for my music, baby.” He says softly into my cleavage.

“Oh.”

“You just want sex all the time, huh,” he murmurs.

“I want you, not just sex,” I say as he kisses my breasts and rubs my hips. I can feel my own heartbeat between my thighs and it’s driving me nuts. Michael pulls back and grins, so smug at the effect he has on me.

“So what do you say?”

“Sure, fine,” I agree, kissing him. I hold his jaw, feeling it move under my palms as he kisses me back, deep and slow. My tongue is in his mouth and he’s groaning softly as I grind my hips into him when the car stops.

“Sir, we’re here.” The driver says through a gap in the partition. I break the kiss and glance out the window. He’s brought me to a studio, since he needs to keep working on his album, and stated this morning he wasn’t interested in leaving me alone in LA right now.

My lips feel swollen as I climb off Michael’s lap and fix my appearance despite there being no paps outside, you can’t be too careful. They really could be anywhere, wanting more candid shots. We slip out the car and Mike takes my hand as we cross the sidewalk into the building. He has pretty long strides which are hard to keep up with in my flip flops.

Once inside he shows me the way, introducing me to a few people as we navigate through the building. “I’ve been to this studio before I think,” I say without thinking as I recognise the decor, then abruptly shut my mouth.

“When?” Michael asks, frowning. I purse my lips. “Oh.”

I laugh when his expression flattens, “you know I’ve dated other musicians.”

“Do you have to remind me?” He mutters.

“Hey, I have to deal with your ex wife.”

He sighs, then glances down at me, sliding his hand out of my grip then putting his arm around my shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he leans in to kiss my temple just as we walk down another hallway. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“I’m gonna milk this for such a long time,” I giggle, leaning into him. We enter a studio room where some of his team are already waiting. He introduces me, then I perch on a leather sofa at the edge of the room and watch Michael get to work.

This setting is so different to the studio sessions I’ve been to before. There’s no loud music or smoke clouding the air. Michael is very focussed and professional, murmuring things to his team every now and then, writing things down. When he does actually record, the lights are low and everyone listens. I’m transfixed, watching him test sounds, instruct and change things.

The evening crawls in quietly. I step out to grab dinner for everyone, then make my way home with soup, noodles, hot teas and more extra little bits to snack on. I slip back into the studio quietly, and Michael’s recording again, lights dimmed. He sings with his eyes closed, looking so serene and handsome.

The song he’s recording is a slow R&B song, the lyrics, from the bits that I've heard are sweet and enticing, so romantic. I put dinner down on a table and go back to watching him sing, my teeth latching onto my bottom lip. God, he's so attractive, it's insane.

As if he can sense me looking he opens his eyes, watching me through the glass. I wiggle my fingers gently in a wave, and he smiles, recording ad-libs to the chorus of the song that plays out of the speakers. I lean my weight in one hip, loving the way his voice rasps when he hits the stronger notes. I think back to that morning, with my project, taking the lead naturally, directing me. Making it better. I shiver as my mind replays the way he kissed me in the car on the way here next.

Michael takes a break after a few minutes and steps out of the booth.

“I brought soup and noodles,” I explain as he steps over to me, I glance up at him as he nears, then pressing a kiss against the edge of my mouth. “And tea.”

“Thanks, baby.” He grabs a tea, slaps my butt softly, and gets back to work, whilst everyone else helps themselves to food.

I’m in a giddy daze from that moment on, watching Michael work, listening to those rasps as he sings, that just hit my brain and my core at the perfect intensity. The expertise he exhibits as he tweaks and adjusts the song to get it just right, humming melodies then scribbling things down is just so...

He's such a professional, and I'm so turned on that it's just like I keep hitting this unbearable limit then cooling myself off forcefully, just to repeat the cycle every half hour or so.

I don't understand how I can be so attracted to someone, and yet feel so safe and relaxed. It's odd, because I always thought I'd have to give up one for the other. Attraction for safety, safety for attraction. But with Michael, he's safe and insanely hot. A rare and intoxicating combination that turns me into this absolute maniac.

When it hits really late evening, I'm fighting yawns every few minutes, but still greedy to hear more music. Though when Mike catches me fighting one for the fifth time, he decides to wrap up for the night. He could easily stay another few hours probably, and I'm about to suggest that, but from the way his sound engineers and produces are yawning too? It's probably for their benefit too that I keep my mouth shut.

Michael steps out the booth, glancing over me. He's spent all afternoon and evening working on one song, and I've only heard it in bits and pieces, and mostly just the melody. Not that many lyrics yet, aside from something about butterflies.

He's deep in thought as we walk out the studio, but he places his hand on my lower back, to let me know he's nearby physically, as we step out into the night. There are a few distant shutter clicks and flashes from across the street, but no shouts for attention as we head towards Michael's town car, with the blacked out windows.

We're back at my place, keeping our heads down as the paps clamour the car, their intensity just increasing because of Lisa's comments from last night. Just as I forgot about it for a few blissful hours, here come their shouts to remind me. "We should do something about those," Michael murmurs.

"I can't, they're on public land."

Michael hums, but doesn't push the topic as the car pulls up round the back and we slip out and into the house. It begins to gently rain as we ready for bed. I'm sluggish and sleepy, but Michael looks as awake as ever. "Not tired?" I wonder as he looks out my window. There's no view here other than the back yard and pool lights.

"Just thinking."

"About what?" I ask as I climb into bed.

"You living here," he replies, "I'd like to get you somewhere with a little more privacy. Don't like so many people knowing where you are all the time."

I feel warm all over and smile at him as he readjusts the curtains, pulls them tightly together. The sound of the rain muffles the distant noise of the city.

"And we need to get you better security. Someone who's here with you when I can't be. I saw the way those men looked at you on set today. Even my sound guys did it when you walked in."

"Michael," I purr at him, beckoning him over to the bed. "Relax, baby."

"I'm trying." He rubs the back of his neck.

"People looking at me doesn't mean anything's going to happen," I purr more at him as he sits down, and I climb over the bed towards him, placing my hands on his shoulders. He shifts, stretching his neck and I knead those muscles gently. "You're so tense," I murmur softly, kneeling behind him. "You work so hard, all the time." I lean in and kiss his cheek as he hums, exhaling slowly... gradually relaxing.

"I want you to feel safe."

"I do," I say softly, kissing his jaw, then his throat, all whilst still massaging those muscles. "With you, I do."

Though even as I say that, it does feel like there's some metaphorical door that I haven't seen behind, and Michael has. He's been in the industry since he was a kid, he probably knows too much, has seen way too much.

Michael turns and looks at me with those big doe eyes, and I tilt my head. We just look at each other for a few seconds, gazes soft. "I'm gonna take care of you," he murmurs.

"I'm gonna take care of you too," I whisper, leaning and kissing him gently. I would have devoured him there and then had tiredness not descended over my eyes like a dead weight.

"you should sleep," he says, voice low. His lips brush against mine as he speaks. I hum, nodding, and kiss him once more before I crawl over to my side of the bed and lie down. I pat the space next to me and he smirks, lying down too, though I know the moment I doze off, he's going to get up and probably pace around, fretting.

By the time the weekend comes pictures of Michael and I are everywhere. Snapshots heading to the studio, or him arriving at my house late at night. The news of him at my photoshoot has spread, though no pictures accompany it. Yet.

Part of the world claims we're rubbing the new relationship in Lisa's face, whilst the other part claims that Michael is allowed to act as he pleases, as he is divorced now. As for me, the consensus splits between naming me a home wrecker, or Hollywood's next it girl.

Most of that depends on my next move, as the critics (gossip channels) claim.

To escape the noise of the city for a bit, Michael and I head to a private vila in Palm Springs recommended to him by a friend. It's massive, with about twelve bedrooms, a huge pool, games room, bar-- the works. Oh, and staff.

We arrived in the late afternoon, had dinner cooked and served to us outside on the patio beside the pool, then most of the staff went home. We crack open a bottle of wine, then snuggle together on the couch, fire on, just talking. For the first time in a week I finally see him relax.

It's weird to think that three months ago, I was walking up to him convinced all I'd get out of him was a one night stand. Now look at us.

I'm a little tipsy when Mike suggests watching a movie. I make myself comfortable against him as he picks an old film, that's literally in black and white, and settles back. He murmurs that he's seen this exact film about a hundred times, and I'm gazing up at him, smiling, dazed and just... in love with him.

I'm crazy about him.

He glances down to where I'm tucked into his side, his arm around my shoulder. He does brief double take when he sees how I'm looking at him. His pupils swell, and a soft flush swarms his cheeks. He leans down and kisses me, and desire floods my system immediately.

I cup his cheek with my right hand as our mouths move together, tongues grazing. The kiss is deep, sensual and slow, and within a minute I'm already dizzy, wanting more. I moan softly, and Michael pushes closer.

I end up pressed against the back of this long cream couch, Mike leaning over me, hand between my thighs. We're kissing like crazy, so needy and breathless for each other.

He rubs my clit with those long nimble fingers over my baby blue jersey shorts, pleasure zipping up my spine. I'm squirming, so wet and excited that he could ask me to do anything in exchange for a taste of him and I'd do it.

Then he's sliding his hand under the band of my shorts and panties, pressing his fingers in close to my sex. He groans, feeling how wet I am as he dives his fingers along my slit, then ease them inside me, giving me a taste of what I crave. I'm whimpering against his mouth, gripping his white t-shirt into my fist, desire practically choking me with its intensity.

I'm already so sensitive and ready down there that I can hear his fingers pumping into me. He just watches me squirm with heavy lidded eyes, pupils blown, bottom lip tucked under his teeth.

He's begun to be able to tell when I'm about to cum without me even making a sound. My eyelashes flutter, my toes curl as my hips tilt towards him-- but then he's sliding his fingers out of me. I gasp at the loss, yet half second later I'm tracking his every move as he sucks my arousal off his fingers.

"Upstairs," he instructs and I'm up from the sofa, legs like jelly. He grabs the bottle of wine by the next, then he's after me, walking calmly as I hurry ahead. In view of the bedroom door, I'm peeling my clothes off, unhooking my bra, just dumping everything so by the time I get to the bed, I'm naked.

I twist to face him, panting, eyes razor focussed on him as he steps into the room, closes the door behind him. He takes a swig of wine from the bottle, eyes grazing over me. "God, Mike," I whisper.

The way he looks right now is about to make my knees buckle.

He leaves the wine on a table by the door and peels off his shirt. He's undoing his belt and pants as he walks towards me, eyes on me, scanning my breasts, my stomach, my sex, all of it.

His pants hit the floor, and I pounce, climbing onto him, arms around his neck, mouth locking with his as my legs wrap around his waist. He hasn't even got his boxers off yet, but I don't care, I can't wait. I need him.

Michael shifts onto the bed, one arm under me, holding me up and to him. He lays me on my back as we kiss, and I use my feet to push his boxers down. I part my thighs, sliding my hand down my stomach, touching myself. He ducks his head, watching, tongue grazing over his bottom lip as he angles his cock right at my entrance.

When our eyes meet again, he pushes inside, slipping in easily.

My back arches into his chest, and my head tips back into the pillows. His slow, purposeful thrusts start sending my body onto cloud nine. I'm murmuring praise, gasping and moaning, loving how easily our bodies fit together, how good he makes me feel.

I drag my eyes back to focus on Michael, pressed between my thighs, thrusting himself into me. His cheeks are flushed, eyelids so heavy he looks dazed. "You're fucking perfect," he whispers, voice husky. I moan in response, caressing his board shoulders. "I'm yours, you have me," he rasps. I whimper, sliding my palms from his shoulders to his cheeks. "Whatever you want, baby... you can have it."

My eyes threaten to roll back as an orgasm grows from my toes. I push against Mike's chest, but he can read my intentions, and shifts onto his back as I swing a leg over his hips. Then i'm easing him back into me, riding him.

I toss my head back, gasping and moaning as I rock my hips back and forth, chasing my orgasm. I hold Michael's waist as his large hands grip my hips, he's groaning in time with my movements, brows furrowed as his gaze drags over my body rocking on his lap.

Then I'm coming, and the pleasure is so intense my muscles lock up. I freeze, breaths hitching, nails digging into Mike's skin as he smirks lazily, smug and turned on, watching me tremble. My sex pulses around him, but instead of flipping me onto my back, he pulls me forward, lifting my hips, then thrusts into me from under me.

I squeak, so sensitive from my climax, but still feeling waves of pleasure as Mike pounds into me hard and fast, until he cums. He cries out, whole body trembling as he presses himself into me, holding me to him.

We're panting, gazes locking. My heart's still racing as I lean down to kiss him gently. "I love you," I murmur against his lips and lean up, drinking in his just-fucked look as he's pinned under me. He smiles, sleepily blinking at me.

"And I love you."

I giggle softly, then Michael turns me onto my back, and eases out of me. He takes care of me so sweetly, cleaning me up, pressing kisses against my abdomen, quietly giving away something he's thinking about I think. I'm not sure if he meant to or not.

I'm lying nude on the bed whilst he's in the bathroom, when I hear something. A quiet, staggered thump.

I sit up, skin prickling. "Was that you?" I ask.

"Huh?" The shower turns on.

I stare at the bedroom door, then slowly get up. When I get to it, I lock it. I hesitate for a few seconds, just starting to relax and I'm about to tell Michael that I'm paranoid when the loud sound of shattering glass comes from downstairs.

_______________________________________________

end notes: omg. okay so something about me I love it when plots get mad dramatic right when a couple wants to settle and be sweet. It's just so juicy to me, yfm.

anyway, let me know what you thought---- and also, which song you thought Michael might've been working on in the studio, as well as.... what might've happened at the end there.

I'm actually having way too much fun with this little fic, I even have memes saved and ready to post like what am I doing lmfaoooo

[tag list: @weasleylovers @slickdickwitchbitchh @twilightdance-minerva @tellybearryyyy @lotuspetalss @allihavetodoiisdream  @mrs-dylanobrien265 @vivyoi @intoyouangel @inggu09 @yennabow @voicesinurhead @wildpandorasky @khxna @skiicoreee @romansbbg @lowbudgetdoll @enhapocketz @ilovolivegarden @18lkpeters @tojiswifeforlife @jurneeblogs @riahbadazz @bri0469 @whoscamila @sansonlygf @michaeljacksonfan01 @delictezz @linsdaypotter @emmyyy21 @lov3lylxvender @lanibuggg @tothosewholisten @kayybaereads @justfaefaeee @milfslut @baybeghoul @againitskarabarrow @sqrlgrrl2 @appleciderroach @hugylong — if you'd like to added, please let me know! ]

Back then, it was just a neighborhood. With warm California sidewalks, jacaranda petals stuck to car windshields. I actually had kids to play with. Although they're still here, I've become accustomed to just watching.

Watching as they raced each other on bikes until the street lights came on.

They didn't pay me much mind anymore. I was just the girl with the camera.

A secondhand Pentax, scratches on the body, tape on the strap — but it was mine, and I took pictures of everything. The sky turning pink over the San Fernando Valley was beautiful. The driveway behind our estate was gorgeous, with flowers intertwined with the cracked pavement, the same flowers that my mother's hands braided into my hair on warm spring days like this.

And sometimes, I would take pictures of Michael. But not as the performer in his cute costumes, or the voice I would constantly hear on the radio.

Just the boy who lived behind the tall hedges and the iron gate. He always knocked on my window when he got home from rehearsals at midnight, smelling like sweat and stage lights, and whatever cologne Mrs. Jackson had sprayed on him before he left.

I hated that he was always busy, always leaving, always somewhere else.

Detroit

New York

Las Vegas

Jamaica — God, places I can't even imagine.

But somehow, he always found time for me. Like today.

I was sitting on the curb in front of my house, camera in my lap, waiting for the sun to hit the flower in front of me just right. But then I heard the gate open.

"You gon' break that camera if you stare at it any harder."

I didn't even have to turn around to recognize that voice. I knew it better than my own heartbeat.

"Easy for you to say, applehead. How was your trip?"

Kingston, Jamaica.

I saw him on the television, sharing the stage with Bob Marley and The Wailers. Their performance was amazing. Performing for about an hour and a half before the Wailers came on stage.

"Gosh, I wish you were there, J. It was beautiful. You would've loved the scenery."

He jogged over, his afro bouncing with each step, still in his work clothes. He dropped down beside me like he'd been running around all day — which he probably had. We sat there in silence for a bit, then he tapped the camera in my lap.

"You take any pictures while I was gone?"

I shrugged. "Maybe."

He tilted his head, giving me that soft crooked smile that never failed to warm my chest.

"You gon take one of me?"

"Man," I smack my teeth. "Aren't you tired of cameras in your face all the time? You hate it when people take your picture."

He looked down at his hands, then back at me.

"Not when it's you."

I paused, just a little, but I lifted the camera anyway.

"Alright. Hold still." He didn't. He never did. He laughed, turning his face toward the sun, and I snapped the photo right as the light hit his eyes.

Click.

I didn't know it then, but that picture would become the beginning of everything — the moment I realized I wasn't just documenting my childhood, but him.

The same boy who was always leaving.

The same boy who always came back.

The same boy who turned into the man I would spend the rest of my life with.

CONTINUE READING HERE

Michael was searching for the perfect aesthetic for his next music video. Ideas came and went like flickers of light across a projector screen. A spaceship drifting through silver galaxies. A dusty Wild West town swallowed by heat and cigarette smoke. The soft pastel glamour of the 1950s. Nothing felt right yet. Nothing carried the kind of magic he wanted.

His management team dug through everything they could find searching for inspiration. Old textbooks stacked beneath layers of dust. Forgotten museum archives. Vintage magazines with yellowed pages curling at the edges.

That’s where they found you.

A girl frozen in print like something pulled from another lifetime.

You sat across the front cover of the magazine with one boot hooked against your knee, a cigarette dangling lazily from your lips. A rifle rested loosely in your hand while the other gripped the wooden chair beneath you. The desert stretched behind you in endless faded gold, wind caught in your hair, sunlight pressed against your skin like a second layer.

You looked untouchable.

Not polished in the way Hollywood wanted women to be. Not soft or delicate. You looked wild in the quietest way possible, like you belonged to old roads, motel signs glowing after midnight, and country songs playing through static radio speakers.

Michael couldn’t stop staring at the cover.

“There,” he murmured softly, tapping the page with slender fingers. “That’s the one.”

You had no idea his team had started buying every magazine you modeled for until your manager called late one evening. The sound of his voice crackled through the phone speaker while you sat at your kitchen counter half-awake, tracing circles into the condensation of your drink.

“Hey, Y/N.”

“Yes, sir?”

There was a pause, like he was waiting for the words to settle before saying them.

“You’re gonna be in a Michael Jackson music video.”

Silence swallowed the room whole.

Your mouth parted slightly, heart skipping so hard it almost hurt. Outside the window, the cicadas hummed through the humid night air while headlights drifted down the empty road beyond your house. Everything suddenly felt unreal, dreamlike, like the world had tilted slightly off its axis.

And somewhere miles away in Los Angeles, Michael Jackson was already wondering if you looked even prettier in person than you did on paper.

You quickly traveled down to the shooting site in Arizona, the desert heat already clinging to your skin the second you stepped off the plane. The air smelled like dust, gasoline, and sunburnt pavement. Endless stretches of orange sand surrounded the highway while distant mountains blurred beneath the wavering heat. Everything about the landscape felt cinematic, like you had somehow driven straight into an old film reel.

The production set had been built miles away from the nearest town. Trailers lined the edge of the property while massive stage lights towered over the artificial Western streets they had constructed for the music video. Crew members hurried back and forth carrying cameras, cords, costume racks, and makeup cases. Country music crackled faintly through nearby speakers while someone shouted directions from across the lot.

The entire place buzzed with energy.

Your stomach twisted tighter the deeper your driver took you into the set.

You kept smoothing your hands over your jeans trying to ground yourself, though nothing could calm the pounding in your chest. You were about to meet Michael Jackson.

Not just see him from a distance. Not through magazine pages or television screens. Meet him. Speak to him. Stand in front of him.

The thought alone barely felt real.

By the time the car came to a stop outside the row of production trailers, your palms had gone damp with nerves. Your manager gave you a reassuring smile before stepping out first.

“You’ll do fine,” he said. “Just breathe.”

Easy for him to say.

You climbed out slowly, boots pressing into the loose dirt beneath you. The Arizona sun sat high above the set, casting everything in gold. For a second you simply stood there taking it all in. The fake saloon buildings. The horses tied near the edge of the set. The crew bustling around with organized chaos. It looked less like a music video production and more like a real town pulled straight from another decade.

And then you saw him.

Michael stood outside one of the large white RV trailers speaking with the director. Even from a distance, he carried a presence unlike anyone you had ever seen before. It wasn’t loud or demanding. It was effortless. Magnetic. The kind of presence people naturally gravitated toward without realizing it.

Dark curls framed his face beneath a black cowboy hat, the brim casting soft shadows across his eyes. Rings glinted against his fingers as he gestured animatedly during conversation. His fitted black shirt hugged his frame perfectly, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms despite the heat.

You suddenly forgot how to walk properly.

Your manager said something beside you, but the words dissolved into background noise the second Michael looked up.

His attention shifted instantly.

The conversation with the director slowed to a halt as his eyes landed on you across the dusty set.

And something changed.

It was subtle at first. A pause. A flicker of surprise crossing his expression. But then his entire demeanor softened in a way you couldn’t explain. Like recognition had settled into him before either of you had even spoken.

The feeling hit you just as hard.

Your breath caught sharply in your throat.

It made no sense. You had never met him before in your life, yet the instant your eyes locked it felt strangely familiar. Not familiar in a normal way. Something deeper than that. Like finding someone you had spent years unconsciously searching for.

Like your soul recognized his before your mind could catch up.

Michael excused himself from the conversation almost immediately. The director continued talking for another moment before realizing Michael was no longer listening.

And then Michael started walking toward you.

Every step felt painfully slow.

Your pulse hammered so loudly you were sure everyone around you could hear it. Suddenly you became hyperaware of everything. The dry desert wind catching strands of your hair. The warmth of sunlight against your shoulders. The sound of your own breathing growing uneven.

By the time he stopped in front of you, your entire body had gone tense with nerves.

Up close, he was somehow even more beautiful. Soft brown eyes hidden beneath thick lashes. Sharp cheekbones glowing beneath the Arizona sunlight. The faint scent of cologne and cigarette smoke lingering around him.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

Michael simply stared at you quietly, almost like he was trying to process something.

Then, slowly, he smiled.

And God, that smile nearly ruined you.

“There you are,” he said softly.

Not hello. Not nice to meet you.

There you are.

The words sent warmth flooding straight through your chest.

You swallowed hard. “Hi.”

Michael let out a quiet laugh beneath his breath, like he suddenly felt nervous too. It was oddly comforting seeing someone so adored by the entire world appear almost shy standing in front of you.

“I’ve been waiting to meet you,” he admitted.

His voice was gentle, smooth as velvet, but there was something underneath it you couldn’t quite place. Something genuine.

You tried to respond normally, but your brain had almost completely stopped functioning.

“I’m really excited to be here,” you managed quietly.

Michael’s eyes lingered on yours for another second too long.

“So am I.”

The way he said it made your stomach flip violently.

Crew members continued moving around you both, but suddenly everything else felt distant. Blurred. The noise of the set faded into the background until it was just the two of you standing there beneath the burning Arizona sun.

And neither of you seemed able to look away.

Days of shooting blurred together beneath the relentless Arizona sun. Dust clung to your boots, your clothes, even your skin no matter how many times wardrobe brushed you off between takes. The set had started to feel strangely real after a while. The wooden saloon doors creaked naturally now. The smell of whiskey props and cigarette smoke lingered permanently in the air. Horses stomped against the dry dirt while old country songs echoed softly from nearby speakers during lighting resets.

And through all of it, Michael Jackson demanded perfection.

Every movement had to mean something. Every glance held intention. Michael noticed details no one else seemed to catch. The tilt of a cowboy hat. The timing of a hand brushing against someone’s waist during a dance scene. The exact second eye contact should happen before the camera cut away.

Nothing escaped him.

You quickly learned how deeply he cared about his work.

The music video told the story of a hardened Western woman working inside a dusty saloon somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Michael played the mysterious outlaw who wandered into town one evening, immediately catching her attention. They danced beneath dim golden lights while gamblers watched from card tables and piano music drifted through the smoky air. Then came the showdown. Another cowboy wanting the same woman. A classic Western tale of jealousy, tension, and danger.

On camera, you played your role perfectly.

Cold stares across crowded rooms. Slow dances with lingering touches. Silent tension thick enough to feel through the screen.

But behind the scenes, something even more dangerous had started unfolding between you and Michael.

At first it was small things.

The way he always seemed to find you between takes no matter how crowded the set became. The way his attention naturally drifted toward you during rehearsals. Conversations that started professionally before slowly stretching longer and longer into the night.

You learned quickly that Michael was nothing like the image people created of him in magazines. Around the crew he was playful, constantly laughing and joking between stressful filming sessions. He teased the dancers relentlessly. Made ridiculous faces behind the director’s back to make people break character during serious scenes. Sometimes he’d randomly burst into song halfway through conversations without even realizing he was doing it.

And somehow, every time he made you laugh, he looked strangely proud of himself afterward.

Late one evening after filming wrapped, you found him sitting alone near the edge of the set watching the desert sky darken into shades of violet and navy. Most of the crew had already disappeared back to their trailers for the night, leaving the fake Western town quiet for once.

You hesitated before walking over. “You hiding out here?”

Michael glanced up immediately, smiling the second he saw you. “Maybe.”

The empty seat beside him felt like an invitation.

You sat carefully beside him on the wooden porch steps, knees nearly brushing. Somewhere in the distance, coyotes cried faintly into the night while warm desert wind drifted through the set.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you murmured.

Michael leaned forward slightly, elbows resting against his knees. “Just tired.”

His voice sounded softer than usual. More vulnerable somehow.

For a moment silence settled comfortably between you both. Not awkward. Not forced. The kind of silence that only happens when two people are slowly beginning to understand each other beyond surface conversation.

Then Michael looked over at you.

“You know what I like about you?” he asked quietly.

Your stomach tightened instantly. “What?”

“You don’t act nervous around me anymore.”

A smile tugged at your lips. “That’s because I’m getting used to you.”

Michael laughed softly beneath his breath, shaking his head. “I don’t think I want you getting too used to me.”

The way he said it made heat crawl slowly up your neck.

His eyes lingered on your face for a second longer than they should have. Long enough for the air between you both to shift.

Neither of you moved away.

By now the tension had become impossible to ignore. The crew noticed it too even if nobody said it directly. Lingering eye contact during scenes. Michael finding excuses to adjust your posture himself instead of letting the director do it. The way his hand always seemed to settle against the small of your back whenever he guided you somewhere.

And the dancing scenes only made things worse.

Especially the saloon sequence.

The room glowed amber beneath low hanging lanterns while piano music echoed softly through the set. Extras laughed around poker tables in the background while the camera circled slowly around you both. Michael’s hand rested against your waist as the two of you moved together across the wooden floor.

Closer than necessary.

Every take seemed to stretch the tension tighter.

“Look at each other like you’re in love,” the director called out at one point.

The words hit harder than they should have.

Because when Michael looked at you afterward, it no longer felt like acting.

After major portions of the video, Michael had consistently maintained his flirtatious demeanor with you. It never felt performative. His hands would slide around your waist from behind without hesitation; he’d murmur sweet nothings into your ear, and lately, he’d grown oddly fascinated by observing you get ready in the RV.

The intimacy between you two was effortless. No rehearsed charm or calculated moves. Just a natural ease where his touches lingered like they belonged there.

On the final day of on location shooting, Michael lingers in your cramped RV, the thin walls still humming with the leftover noise of the crew packing up outside. He doesn’t say anything at first, just leans against the folded-down dinette, his arms crossed over his chest, while you step toward the vanity to start unpinning your period costume. Your fingers fumble a little with the stiff lace at the collar, hyper-aware of his eyes on the back of your neck. You huff a shaky, half-amused sigh, pausing with your hands still in your hair, full of bobby pins.

“Michael, I’m about to change. Look away, hm?”

He doesn’t shift, doesn’t glance at the cracked linoleum like any other person would. His dark eyes stay locked on yours through the fogged vanity glass, his mouth tugging up at one corner.

“Maybe I don’t want to look away.”

Your breath catches, a warm prickle creeping up the back of your neck that has nothing to do with the RV’s broken AC. You’ve flirted for months, traded little inside jokes and lingering touches between takes, but he’s never said anything this plain, this unhidden. You know you have to keep your cool, match his boldness instead of freezing up like a teenager. Your fingers move to the heavy zipper down the back of the costume, sliding it slowly, the metal teeth clicking loud in the small space. You tilt your chin up, holding his gaze in the mirror, your voice steady when you answer.

“Fine. Watch me.”

Michael’s eyes don’t leave your reflection in the smudged vanity mirror as you fumble with the stiff side zipper of your dress, your manicured nails catching on the tarnished metal teeth again and again. The thin RV walls still hold the afternoon’s heat, sweat beading light at the nape of your neck, and you can feel his gaze like a warm, heavy weight pressing into every exposed inch of your skin. He pushes off the folded-down dinette where he’s been lingering, boots tapping soft on the scuffed linoleum, his voice low and thick with that lazy, familiar flirtation you’ve been dancing around between takes for months.

“Do you need any help?”

You don’t look away from your own wide, shaky eyes in the glass, your lips tugging up into a breathless smile as you tilt your shoulder toward him, leaving the zipper jammed half-open. The lace of your dress digs soft into your skin, and you can already feel his proximity prickle along your spine.

“I wouldn’t mind someone helping me with it.”

He crosses the three feet of open space in two quick steps, his body looming close behind you, and his warm breath fans the fine hairs at the back of your neck when his long fingers close around the zipper pull. He drags it down slow, the metal teeth clicking loud in the quiet, and the fabric slips open all along your spine before pooling at your feet in a heavy silk puddle. He doesn’t step back like you half-expect. Instead, his palm drags slowly in soft, circling strokes down the bare skin of your back, and he wraps both arms tight around your bare waist, pressing his solid chest firmly to your back. He drops his chin to your shoulder, his stubble scraping light against your skin, and his dark eyes fix on the delicate lace of your bra in the mirror. His voice drops to a rough, warm murmur right against the shell of your ear, the vibration sending a shiver down your whole body.

“If you needed any help taking that off, I wouldn’t mind.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you bite down hard on your lower lip to keep it from trembling, your smile turning nervous and giddy as you hold his gaze in the fogged glass. Your hands come to rest light over his where they sit on your waist, your fingers tangling with his.

“I wasn’t planning on taking it off just yet.”

His hands skim up your sides slowly, teasing, his calloused fingertips brushing light over the curve of your ribs until his knuckles brush under the thin wire of your bra cups. He waits, his thumb brushing soft over the metal clasp between your shoulders, and you tilt your head forward to give him better access, your voice dropping to a whisper.

“Unhook it for me, will you?”

He answers instantly, his voice gone rough and thick with want, his fingers already working the clasp loose against your skin, his palm pressing flat to your back when it gives.

“Yes Ma’am.”

The crew has long gone, their shouts and footfalls fading down the gravel drive to the parking lot, leaving only the hum of the RV’s dying fan and the soft tick of the metal siding cooling in the evening air. The unclasped bra slips down your arms, catching on your wrists before you shake it free, letting it drop to the linoleum next to your dress, and Michael’s breath catches hot against the side of your neck. He doesn’t look away from your reflection in the smudged vanity mirror, his dark eyes darkening further as he watches your chest settle, your nipples tight and peaked from the cool draft seeping through the cracked window above the sink.

His calloused palms, roughened from months of holding prop weapons and pulling ropes between takes, lift to rest light on your sides, then brush slowly up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing deliberately across your hardened nipples. A low hum rumbles in his chest, pressed tight to your back, and he murmurs the words right against your pulse point, his stubble scraping soft against your skin. “You’re doing something to me. Something no one else ever has.”

He pulls one hand away, lifting his index finger to press it light against your lower lip, and you open for him without thinking, your tongue sweeping slowly over the pad of his finger. He groans low, watching your mouth through the mirror, then pulls his hand back to circle your nipple, slow and tight, the pressure making you gasp and arch back against him. His free arm tightens around your waist, holding you pinned to him, and he drops his voice to a rough, warm whisper right against the shell of your ear.

“Won’t you bend over for me, mama? Let me feel you.”

You do as he asks, tipping your weight forward. He pushes his hardened manhood into your panties, and he nuzzles open-mouthed against the side of your neck, sucking a soft, dark mark just below your jaw that the makeup team will have to cover tomorrow, if you even bother showing up to the wrap party.

“That’s my good girl,” he whispers, and the words send a hot shiver rolling all the way down to your core, making you press your thighs together tight. His hand drifts lower, slow and teasing, skimming over the curve of your belly before slipping past the waistband of your lace panties. His long, veiny fingers drag through the slick that’s already pooled there, and he moans again, the sound vibrating against your back, before he pushes the damp fabric to the side, letting his finger brush light against your most sensitive spot.

You gasp, your hands flying back to grip his thighs where he’s standing behind you, and he circles the spot slowly, matching the rhythm he used on your nipple just minutes before.

He presses a kiss just behind your ear, his thumb still working slow, and you can feel his hardness pressing into the small of your back, thick and hot through his jeans.

“Oh,” he murmurs, his voice gone rough and thick with need, as his finger slides a little deeper, making you tremble in his hold.

“You’re so ready for me, baby. What do you want me to do to you first?”

The RV’s thin walls still carry the distant murmur of the wrap party down the hill, laughter and clinking glasses drifting through the cracked window, and you can’t stop the tremor that wracks your body as you press back harder against Michael. Your hands curl into the denim of his jeans where they’re hooked over his hips, and you tilt your head back against his shoulder, your voice breaking into a desperate, breathless plea. “I want it, Michael. I need it. Now.”

His fingers still where they’re pressed light against your entrance, making you whimper. He nips at your earlobe, his stubble scraping soft against your sensitive skin. He shakes his head like he’s scolding a misbehaving child. “Now don’t be so demanding. I’ll decide when you get it.”

Before you can protest, he pushes his two long fingers deep inside you in one sharp, steady thrust, and a soft moan tumbles past your lips before you can stop it. He claps his free hand over your mouth, muffling the sound, his palm warm and firm against your lips. His breath is hot against your ear as he shushes you slowly, his fingers already starting to rock deep inside you. “Be quiet, mama. Any of the crew wander back up here and we won’t be able to finish this. Understand?”

You nod frantically under his hand, your eyes wide in the vanity mirror as you meet his dark, hungry gaze. He pulls his hand away from your mouth, letting it drop back to your waist to hold you tight against him, and murmurs praise against your neck that makes your core clench around his fingers. “Good girl. You stay quiet, and I’ll give you what you want. Promise.”

You nod again, biting down hard on your lower lip to trap any stray sounds that try to escape, your nails digging half-moons into the flesh of his thighs. His fingers curl deep inside you, hitting that soft spot that makes your knees go weak, and you focus all your energy on staying quiet, on not giving away what you’re doing here, just so you can get what you really want more than anything, more than his fingers, more than this tease. The distant clink of glasses and roar of laughter from the wrap party down the hill swells for a moment, carried on a warm gust of desert wind through the cracked RV window, and you have to bite so hard on your lip you taste copper to keep from crying out. Michael’s fingers work slow and steady, curling just right every time he thrusts up, his thumb brushing steady circles against your sensitive clit, and the pressure coals tight low in your belly, hot and unforgiving, making your whole body tremble in his hold.

His mouth trails open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck, sucking soft, dark marks that won’t fade for days, marks the makeup team will have to work overtime to cover on Monday, if you even show up to the pick-up shoot at all. You can feel his hard length pressing hot and thick against the small of your back, straining against the denim of his jeans, and he groans low when you shift back against it, your core clenching tight around his fingers in response. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough and thick with need, picking up the pace of his thrusts just enough to make your vision spot at the edges. You can feel the edge building, that tight, burning pressure that’s been coiling since he first stepped behind you, and your fingers scramble for purchase on his thighs, your nails dragging hard enough to leave marks that’ll still be there tomorrow. He notices the way your breathing picks up, how your hips start to rock back against his hand in time with his movements, and he nips hard at the curve of your shoulder, his thumb pressing a little firmer against your clit.

“You gonna cum for me, mama?” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear, “Gonna cum all over my fingers before anyone finds us? Go on, be my good girl and cum for me.” The permission is all you need, and the pressure snaps, your orgasm rolling over you in hot, sharp waves that make your knees buckle. Michael holds you up, his arm tight around your waist, his fingers still working slow to draw out every last twitch, and you bite down hard on the back of your hand to muffle the cry that tears out of your throat. When the aftershocks fade, he pulls his hand out of your panties, and you watch through the mirror, still breathless and shaky, as he lifts his fingers to his mouth and licks them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. He groans low at the taste, his pupils blown so wide they almost swallow the dark of his irises, and he spins you around in his arms, lifting you up to set you on the edge of the vanity, knocking over your half-empty bottle of setting spray.

He steps between your spread thighs, his hands gripping your hips tight, and he leans in to kiss you, slow and dirty, so you can taste yourself on his tongue. When he pulls back, his forehead pressed to yours, he murmurs against your lips, “I told you I’d give you what you wanted. Now I’m gonna take you right here, and you’re gonna stay quiet for me, yeah?” You nod, your hands fumbling with the button of his jeans, and he grins, already helping you pull his zipper down, the distant noise of the party fading to nothing but background static, just the two of you in the hot, cramped RV, finally getting what you’ve both wanted for months.

a black felt hat and shades covered most of his face but his cheekbones were undeniable from the bottom half. loose black curls waved in front of his face as he nursed a short glass with a tight lipped grimace. he didn't look like he wanted to be there despite the crowd surrounding him in at the bar.

he was leaning towards a blonde woman who seemed to be having the time of her life. i don't usually go for the most sought-after man, but the wave of disapproval he gave off felt like a challenge.

my friend didn't have much information on him at all. he was one of those wall street guys, early 40s, known to be a great night if given the chance.

as i strutted over to his side of the bar for a third cosmopolitan, i thought to myself, "why not go for the hot rich old man for once?"

i didn't have to do much. once i shouted my order obnoxiously in his elbow room, i heard light "do i know you?" whispered into my left ear.

i shot back "should i?" with an annoyed glare before giving it a second thought.

that, ladies and gentlemen, is called taking a shot in the dark. sometimes, not worth the risk. sometimes it can get you as far as the backseat of Mr. Big's tinted out company car, sitting an uncomfortable distance from him with your hands fiddling in your lap. it had been five minutes and i realized he wasn't planning on taking off his shades anytime soon.

it was very intimidating to talk to him that way. i think that was the point.

"so what do you do for work?" his voice was even softer inside the vehicle and it sent shivers down my spine. the mystery behind his outside exterior said anything but soft, so the contrast was really doing it for me.

that must've been why i said, "i'm a sex columnist," plainly with a tiny grin. there are plenty of other ways to describe my job, but i was already playing with an empty hand so i went as far as i could go for the sake of my work.

because of course, i'm writing about this.

his shoulders bounced in a silent laugh as he lowered his shades to meet my meek gaze. "oh yeah? and what does that entail?" that smile was delicious and inviting.

"exactly what i'm doing right now. it's a column called 'sex and the city.' i like to think of myself as a kind of sex anthropologist." with that, the hat and the glasses came off.

"and what sort of piece are you working on right now?" he raised his eyebrow and flashed me that toothy rich ass wall street grin again. he seemed genuinely curious. this was no longer mess-free flirting. i quickly found myself wanting to impress him. wanting to be truthful. real.

"well, right now i'm researching for an article on women who sleep around the same way men do." he dropped his chin to deadpan me, mouth slightly open. his eyes were filled with doubt. like he couldn't believe what i was saying. so i kept going.

"you know, they go out, have a romp and feel nothing afterwards. i think this is the mindset that keeps our body counts so low. but, why can't women strive for the stars as well?"

he tilted his head and softly shakes his head, "but you're not like that." not a question, a statement. like he could read right through me. i couldn't tell if he was disappointed or not. the car was moving and he hadn't yet asked where to drop me off or if i wanted to go home with him. i think he was still deciding.

"well, aren't you?"

he was smiling much bigger now. "not even a little bit. not even a drop."

i turned completely to face him. with that face and a private driver zooming through manhattan, he was so like that. but what's the harm in playing dumb fawn who doesn't see it coming?

"wow," i leaned my shoulder towards him, "what's wrong with you?"

he laughed audibly this time.

"do you wanna find out?"