Tamya

You love Michael, you truly did. It was the best day ever when you shared your vows at the altar, sharing a kiss that that was an equivalent to a life contract with each other.

He was the best husband ever, and you wouldn’t trade him for anything in the world.

Michael is a gentleman, the kind that opens your door, never fails to shower you in kisses and praises, protecting you from any potential harm.

He was also the type of gentleman that worried about hurting you, seeing you as a goddess that shouldn’t be manhandled and dragged around.

You loved how he viewed you but you also know what you liked. The slow love-making and gentle kisses were nice but you itched for more.

You were gonna ignore it, brush it off, be grateful for what you had.

Until the itch became too strong.

•••

Michael rolled his hips into you, slowly fucking you. “You feel so good, beautiful.” He murmured in ecstasy.

You swore it felt good but your mind was so distracted, you barely heard him. Noticing your distant look, he halted his movements, concern taking place in his expression.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” He asked making your eyes snap towards him. “Nothing.” You answered quickly with a smile to reassure him but the furrow in his eyebrows didn’t disappear.

“Talk to me, mama.” He pulled out to have a seat on the bed, gently sitting you up aswell. As much as you wanted to leave it alone, he’s very persistent and wouldn’t give up till you spilled the beans.

“I was just thinking…about…trying new things.” You couldn’t look at him, staring at a loose string on the bed spread. He stared at you, waiting for you to explain.

“Like…in the bedroom.” You muttered. His eyebrows lifted in surprise, a small hint of confusion. “Did I do something wrong?” He asked worrying that he wasn’t pleasuring you correctly.

He would’ve felt absolutely terrible, “No baby, you do amazing I promise.” You quickly reassured, looking into his doe eyes.

He let out a small breath of relief, “i just want you to try and be more….rough.” You said. He blinked at you, “rough?”

“Yea like….pulling my hair or something.” You shrugged trying to play it off like you weren’t scared to say it.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He said placing his hand on your knee. “Baby, you won’t…if anything it’ll make me feel even better.” He gently chewed on his bottom lip, considering your words.

Even thought he doesn’t understand it, he’ll do any and everything for you. “You have to teach me.”

•••

“But I can’t see your face, mama.” Michael pouted standing behind you. You were bent over the bed, after convincing him to try doggystyle. “It’s okay baby, just look at my ass.” You shrugged.

His face heated up at the explicit word, eyes darting to your ass quickly. He face palmed, feeling so dirty.

“Now, just put it in like normal.” You told him. He removed his hands from his face with a sigh. He took his length in his hand, dragging it against your wet pussy.

He eased in, breath catching in his throat. In this position, he went way deeper causing your eyes to roll back. “Michael.” You gasped feeling his hips connect to your ass.

His lips were parted and eyes clenched tightly, feeling you squeeze around him. He opened his eyes to look at your ass. He wasn’t used to seeing it like but God did he love it. He swallowed before slowly pulling out to thrust back in.

“F-faster.” You told him. His hands gently held your waist as his pace slightly sped up. He bit his bottom lip watching your ass jiggle every time he bottomed out.

Your moans began to fill the room, feeling him deep inside of you. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the movement, the vulgar sight turning him on even more.

“Baby…grab my hair.” His eyes widened at your request but he hesitantly listened. He laced his fingers near your scalp.

“Tighter.” You ordered which he obeyed. He finally gave a tug and he felt you clench around him. A groan left his mouth, arousal only spreading around his dick.

“Just like that, baby.” You moaned. One thing Michael loves is praise, so hearing you approve of his actions only pushed him further. He tugged at your hair once again, speeding up his pace to where he was pounding into you.

“Oh! I’m gonna cum.” You cried out, eyes rolling back. “Smack my ass, baby—please!” You begged knowing that’ll push you to the final edge.

As much as he was scared, he still did a light smack. “Michael—harder—make me cum.” You told him, still teetering on the edge.

He could tell from the neediness of your voice that you were so close. He drew his hand back, ignoring all warnings in his head and smacked your ass. A loud clap was made from the impact, a moan from you following afterwards.

His eyes watched the ripple from the impact and he almost busted right in that moment. How can something so nasty feel so good?

Your legs quivered feeling the burst from your orgasm rush through you. He moaned getting off to the sounds of your pleasure and the clench from your hole.

“Mmm, good job.” You sighed.

•••

“Okay baby, I need you to talk to me.” You told him. You were in missionary, legs wrapped around his slim hips. “Like just talk?” He wondered, a bit confused.

“No, like nasty. Can you say pussy?” You asked him making him gasp. “That’s so vulgar though.” “That’s what makes it sexy.” You explained with a giggle.

“Your….um.” He hesitated, nervous to say it but seeing your pretty eyes on him gave him the courage. “Your pussy feels good.” He whispered.

You gave him a small smile, “Good, now say fucking.”

“Baby, I can’t, I’m too embarrassed.” He said with a smile, covering his face with one hand. “Okay, listen to me then.” You told him. He looked at you, feeling your hips grind up into his dick.

Your warmth coated him causing his eyes to flutter shut. “Your dick feels so good inside of me.” You moaned. The stir he felt in his stomach was deep, causing his hips to stutter against yours.

“How good does my pussy feel, baby?” You asked him. His eyes opened, low hooded. “It-it feels good.” He answered. You shook your head, “What’s good?”

He let out a groan feeling you clench around him, you were determined to break him in. “Your pussy feels so good.” He said, voice slightly shaking, hips naturally picking up speed.

“Mmmm, keep talking.” You commanded. He racked his brain for every dirty word he knows. “Do you like the way my dick feels?” He asked, swallowing his nerves down.

Hearing you moan made him relax, you genuinely enjoyed this. “You like me fucking you like this?” Hearing Michael speak dirty was something you never thought would happen. Now that you’re here, you wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else.

You nodded your head, eyebrows furrowed. His hips picked up speed and he watched your hand trail between your warm bodies to rub at your clit.

He seen your other hand reach for his arm and he watched curiously as you brought his hand to your neck. “B-baby?” He asked. Your actions truly were mind blowing him, the fact he was enjoying it may have surprised him even more.

“Do it, Michael.” You told him, fluttering your eyes shut. He slowly tightened his loose grip around your neck and groaned when he felt you clench around him.

“Don’t stop, baby—you’re doing so fuckin’ good.” You whined. Once again hearing the praise shut down all original thinking. He pounded into you and the only thing in his mind was making you proud.

“Your pussy is so wet baby, are you gonna cum f’me?” He asked. You immediately came around him, drawing out a loud moan at his new found aggressiveness.

He chased after his orgasm, bottom lip sucked into his mouth. He let out a groan as he came inside, rolling his hips inside of you.

“Are you okay, love?” He immediately asked, cupping your face into his hands. “Yes baby, I’m fine.” You giggled.

“Go head and recover, you have more to learn.”

But now? You’re with him, by his side at all times, thriving off of your support alone. At the end of each show he’s racing backstage to be greeted by your proud smile, pulling him into a hug without a care of him being sweaty.

He would never have his career get in the way of parting you both.

husband!michael who has so many lovely nicknames for you, but nothing beats his favorite of sometimes calling you ‘my wife’. Yes, it’s simple, but it has you swoon the most out of all because it reminds you that you belong to him and no one else.

“How’s my wife doing?” He’ll whisper sweetly in your ear, coming from behind with arms wrapped around you.

“Is that what my wife wants?” He’ll say after you point to a cute purse in a magazine you’re flipping through, knowing it’ll be in your possession by tomorrow.

“My wife’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” He mentions when an interviewer asks a question about your guys’ marriage, not wanting anybody to forget.

He’ll continue calling you that as long as it keeps putting you in a flustered mess for him to see.

husband!michael who’s brain short circuits whenever he sees you wearing his clothes.

You discovered how your clothes for lounging isn’t as nearly as comfortable as Michael’s. Shirts engulfing your frame like a blanket, not to mention how they smell like him too? You’re not sorry for how many t-shirts you’ve stolen from his closet. He doesn’t mind one bit, leaving a peck on your cheek while he mumbles that you look better in them anyways.

husband!michael who pulls you into his lap whenever he can.

If he’s working on his music and you’re curiously looking over his shoulder, he’ll pull your hand to plop you down on his lap for a closer look.

If you two are relaxing together on the couch after a long day, cuddling up to his side, he’ll soon gesture for you to move on his lap and get more comfortable, rubbing soothing circles on top of your thighs.

He wants to be as close to you as possible.

husband!michael who loves to steal kisses from you.

How your lips attract him like a magnet, leaving quick pecks every time he lays his softened gaze on you. Doesn’t matter where you are, hell it could be in the middle of an interview you two are doing. It’s the one thing he isn’t shy about doing, which is publicly loving his wife.

Don’t even think about teasing him by turning your head away to avoid it. He’ll gently squish your cheeks to force your lips to pucker silly, turning you back to his direction and planting multiple while you giggle and squirm your head for freedom.

husband!michael who’s the most observant man you’ve ever been with.

“Did you do something with your hair?” You hear him say the second you walk in after getting a small trim to cut off your dead-ends, catching you by surprise on how he could see such a small difference.

“Is that a new dress?” He’ll comment during a date night, admiring how beautiful the warm color looks on you. “Wear it more often, I love how it looks on you.” Which has you roll your eyes at the request because sure, you will, if he can resist the temptation to rip it off of you after twenty minutes.

How he’s quick to signal his security to bring the car up front, because he can read the slight strain in your tone when greeting people at a red carpet after party that you’re not in the mood to be here, and he’s more than happy to leave if it means to put you at ease.

To marry a man who can understand what you’re feeling without ever needing to voice it? You count it as a blessing.

husband!michael who swears up and down jealousy is an ugly emotion that isn’t in his system, but you’ve caught little actions here and there that says otherwise.

When a male celebrity at an event strikes up a conversation with you that doesn’t go farther than just being polite, you still begin to feel Michael’s hand on your waist tightening ever so slightly. You don’t even have to turn your head to know he’s boring his eyes right at the guy, monitoring his every move to make sure he doesn’t try any subtle flirting.

How after a movie you two just watched you circle back to a scene from one of the guy characters that made you laugh, not thinking much when you state he’s your favorite in that entire film. A few seconds of silence goes by, looking over your shoulder to see Michael try to hold back his annoyance. “Hmm, well I didn’t like him. Something about him felt off.” Right, sure.

husband!michael who can’t wait any longer to start the family he’s been dreaming to have since the second he fitted the wedding ring to your finger.

And he made sure to show you exactly how much he’s been dreaming about it.

He flexes his hand, spreading over your stomach, pressing just enough to feel the way your body yields around him. Your mouth parts in a silent gasp with the way his cock pushes deeper each thrust, having your legs tremble.

“My sweet baby is going to be the best mother ever to my children, hm?” He groans, his control slipping from how tight you clench around him, wanting to feel every thick inch drag along your gummy walls.

You manage a nod, shuddering as the pleasure builds, finding the strength to form words for a reply. “Yes, yes, I will!” You grip onto his wrists that holds your hips steady to take every snap of his, claiming you completely. “Please come inside me, where it belongs, I-I need it so badly.”

“Shit,” He shakily exhales, eyes locked onto the reflection of his cock disappearing into you. “Talkin’ like that, I’ll make sure you take every last drop.”

And you do.

Thick, hot pulse of cum hits your deepest spot, filling you up so completely it makes you dizzy. You milk his cock dry, your own orgasm clenching around him. He pulls out, having you taste the cold emptiness until his digits replaces.

“That’s it, that’s it…” He breathes low, twisting his fingers, pressing his cum further inside, making sure it stays there. He’s unable to tear his eyes away from the way your body clings to his fingers, how you’re dripping from the mess he’s made of you.

If it’ll always be like this, him stuffing you so full, then you don’t care if he’s being serious when he mentioned in an interview that he would like to have 18 children.

you're so wet it's embarrassing. its a slick, hot ache throbbing in time with your pulse.

your thighs tremble around his hips, trying to pull him deeper, but he's immovable — enjoying the tease too much, seated to the hilt, knowing with absolute glee what he's doing to you.

he could feel it too, his long fingers had been tracing through the slick of you, working your clit, unhurried, before the camera came out. he was acting like he had all the time in the world to admire his own work.

that knowledge lived in his dirty smirk.

"michael—" you whine.

"mm." whir-click.

he angles the camera down between your bodies, focus absolute, breathing even, like he's not currently got his cock buried inside you. the flash fires; stark white, glinting off the wetness.

"hold still. m'trying to get your chest in this one."

"i will end you—"

"no you won't." soft. infuriating.

"you'll be good and patient for me."

he pulls the photo free from the ejection mechanism, waves it back and forth a few times, and adds it to the pile without looking at it. his eyes come straight back to your face, taking in your parted lips, the tears clinging to your lashes, your rosy cheeks.

"you're so beautiful right now. so desperate for me." he tilts his head, almost taunting you.

"i need this. to always be able to look back on."

"you need — photos? right now?" your voice shatters on the words, on the obscene fullness of him, on the single devastating roll of his hips he gives just to remind you he's there. "michael i am begging you to just fuck—"

"you're so impatient." the pad of his thumb brushes a tear from your cheekbone. almost sympathetic. "tell me what you need whilst i finish this roll of film."

so you tell him. in a broken, filthy stream you'll think about with great shame in the morning. you want him to ruin you. you want it hard and you want it now. you want him to stop this exquisite torture and just take. you want him to shake your equilibrium so hard you don't know where you end and he begins.

he listens with great interest. the camera comes up again, pointed at your face this time.

whir-click.

"mmm. stay just like that." a murmur.

"that's the one. that's gonna get me through cleveland." another fraction of thrust, another punched-out gasp, another photo.

"one for cincinnati. another, chicago. your perfect lil body, all for my eyes"

his lips find your jaw, open-mouthed, hot, more possessive than comforting.

"every empty night on that bus, baby. m'gonna be thinking of you. looking at you. touching myself to the thought of you"

you grab his hips. dig your fingers in. for one heart-stopping second you think he's done teasing, that he's going to relent.

he doesn't move any faster. slow, pulling strokes, in and out on his own accord, prolonging it because he can, because he wants to, because he has all night and he intends to use it.

you look down despite yourself; a mistake, a catastrophic lapse in your desperate attempt to maintain any shred of composure. your gaze catches on the impossible, obscene join of your bodies.

you watch, hypnotized and horrified, as he performs that slow, deliberate drag, pulling himself almost all the way out. the sight is brutally explicit: the thick, veiny glistening length of him, shining with your own slickness, emerging from your swollen, flushed cunt.

the air hits your sensitised flesh, a cool shock that makes you flutter around him, a silent, begging spasm.

"see how im taking my time with you, baby? being gentle? see how wet its got you? i think you like the slowness of it deep down"

the sob that tears out of you is completely undignified. you're shaking all over, a live wire of unspent need, babbling his name on a loop, nails carving half-moons into his back.

he breaks when you've gone fully nonverbal. he laughs, soft and private, and throws the camera onto the other side of the bed.

then his hands find your inner thighs and push them open, wide, pinning them down against the mattress, and he drives in hard enough that you cry out and grab the headboard. your arms are conveniently in front of your face while he drives his cock into you mercilessly.

"don't hide your face from me," he says, low and slightly pained.

"look at me. look at me." you do, barely, eyes wet and unfocused. his eyes are blown out from devotion and hunger, his hair moving in front of his face with every thrust

he snaps his hips and your whole body jolts. "that better? rougher? that what you needed?"

"yes — god — yes—"

"your patience was admirable." another drive, another cry punched out of you.

"you did so good." the rhythm builds, relentless now, deep and purposeful, each thrust pushing you up the mattress, the headboard knocking the wall, every coherent thought dissolving into just him, just this, this last time, just his name on a loop in your throat until the wire snaps and you come apart completely, shaking, sobbing, clenching around him as he follows you over with a ragged groan muffled against your neck, his free hand cradling your head, closer to his body.

the polaroids develop slowly in the dark.

when you can breathe again, and the room is in perfect focus, you look at the pile on the pillow and then back at him.

"that camera," you say, still catching your breath, "is never coming out again when i need you like that. ok?"

he has the audacity to look thoughtful. "mm." he reaches over, straightens the stack of photos with one hand.

"i just needed something more tasteful than porn to take on the road, is all" a beat.

that same stupid smirk.

"you understand that i need some piece of you whilst im gone, baby?"

you stare at him.

"fuck you"

"you just did." he laughs into your shoulder and pulls you closer.

--

tags;

The bedroom was warm with late afternoon light, gold pouring through the gauzy curtains, and you'd had the house to yourself for hours. It wasn't often that all of the Jackson's were out at once.

Michael was working on something with Tito at a studio in the city, and he'd left you that morning with a slow, promisin’, sexually driven kiss against the doorframe; the heat of it had trailed you around all day like a hand, possessive, at the small of your back. It was infuriatingly annoying and it was riling you up.

By mid-afternoon you'd given up pretending to read your books. There was no patience for dense college textbooks. You'd read all you could take, but they were no longer serving as a distraction to your impending horniness.

You'd crept up to Michael's bedroom and fished the little pink vibrator out of your bag; a gift from your girlfriend weeks ago, after a conversation centered around 'spicing' it up in the bedroom. she pressed into your hands with a wicked grin and a: 

trust me, you'll thank me. 

Now you were sprawled across his pillows with your sweatshirt rucked up, chasing the ache he'd left you with, the low buzz of it lost under the record still spinning lazily on his turntable; Love Rollercoaster, loud and woozy in the glimmering afternoon light.

Thank god for new technology.

You were close. So close to it. You were almost sprinting after it deliciously, the music a backdrop of how you were feeling, building with intensity.

The song had warped into something dizzy and psychedelic, swelling in time with the heat low in your belly, and you pressed the buzzing toy harder against yourself, sprinting for the finishline.

Your head was full to the brim of him; his veiny hands, his wet, hot mouth, the weight of him on top of you, the way his rounded innocent eyes peered up over your pubic bone whilst he ate you out, the feeling of your hips rolling up into the line of his cock in his slacks on the couch, the sound of his breath coming fast and ragged whilst he neared his—

You didn't hear the car. You didn't hear the front door either.

You heard nothing until the bedroom door swung open and Michael walked in blazenly, peeling off his jacket, mid-sentence, totally distracted.

"—and Tito kept sayin' the bassline was fine but it was draggin', I could feel it draggin' the whole—"

You scrambled.

In one frantic, graceless motion you jammed the vibrator under the nearest pillow—that ridiculous Alice in Wonderland caterpillar cushion Michael adored—yanked your sweatshirt down to something less incriminating, and sat bolt upright against the headboard covering your naked bottom half with the duvet, heart slamming, face on fire.

"Hi!" you said, far too brightly.

Michael stopped. Blinked. He looked wrung out, curls sort of flat on top where the headphones had pressed against, dark smudges under his eyes where he'd messily drawn on his eyeliner; but something in him clicked the second he really looked at you.

"...Hi," he said slowly.

"How's the track?"

"A bit nonsensical, I guess." His eyes hadn't left your face, and you knew exactly what he was clocking: the flush down your throat, the sheen on your lip, your chest still going too fast.

He saw everything. He always did. "You okay? You're all—" He gestured at the entirety of you. "Red and sweaty."

"Well, uh, it's hot in here."

"It's really not that hot in here, Mother has the heat off because of the weather." He stared at you for a moment longer and then sighed dramatically.

He was clearly too tired to chase the reasoning as to why you seemed to be lying. He crossed to the bed with a low groan, toeing off his loafers.

"God, I'm wrecked. Eight hours arguin' with my brother about one silly line of sheet music." He flopped face-first across the mattress beside you, sighing into the duvet like he was lowering himself into his grave.

"Don't talk to me. Don't look at me. Tito has wiped me out. He really did it this time."

You bit down on a slightly hysterical laugh, painfully aware of the small hard shape buried in the bedding inches from his hands. "Poor baby."

"Mm." He stretched then, luxuriously, the way he always did—arms flung up over his head, hands sliding up under the pillows, his whole long body arching out with a contented little sound—

And his fingers closed around something.

He went still.

You stopped breathing.

"...What's this," he mumbled into the duvet, eyes still shut, his hand pawing at it. He dragged it out from under the pillow and lifted his head to squint; small, pink, smooth, faintly ridiculous in his long fingers. He turned it over and frowned. "What is this? Is this one of those gadgets—"

His thumb found the button.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzt.

The thing roared to life in his hand and he startled so hard he nearly flung it across the room, jerking up onto one elbow.

"Oh."

The single syllable hung there. You watched the realisation land on his face; the buzzing toy, your scarlet face, the rucked-up sweatshirt, the way you'd been sitting up bright-eyed and breathless when he walked in… every piece clicking into place at once behind his eyes.

His gaze lifted to yours. Very, very slowly.

"...Oh," he said again. Completely different. Low. Almost delighted??

A grin breaking across his exhausted face, the studio forgotten, all that quiet knowing focus kindling. He let it keep buzzing in his hand just to watch you squirm.

"You were busy," he said, "while I was gone."

"Michael—give it back—"

"What even is this?" He held it up out of your reach, examining it like he'd unearthed an ancient relic, fascinated and perturbed in equal measure. "I have never ever—where'd you even get this?"

"My friend gave it to me, okay, it doesn't matter—"

"Your friend..." He turned it over, thumbing it off and back on, jumping a little each time it buzzed. And then; because he was, underneath it all, just a guy, he brought it to his nose and sniffed it.

"MICHAEL."

"What!" He reared back, blinking, like he'd done something perfectly reasonable. "I wanted to know if—"

"Why would you smell it—"

"I don't know!" He was laughing now, scandalized at his own hand. "It's instinct! You see a thing, you wanna know—I wasn't thinkin'—"

You lunged for it; but he held it up out of reach, and then you were both gone with laughter, helpless, you behind your hands and him snorting into the pillow, the awful mortified tension breaking apart into something warm and giddy, the way it always did with the two of you. You could laugh in the middle of anything.

"Okay—okay—" He wiped his eyes, still chuckling, and thumbed it off. The sudden silence was louder than the buzz had been. The record was now scratching repeatedly on the plastic label.

He set the small bullet on the nightstand, deliberately, out of your reach, and turned the full weight of that focus back on you, all the tiredness burned clean out of him. "Very chill. Very normal. Nothin' to see here."

"Don't start," you warned, fighting a grin.

"You missed me that much, hm?" His voice had dropped now, gone soft and velvet, that teasing dark thread winding through it as he started crawling toward you across the bed, slow, all liquid grace, backing you gently into the headboard. His hand came to rest high on your thigh, thumb stroking. "Couldn't even wait for me to get home."

"You left me like that this morning," you accused, breathless, your laugh going unsteady. "Kissin' me like that and then just— leaving. What was I supposed to do?"

"Mm. I did do that, didn't I?" He didn't sound remotely sorry. He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath warm, his exhaustion transmuted entirely into something low and hungry.

"So tell me, baby. Did you finish? Before I walked in?" His teeth grazed your jaw. "Or did I get home right in time?"

You couldn't answer. Your face answered for you.

A slow, knowing smile appeared on his face. "You didn't." He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the grin he gave you was pure wicked warmth.

"You got yourself all worked up with your little pink toy... and you didn't even get to finish," he said in mock horror.

"...No," you admitted, mortified and molten in equal measure.

"That's a shame, baby." He kissed the corner of your mouth, slow, his hand sliding higher, his thumb tracing the crease of your hip. "All that. And nothin' to show for it." His mouth moved to your throat, where your pulse was hammering. "Lucky for you I'm home now."

He kissed you then, and it wasn't with the claiming heat of some nights you'd shared together, but something slower, fonder, a smile still pressed into it, his tongue licking warm into your mouth as his weight settled over you and eased you back against the pillows.

You melted into it, your hands finding the hem of his t-shirt, sliding up the warm plane of his stomach—but he caught your wrists, gentle, and pressed them back to the pillows with a soft tut.

"Nuh-uh. Not yet." His grin was wicked. "You don't get to touch yet. You had your fun without me—now it's my turn."

"That's not fair—"

"Mm. Life's not fair, m'girl." He worked your sweatshirt up your body, his knuckles dragging over your ribs, baring you to the gold afternoon light, and the teasing softened into something rawer, his thumb skating the underside of your breast. "Look at you. Already all flushed up for me and I barely touched you."

"That's your fault—"

"you got yourself into this mess" He dipped his head, his mouth closing hot over your nipple, and your back arched off the bed. "Mm. I'm gonna fix it. Gonna take real good care of you. Make up for leavin' you all day." His hand slid down your stomach, down between your thighs, and the first brush of his fingers through how wet you already were drew a groan out of him, low and undone, his forehead dropping to your collarbone.

"God. Y/N. You're soaked."

"I told you—"

"I know. I know you did." His fingers slid through you, slow, finding the slick aching heart of you, circling, and your hips chased his hand helplessly.

"And you tried to hide what you'd been doing, too." He clicked his tongue, mock-scolding, his mouth curving against your skin. "We don't hide things in this house."

"Michael—" you gasped, as two of his fingers sank into you, his palm grinding against your clit, picking up right where you'd been left aching.

"I've got you, m'love," he breathed, his rhythm slow and sure and devastating, watching your face come apart with that dark, rapt focus.

"Got you now. You can finish for me this time." A soft, wicked grin. "Much better than that little pink thing, hm?"

He worked you slow, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your face, his fingers curling into that spot that made your hips jump while his thumb kept a lazy, maddening circle.

You were squirming, already close again; you'd been close for hours at this point—and he knew it, the little wretch, watching you climb and deliberately not letting you get there.

"You're doin' that on purpose," you panted.

"Doin' what?" All innocence, his mouth twitching against your skin where he was trying to pepper kisses along your neck.

"You know what—"

"I'm just bein' thorough." He lowered himself and pressed a kiss to your sternum, grinning against your skin. "I had a long day. I gotta concentrate on what I'm doing." And he eased off again, right as you tipped toward the edge, until you made a sound of pure outraged frustration and smacked his shoulder, and he laughed, totally elated, that bright real laugh, catching your wrist and pinning it gently to the pillow.

"Okay, okay," he relented, eyes dancing. Then a thought visibly arrived behind them, wicked and curious, and his gaze slid over to the nightstand. "...Hold on."

"Michael—"

"No, no, I wanna—" He reached over and plucked the vibrator up again, turning it in his fingers, that concentrated frown back on his face like he was studying a piece of equipment in the studio.

"Show me how you had it. When I came in. Where were you—" he thumbed it on, the buzz filling the room, and grinned at his own daring— "puttin' this?"

You buried your face in your hands. "I'm not—oh my God—"

"C'mon. Show me what you were tryna hide from me." He was laughing now, nudging your knee wider with his own, the toy humming in his hand. "I'm nosey, remember? I gotta know what I'm competin' with."

"You are not competing with it—"

"No?" He pressed it, soft, right where you needed it, and your whole body jolted, a cry breaking out of you. His grin went molten.

"Hm. There?" He circled it, watching you arch and grab fistfuls of the duvet, his own breath catching at the sight of you. "Oh, you like that. Look at you, baby. Okay. Okay, I see. I'm learnin'."

He was good at it, the teasing... that was the infuriating thing; of course he was, he was good at everything. he set that focus on reading you, easing the vibration against you and pulling it back, his face inches from yours so he could watch, his free hand pinning your arm to the bed so you couldn't intervene.

You were a mess, gasping, hips chasing it, and he was loving every second, soft little encouragements falling out of him;

that's it, there you go, let me see, you're so pretty like this

"Michael, I'm gonna—if you don't—pull it away—" you choked.

"I know. I know, baby, I've got you—" And this time he didn't pull back. He held it steady, his mouth on your throat, and you came apart with a cry, shaking, your hand flying to grip his wrist as it crashed through you. He worked you through it, gentling, murmuring into your skin, until your body felt like jelly and you were trembling against the pillows.

He clicked it off and set it back on the nightstand. Kissed your slack mouth, smug and tender at once. "There she is. M'beautiful dirty girl."

"I hate you," you breathed, with absolutely no conviction.

"Mm. You love me." He was still hard against your thigh through the blue denim, his own breath uneven despite all his composure. He pushed himself up off you and rose to stand beside the bed, looking down at the wreck of you; sweatshirt rucked up under your arms, skin flushed and gleaming, completely bare from the waist down, while he stood over you still dressed, disheveled, curls wild, eyeliner smudged. The contrast made you squirm.

"All day," he murmured, his fingers going to buttons of his white shirt, pulling it off in one smooth motion to bare the lean plane of his stomach, the dark trail of hair below his navel and the little patches of white skin at his hip bones.

"I been thinkin' about you all day. Arguin' with Tito over one stupid line and the whole time I'm picturin' gettin' home to you." The belt came next, the metallic clink of it coming loose, then the button of his jeans. "And I walk in and find you already started without me."

"You left me like that—"

"I know I did." He shoved his jeans and briefs down and stepped out of them, unhurried, without a trace of self-consciousness, fully bare now and achingly hard while you were still half-tangled in your sweatshirt. He was magnificent, all long lines and elegant tension, the tip of him flushed dark pink.

"Lucky for you I'm home now. No more waitin'."

He leaned over the bed, his hands sliding under your hips, and dragged you bodily to the edge of the mattress until your ass was just off the side. He stepped between your splayed thighs, his hands rough and warm on the insides of your knees, pushing them wider.

"No more toys," he muttered, his eyes locked on where you were open and wet for him.

He grabbed his dick firmly and guided himself to your entrance and pushed in, slowly, so slowly, his eyes fluttering shut as your heat enveloped him. It was a deep, stretching, filling sensation that had you arching off the bed, a low moan dragged from your chest.

"That's what you needed," he breathed, sinking to the hilt and holding there, his head dropping forward.

He began to move then, with a rhythm all his own, not too eager, but devastatingly deliberate. Long, deep, rolling thrusts that struck something deep inside you on every stroke. His hands were on your hips, controlling the pace, holding you open for him. Deep, thundering thrusts.

"You feel that?" he grunted, his breath hot. "That's real. That's me."

You could only nod, your fingers scrambling against his sweat-slick back, your legs hooking around his waist to pull him deeper. He was everywhere, his scent, his weight, the sound of his skin against yours, the ragged puff of his breath.

But Michael's curiosity was a retched thing at times. It never switched off.

Halfway through a deep, grinding stroke, he stopped. His eyes, squeezed shut in concentration a second ago, snapped open; dark, hazy with pleasure, but a familiar glittering curiosity cutting clean through the fog.

His gaze darted sideways, landing on the pink vibrator where it still lay on the nightstand.

A slow, almost reluctant grin touched his swollen lips.

"Hold on," he rasped.

He pulled out of you abruptly, the sudden emptiness a shock. Before you could protest, he'd reached over and snatched the toy up. He stared at it in his hand, then at you, then at his own painfully hard cock, glistening with your wetness.

"I gotta know," he said, as if apologizing to himself. "Just… once. To see what all the fuss is about."

He thumbed the button.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzt.

He didn't hesitate. He pressed the buzzing head directly against the sensitive spot just under the swollen head of his cock.

The reaction was immediate and violent.

His whole body jerked as if electrocuted. A shocked, strangled sound—half-gasp, half-yelp—ripped from his throat. His knees buckled, and he had to throw a hand out to catch himself on the nightstand, knocking the lamp sideways. His head dropped forward, a shudder wracking his spine.

"Oh—Jesus—" he choked out.

He tried to drag it down the shaft, but his hand was trembling violently. The vibration was clearly too intense, too direct, overwhelming a body already wound past its limit from being inside you.

His hips began to stutter in tiny, frantic circles, completely involuntary. His breath came in ragged, punched-out pants.

"Too—GOD—it's too much—" he gasped, but he didn't let go. His curiosity was warring with sensory overload, and curiosity was losing.

His movements became jerky, uncoordinated. you witnessed a fine tremor run through his thighs. He was biting his lip so hard you thought he might draw blood, his eyes squeezed shut, his face a mask of agonized, over-the-edge pleasure. You'd seen him feel good so many times before, but this was borderline painfully pleasurable.

He was hovering on the brink, his body taut as a bowstring, controlled solely by the relentless, alien buzz of the vibrator. You could see the exact moment his control shattered.

His hand spasmed around the toy, holding it tight against him as his hips gave three sharp, abortive thrusts into the empty air above you.

"uhmhh—" The warning was a breathless, desperate unintelligible plea, but it was too late, he couldn't come back from it.

With a gut-deep groan that sounded pained, his body convulsed. \

He spilled in thick, hot pulses across your stomach and the rucked-up fabric of your sweatshirt, completely undone by it. His eyes had opened at that point, watching the ordeal happen in front of him, watching you and the shock at his premature release..

The vibrator fell from his limp hand, vibrating pointlessly against the carpet as he collapsed forward, catching himself on his forearms beside resting arms, his entire body trembling with the aftershocks.

He was panting, wrecked, his forehead pressed to the duvet beside you. A long moment of stunned silence hung in the room, broken only by the record scratching and the distant hum of the fallen toy.

You looked down at the mess cooling on your skin, then back at his bowed head. A slow, triumphant smile spread across your face.

"You," you said, your voice dripping with smug satisfaction, "are dead meat for that, Jackson."

He groaned, the sound muffled by the bedding. He didn't lift his head. "Shut up," he mumbled, utterly defeated. "It was a.... curious... inquiry."

"You inquired yourself right into an accidental finish," you teased, poking his heaving shoulder.

He finally lifted his head. His face was flushed, his eyes dazed and more than a little embarrassed, but a reluctant grin was tugging at his mouth. He glanced at the mess on you, then back at your face, his grin turning wicked. "Yeah, well." He glanced down again. "Looks like my curiosity made a mess of you, too."

He leaned in, his intent clear, and you laughed, kissing him lovingly on the mouth.

taglist:

a shadow fell over your back, followed by a playful smack right on your ass.

you yelped, scrambling to grab your bikini top as you bolted upright. "jaafar!"

he just laughed, a sound that never failed to make your stomach flip. he stood over you in swim shorts, his brown skin gleaming in the sunlight. before you could pretend to be mad, he leaned down, catching your lips in a lazy kiss. his hands rested on the sides of your chair, framing your body, his smirk melting into something hungrier.

"miss me?" he murmured against your lips, his thumb brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

"only a tiny bit," you teased, reaching up wrapping your arms around his neck.

“mm... don't buy that,” jaafar said, his voice low. “you were completely zoned out until i walked up.”

“i was relaxing," you countered, a small smile tugging at your lips. "there's a difference." 

"right," he tilted his head, his gaze dropping shamelessly to where your breasts were loosely covered. "well, you've relaxed enough. get up."

"why?"

"because it's hot as hell out here," he said, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "come in the pool with me."

"is that your excuse to get me wet?" you teased.

jaafar chuckled, keeping his eyes locked on yours. "please. i can do a much better job than the pool."

"oh, really?" you rolled your eyes playfully, though your heart did a little flutter at the drop in his voice.

you clutched the loose fabric securely against your chest as you glanced over at the sparkling water, suddenly feeling the heat a lot more than you had five minutes ago. "tie my top for me and i'll think about it."

jaafar’s eyes drifted down to where your fingers were gripping the straps. his smirk only widened. "i say you keep it off."

"pervert," you laughed, giving his shoulder a weak shove.

he smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue, completely unbothered at what you just called him.

he knelt down beside you, pivoting your body gently so your back was facing him. the warmth of his hands against your bare back sending goosebumps over your skin. his long fingers caught the loose strings, brushing your back as he pulled the fabric taut and tied a quick knot.

"all done" he said with a teasing tilt to his voice.

you started to glance over your shoulder to thank him, but instead, he scooped you up, lifting you into his arms.

you squealed, laughing as you clung to him while he carried you down the shallow steps into the water.

the cool water lapped your skin, making you gasp against his chest. when your feet finally touched the bottom, he still didn't let you go.

one arm stayed loosely around your waist as the water swirled around your hips.

"see?" jaafar asked, a satisfied smile on his face as he looked down at you. "isn't this better?"

"i guess," you murmured with a smile. you smoothed your wet hands over his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. "i was perfectly fine up there, though."

"you were melting up there. admit it. you wanted me to come save you," he leaned his forehead against yours.

"save me?" you laughed, tilting your head back. "you smacked my ass and dumped me in a pool, jaafar. that's not rescuing."

"it's my version of it," he murmured, still smiling. his thumb tracing your hip underwater. the touch was light, casual, but it sent a streak of heat straight up your spine.

the teasing smile on his face softened as his gaze lingered on your mouth. the pool was quiet, the only sound being the soft lap of the water against the edge. he shifted closer, his thighs brushing against yours under the surface, trapping you in his space.

"still cold?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

"not anymore," you breathed, your heart suddenly hammering against your ribs. the shift in the air was palpable, making you reach up to wrap your arms tighter around his neck.

jaafar let out a low hum of approval, his hands sliding down to grip your hips as he slowly guided you backward through the water until your back met the cool tile wall of the pool.

he stepped in close, closing what little space remained between you. his breath brushed your cheek as he leaned down to press a lingering kiss along your jaw.

his hands drifted back up your waist, his thumbs settling just beneath the edge of your bikini top.

when his mouth found yours again, the playful energy from before had faded completely.

this kiss was intoxicating. his lips parted yours effortlessly, his tongue sliding in to claim you in a possessive rhythm. you let out a soft sigh into his mouth, your fingers tangling into the damp hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as if there wasn't already a total lack of space between you.

your skin was tingling, caught in a dizzying haze between the cold water lapping at your waist and the heat radiating from wherever his skin met yours.

one of his palms slid up from your hip, tracing the wet curve of your waist before his fingers splayed against your bare ribs, pressing you firmly against the wall. his thumb stroked slow circles against your skin, sending a rush of heat straight to your core.

his other hand slid up your spine, his damp fingers threading into your hair as he tipped your head back, deepening the kiss until you were left breathless, a quiet whimper slippng into his mouth.

the kiss grew hungrier, almost turning desperate as his tongue tangled with yours. he pushed deeper, his tongue moving over yours in a bruising heat. it was a demanding sort of kiss – the wet, velvety slide of his tongue swirling against yours, tasting you and drinking in the soft, choked whimpers that escaped your throat every time his lips locked tighter over yours. he dominated the space entirely, his pace slow but firm, breath mingling between you until your knees felt weak under the water.

finally breaking the contact just enough to breathe, his mouth slid down to trace a burning path along your jawline before burying his face into the crook of your neck. 

he nipped at the sensitive skin there, making you arch your back off the tile wall, your chest pressing firmly into his. underwater, his thigh slid between yours, his knee brushing high and firm against your center – the pressure making you gasp, your fingers clutching tightly at his shoulders just to stay steady. 

jaafar pulled back slowly, his chest rising and falling against yours in quick, shallow breaths. 

for a beat, neither of you said a word. you just looked at each other. his eyes were glossed oveer, still fixed on yours. you were looking up at him just as hungrily, your lips parted, completely breathless.

his hand slid down from your ribs, tracing a path down your stomach. his palm rested over the waistband of your bikini bottoms, pausing there, silently checking in. you gave a small encouraging nod.

with that, he slipped his hand under the waistband of your bikini bottoms, his fingers finding the already slick, swollen heat of you. 

you let out a soft gasp against his collarbone as his fingers began to move. he didn't rush, despite the heat in his eyes. his thumb found your clit, rubbing it in light circles under the water.

he slid two fingers inside you, stretching you open, moving them deep and slow. your jaw fell open at the sensation.

he knew exactly how to hook his fingers, finding the perfect angle with a practiced ease that had you melting.

your hips instinctively twitched against his hand, chasing the pressure as he pumped his fingers into you, his thumb working in perfect synchronization against your clit until you were completely at his mercy.

your hands flew down his chest, your fingers pawing urgently at the waistband of his dark swim shorts. you found the thick ridge of his length, already straining hard against the fabric.

clutched by impatience, you gripped the front of his shorts and tugged them down, your fingers wrapping around his thick, aching dick to pull him free. he let out a hiss as your hand squeezed him, his jaw clenching as you guided the blunt head directly against your aching core. 

"so impatient," jaafar murmured, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips even as his breath hitched. underwater, his hands slid down to clamp firmly onto your hips. "can't even wait a second? thought you only missed me a tiny bit."

you let out a breathless laugh, looking him dead in the eye. "'m just trying to help you out. you looked a little stuck." 

jaafar let out a low chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "oh, is that what you're doing?" 

"jus’ being thoughtful," you whispered, your fingers lightly tracing the back of his neck.

his hand gripped your thigh underwater, lifting your leg and hooking it high over his hip, shifting his weight so the blunt head of his cock pressed right against your aching center.

he didn't push inside yet.

instead, he leaned his full weight into you, pinning you flat against the cool tile wall, letting you feel him straining against you.

“yeah?” he murmured. “so thoughtful. i’ll make sure to properly show you my appreciation, then.”

he gave his hips a slow nudge forward, letting his cock stretch against your entrance, his breath sending a shiver down your spine as he leaned down. 

he didn't make you wait any longer. his grip on your waist tightened smoothly, holding you securely against the wall as he drove forward in one deep thrust, burying his entire length inside you. 

you let out a shattered cry into his shoulder, your head spinning from the fullness of him. 

he kept his pace torturously, beautifully slow, establishing a rhythm that made you feel every single inch of him.

every time he pulled back, the pool water rushed into the small space between you, only to be displaced a second later as he drove forward again, filling you and stretching you to your absolute limit.

"look at you," jaafar murmured against your ear, his voice low. his hands held your hips steady, guiding your body to match his deep strokes. "takin’ all of me so easily... y'feel so heavenly, baby."

he took his time with every single push, drawing out the pleasure until your fingers dug deep into his shoulders and your breath came in short, ragged hitches. 

"that's it," he whispered, a soft, encouraging hum in his throat as your head rolled back against the tile wall. he leaned up to press a tender kiss to your temple, his chest heaving against yours. "jus’ like that. doing so good for me." 

he paused for a moment at the very hilt of a stroke, burying himself as deeply as he could and holding you there. he tilted his head down, his brown eyes locking onto yours, watching the dazed look on your face. 

"you okay?" he murmured as he gave his hips a tiny twitch forward – a nudge that made your breath catch. "hm? talk to me."

you tried to answer, to tell him you were perfect, but all that came out was a broken keen as his dick drove into your gummy walls just right.

jaafar smirked, biting his lip as he listened to your voice break. he slowly pulled back, letting the water rush between you, before driving back in with another push.

"that feel good?" he coaxed softly, his voice gentle. "tell me how it feels, pretty."

you squeezed your eyes shut as your fingers tightened in his hair. the sensation of him moving inside you underwater was entirely consuming – thick, heavy, and so deep it felt like it was echoing all up in your chest. every glide of his cock pushed you right to the brink, reducing you to a series of helpless, high-pitched whimpers. you were building up so fast, a coil of heat wrapping around your lower stomach. 

sex felt so different under water, the natural buoyancy of the pool lifting your hips just enough to let him slide in even deeper. his cock drove back in, locking the moisture out and stretching your sensitive walls.

every shift of his hips caught an involuntary mewl in your throat as you desperately chased the edge. 

"so-ah, so good," you choked out, your voice a breathless whisper that broke into a hiccup as he hit that perfect spot again. "jaafar, please – it feels so good."

hearing his name tumble out alongside those needy noises was breaking his restraint bit by bit.

his grip on your waist tightened until his knuckles turned white, his pace picking up.

"such a good girl for me," jaafar rasped, his voice low against your ear as he thrust up into that spot that makes you see stars. "taking every single inch of me so perfectly. lemme hear you, sweetheart. show me how much you love it."

you couldn't even form a coherent sentence, the words completely disintegrating into whines.

"i lov–i love it," you cried out as you clung to his shoulders, your hips tilting up to meet him. “love it so much." 

jaafar’s relentless pace was pushing you toward the edge, the heat gathering so deep in your lower stomach that it made your thighs tremble against his sides. your vision blurred, overwhelmed by his cock stretching you out– fucking into you. it made you feel like you were melting from the inside out. 

you were completely drunk on the stretch of him, your brain short-circuiting from the intoxicating heat of his skin and the pace he was setting.

it was the absolute filth of the moment talking, a desperate, need to be claimed by him. you needed to feel his cum flooding you, to feel him leave his mark so deep inside your walls that you couldn't forget it if you tried. 

"please," you whined. you locked your legs tighter around his waist, tilting your hips up to swallow every single inch of him. "jaafar… put a baby in me. fill me up."

a guttural groan tore from deep in jaafar's chest, your words hitting him like a physical blow. whatever control he had left just snapped.

his eyebrows furrowed as his grip on your waist turned bruisingly tight, pinning you against the tile as his hips started jerking frantically, completely losing the rhythm he initially set.

your cunt was gripping him so tight, a helpless whimper broke past his lips as he slammed into you over and over.

"fuck, fuck – say that again," jaafar choked out, broken moans muffling against your neck. "please, baby– say it again."

your vision began to spot, the world narrowing down to just the sound of his whines and the wet slap of his hips against yours. his demand made your stomach twist, a greedy heat flaring up that made you want to scream.

you couldn't think, couldn't do anything but cling to him as you were dragged under.

you tilted your head back, eyes squeezed shut, your voice cracking into a sob as you gave him exactly what he asked for.

"put a baby in me," you gasped, your voice shuddering. "please, fill me up, j."

the words acted like a trigger; your hips buckled, your walls clamping down around him so tight it feels like you're trying to swallow him whole, and you finally shattered, a whimper tearing out of your chest as you fell apart, your pussy clenching around him tight.

jaafar let out a shattered gasp, his body going rigid as your walls pulse around him, squeezing him so hard he can barely take it.

he wasn’t even pumping anymore – he just shoved himself into you as hard as he can, his hips trembling violently against yours as he started to spill into you.

it was like a dam broke, any remaining filter gone as the words just poured out of him. 

"fuck, yeah, yeah, take it all," he rasped.  "gonna fill you up so deep, baby…”

his hips stuttered – almost like his own words were egging him on even more. he forced himself even deeper, slamming his pelvis against yours with every staggered breath, his dick twitching inside you as cum spurted out in heavy ropes, filling your pussy to the brim, flooding you so deep until your insides were coated with his seed. 

"take–" he choked out with a grinding shove.

"–every–" another desperate thrust followed.

"–single–" his hips snapped forward hard, bottoming out against you.

"–fucking drop."

the staggering force of his climax slowly began to ground him, the tremors in his thighs subsiding into an exhausted weight. jaafar let out one last, shuddering whine against your throat, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder as his breathing stayed ragged.

he stayed buried inside you, refusing to pull back even an inch. his hips stay locked flush against yours, acting as a plug to seal everything in. you can feel the swollen heat of him twitching weakly one last time, keeping your walls occupied while the warmth of his seed settled inside you.

slowly, his hands lost their grip on your waist as they slid up your back. he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest, making you feel his heartbeat slow down to match yours.

you let out a soft breath, your fingers curling into his shoulders.

"jaafar," you whispered against his neck.

he let out a hum in response, his lips brushing against your wet skin. he didn’t move away. his fingers tangled into your hair, tilting your head back just enough so he could press a soft kiss to your lips.

you smiled into the kiss.

jaafar caught the curve of your lips against his and pulled back the tiniest bit, an infectious smile breaking across his own face as his eyes fluttered open, still heavy-lidded.

a quiet laugh bubbled out of you, your shoulders shaking slightly against the tile.

jaafar’s smile widened, his thumb lightly stroking your cheek as he watched you, completely infatuated. "what?" he murmured. "what's so funny?"

"nothing," you breathed, winding your arms a little tighter around his neck. "just... you kinda went a bit crazy just now."

he laughed softly, his nose brushing against yours as his hips nudged forward just a bit, reminding you exactly how deep he was still buried inside you.

"yeah?" he whispered, his smile turning a little sheepish as a flush crept up his neck. "i don’t know… i think i just learned something new about myself."

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

i missed jaafar omg i feel like i haven't written for him in so long

but also writing this kept making me think of chlorine LMAO

His fingers dug deep into the pages of the book, the pages becoming more and more crinkled by the moment. His mind had gone hazy a long time ago. The only thing you could think about was the way your hand twisted around his cock, the firm grip adding intense pleasure that ripped another whine from his throat.

“C'mon, Mikey, keep reading," you cooed, adjusting your position on the tiled floors.

"Oh…oh…okay." He tried to adjust his eyes to the words on the paper, but they all seemed to blur into one. His grip on the book loosened, his head tossing back as you sped up the pace; the sound of spit mixed with his pre-cum, filling the air.

“I can't hear you. "You slowed down that satisfying pace, now becoming less satisfying.

“If you don't keep reading, I'm going to stop." That really got him. He whined, letting his hips buck wildly in attempts to gain any kind of friction.

“Please don't… I'll read, I'll be good," his hips still bucking as you sped up, letting your lips latch on to his head. The warmth from your mouth was now distracting him even more as he stuttered, trying to get the first word out. He wasn't even a paragraph in, yet he couldn't even try and get the words out, the sensation of the pleasure completely taking over his senses.

Suddenly everything felt more quiet than it should have as he fell forward, his head now placed in the crook of your neck. The warmth from his heavy breathing fanned over your collarbone as his body shook violently. The white spots in his vision seemed to multiply as he came, a loud cry ripping through his throat out into the spacious room.

“Oh god, your hands are s'good." His lips pressed against your neck.

"Mikey," you spoke up, watching as he pulled back, now looking you in the eyes.“Hm?”

“You didn't even finish the first chapter; now we have to do it again."

©angelfacediary

𝓘t was a warm, sunny day in California. You and Michael had agreed it was the perfect weather to spend some time by the pool together at Hayvenhurst, and naturally, with the rest of his siblings as well.

You adored all of them, but your favorite sibling—excluding Michael, of course—was Janet. She was such a sweet girl, and she absolutely adored you in return. From the moment Michael brought you home for the first time, she had taken an immediate liking to you, treating you less like her big brother's girlfriend and more like another older sister.

The truth was, everyone had taken a quick liking to you. Well, some more than others. Ahem, Jackie and Jermaine. The Jackson brothers were womanizers by nature, but those two brothers seemed to have developed a bit more than a friendly appreciation for you, often making half-hearted attempts at flirting whenever they got the chance. Even when Michael was right there. You usually paid them no mind and let their comments fly right over your head. Michael, however, wasn't always quite as good at ignoring them.

Bill was the one picking you up, per Michael's instructions. Over the years, he had become something of a father figure to Michael, and you had grown incredibly fond of him as well. The feeling was mutual. Bill had always been supportive of your relationship and had told you more than once that you were good for Michael.

As the car turned into the long driveway of the Hayvenhurst estate, a familiar figure immediately caught your eye.

Michael was already waiting outside.

He stood near the front of the house, patiently watching for your arrival with wide eyes and an even wider smile stretched across his face. The sight was almost endearing enough to make you laugh. He looked like an excited puppy waiting for its owner to come home after being gone for far too long.

The moment he spotted the car, his face lit up even more, if that was somehow possible. Anyone would think the two of you had been separated for weeks instead of a couple of days. Then again, Michael had never been particularly good at hiding how much he adored you. Even when you weren't together, he somehow found an excuse to call at least once or twice throughout the day whenever his schedule allowed it. He couldn't wait to be reunited with his sweet angel.

Before Bill could even fully turn off the engine, Michael had already hurried over to the car. The moment the vehicle came to a stop, he reached for the door and pulled it open for you.

"Baby!" he exclaimed, his face lighting up instantly. "I missed you so much!"

The grin on his face was impossible to miss, his excitement written all over him.

"Mike, we saw each other five days ago," you giggled as he practically pulled you out of the car.

Michael paid your words no mind. The moment your feet touched the ground, he cupped your face and peppered your cheeks, forehead, and nose with affectionate kisses, his large hands eventually settling on your hips.

"I knoooow," he whined dramatically. "But I always miss my pretty girl when she isn't here with me." You could only shake your head and laugh at his antics. Some things never change.

Not willing to waste another second, Michael quickly took hold of your hand and started tugging you toward the house.

"C'mon!" he urged excitedly. "Everyone's already waiting for you, and Janet's patience was starting to wear thin."

Then, after a brief pause, a mischievous grin spread across his face.

"And," he added, glancing over his shoulder at you, "I wanna see that new swimsuit you bought." The look on his face immediately gave away that he had been curious about it long before you'd even arrived.

A few nights earlier, during one of your usual late-night phone calls with Michael, the topic had somehow drifted to summer plans. In passing, you mentioned that you'd bought a new bikini set a little while ago but hadn't had the chance to wear it yet.

That immediately caught his attention.

"You did?" he had asked, sounding far more interested than he probably intended.

Laughing at his reaction, you'd told him all about it, and before long, the conversation turned into excited planning. It was Michael who had suggested you come over sometime that week, though by the end of the call, the two of you were equally eager.

"I'll show it to you when I come over," you had promised with a laugh.

Ever since then, Michael had been looking forward to today far more than he cared to admit.

Maybe a little too much.

He tells you all the time that he fell for you because you have the purest soul he’s ever known, that your heart is what truly captured him. But the he truth, that he doesn't tell you is, your body is a beautiful, intoxicating bonus he can't help but want to worship.

You’re often too oblivious to notice the way his eyes linger when you’re wearing a tight shirt or a dress that hugs every single one of your shapes. He is completely, hopelessly obsessed with your curves. He spends half his time just watching the way your hips flare out so much wider than your waist when you're walking in front of him, tracing the soft, gorgeous lines of your body with his eyes whenever you aren't looking.

You don't see the way his breath hitches or the way his gaze drops when your breasts spill just a little too far over the edge of your top. Even the tiniest hint of cleavage is enough to make his pulse race, leaving him struggling to keep his composure as he feels a familiar, heavy ache building in his jeans.

But nobody can blame him.

He’s just a man who is absolutely starving to spend every waking second of the day with the woman who occupies his racing mind 24/7 hours a day.

As Michael pulled you into the house and toward the main living room where the family usually gathered, you were immediately met with the familiar sight of the Jacksons lounging across the furniture, chatting amongst themselves in relaxed conversation.

The youngest one was the first to notice you.

Janet's face lit up instantly.

"[Name]!" she squealed, springing up from her seat before hurrying over to you. "You're finally here!"

You laughed as she wrapped her arms around you, letting go of Michael's hand to return the hug just as tightly. "Aww, I missed you too."

Not far behind her, La Toya made her presence known as well. She greeted you with a warm smile and a brief side hug, squeezing your shoulder affectionately.

"It's good to see you again," she said warmly.

From the couch, a loud, playful whistle cut through the air, making you jump slightly.

"Look at that," Jackie teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he leaned back. "Michael, you didn't tell us you were bringing a literal angel with you today. You're keeping all the good stuff to yourself, man!"

"Yeah, Mike," Tito added with a grin, chuckling as he nudged his brother. "You better hold onto her tight, or we might just have to steal her for the afternoon."

Michael’s face immediately flushed a deep, embarrassed red. He tightened his grip on your waist, pulling you a little closer to his side in a protective, instinctive manner.

"C'mon, guys, stop it," he muttered, though he couldn't quite hide the shy, lopsided smile tugging at his lips. "Leave her alone."

You just rolled your eyes, letting out a soft giggle at their antics. "Don't listen to them, Michael. They're just being menaces," you whispered to him.

"Menaces? We're just being honest!" one of the others called out from the corner, prompting a chorus of laughter from the room.

The laughter in the room was infectious, but the energy was starting to ramp up as the heat of the afternoon settled in.

"Alright, alright," Michael said, his voice a little more firm as he tried to steer the conversation away from his brothers' teasing. He looked down at you, his eyes softening instantly, that pure, adoring look that always made your heart do a little flip. "Let's not overwhelm her the second she walks through the door." Michael knew that his brothers personalities could be a little overwhelming for someone who didn't grow up with them.

"We're not overwhelming her, we're welcoming her!" Jackie countered, though he finally settled back into the cushions with a grin.

"Well, we're all heading out to the pool in a bit," La Toya said, glancing at you with a knowing, playful sparkle in her eyes. "I think we all need to go change and cool off."

"I'm definitely ready for some cooling down," you said. You turned to Michael, giving his hand a little squeeze.

Michael’s eyes brightened, that boyish, eager grin spreading across his face. He looked like a kid on Christmas morning. He already knew exactly what you were planning to wear, and the thought of finally seeing you in it was making his heart race. "I'll be waiting," he promised, giving your cheek a sweet peck.

"Don't keep him waiting too long, [Name]!" one of the brothers shouted as you started to head toward the stairs. "He looks like he's about to burst!"

Michael shot them a playful, warning glare, but you could see the flush creeping back into his cheeks. He tried to play it off, but you could tell he was already counting down the seconds until you walked back down those stairs.

"Go on," he urged softly, giving your hand one last squeeze before you turned to head up.

Once you reached the guest room, the door clicked shut behind you, muffling the lively noise of the Jacksons downstairs. A surge of playful excitement bubbled up in your chest. You couldn't wait to see the look on Michael's face you could almost picture the way his eyes would widen and his breath would catch.

With a little grin tugging at your lips, you began to change. You pulled the new bikini on, the fabric feeling soft and snug against your skin. You took a moment to adjust the top, smoothing the material over your curves and ensuring everything sat just right. There was a delicious thrill in the way it hugged your waist and accentuated the flare of your hips, making you feel incredibly feminine.

Stepping in front of the full length mirror, you took a second to just look at yourself. You felt pretty, really pretty. The color of the suit made your skin glow, and the way it highlighted your shape made you feel confident and bold. You ran a hand over your hip, a small, knowing grin playing on your lips as you thought about Michael's reaction.

Glancing toward the window, you could see a clear view of the pool area below. By the time you’d finished changing, most of the brothers had already made their way outside. You could see them splashing around in the water, the sunlight dancing off the surface, and the boisterous sounds of their laughter drifting up through the open air. Michael was there, too, wading in the shallow end, but even from this distance, you could tell he wasn't really paying attention to the guys, he was just waiting.

Taking a quick breath, you grabbed your cover up and headed for the door, a little bit of nervous excitement fluttering in your stomach as you prepared to head back down.

As you stepped out onto the sun drenched patio, the heat of the afternoon hit you as you approached the pool.

You could see all the brothers splashing and laughing in the water, but your eyes instinctively searched for Michael. He was standing near the edge of the pool, mid sentence while talking to one of his brothers, but the second his eyes landed on you, he completely froze.

It was like the world around him just stopped existing.

His mouth fell open just a fraction, his gaze dropping from your face to the way the bikini hugged your curves, and then back up again, unable to look away. You watched, a little bit of a blush creeping into your own cheeks, as a deep, visible heat climbed up his neck and flooded his face. He looked absolutely stunned, like he was seeing you for the very first time all over again, his eyes dark and heavy with a hunger he wasn't even trying to hide anymore.

Even though you and Michael had already been intimate, even though you knew the way his hands felt on your skin and the way he looked at you behind closed doors, the sheer intensity of his stare still made you feel a sudden, fluttering shyness. It was as if it was the very first time he was seeing you like this.

The silence didn't last long, though.

"Whoa!" Tito let out a long, low whistle that echoed off the patio walls, breaking the spell. "Michael, man, close your mouth before you catch a fly!"

A chorus of chuckles and playful jeers erupted from the water.

"Damn, Mike!" another brother called out, grinning ear to ear as he nudged Michael in the ribs. "You didn't tell us she was bringing that today! You're a lucky dog!"

You rolled your eyes at the brothers' loud commentary, a small, embarrassed smile tugging at your lips. Instead of letting the teasing get to you, you walked straight toward Michael, whose eyes were still practically glued to you. As you reached him, you leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek.

"Hi," you whispered, feeling that familiar flutter in your chest.

"Hi," he breathed back, his voice sounding a little rougher than usual. He reached out, his hand trembling just a fraction as he let his fingers graze the side of your hip, giving the fabric of your bikini a little tug. "You look... wow, angel, you look absolutely breathtaking. Truly."

The sweetness in his voice made your heart melt, but before you could respond, the sliding glass doors opened again. Janet and La Toya stepped out, looking refreshed and ready to join the fun.

"There she is!" Janet cheered, running over to pull you into a quick side hug again.

As the afternoon progressed, the group settled into a relaxed rhythm. You found yourself caught up in a whirlwind of conversation with the girls. You spent most of your time laughing and playing in the shallow end with Janet, the cool water a relief against the sun, while you drifted over to La Toya to catch up on a few things. You found yourself gossiping about some mutual friends and talking about "girl stuff", fashion, life, the usual, feeling completely at ease in their company.

A few yards away, Michael was attempting to hang out with his brothers, but he was a terrible liar. Every time you laughed at something Janet said, or every time you leaned in close to whisper something to La Toya, his gaze would snap back to you, intense and unblinking.

He was trying to play it cool, but his brothers weren't letting him off easy.

"Man, Mike, you're gonna burn a hole in the back of her head if you keep starin‘ like that," Jackie teased, splashing a bit of water toward him.

"He's just mesmerized," Jermaine added with a sly, knowing grin, leaning back on his elbows in the water. "Can you blame him? I mean, look at her. If she were mine, I wouldn't be able to look at anything else in this yard."

The comment hit Michael like a physical jab. He stiffened, his jaw tightening visibly. It wasn't that he didn't think you were beautiful, he knew that, but hearing his own brothers talk about you like you were a prize to be won rubbed him the absolute wrong way. It stirred a weird feeling deep in his chest, a sharp edge of jealousy that he tried to mask with a forced, tight smile.

"She's my girlfriend, Jermaine," Michael muttered, his voice low and warning, though he tried to keep it casual enough so you wouldn't overhear.

"Oh, we know, we know," Jackie chuckled, clearly enjoying the way he was getting under Michael's skin. "Just saying, the view is pretty damn good from over here, too."

Michael gripped the edge of the pool, his knuckles turning white, his eyes drifting back to you as you laughed at something La Toya said, his heart thudding with a mix of adoration and a sudden, fierce need to pull you away from everyone else and keep you all to himself.

"Oh, for God's sake, y'all shut up and leave him alone!" Randy finally chimed in, splashing a bit of water toward Jackie and Jermaine. He had a grin on his face, but his tone was definitely a hidden plea for mercy. "You're gonna make his head explode if you keep pokin‘ at him like that."

"We're just keeping him on his toes, Randy!" Jackie laughed, though he did settle down a little.

Seeing the boys getting so rowdy, you decided to leave the girls and wander over to Michael. You could see him sitting on the edge of the pool, his legs dangling in the water, looking a little more pensive than usual. As you approached, he immediately looked up, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to melt the second he saw you.

"Hey Mike," you said softly, sinking down onto the pool deck beside him.

"Hey, baby," he murmured. He reached out, his hand finding your waist and pulling you just a little closer to him. His touch was incredibly gentle, his thumb tracing small, soothing circles against your skin as if he were trying to calm his own racing heart. To anyone else, he looked perfectly relaxed, but you could feel the slight tightness in his grip.

You were completely oblivious to the the lingering residue of Michael's brothers' comments, which you weren't around to hear. You were just happy to be near him.

"Your family is good to me Mike," you said softly, leaning your head against his shoulder and looking out at the water with a genuine, warm smile. "I was just thinking about it. They're a little loud and chaotic—" you both giggle at that, "—but they've been so incredibly welcoming to me. It’s like they didn't even hesitate to make me feel like I belonged here. I truly love being around them. They make me feel so much a part of the family."

Michael’s hand stilled on your waist for a heartbeat, his thumb pausing its gentle rhythm against your skin. He didn't look at you right away, instead watching the sunlight dance on the surface of the pool, a small, thoughtful shadow crossing his features.

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice a little softer, a little more hesitant than usual. He pulled you a little closer, not with a forceful grip, but as if he were seeking a bit of reassurance from your warmth. "They really do. They love you, baby. And Mama... she loves you very much, too." He leaned down, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to the top of your head, his breath hitching just slightly as he breathed you in.

The two of you fell into an easy, casual conversation, the kind that only comes with true intimacy. You talked about the next movie you would watch, the music playing in the background, and the simple joys of the afternoon.

You bit your lip, looking up at him through your lashes, feeling a sudden, silly rush of heat in your cheeks. "So..." you started, your voice dropping to a shy whisper, "what do you think of it?"

Michael, who had been listening intently to your story, blinked and snapped out of his quiet trance. He looked at you, a look of adorable confusion crossing his handsome face. "Think of what, baby?"

You couldn't help the little giggle that escaped you. "The bikini, silly."

A beautiful, bright smile broke across his face, the last of his quiet pensiveness vanishing instantly. He leaned back just a little bit, his eyes sweeping over you as if he were taking a mental photograph, truly taking you in.

"Oh," he breathed, his gaze softening into something so pure and adoring it made your breath catch. "It's beautiful, angel. You're beautiful."

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a sweet, lingering kiss. As he pulled back, he wrapped his arms securely around your waist, drawing you into his side. He kept it gentle and sweet, mindful of the fact that Janet was still nearby. Just for this moment, he held you as if you were the only two people in the world.

The golden hour began to settle over the estate, casting long, amber shadows across the patio and turning the pool water into a shimmering, liquid gold. The boisterous energy of the afternoon was beginning to ebb as the brothers started to migrate toward the house, their voices fading into the background as the evening air grew cooler.

Michael hadn't let go of your waist for a second. Even as the group dispersed, he stayed tucked into your side, his touch light but constant. There was a quietness to him now, a sort of soft, lingering melancholy that you couldn't quite put your finger on.

"You okay, Mike?" you whispered, sensing the shift in his energy as you both stood up as well to head inside.

He leaned his forehead against yours for a brief moment, his eyes searching yours with that familiar, soulful intensity. "Yeah," he murmured, though he sounded a little small, a little unsure. "Just... it was a good day. A really good day." He paused, his gaze dropping to your lips before he looked away, a tiny, almost imperceptible pout forming. "I just didn't like the way they were talking earlier. About you. Like you were... just something to look at."

He sounded almost wounded, a soft whine in his voice that made you want to pull him into your arms and never let go. He wasn't angry at his brothers; he just seemed genuinely bothered by the idea of anyone else perceiving you in a way that wasn't pure adoration.

"Michael," you teased gently, reaching up to cup his cheek. "They were just teasing you, you know that."

"I know," he sighed, leaning into your palm like a kitten seeking affection. "But you're so special to me. I just want you all to myself sometimes." He muttered shyly into your hand, pressing small kisses against the skin.

The transition from the bright, loud energy of the pool to the quiet sanctuary of the house was seamless. Instead of rushing to get dressed, you both retreated to the into the shower, the steam from the shower quickly filling the room.

It was a quiet, tender moment. Michael was silent, his movements careful and deliberate as he helped you rinse the chlorine from your hair. He worked the soap through your strands with a gentle, rhythmic motion, his fingers massaging your scalp in a way that made your eyes flutter shut. There was no urgency in him, just a pure, focused devotion.

He treated you as if you were something precious and fragile, his touch light and soothing. As the warm water cascaded over both of you, he leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your wet shoulder, his eyes closed, simply existing in the peacefulness of your company.

Later, as the house began to settle into the heavy silence of the night, the distant sounds of the Jackson family winding down the muffled footsteps, the closing of doors served as a backdrop to your own quiet evening. You and Michael had retreated to Michael's bedroom, the only light coming from the glow of the television as you settled into the plush covers to watch a movie he had picked out.

But as the film played, you couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't really there.

Michael was leaning against the headboard, his arm draped around you, but his gaze was fixed somewhere far beyond the screen. He was staring into the middle distance, his expression unreadable, a soft, pensive shadow hanging over his features. He wasn't restless, but he was distant, lost in a thought that seemed to be pulling him away from the moment.

A small knot of worry began to tighten in your chest. You turned in the crook of his arm, looking up at him, searching his face in the dim light.

"Michael?" you whispered, your voice laced with concern. "Hey... what's wrong? You've been so quiet since we came inside." You paused, searching his eyes. "It can't just be from the teasing earlier, can it? You've been... somewhere else all evening."

He blinked, the sound of your voice snapping him back to the present. He looked down at you, and for a second, you saw it that flicker of vulnerability, that tiny, wounded look in his eyes that he tried so hard to hide behind his smiles. He didn't answer immediately; instead, he reached out, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a slow, hesitant motion.

"It's nothing, baby," he murmured, though the lie was so obvious it was almost transparent. He let out a soft, shaky breath, turning his gaze back toward the TV, though he didn't seem to be watching it at all. "Just... thinking. About things."

"About what?" you pressed gently, shifting so you were facing him more fully.

He stayed silent for a long moment, the only sound the low hum of the television. He seemed to be weighing his words, trying to find a way to say what was on his mind without sounding... too much.

"I just..." he started, his voice dropping to a melodic murmur. He looked at you then, his eyes searching yours with a profound, quiet intensity. "Sometimes, when everyone is around... when they're all laughing and talking and looking at you... it just makes me realize how much there is to lose. You're so bright, baby. You're so... perfect. And sometimes it feels like the world is just waiting to realize it, too."

He didn't say the words 'I'm scared you'll realize you're too good for me,' or 'I'm scared you'll leave me for someone more certain,' but the meaning hung heavy in the air between you. He was talking about the way his brothers looked at you, about the way the world seemed to gravitate toward your light, and how that made him feel small, like a boy trying to hold onto a star.

"The way they talk," he added, his voice trailing off into a soft, almost needy whine. "It makes me feel like... like I have to keep a constant eye on you just to make sure you know you're mine. Even though you are. Even though you're so sweet to me."

Your heart ached for him. You realized then that his "sweetness" wasn't just his nature. It was his way of holding on.

"Oh, Michael," you breathed, reaching up to pull his face down to yours. You wrapped your arms around his neck, drawing him into a deep, grounding embrace. "Look at me."

He let you guide him, his eyes meeting yours, wide and searching.

"You don't have to guard me," you whispered against his lips, your voice steady and full of conviction. "And you don't have to worry about anyone else. Because even when the whole world is looking at me, the only person I actually see is you. You're the only one who has my heart, Michael. Always."

You felt him let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension finally breaking as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. He held you tight, his arms wrapping around you as if he were trying to merge his soul with yours, his body trembling slightly with the relief of being understood.

The silence that followed your words wasn't heavy anymore; it was soft, like a comforting blanket wrapping around the two of you. Michael stayed buried in the crook of your neck for a long time, his breath slowly evening out, his body gradually losing that frantic, trembling tension as he let your words sink in.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes shimmering in the dim, flickering light of the television. He didn't say anything at first, he just searched your face, as if he were trying to memorize every curve of your expression, making sure you were still there, still his.Then, he leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was so incredibly tender it made your chest ache. It was a slow, sweet exploration a soft press of lips, a gentle graze of teeth a silent way of saying thank you for loving him the way you did.

But as the kiss deepened, the sweetness began to change. The softness of his lips grew more insistent, the pressure increasing as a low, needy hum vibrated in his throat. His hands, which had been resting loosely on your waist, began to wander, his palms sliding upward to cup your face, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones with a desperate sort of reverence.

The kiss turned passionate, a hungry, breathless thing that tasted of longing. You could feel the heat radiating off him, a feverish warmth that seemed to pull you closer and closer until there was no space left between you. You reached for him, your hands sliding under the hem of his shirt, your skin tingling at the contact with his smooth, warm torso.

"You're so perfect," he murmured against your lips, his voice a ragged, breathy whisper that sent shivers racing down your spine. "My angel... you're so perfect for me."

He shifted, his weight pressing you back into the pillows, but he was so careful, so mindful of his strength, as if he were afraid he might break you. His hands drifted down, sliding beneath the fabric of your clothes and sliding under your panties to find the soft skin of your hips. When his long, elegant fingers finally found the damp heat between your thighs, you let out a sharp, hitching breath.

"Shhh," he whispered, "Gotta be quiet, baby," a tiny, lopsided smile tugging at his lips as he leaned down to catch your gasp with his mouth. He didn't just kiss you; he devoured you, his tongue dancing with yours in a intoxicating way that made your head spin.

His fingers were masterful, a slow and agonizing precision that made you feel like you were unraveling. He didn't rush; he teased the sensitive folds of your pussy first, his touch so light it was almost maddening, before he finally slid his fingers deep inside you.

He knew exactly how to move, his fingers curling and stretching to find those hidden, pulsing spots that you could never quite reach on your own. Each stroke was deliberate, designed to draw every single ounce of pleasure from you until you were nothing but a mess of sensation.

You were lost in it, your hips rising instinctively to meet his hand, a needy, wordless sound building in your throat. You reached down for him, your fingers curling around the heavy, pulsing length of his cock as you pulled him out of his boxers. The sensation of your soft skin against his was electric, the heat of him nearly overwhelming. You began to stroke him, your movements slow and rhythmic, mimicking the way he was working you, your thumb grazing the very top of him.

A broken, high pitched whimper escaped him at the contact, his head against your neck as his eyes fluttered shut. "Oh... oh, baby... just like that" he breathed, his voice a melodic, needy whine.

You leaned down, your tongue darting out to lick your palm, coating your fingers in your own slickness before sliding them back down to him. The sound was unmistakable a wet, raunchy, sliding friction that made the air in the room feel heavy and suffocating.

"Oh my god, baby, you're so good," he gasped, his voice dropping into a frantic whisper. He leaned down, his lips finding the sensitive line of your jaw, then your neck, his kisses becoming more urgent, more hungry. "So good to me... please, don't ever stop..."

he was completely focused on the way your body reacted to him, his eyes tracking every flutter of your eyelids, every hitch in your breath. He was worshiping you, his touch a constant stream of praise.

"You feel so amazing," he whispered into your ear, his breath hot and uneven. "So soft... so warm... you're mine, angel. You're so beautiful."

As the tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter, a loud, uninhibited whine started to climb up your throat, a plea for release. But before the sound could carry through the quiet house, Michael moved, his mouth crashing against yours, his tongue sliding passionately into yours to swallow the sound, turning your cry into a muffled, desperate moan.

"You're so close, aren't you?" he whispered against your lips, his voice a frantic tremor. "Show me, angel... show me how much you want it."

He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his eyes darkening with a hunger that was almost painful to witness. He was trembling, his whole body vibrating with the effort of holding himself back. He looked down at where his fingers were buried deep inside your slick, pulsing pussy.

A soft, broken whine escaped him at the sight of it, his head falling back as a fine sheen of sweat broke out across his brow. "Oh god... look at you... you're so wet for me, pretty baby... so beautiful..."

He couldn't take it anymore. The need to be one with you was a physical ache, a demand from his very soul.

"I need to be inside you," he gasped, his voice cracking with a desperate, needy whine. "Right now... please, baby, let me be inside you..."

He shifted his weight, moving between your thighs. At first, he kept your legs draped over his forearms, his movements careful as he guided his thick, pulsing cock to your entrance. But as he pushed forward, the sensation of being enveloped by your heat was so overwhelming that he let out a sharp, choked sound. He needed more. He needed to be deeper.

He reached down, grabbing your ankles and pulling your legs up, hiking them higher until they were resting on his shoulders, opening you completely to him. He groaned, a low, soulful sound, as he slid inside your pussy, burying himself in you in one long, slow, agonizingly perfect stroke.

"Oh... fuck..." he breathed, the rare curse slipping out as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his body shuddering from the sheer intensity of the connection. "You're so tight... so perfect... it feels like heaven, baby... pure heaven..."

He began to move, a slow, rhythmic thrusting that made the wooden headboard of the bed creak softly in a steady, hypnotic tempo. He was trying to find a rhythm that would make you melt. He was focusing entirely on the way your walls gripped him, the way your breath hitched with every deep, sliding movement and the way you struggle to keep quiet.

"That's it... just like that, angel," he murmured, his voice a constant, sweet stream of praise as he worked. He reached down with one hand, his thumb finding your clit and beginning to rub it in a steady, circular motion that synchronized perfectly with his thrusts. "Feel how good it is? Feel how much you love it?"

His other hand came up, his fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back, exposing your throat to his hungry, feverish kisses. He leaned down, his mouth finding one of your nipples, sucking on it with a rhythmic, desperate intensity that made your toes curl and you let out a needy whine.

You were lost, your head thrown back, one hand clamped over your mouth to stifle the sounds of your pleasure as the world narrowed down to the sensation of him filling you, the steady creak creak of the bed, and the sweet, breathless whispers of the man who worshipped you.

The rhythm was hypnotic, a steady, driving pulse of skin against skin and the rhythmic creak of the headboard against the wall. Michael was lost in you, his eyes squeezed shut as he focused on the sensation of being swallowed by your heat. He was whispering sweet, frantic things into your ear, his voice a low, melodic vibration that seemed to settle right in your bones.

"My pretty girl..."

He was leaning down, his lips grazing your collarbone, his breath hitching as he felt you tighten around him. The tension in the room was so thick you could almost taste it, a heavy, electric charge that made every touch feel like a lightning strike.

Then, the spell was shattered.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound was sharp and sudden, a violent intrusion of the real world into your private space. Michael froze mid thrust, his entire body jolting as if he’d been struck by lightning. He let out a tiny, startled squeak a sound so uncharacteristically high and embarrassed that it made your own heart skip a beat.

"Hey! You two alright in there?" Jackie’s voice boomed from the hallway, followed by the unmistakable, mischievous chuckle of Tito. "Sounds like a whole lot of... activity!"

"Yeah, Mike!" Marlon’s voice joined in, loud and teasing. "You need some help? Or are you just working too hard?"

Michael’s face went a shade of crimson you didn't even know was possible. He scrambled to pull himself up, accidentally slipping out of you, his eyes wide and panicked, looking everywhere but at the door. He looked like he wanted the floor to simply open up and swallow him whole. You felt the heat rushing to your cheeks, your hand flying to your mouth to stifle the embarrassed gasp that escaped you.

"Hush! Leave them alone!" La Toya’s voice rang out, sharp and authoritative, though you could hear the smile in her tone. "Can't you see they're busy? Let them have some peace!"

"We're going, we're going!" Marlon laughed, his footsteps receding down the hall, followed by the sound of the brothers' collective, boisterous laughter.

"Come on, you hooligans!" La Toya scolded, her footsteps following them as she chased them away, her voice fading into the distance.

Silence fell over the room, but it wasn't the heavy, sensual silence from before. It was a thick, awkward, mortified silence. Michael stayed frozen, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched as he tried to hide his face in the crook of your neck. He was breathing shallowly, his ears a bright, burning red.

"Oh god..." he whispered, his voice a tiny, embarrassed whine.

He sounded so genuinely wounded by the interruption, so shy and flustered, that you couldn't help but let out a small, breathless giggle. The sheer absurdity of the moment being caught in the most intimate act by a chorus of teasing brothers broke the tension in the most ridiculous way.

Michael looked up at you, seeing the amusement in your eyes, and he let out a long, shaky sigh. A small, shy smile finally tugging at the corners of his mouth, even as his face remained flushed.

"They're so embarrassing," he murmured, his eyes searching yours, a little bit of that needy, intense hunger beginning to flicker back to life through the embarrassment. He leaned down, pressing a soft, apologetic kiss to your forehead. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," you whispered, reaching up to cup his face, your fingers tracing the heat of his cheek. "I think they're gone again"

He let out a breath, his gaze darkening as he looked at you, the embarrassment melting away to make room for a renewed, even more desperate kind of longing. He seemed determined to make up for the lost time, to reclaim the intimacy you had lost.

"Just us," he echoed, his voice dropping back into that low, sinful register. He moved back over you, his movements a little more urgent now, a little more frantic. "Just us, baby. And I'm not letting anyone else in again."

The way he moved now was different. The slow, careful worship was still there, but it was laced with a new, feverish urgency. It was as if he were trying to make up for every second lost to the teasing voices in the hallway, as if he needed to drown out the memory of their laughter with the sound of your breath.

He didn't just slide back into you; he drove back into you with a deep, grounding stroke that made the headboard groan a long, low protest against the wall. He let out a ragged, broken sound halfway between a moan and a sob as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his skin hot and damp against yours.

"I missed you," he whimpered, the words muffled against your skin. "Even when you were right here... I just... I missed being inside you"

His hands were everywhere, frantic yet purposeful. One hand stayed clamped firmly on your hip, anchoring you to him, while the other returned to your clit, his thumb working with a relentless, driving rhythm that sent white hot sparks behind your eyelids. He was pushing you, guiding you toward the edge with the expertise of a man who lived to see you undone.

You were far past the point of being able to stay quiet. Your hips were bucking wildly against him, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back, your breath coming in short, desperate hitches. Every time a loud, needy whine threatened to escape your lips, Michael was there, his mouth finding yours, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to catch the sound, turning your cries into a shared, breathless heat.

"That's it... yes, baby... just like that," he whispered, his voice a frantic, melodic chant in your ear. "Give it all to me... give it all to me, angel..."

The friction was becoming intense, the wet, sliding sounds of his cock moving inside you filling the quiet room, a raunchy, rhythmic sound to your shared desperation. You could feel the tension in his body, too; he was coiled tight, his muscles jumping under your touch, his breathing coming in those short, sharp, needy gasps that told you he was right there on the edge with you.

"Mikey..." you gasped, your voice breaking as the first waves of your climax began to crash over you. "Michael, please..."

He heard the desperation in your voice, saw the way your eyes were blown wide and glazed with pleasure, and it was the final trigger. He let out a long, high pitched, needy whine, his head falling into the crook of your neck as he felt your pussy begin to pulse and squeeze around him in a frantic, rhythmic clench.

"Oh god... baby─" he cried out, his voice a beautiful, broken melody.

As you came, your whole body shuddering under the force of the release, he followed you instantly. He thrust deep one last time, pinning you to the mattress as his own climax took him, a series of heavy, soul shaking jolts that left him breathless and trembling. He let out a long, low, shuddering groan, his forehead resting against yours as he poured his cum into you, his entire body vibrating with the intensity of it.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was the heavy, synchronized thudding of your hearts and the ragged, uneven rhythm of your breathing. The television was still flickering in the background, a silent witness to the wreckage of passion.

Michael didn't pull away. He stayed draped over you, his weight a comforting, warm presence, his face hidden in the hollow of your neck. He was still trembling slightly, the aftershocks of his release rippling through him.

"I love you so much," he whispered, his voice so low and exhausted it was barely a breath. He pressed a lingering, tender kiss to your temple, his lips soft and warm. "My angel... you're my everything."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes soft, swimming with a profound, quiet adoration. He reached up, his thumb gently wiping a stray tear of pleasure from the corner of your eye.

You reached up, your hand still trembling slightly from the intensity of it all, to cradle his cheek. Your skin felt electric against his, and the moment your palm met his heated cheek, Michael let out a tiny, contented sigh. He didn't pull away; instead, he leaned into your touch, closing his eyes and pressing his face into your hand.

"I love you too, angel face," you murmured, your voice thick with emotion.

A soft, beautiful flush crept up his neck and dusted his cheekbones. He let out a shy, breathless little laugh, ducking his head slightly as he blushed at the nickname. It was a rare, unguarded moment of pure, boyish sweetness that made your heart swell.

"Angel face..." he repeated under his breath, a small, lopsided smile playing on his lips.

He shifted, pulling the heavy duvet up over both of your bodies, cocooning you in a warm, dark sanctuary. He didn't move to get up or clean up; he simply wanted to be near you. He tucked his head under your chin, his nose brushing against your collarbone, and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

The room was quiet now, the frantic energy of before replaced by a heavy, peaceful stillness. The only sound was the distant, muffled hum of the TV and the steady, calming rhythm of his heart beating against yours. You ran your fingers through his hair, the soft strands slipping through your fingers as you stroked his head in slow, soothing motions.

Michael let out a long, shaky breath, his body finally going limp with total relaxation. He nuzzled closer, his breath warm against your skin, his presence a constant, comforting weight.

"Stay right here," he whispered, his voice trailing off into a sleepy, contented mumble. "Don't go anywhere... just stay with me, baby. Just like this."

"Always," you promised, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

𝒜 few days ago, you decided it was finally time to get a part-time job.

Between college classes, studying, and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life, you didn't need anything too demanding. Still, having a little extra money in your pocket certainly wouldn't hurt.

You'd always been good with kids. Years of babysitting younger cousins had made looking after children feel almost second nature, so when you stumbled across an opening for a nanny position, it seemed like the perfect fit. Flexible hours, decent pay, and work you already knew you enjoyed. Simple.

Or so you thought.

The application itself had been straightforward enough, and you certainly hadn't expected a response so quickly. What you expected even less was the name attached to the acceptance email sitting in your inbox.

Michael Jackson.

You had stared at the screen for a solid minute before rereading it. Then another minute after that. Surely there had to be another Michael Jackson.

There wasn't.

Somehow, against all odds, you'd just been hired as the nanny for one of the most famous people on the planet.

You hadn't submitted some special application. You hadn't pulled strings or known somebody who knew somebody. You had simply applied for a nanny position because you needed a part-time job. And somehow, that had led here.

The days leading up to your first shift weren't much better. Every time you remembered where you'd be working, your stomach performed a small acrobatic routine. You spent an embarrassing amount of time debating what to wear, eventually settling on something professional but comfortable. The night before, you barely slept.

Every possible scenario ran through your mind. What if the children didn't like you? What if you accidentally broke something expensive? What if you got lost inside the house? What if Michael Jackson himself answered the door?

That last thought was ridiculous. Surely someone else would greet you.

Still, by the time the morning of your first day arrived, your nerves were stretched tighter than piano wire.

The drive to the estate was longer than you'd anticipated. The familiar suburban roads gradually gave way to winding streets lined with towering trees, the scenery growing quieter and more secluded with every mile.

By the time the massive iron gates appeared in front of you, your stomach had already begun twisting itself into knots. You were used to small apartments and campus coffee shops, not sprawling estates that looked like they belonged in a movie.

This was ridiculous.

When the car finally pulled up the long, gravel driveway, you found yourself staring up at the house in silence. It was beautiful, sure, but it was also intimidating. It was a place of quiet elegance and old money, a place where every blade of grass seemed perfectly in place.

Taking a deep breath to steady your racing heart, you grabbed your bag and stepped out of the car. It was just a job. That was all. You were here to look after three children, earn a paycheck, and hopefully not embarrass yourself in front of a global superstar.

Easy.

The lie sounded considerably less convincing the closer you got to the front door.

Before you could knock, the front door swung open. You instinctively straightened.

But instead of the superstar you'd seen plastered across magazine covers and television screens for years, you were greeted by a woman in a crisp professional uniform.

"You must be the new nanny," she said, stepping aside to usher you into the foyer. "Come in, please. Don't just stand there outside."

As you stepped inside, the first thing that hit you was the the scent of something expensive, like sandalwood and fresh lilies. The foyer was massive, with high ceilings and polished floors that made your footsteps echo. It was beautiful.

"I'm Martha," the woman said, leading you down a wide hallway. "I handle the household management here. The children are currently in the playroom, but Mr. Jackson is in the study. He'll want to greet you properly once you've had a moment to settle in and meet the little ones."

She led you toward a set of large, arched doors at the end of the hall. As you walked, you could hear the faint, muffled sound of laughter and high pitched voices coming from somewhere deeper in the house. It was a sharp, human contrast to the quiet elegance of the hallway.

"Prince, Paris, and Blanket," Martha continued, her voice softening just a fraction. "They can be a handful, especially Prince, but they're good children. Once you get to know them, you'll see."

She pushed open the playroom doors, and the sudden burst of energy nearly knocked you back. The room was bright, filled with sunlight and scattered toys, and there they were, three kids who were about to become your entire world in the months to come.

Martha smiled and stepped back, leaving you alone in the center of the playroom. "I'll go let Mr. Jackson know you've arrived. He'll be with you in a moment." With a polite nod, she disappeared back into the hallway, the heavy doors clicking shut behind her.

The sudden silence was short lived.

Three pairs of curious eyes locked onto you, their play momentarily forgotten. They were a lively, chaotic blur of motion and color, the room a minefield of toy blocks and stuffed animals.

Paris was the first to move. She approached you with a cautious but curious expression, her small hand gripping a drawing. "Are you really going to stay here with us?" she asked, holding the paper up for you to see. It was a colorful, abstract sketch of a cat, the lines bold and confident.

"I sure am," you said, kneeling down to her level. "And that's a really great drawing.”

"Thank you," she beamed, her face lighting up with pride.

Beside her, Prince stood with his arms crossed, looking you up and down with a skeptic expression. "Do you know how to play hide and seek?" he asked, his voice serious.

"I'm pretty good at it," you replied, offering them a small, genuine smile. "But I'm even better at finding people."

Blanket, the youngest, had already wandered over to you, tugging on the hem of your shirt and pointing toward a large pile of pillows in the corner. "Can we make a fort?" he asked, his eyes wide and hopeful.

Before you could answer, the sound of the door opening again drew your attention. You turned, and there he was.

Michael Jackson stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He wasn't wearing the flashy stage clothes you'd seen in photos; he wore simple black trousers and a loose white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His expression was calm, but as he looked at you, there was a flicker of curiosity in his dark eyes. He didn't speak right away; he just watched you, taking in the sight of you sitting on the floor with his children. Then he smiled.

"Well, that was fast," Michael said from the doorway. Prince immediately pointed at you. "She's good at hide and seek."

"I haven't even played yet," you laughed, not yet really registering that Michael Jackson was standing right there. "Yeah, but she said she's good at it," Prince argued.

Michael covered a smile with his hand. "That's all the proof you need?"

"Yep."

Then it clicked. You froze for a split second, your heart performing a frantic, uneven rhythm against your ribs. Holy shit, your brain screamed. It’s actually him. It’s really him.

Internally, you were spiraling.

The Michael Jackson you'd seen in magazines and on television had always felt larger than life, someone distant and untouchable. But standing here, in the middle of a playroom with three children arguing over fort-building materials, he suddenly felt very real.

And he was looking right at you.

A thousand ridiculous thoughts rushed through your head all at once. Was your hair a mess from the drive? Did you have something on your shirt? Why were your palms suddenly sweating?

Don't trip. Don't stutter. Don't make a fool of yourself.

You forced yourself to take a steady breath and pushed the panic aside. You weren't here as a fan. You were here to do a job. The last thing you wanted was for him to think you were some starstruck girl who had wandered into his house by accident.

Rising to your feet, you smoothed your hands over your clothes and offered him a small smile. Hopefully it came across as polite and professional.

Hopefully it didn't reveal the fact that your heart was currently trying to beat its way out of your chest.

"Hello," you said, rising to your feet and offering him a small smile. "I'm [Name]. It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Jackson."

For a moment, his gaze lingered on you. Not in an uncomfortable way—just long enough to suggest he was taking you in properly.

"The pleasure is mine," he replied warmly.

Before either of you could say anything else, Blanket tugged on your sleeve.

"We're building a fort," he announced.

A smile immediately spread across Michael's face.

"Are you now?"

Blanket nodded enthusiastically. "A huge one."

"[Name] said she'd help."

Michael's eyes flickered back to yours, amusement dancing in them.

"Well, sounds like you've already been recruited."

You laughed softly. "I didn't realize I'd be getting assigned duties within the first five minutes."

"Oh, they're very efficient around here," he said with a straight face.

Paris giggled.

"They've been very welcoming," you added. "Blanket was just pitching the fort idea before you came in."

"A fort sounds like a wonderful idea, Blanket," Michael said, stepping further into the room.

His entire demeanor seemed to soften as he approached his children. He reached down and ruffled Blanket's hair, earning an immediate grin from the little boy.

"But don't wear yourselves out too much, alright?" he continued, glancing between Prince and Paris. "You have a very busy day of playing tomorrow."

"Dad," Prince groaned dramatically.

"What?"

"We play every day."

"Exactly," Michael replied. "Which means you gotta pace yourselves."

The children immediately dissolved into protests, their complaints overlapping one another as they insisted they weren't tired in the slightest. Michael only laughed at their dramatic reactions, shaking his head fondly. There was something almost infectious about the warmth he carried around them. The way he looked at his children made it painfully obvious how much he adored them.

After a few moments, his attention drifted back to you.

"Since you'll be spending a lot of time here, why don't we take a quick tour?" he suggested. His voice was easy and inviting, never demanding. "I just want to make sure you know where everything is. It's a big house, and it can be pretty easy to get lost."

You couldn't help but glance down the seemingly endless hallway stretching before you. Judging by the size of the place alone, he was probably right.

"That would be lovely, thank you."

A small smile tugged at his lips before he motioned for you to follow. As the two of you left the playroom behind, the sounds of the children arguing over fort-building supplies gradually faded into the background.

The house was even more impressive once you saw it properly. Every hallway seemed to lead to another wing, every room larger than the last. Michael guided you through it all with quiet patience, pointing out the library, the dining room, various sitting areas, and the sprawling gardens visible through the tall windows. He never rushed through his explanations, occasionally glancing your way to make sure you were keeping up.

Despite your nerves, you found yourself slowly relaxing in his company.

As you approached the grand staircase, Michael's pace slowed until he eventually came to a stop. His expression shifted slightly, as though he had just remembered something important.

"There is one thing I'd like to ask you."

You turned your attention toward him immediately.

"My schedule can be a little unpredictable sometimes," he explained. "There are periods where rehearsals run late or work keeps me away from home longer than expected. On those occasions, would you be comfortable staying here overnight?"

For a moment, you blinked.

It wasn't an unreasonable request. In fact, considering the circumstances, it made perfect sense. Still, the responsibility behind it wasn't lost on you.

"You'd have your own guest room, of course," he added. "I just like knowing someone is here with the children when I can't be."

The concern in his voice was genuine.

"Oh," you said, offering him a reassuring smile. "Yeah, that's completely fine. I don't mind at all."

The visible relief that crossed his features made it seem as though he'd been more worried about your answer than he'd let on.

"That's good to hear," he replied softly. "Thank you."

For a brief moment, the conversation seemed finished. Michael started to continue down the hallway before hesitating. When he looked back at you, there was something almost shy in his expression.

"And please," he said after a small pause, "you don't have to call me Mr. Jackson."

Your eyebrows lifted slightly.

"I don't?" A quiet laugh escaped him. "No. It makes me feel a lot older than I actually am."

That finally earned a laugh from you.

"Alright then, Michael." Something about hearing his name from your lips seemed to brighten his smile.

"Yeah," he said softly. "Michael is fine."

Settling in with the Jackson family was easier than you ever could have anticipated. The children were delightful little things, and you quickly found yourself becoming a fixture in their daily lives.

You spent your afternoons in a blur of activity. The siblings were funny as a trio.

"Can we build a fort?" Blanket would ask.

"A giant one?" you would ask back.

"A giant one."

"With blankets?"

"Obviously."

Prince groaned dramatically. "He always wants a fort."

"Because forts are cool."

"No," Paris corrected. "Because you're five."

Or sitting quietly on the floor to help Paris with her coloring books, running around the gardens, playing endless games of hide and seek with Prince. They were a handful, sure, but they were sweet, and they made the massive house feel warm and alive.

And then there was Michael.

Being around Michael quickly became one of the easiest parts of your day. Despite everything he was—the fame, the success, the larger-than-life reputation—he never made you feel intimidated. He was unfailingly kind and respectful, always mindful of your space and never overstepping, yet there was a warmth about him that drew people in without him even trying.

Before long, you found yourself looking forward to the quiet moments you happened to share.

Sometimes it was a brief conversation in the kitchen while you prepared snacks for the children. Other times, you'd run into him late in the evening after finally getting the kids settled for bed, only for a quick greeting to turn into a twenty-minute conversation.

The topics themselves were rarely anything extraordinary. You'd tell him about a book you'd been reading, a class you hoped to take in college, or some funny thing one of the children had said earlier that day. In return, he'd share stories from his travels, his work, or whatever happened to be on his mind.

What surprised you most was how attentively he listened.

Most people listened just enough to respond. Michael listened because he genuinely wanted to hear what you had to say. He remembered little details from previous conversations, asked thoughtful questions, and somehow always made you feel as though whatever you were talking about was the most interesting thing in the world.

It was a small thing, really.

But there was something comforting about the way his eyes softened whenever you spoke, as if he was completely present in the moment and nowhere else he'd rather be.

Then, as expected, first crack in your composure appeared.

It was a warm afternoon, and you were wearing a simple, light sundress, something easy and comfortable. As you were walking past the library, Michael stepped out, catching your eye. He paused, his gaze lingering for just a second.

"That color really suits you," he said softly, a small, appreciative smile playing on his lips. "It compliments you beautifully."

You smiled bashfully and looked down at your dress. "This old thing?"

At that he frowned, and countered, "No, don't do that."

Now you looked at him with a slightly confused expression, "Do what?"

"The thing where somebody compliments you and you immediately insult yourself." You blinked. "I'm serious," he continued. "You look nice. Just say thank you."

A reluctant smile tugged at your lips. "Thank you."

"There. See? Much easier."

Later that night, you finally made it home.

The apartment greeted you with the familiar smell of takeout containers and the faint glow of the television illuminating the living room. Your boyfriend was exactly where you expected him to be, stretched across the couch with his phone in hand.

"Hey," you greeted, kicking off your shoes near the door.

"Hey, babe."

You set your bag down and wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water.

"Today was actually pretty good," you said. "The kids were adorable. Prince tried helping me with the laundry." A small chuckle escaped you at the memory.

"He ended up folding everything into little squares. It was sweet, but I had to redo half of it."

"Mhm."

You glanced toward the living room. His eyes never left his phone. Still, you continued.

"Blanket spent most of the afternoon trying to convince everyone to build a blanket fort. Apparently it was a matter of national importance." That earned a brief laugh.

"Sounds about right." You smiled faintly and leaned against the kitchen counter.

The conversation stalled. For a moment, all you could hear was the soft clicking of his thumb against the screen and the distant noise of the television.

"It's strange," you found yourself saying. "That house." This finally seemed to get a little more of his attention. "What about it?"

"I don't know." You shrugged. "It's just... different."

"Different how?"

You searched for the right words. "Lively, I guess. There's always something going on. Even when everything's quiet, it never really feels empty." He nodded absentmindedly. "Michael was showing me around today, and somehow we ended up talking about my classes for like twenty minutes."

"That's nice." His response came automatically. The kind of response people give when they're listening just enough to be polite. You looked down at your glass.

"Yeah."

Silence settled between you again. You hated how disappointed that made you feel. Not because he'd said anything wrong. He hadn't. He wasn't being cruel or rude. He wasn't starting a fight. He wasn't even ignoring you entirely.

But while you were standing here trying to tell him about your day, it felt as though his attention was somewhere else entirely. A few months ago, he would've asked questions. Now, it felt like he was simply waiting for the conversation to end.

"Anyway," you said quietly, forcing a smile. "I think I'm gonna take a shower."

"Okay, babe." His eyes never left the screen. As you turned toward the hallway, an uncomfortable feeling settled in your chest.

For the first time, you found yourself comparing the way people listened to you. And that thought bothered you more than you wanted to admit.

A few days later, you were babysitting for Michael again. In the kitchen, you reached for a glass on a high shelf when you felt him step in behind you.

“Need a hand with that?” Michael’s voice was low, just beside your ear.

“Oh! No, I’ve almost got it,” you said, stretching your fingers toward the rim of the glass.

Before you could grab it, his arm lifted past yours, brushing lightly against you as he took it down with ease. When he handed it over, he didn’t immediately let go. His fingers lingered against yours, his thumb tracing a slow, absent motion across the back of your hand—far too deliberate to feel accidental.

The air in the kitchen seemed to shift, suddenly heavier. You froze, your breath catching as you looked up at him. He was already watching you. His gaze held yours, steady and searching, like he was waiting for something.

His hand stayed there a moment longer, warm against yours, before he finally let go.

“There you go,” he said with a small smile.

There was no explanation for it.

Or at least none that you were willing to give yourself.

After that afternoon in the kitchen, neither of you ever mentioned what had happened. Michael continued on as though everything was perfectly normal. He was still polite, still thoughtful, still the same gentle man you'd come to know over the past few weeks. If anything, he seemed even more careful around you.

And yet, despite the lack of words, something had shifted.

You began noticing it in the smallest moments. A hand brushing yours when he passed you a plate during dinner. Fingers lingering against your palm for a second longer than necessary when he handed you a book or a cup of coffee. Nothing inappropriate. Nothing you could point to and confidently call intentional.

Just enough to leave you wondering.

The looks were somehow worse.

More than once, you'd glance up from whatever you were doing only to find his eyes already on you. Sometimes from across the room while the children played. Other times from the doorway of the kitchen while you prepared snacks. He never stared for long. The moment your eyes met, a small smile would tug at his lips before he looked away again and continued whatever he had been doing.

It should have been harmless. Maybe it was harmless, but you found yourself thinking about it anyway.

The problem was that Michael noticed things.

He noticed when you were tired. He noticed when you seemed stressed after class. He remembered small details from conversations you'd had weeks ago and somehow always knew exactly what questions to ask.

It was such a simple thing, and yet it felt surprisingly rare. Your boyfriend used to be like that, at least, you thought he used to be.

Lately, your conversations had become shorter and shorter. Calls went unanswered. Messages sat unopened for hours. When he did respond, it often felt like he was only half paying attention, his mind somewhere else entirely.

At first you told yourself it was just a rough patch. Everyone got busy. Everyone got distracted.

But the excuses became harder to make when days started passing without a single meaningful conversation. The contrast was impossible to ignore.

You hated yourself a little for noticing it.

Every time Michael remembered something you'd mentioned in passing. Every time he asked how an exam had gone. Every time he stopped what he was doing just to genuinely listen to your answer.

You weren't looking for reasons to compare them, they just kept presenting themselves. And the more they did, the more unsettled you became, because somewhere along the way, those lingering touches had stopped surprising you. And that realization was far more dangerous than any accidental brush of hands could ever be.

Once again, you fell into the comfortable rhythm you came to appreciate over the last few months. After dinner came baths, pajamas, and the endless negotiations that accompanied bedtime.

"One story," you told Blanket firmly as you tucked him beneath the covers.

"Three."

"One."

"Two."

You narrowed your eyes. He narrowed his right back.

"One."

Blanket sighed dramatically, as though you'd personally ruined his entire week.

"Fine."

Across the room, Paris giggled into her pillow.

Prince looked up from the book in his lap. "You know he does this every night, right?"

"I've noticed."

"And it works every time."

"It does not."

"It kinda does," Paris corrected. You gasped in mock offense. The children dissolved into laughter, the sound warming something in your chest.

You'd only been with the family for a couple of months, but moments like this had already become familiar. Comfortable. Easy.

By the time the final story had been read and the last glass of water delivered, the children had begun drifting off one by one. Paris was the first. Prince fought sleep with admirable determination before eventually losing the battle.

Blanket lasted longest of all, "You'll be here tomorrow, right?" he mumbled sleepily. You smiled.

"Of course."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Satisfied, he finally closed his eyes. The room fell quiet.

For a few moments, you simply sat there, listening to the soft hum of the air conditioning and the steady rhythm of three sleeping children. Then your eyes drifted toward the clock.

10:47 PM.

Michael had called earlier that afternoon to explain that rehearsals were running late. He'd likely be gone most of the night.

Which meant you'd be staying over.

You quietly slipped from the room, careful not to wake anyone, and made your way downstairs.

The house felt entirely different at night.

The laughter and noise that usually filled it had faded away, leaving only silence behind. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows, casting pale ribbons of silver across the polished floors. You wandered into the living room and sank onto one of the couches.

Almost immediately, your eyes flickered toward the telephone sitting on the side table. Nothing. No missed calls. No messages. No voicemail. Your stomach sank.

Again.

You'd spoken to your boyfriend for less than ten minutes over the past three days. At first you'd made excuses. He was busy. Work was stressful. Life happened.

But lately it felt as though every conversation had become an obligation. Something to get through. Not something either of you actually looked forward to anymore.

You stared at the phone for another moment before reaching for it. Maybe he'd just forgotten, or got distracted. Maybe—

The line rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Eventually he picked up.

"Hey." No enthusiasm. No warmth.

Just... hey.

"Hi." A pause. "What's up?" You swallowed.

"I was just calling."

"Okay."

The silence stretched. You found yourself gripping the receiver tighter. "I haven't heard from you all day." Another pause.

"Yeah. I've been busy." Something sharp twisted in your chest.

You've been busy for three days." A sigh crackled through the line.

"[Name]..."

"No, seriously." You leaned forward, frustration bubbling to the surface. "I'm not asking for a three-hour conversation. I'm asking for a phone call."

"I texted you."

"You sent me two words."

"It still counts." A humorless laugh escaped you. "Wow."

"What?"

"You really think that's the same thing?" His own patience seemed to snap. "Why are we even arguing about this?"

"Because I'm tired."

"Tired of what?"

"Tired of feeling like I'm bothering you every time I want to talk to my own boyfriend." Silence. Then another sigh. Louder this time, more irritated. "You're blowing this way out of proportion."

Your eyes squeezed shut. There it was.

Every single time.

Any time you tried talking about something that upset you, somehow you became the problem. "I'm not blowing it out of proportion."

"You are."

"No, I'm telling you how I feel."

"And I'm telling you that you're overthinking everything." The words hit harder than they should have. Because part of you already knew they weren't true.

You weren't overthinking, you were lonely. And somehow that felt worse. "You know what?" you said quietly.

"What?"

"Forget it."

"[Name]—"

"No." Your voice cracked slightly. "I don't want to do this right now." Before he could answer, you hung up, the click echoed through the empty room.

For a long moment, you simply sat there staring at the receiver in your hand. The silence that followed felt deafening. Slowly, you set the phone back onto its cradle.

You told yourself not to cry. You were too old to cry over a stupid phone call. Too old to cry over a relationship that had clearly been falling apart for months.

And yet the first tear slipped down your cheek anyway. Then another. You quickly wiped them away, but more followed.

Soon your vision blurred completely. You curled slightly into yourself on the couch, pressing the heel of your palm against your eyes as quiet sobs shook your shoulders.

The massive house around you remained silent. No television, no laughter, no conversation. Just you.

And the overwhelming realization that somewhere along the way, you'd stopped feeling loved. That was what hurt the most.

You didn't hear the front door open, and you also didn't hear the quiet footsteps crossing the foyer. You didn't hear anything at all.

The argument kept replaying in your head, each word feeling worse now that the anger had worn off. Your chest hurt. Your eyes burned. No matter how many times you wiped at your face, fresh tears kept slipping free.

You were so caught up in your misery that you nearly jumped when a familiar voice spoke.

"[Name]?" Your head snapped up.

Michael stood at the entrance of the living room. He looked tired from a long day, dark, smooth hair slightly disheveled and the sleeves of his shirt rolled to his forearms.

The moment his eyes landed on your tear-streaked face, his entire expression changed. Concern immediately replaced whatever exhaustion he'd been carrying.

"What happened?" You quickly looked away. "Nothing." The answer came too fast. Too automatic.

Michael's eyebrows drew together. "[Name]."

The simple way he said your name almost made you cry harder. You laughed weakly through your tears. "I'm okay."

"No, you're not."

His voice was gentle. Not accusing. Not demanding. Just concerned.

He crossed the room and sat down beside you, leaving enough space that you wouldn't feel crowded. For a few moments, neither of you spoke.

The silence wasn't uncomfortable, it was patient, like he was willing to wait as long as you needed. Eventually, you let out a shaky breath.

"We had a fight." His expression softened in understanding. "Your boyfriend?"

You nodded. Michael remained quiet, allowing you to continue at your own pace. And somehow that made everything spill out.

All the missed phone calls, all the unanswered texts, and the way every conversation felt forced lately.

The feeling that no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't seem to reach him anymore. You hated how emotional you sounded. Hated how pathetic it all felt once spoken aloud.

But Michael never interrupted, just quietly let you rant. He listened.

By the time you finished, tears were rolling freely down your cheeks again. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then his hand carefully settled over yours. The gesture was small, steady and comforting.

And somehow it undid you completely. His thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles.

"You've been carrying that by yourself?" You looked down.

"I guess." His jaw tightened.

Not in anger toward you. In anger for you. What imbecile treats his lady that way?

Slowly, he reached up and brushed a tear from your cheek. The touch was so gentle it almost hurt. "Hey," he said quietly. Your eyes lifted to his. The sadness in his expression caught you off guard.

As though seeing you like this genuinely upset him. "You don't deserve that." Fresh tears immediately filled your eyes. You looked away. But Michael simply shook his head. "No." His voice was soft but firm. "You don't."

Another tear slipped free. Without thinking, his hand rose to your cheek again. This time he didn't pull away immediately.

"Sweetheart..." The word slipped out naturally. As though he couldn't stand seeing you cry. As though every protective instinct in him had suddenly come alive.

Your breath caught. "You deserve someone who listens when you speak." His thumb gently brushed beneath your eye. "You deserve someone who makes time for you." Your lower lip trembled. "You deserve to feel loved."

That was what broke you.

Because somewhere deep down, you'd started wondering if maybe expecting those things was asking too much.

And hearing someone tell you otherwise felt like having a weight lifted from your chest. "Oh, [Name]..." Michael murmured when another sob escaped you. This time you didn't fight it.

You leaned toward him instinctively. Seeking comfort and warmth.

Seeking something solid to hold onto. The moment you did, Michael wrapped his arms around you in a soothing embrace without hesitation.

His hand settled between your shoulder blades as he pulled you gently against his side. "It's okay," he whispered.

The tears came harder. And Michael held you through every single one.

His hand moved slowly up and down your back, soothing and steady.

"It's okay," he whispered again, his voice a low, soothing rumble against your ear. He didn't pull away. If anything, his hold tightened slightly, one hand moving slowly up and down your back as though he could somehow soothe away all the hurt that had built up inside you. The steady rhythm of it was comforting, grounding. For the first time all evening, you didn't feel alone.

Eventually, Michael pulled back just enough to look at you properly. His hands rose to your face, carefully cradling your cheeks as though you were something precious. His thumbs swept beneath your eyes, brushing away the tears that continued to slip free despite your best efforts to stop them.

"Hey," he murmured softly. You kept your gaze lowered. "Sweetheart."

The endearment was so gentle that it made your chest ache.

"Look at me." Reluctantly, your eyes lifted to meet his. The sadness in his expression nearly broke your heart. No pity, just genuine concern.

Michael's gaze searched your face for a moment before he let out a quiet sigh. "A girl like you should never have to beg for someone's attention." A fresh tear slipped down your cheek.

His thumb caught it before it could fall.

"You know what I see almost every day?" he continued softly. "I see someone who gives so much of herself to everyone around her. I see how you sit with Paris when she wants to show you every drawing she's made that week. I see how patient you are when Prince asks a hundred questions at once. I see the way Blanket lights up the second you walk into a room."

Your lower lip trembled. Michael smiled sadly. "And somehow you convinced yourself that asking for a phone call is asking too much?"

You looked away. Because hearing it out loud made it sound ridiculous. His hand gently guided your face back toward him.

"No." His voice was quiet, but firm. "It isn't."

The room fell silent for a moment.

"You make people feel cared for," he continued, his gaze never leaving yours. "You make this house feel warmer. The kids adore you. Martha adores you. Lord knows Bill won't stop talking about how good you are for 'em."

A weak laugh escaped through your tears. Michael's smile softened. "See?"

His thumb brushed across your cheek again.

"You're so busy makin' sure everyone else feel loved that you forgot you're supposed to receive that same love in return."

The tears came harder then, because for the first time in weeks, someone was saying exactly what you needed to hear.

Michael watched you quietly for a moment before his expression softened even further.

"You're a wonderful, smart girl, angel." The nickname slipped out so naturally it didn't even seem intentional.

His words felt like honey, smoothing over the rough edges of your soul. You felt yourself melting, the frustration of the fight with your boyfriend slowly dissolving.

It was the kind of praise you hadn't realized you were starving for. Under his gaze, you didn't feel like a mess; you felt seen.

You looked up at him through your wet eyelashes, and he gazed right back at you. You noticed the way his gaze lingered on your lips before drifting back to your eyes, and your heart began to race for a completely different reason. The silence that followed was charged. The air between you felt sensual, electric, and sweet.

"It's okay," he whispered again, his voice a low, soothing rumble against your ear. He didn't pull away; instead, he tightened his hold just a fraction, as if he could physically shield you from the heartache of the last few hours.

He eventually pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands moving from your back to gently cup your face. His thumbs traced the line of your cheekbones, catching the last few stray tears with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

"Look at me," he murmured, his eyes searching yours. "A girl like you... someone so smart, so incredibly kind... you should never have to feel like you're a burden just for wantin' some love"

You let out a shaky, uneven breath, your eyes fluttering shut for a second as you leaned into his warmth. The heat from his palms felt so good against your skin, a stark contrast to the cold, lonely feeling that had been sitting in your chest all night.

"You have this way of making everything around you better," he continued, his voice dropping to a soft, melodic hush. He wasn't trying to win an argument or make a point; he was just talking to you, really seeing you. "The way you handle the kids, the way you just... exist in a room. You're so bright, angel. A girl as beautiful and special as you should be celebrated every single day. You should be someone's entire world, not an afterthought."

His words felt like honey, smoothing over the jagged edges of your soul. You felt yourself melting, the frustration of the fight with your boyfriend dissolving into a hazy, warm blur. It was the kind of praise you hadn't realized you were starving for. Under his gaze, you didn't feel like a mess; you felt precious. Like something rare that needed to be handled with care.

The air between you has changed into something that almost feels intimate.

You stared up at him, mesmerized by the way the moonlight caught the warmth in his eyes. You noticed the way his gaze lingered on your lips before drifting back to your eyes, and your heart began to race for a completely different reason.

The need to close the gap, to stop the thinking and just feel, became overwhelming.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you leaned in. It wasn't a tentative movement; it was a desperate, hungry surge. Your hand flew up, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck and cupping the side of his face as you pressed your lips to his.

The kiss was passionate, fueled by the raw emotion of the night and the intoxicating sweetness of his words.

You expected him to be surprised, to pull back in shock, but Michael didn't hesitate for a single second. Instead, he let out a low, muffled sound deep in his throat and melted into you. His large hand slid from your cheek to wrap firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest so there was no space left between you. His other hand moved to your chin, his fingers gripping you firmly to tilt your head back and deepen the contact.

He kissed you back with a sudden, fierce hunger that made your head spin. He tasted like warmth and comfort, and for a moment, the world outside the living room simply ceased to exist.

Finally, you pulled back just an inch, your breath coming in ragged, frantic gasps. Your face was flushed, your heart hammering against your ribs. The reality of what you'd just done crashed down on you, making you feel breathless and exposed.

"Oh god, Michael, I'm so sorry," you stammered, your eyes wide and frantic as you tried to find your footing. "That was the emotions, I just I didn't mean to "

"Shh," he commanded softly, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Before you could finish your clumsy apology, he leaned in again, his mouth catching yours and silencing your words with a kiss.

This kiss wasn't like the first one. It was deep, heavy, and felt like it was pulling the very air out of your lungs.

Michael didn't just kiss you; he claimed you. His mouth was firm and demanding, his tongue sweeping against yours in a way that made your toes curl and a soft, involuntary moan catch in your throat. Every time you tried to catch your breath, he seemed to find a way to steal it again.

His hand on your waist tightened, his fingers digging slightly into your skin through your clothes, pulling you so close that you could feel the frantic thud of his heart against your own.

You felt a little lightheaded, your senses narrowed down to just the taste of him, the scent of his skin, and the incredible, solid weight of his body against yours.

The sadness from earlier the loneliness, the frustration, the feeling of being "too much" it all felt miles away. In this moment, with his hands on you and his lips on yours, you felt exactly like the girl he had just described: someone worth wanting. Someone worth holding.

He pulled back just a fraction, his forehead resting against yours. Both of you were breathing hard, your chests heaving in unison. In the dim moonlight, his eyes looked dark, almost predatory, but the warmth behind them was still there.

"Don't apologize," he whispered, his voice sounding rougher than before, a low rasp that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "Never apologize for wating this."

His thumb traced your bottom lip, which was now swollen from his kiss. The way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered made your stomach flip.

He didn't wait for you to respond. He moved his hand from your chin, his fingers sliding into your hair, gripping the strands just enough to tilt your head back again. He leaned down, but instead of going for your lips, he trailed a path of slow, searing kisses down the side of your neck.

A small gasp escaped you as his lips found that sensitive spot just below your ear. You instinctively arched your neck, giving him better access, your hands clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if you were afraid he might disappear if you let go.

"Michael..." you breathed, his name a soft plea you didn't even realize you were making.

"I got you," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and teasing. "Just let go, angel. Just let go."

He moved back up, his lips grazing your jawline before finally finding your mouth again. This time, the kiss was slower, more languid, but no less intense.

It was a slow burn, a deep, intoxicating exploration that made you feel like you were melting into the couch, into him.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy with a hunger that made your knees weak. He didn't look like the gentle, comforting man who had been holding you through your tears anymore. There was a new edge to him, a quiet strength that felt almost overwhelming.

"You spent so much time feeling like you're too much," he murmured, his voice dropping to a deep, gravelly rasp. He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. "Let me show you how a man properly loves on his girl."

The sheer confidence in his voice sent a jolt of electricity straight to your pussy. Before you could even process the words, his hands slid from your waist over your ass and down to your thighs. With one smooth, powerful motion, he hoisted you up.

You let out a tiny, startled squeak, your hands instinctively flying to his shoulders to steady yourself. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, pulling him even tighter against you. He was so solid, stronger than he looked, and the sudden change in height made your head spin in the best possible way.

He didn't say a word as he began to carry you, his stride steady and sure as he moved away from the living room and toward the grand staircase.

He wasn't rushing, though. He was taking his time. As he walked, he leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips soft and sweet. Then, he trailed his mouth down to your cheek in a way that made you shiver.

"Michael," you whispered, your voice quiet and breathless, your fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck.

"I got you, sweetheart" he promised, his voice a low vibration you could feel against your chest.

He shifted his grip, his hand sliding up to the back of your thigh to hold you securely against him, while his other hand stayed firmly on your waist.

As he reached the landing, he leaned in again, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck. He pressed a series of soft, warm kisses there, his breath hot against your skin, making you arch your back and bury your face in the crook of his neck as he made his way to his bedroom.

The bedroom door shut with a soft thud, leaving the rest of the house feeling miles away. The room was quiet, lit mostly by the moonlight coming through the window, making everything feel calm and private.

Michael didn't just drop you on the bed; he lowered you onto the mattress slowly, staying right there with you. As you settled into the blankets, you felt a little flustered, a shy smile tugging at your lips. You were definitely blushing, but you didn't try to hide it you actually found yourself leaning closer to him, wanting to be in his space.

Michael was smiling too. It wasn't some intense, brooding look; it was just a warm, genuine smile that made him look incredibly handsome.

He leaned down, giving you a quick, sweet kiss before pulling back just an inch. His eyes were roaming over your face, taking you in.

"You have no idea," he said, his voice low and casual, "How hard it's been to actually act normal around you."

You let out a little embarrassed laugh, looking down at the duvet for a second, but he reached out and gently nudged your chin so you’d look at him again.

"Seriously," he continued, his gaze dropping to your shoulders before meeting your eyes again. "Every time you were here helping with the kids, watching you laugh or just seeing you move around the room... it was driving me crazy. I'd be trying to talk to someone else, but I'd just be thinking about you."

He shifted a bit closer, his hand sliding down to rest on your waist. His touch was warm and steady.

"And you're so damn beautiful," he added, his voice dropping a bit. He wasn't being dramatic; he was just telling you the truth. "I've been staring at you for weeks, just wondering when I'd finally get a chance to be this close to you."

A nervous, happy sort of flutter went through your stomach. You felt a little shy under all that attention, but it felt good. It felt right.

He leaned in, kissing your cheek and then your temple, his voice a constant, low murmur of praise. "I've wanted this since the first day you walked in here," he admitted, his lips brushing against your ear. "Just to have you all to myself like this."

He didn't stop there. His hand, which had been resting on your waist, started to wander, his palm sliding up under the hem of your shirt. The contact of his warm skin against your stomach made you catch your breath, a small, shaky sound that he answered with a low, appreciative hum.

"You're so soft," he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip as he pulled your shirt up just a little further.

The shyness was still there, making you feel a little breathless, but as he leaned down to kiss the hollow of your throat, you found yourself reaching for him. Your hands slid under his shirt, your palms pressing against his back.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice a low, rough rasp. It wasn't a timid question; he could tell you wanted him, but he was still being the man he promised to be the one who took care of you.

He moved his hands to the waistband of your pants, his fingers grazing the skin of your hips. He paused for a second, his eyes locking onto yours, checking in.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his voice sounding a little more strained than before. "I've been thinking about this... about you... for so long."

He slid your clothes down, his movements slow and deliberate, making sure you were comfortable every step of the way. As you lay there, feeling the cool air hit your skin, a sudden wave of nerves hit you. You felt exposed, and as he shifted, moving his body down the bed, your heart started to hammer against your ribs.

You'd seen it in movies, sure, but the idea of him actually being down there... it felt a lot more intense in person.

"Michael?" you breathed, your voice a little shaky. You reached out, your fingers curling into the sheets. "Is... is it okay if we just... slow down a little?"

He stopped immediately, propping himself up on his elbows so he could look at you. He didn't look frustrated or impatient; he just looked incredibly focused on you.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice a warm, grounding weight. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

"It's just..." You bit your lip, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. "I've never really... had a guy do that. You know? Like...eat me out. It's just a little intimidating."

A slow, incredibly sweet smile spread across his face. He reached up, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering on your cheek.

"Intimidating?" he teased gently, though his eyes were dark with a hunger that was hard to miss. "Angel, there's nothing to be nervous about. It's just me. And trust me, there ain't nothin' in the world I want more right now than to taste you."

He leaned down, pressing a lingering, soft kiss to your stomach, just above the line of your panties. You let out a tiny, startled gasp, your hips giving a small, involuntary twitch. You were so wet, you were sure that a wet patch has formed on your panties already.

"Been dreamin' about how you taste since the first time you sat on my sofa," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and teasing. "I wanna take my time with you. gonna make sure you feel every single thing. Does that sound good?"

You looked down at him, seeing the genuine yearning in his expression. He genuinely wanted to taste your pussy so bad. The hesitation was still there, but it was being drowned out by the sheer heat of his gaze.

"Yeah," you whispered, a small, shy smile returning to your lips. "That sounds really good."

He didn't move away once you gave him the green light. Instead, he moved with a quiet, predatory grace, sliding down the length of your body until he was positioned between your thighs. The heat radiating from him was a physical weight, making your skin prickle with anticipation.

As he hooked his fingers into the elastic of your panties, his eyes never left yours for a second. He peeled the fabric down your legs with a slow, agonizing deliberation, leaving you completely bare and trembling under his gaze. The cool air of the room hit your damp skin, but you felt like you were burning from the inside out.

Then, he leaned in.

The first touch of his tongue wasn't tentative. It wasn't a light, polite graze. It was a heavy, soaking swipe that started at the very base of your mound and dragged all the way up to your clit.

A loud, unbidden moan tore from your throat, your back arching off the mattress as the sheer, wet friction sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core. You expected him to be careful, to be "gentle" in the way he always was, but the Michael looking up at you now was different. His eyes were hooded, dark, and glazed with a raw, unadulterated lust that made your stomach flip.

He didn't just want to taste you; he wanted to devour you.

He leaned back in, his face disappearing between your thighs. The sound of his mouth against your wet, swollen folds was loud and unapologetic, a heavy, rhythmic slap of skin on skin that made your toes curl into the sheets.

"Oh god, Michael..." you gasped, your head thrashing against the pillow.

"I've got you, pretty baby," he murmured, his voice vibrating against your most sensitive skin. He pulled back just for a second, his lips glistening, his eyes dark and blown out with pure, unadulterated lust. "You're so wet for me. You're so slick, angel. Just look at you... you're a beautiful, soaking mess."

He didn't wait for a response before he dived back in, his tongue working with a frantic, desperate hunger. He was lapping up every drop of your nectar, his tongue swirling deep into your slit, catching the heavy, syrupy flow of your arousal. He was being so thorough, so goddamn greedy, that you could feel the warmth of his breath mingling with the wetness of your own juices.

"That's it, sweet baby," he groaned, the sound muffled by your pussy. His thumb began to grind in heavy, punishing circles against your clit.

The sensation was too much. It was too much, and yet, you were begging for more, your fingers knotting into the bedsheets until your knuckles turned white. Every time his tongue swiped upward, catching the sensitive peak of your clit, a fresh wave of heat crashed over you, making your vision blur. He wasn't being the gentle, careful Michael you knew in the daylight; he was a man possessed, a man driven by a hunger that seemed bottomless.

"Michael... oh, god, Michael..." you sobbed, your hips jerking upward, trying to meet the relentless pressure of his tongue and the heavy, rhythmic grind of his thumb.

"That's it, angel... just like that," he murmured, his voice a dark, vibrating hum against your swollen folds. He pulled back just enough to let the cool air hit your dripping heat, only to dive back in with a sudden, forceful suction that made your entire body seize. "You're so loud for me, baby... so beautiful when you're losing control."

He was being so greedy, so unapologetically thorough, that you felt like you were drowning in the sensation of him. The wet, slapping sounds of his mouth against you were the only thing you could hear, drowning out the quiet hum of the house around you. He was lapping at you, tasting every drop of your arousal as if it were the most precious thing he’d ever encountered, his breath hot and frantic against your inner thighs.

"Please... Michael, please, I'm gonna—" Your voice broke, a high, keening whine escaping your throat as the tension in your lower belly tightened into a hard, pulsing knot.

"Gonna what, sweetheart? Gonna come for me?" He teased, his voice thick with lust, before he increased the pace. His tongue became a frantic, swirling blur against your clit, while his thumb applied a heavy, punishing pressure that sent jolts of pure electricity straight to your brain. "Let it go, baby. Give it all to me. Show me how much you want it..."

You couldn't hold back anymore. The world fractured. Your back arched violently off the mattress, your toes curling as the first wave of your orgasm crashed through you. It was a violent, beautiful explosion of pleasure, your internal muscles clamping down hard and pulsing around the empty space where his mouth was, desperate to hold onto the sensation.

"Oh! Oh, god!" you screamed, your head thrashing from side to side as you came, the sheer intensity of it leaving you breathless and trembling.

Michael didn't pull away. He stayed right there, drinking you in, his tongue continuing to swirl in slow, soothing circles to catch the aftershocks, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you steady through the tremors. He let out a low, guttural groan of satisfaction, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as he watched you unravel beneath him.

"Mm, so sweet..." he whispered, his lips and chin glistening as he finally looked up at you, his eyes dark, blown out, and completely undone by the sight of your messy, beautiful climax. "You taste like heaven, baby. Just heaven."

The aftershocks were still rippling through you, leaving your skin hypersensitive and your breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. Michael didn't move away immediately; instead, he lingered, his lips pressing soft, reverent kisses to the inside of your thighs, his hands roaming over the lush curves of your hips. He looked up at you, and the sheer worship in his eyes made your heart ache. He didn't just want you; he was in awe of you.

"Look at you," he breathed, his voice a low, reverent rasp. He reached out, his palms sliding up the soft, generous swell of your hips, his fingers sinking slightly into your skin. "So soft... so perfect. Every inch of you is a miracle, angel."

He moved up the bed, his body a heavy, warm weight as he hovered over you. He didn't rush. He took a moment to just look at you, his gaze tracing the curve of your waist, the fullness of your breasts, and the way your thighs spilled beautifully against the sheets. To him, you weren't just a woman; you were a masterpiece of soft lines and delicious weight.

"You're so beautiful, pretty baby," he murmured, leaning down to press a slow, lingering kiss to the swell of your hip, his mouth trailing upward. "Could spend a lifetime just exploring you. Just worshiping you."

He captured one of your breasts in his hand, his thumb grazing the peak as he leaned in to take the swollen bud into his mouth. He sucked deeply, a low groan vibrating in his throat, while his other hand slid down to find where you were still slick and pulsing from your climax.

The friction of his hand against your wetness, paired with the heavy, insistent pull of his mouth on your breast, sent a new wave of heat crashing through you. You reached for him, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, needing the friction, needing the weight of him to fill the emptiness.

"Michael... please," you whimpered, your hips tilting upward in a silent plea. "I need you. I need to feel you."

"I know, baby. I know," he whispered against your skin, his breath hot and frantic. He pulled back just enough to strip away the last of his own clothes, and when he pressed himself against you, the sheer, veiny heat of him made you gasp. He was massive, a heavy, pulsing weight that promised to stretch you to your absolute limit.

He guided himself to your entrance, the head of his cock smearing your own nectar across your opening. He paused there, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that felt like it was stripping your soul bare.

"Tell me you want it," he commanded softly, his voice thick with a desperate kind of hunger. "Tell me you want me to fill you up, sweetheart."

"Please," you choked out, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him flush against your soft curves. "Fuck, Michael, please... fill me up. All of you."

With a slow, deliberate thrust, he began to sink into you. He didn't slam in; he moved with a heavy, agonizing patience, letting your walls stretch and accommodate his girth. You felt every inch of him, the way he filled you so completely that it felt like he was touching your very core. You let out a long, broken moan, your head falling back as your body yielded to the delicious intrusion.

"Mm, so wet... so fucking perfect," he grunted, his muscles corded and tense as he bottomed out. He stayed there for a moment, buried deep, his chest heaving against yours, letting you adjust to the sheer fullness of him. He began to move, his thrusts slow and deep, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in with a heavy, rhythmic force that made the bed creak beneath you.

The sensation was overwhelming. It wasn't just the friction; it was the way his body interacted with yours the way his hard, lean frame contrasted against the soft, yielding curves of your hips and thighs. Every time he slammed home, his hips hitting yours with a wet, heavy thwack, you felt the impact in your entire soul.

"You feel so good, baby," he groaned, his pace picking up, his thrusts becoming harder, more urgent. He reached down, his large hand splaying across your stomach before sliding lower to cup the underside of your ass, lifting you slightly to meet his every lunge. "I love how you feel around me... so warm, so wet... like you were made just for this."

He was relentless. He drove into you with a primal, driving rhythm, his hips snapping forward to ensure he hit your sweet spot with every single stroke. You were lost in it the sound of your skin slapping together, the scent of your shared arousal, and the overwhelming, heavy sensation of him plowing through you.

"Oh, god, Michael—" you cried out, your hands roaming wildly over his back. You were being driven to the brink again, the friction of his cock against your internal walls sending sparks of white hot pleasure through your nervous system.

"That's it, baby... take it all," he urged, his voice a guttural growl near your ear. He was pushing you harder, his thrusts becoming frantic and shallow as he neared his own limit, his breath coming in harsh, jagged gasps. "Give it to me, angel... let me see you come again..."

The world finally stopped spinning, the frantic rhythm of his hips slowing into a heavy, pulsing ache that settled deep in your bones. As the peak of your climax began to recede, leaving you limp and trembling, Michael followed you over the edge. He let out a long, strangled groan, his body tensing violently as he buried himself as deep as he could possibly go, his entire frame shuddering with the force of his release.

He didn't pull out. Instead, he collapsed against you, his chest heaving in sync with yours, his sweat slicked skin clinging to yours in the most delicious, heavy way. He stayed buried deep inside you, the sensation of his hot, pulsing length filling you up as he slowly began to settle.

"Mm... oh, baby," he breathed, his voice little more than a broken whisper against the crook of your neck. He didn't move to separate; he just held you, his weight a comforting, grounding presence that made you feel safe and cherished in the wake of the storm.

He began to move, but it wasn't the frantic, hungry driving from before. It was slow, so agonizingly slow that every tiny, infinitesimal twitch of his cock inside you felt like a caress. He was just... existing within you, letting the sensation of being joined sink in. He nudged his hips in a tiny, rhythmic circle, a gentle friction that sent soft, warm ripples of pleasure through your sensitized walls.

"You're so warm," he murmured, his lips grazing your jawline as he spoke. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes soft and glazed with a profound, quiet adoration. "You feel so good, sweetheart. So perfect. I never want to leave you."

He reached down, his hand sliding under the small of your back to pull you even tighter against him, making sure there wasn't a single millimeter of space between your bodies. He began to pepper your face with tiny, soft kisses your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose each one.

"Michael..." you sighed, your eyes fluttering shut as you drifted in the haze of afterglow. You felt so full, so cherished, as if his very essence was being poured into you.

"I got you, angel," he whispered, his hand moving from your back to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a reverence that made your heart swell. "I got you. Just breathe. Just feel me."

He continued that slow, hypnotic movement, a gentle, pulsing slide that was more about connection than conquest. It was a worship of the quiet moments the way your breath hitched when he pressed a kiss to your collarbone, the way your hands instinctively curled into his hair, the way your bodies seemed to hum in a shared silence

In the quiet of the room, with nothing but the sound of your synchronized breathing, it felt like time had stopped.

The room was quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing and the distant, muffled hum of the world outside that seemed a million miles away. Michael was still draped over you, his head resting in the hollow of your shoulder, his skin still warm and damp against yours. He was moving with a slow, almost hypnotic lazyness, his hips occasionally giving a tiny, affectionate nudge that kept you tethered to the sensation of him still being buried deep within you.

"You're so quiet, baby," he murmured, his voice a low, sleepy vibration against your skin. He lifted his head just enough to press a lingering kiss to your temple. "Thinking about something?"

"Just... how much this feels like a dream," you whispered, your fingers tracing the line of his shoulder, feeling the lean strength of him. "it feels like if I blink too hard, the world is gonna come rushing back in and take all of this away."

Michael went still. The playful, sleepy haze in his eyes shifted, replaced by something much more intense, much more grounded. He shifted his weight, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at you. The soft light of the room caught the dark, serious depth of his gaze.

"It ain't a dream, angel," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming that steady, commanding weight you had come to rely on. He reached out, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. "I don't do anything halfway. You know that. When I want something... when I want someone... it's everything."

He paused, his eyes searching yours, reading the flicker of hesitation that always lived in the back of your mind. He knew about him. He knew about the man you were supposed to be with the one who was supposed to be your "stable" choice, but who left you feeling half empty and unappreciated.

"You're so good to everyone," Michael continued softly, his hand sliding down to cup your cheek, his touch heavy and warm. "You take care of other people, you take care of the kids... you're so selfless, angel. But who takes care of you?"

Your heart gave a painful little thud against your ribs. You knew where this was going.

"Michael..." you breathed, a warning and a plea all at once.

"He don't see you," Michael whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips before snapping back to your eyes, fierce and unwavering. "Not the way I see you. He doesn't know how to worship you. He don't know how to make you feel like the center of the whole universe."

He leaned down, pressing a slow, firm kiss to your forehead, his forehead resting against yours. "You don't gotta decide anything tonight. Not while we're right here. But just... just think about it, okay? Think about what it'd be like to be with someone who's actually hungry for you. Someone who's gonna give you everything you deserve."

He pulled back just a fraction, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips a hint of the man who could command thousands, but was choosing to use that power just to hold you.

"Because in a way, you're mine, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice a promise as he lowered his head to kiss you again, deep and slow. "In every way that matters... you're already mine."

As he pulled you closer, his body settling back into yours, the weight of his words lingered in the air, more intoxicating than the sex had been. You closed your eyes, drifting off to the feeling of him inside you, wondering if the dream was finally starting to become your reality.

Your apartment greeted you with the faint, lingering smell of last night's microwave popcorn and the sterile chill of air conditioning.

Home.

You dropped your bag by the door, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet. The date had been a shit show. Daryl — or whatever the fuck his name was — with his overly firm handshake and his insistence that you 'just hadn't given indie men a real chance.'

What kind of bullshit. That sentence alone pissed you off.

You padded into the living area, your eyes automatically drifting to the one nice thing in the room: the large, framed poster of the BAD album cover your dad had given you. Michael's face, frozen in a moment of defiant cool, watched you slump onto the couch. His face a stark contrast to your tired features. God what a night this was. One of the fifty million pointless dates from lonely dating apps. It was exhausting.

After a few coincidental minutes, a soft knock at the door made you jump. You weren't expecting anyone, and you prayed it wasn’t your date following you home, again. You dreaded the thought of calling the police for the third time this month.

Peering through the peephole, your breath hitched. Standing in the dim hallway light was Michael himself, looking oddly casual in a dark button-down and slacks, his hands tucked into his pockets.

You unlocked the door, pulling it open. "Michael? What are you doing here?"

He offered a small, almost shy smile. "Your dad mentioned you had a date tonight." He gestured vaguely. "I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd check in."

In the neighborhood. Your apartment was decidedly not in any neighborhood Michael would ever just 'be in'. But you stepped aside, letting him in anyway. His presence immediately changed the energy of the small space, making it feel both smaller and more significant.

He stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the room with a practiced eye before landing on you. His smile faded into a look of gentle concern. "You okay? You look tired."

Tired wasn’t even the word for it. Defeated, sure. Mortified, absolutely.

"I’m fine. The date was fine," you mumbled, retreating to the safety of the couch.

He didn't push, just closed the door softly behind him. "Can I get you something? Water?"

"Wine. But it’s okay, I can get it. Just… I dunno. Make yourself comfortable."

The words came out more brittle than you intended. You pushed yourself off the couch, heading for the kitchen to give your hands something to do. You didn’t know his true intention of being here, but you were too tired to ask.

He nodded, moving to the couch but not sitting. Instead, he picked up the discarded Thai food menu from the floor. "You eat?"

You pulled a wine glass from the cupboard, the clink of glass the only sound for a moment. "Not really. Lost my appetite."

He set the menu down, his voice was low, a bit humored. "That bad, huh? How many does that make?"

You sigh, grabbing another glass and pouring the wine in both of them, a common curtesy for him being in your company once again. The deep red sloshed into the glasses, your reflection wobbling in the dark surface. Part of you felt ashamed. How could you even tell him? How could you admit that yet another guy made you feel invisible? Inferior? So fucking stupid for allowing him to waste your time?

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. You carried the two glasses back to the living area, the wine threatening to spill over the rims with your unsteady steps. You handed one to Michael, your fingers brushing against his. A tiny, electric shock of contact. He took the glass, his eyes never leaving your face. "Thank you."

You took a large gulp of your own wine, the bitterness a welcome distraction from the lump forming in your throat. You collapsed onto the couch, putting a cushion's worth of distance between you.

He finally sat down, the fabric sighing under his weight. He took a slow, deliberate sip. "You don't have to talk about it."

"It’s not that," you hesitate, your breath hitching as you try to find the right words to describe your emotions. "I just.. I’m just so tired." The words felt like a confession, heavy and true in the quiet room. Tired didn't even begin to cover it. It was a soul-deep weariness from trying to fit into a mold that never felt right.

You half scoff, half chuckle at your own disbelief, "They are just so fucking stupid." The words hung in the air, sharp and final. It felt good to say it, to give a name to the frustrating, hollow feeling in your chest. And the floodgates opened. All the pent-up frustration from the night, from months of bad dates, came pouring out. You gestured wildly with your glass, the wine sloshing precariously.

They're all the same.

They talk at you, not to you.

They're obsessed with being perceived as deep, but they have the emotional capacity of a teaspoon.

And he listened, his expression unreadable. He took another slow sip of wine, his eyes never leaving you as you vented about your love life struggles.

You ranted about Daryl’s conspiracy theories about the music industry, about how he'd tried to explain Michael's own album concepts to you as if you were a child. The irony was almost painful.

A part of Michael felt relieved that he was no longer your age, along with the challenges that came with dating. However, another part of him was astounded by the way men treated women these days. There was no chivalry, no love, no respect, and no desire to court a woman. It was almost pathetic to him.

He set his glass down on the coffee table with a quiet, definitive click. "They don't know how to respect women." His voice was low, but it carried a new weight, a sharp edge that hadn't been there before, laced with platitude and judgement.

He leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. "They don't understand the aspect of making you feel... cherished. It’s a sense of entitlement." His words sounded nothing short of intimate and old-fashioned, and while you would’ve made fun of him for it in any other moment, your words died in your throat.

His gaze was intense as it searched your face, and you try to blame the wine for your breathlessness. "It's not you, you know. It's them. They're boys."

"You need a man."

You pause.

"What?"

He didn't look away, his dark eyes squinting for a moment. "You ain’t hear what I said? You need a real man. Someone who knows what he wants and," he stammers a bit. "and knows how to treat you right."

Oh, he was dead serious.

The air in your small apartment felt thin, charged with an electricity you’d never felt with him before. He leaned back slightly, breaking the tension for just a moment, but his eyes never lost their focus. "They don't see you. Not really."

"And you do?" You speculate, this felt all too real for you. The red wine felt heavy in your stomach, the room tilting on its axis.

"Well, yeah," he scoffs, like it was a silly question to ask. His gaze swept over you, taking in the way you were curled into the corner of the couch, the frustrated set of your shoulders. "You're smart. Y'got a good head on your shoulders. More than any of those lil boys could ever hope to have."

He shook his head slowly, a sad, almost pitying look on his face. "And you're... breathtakingly beautiful. You gotta know that."

"Michael — I don’t understand —"

He turns his head towards you, slightly closing the distance between you. "I think you do understand." His voice was low and soft. "You're too smart not to."

Your mind was racing, a frantic scramble to make sense of the shift in the air. Your dad’s best friend, the same famous man that still took the time to spend time with you when you were in college. Your father would kill you if he found out.

A cold dread mixed with a hot, sharp thrill coiled in your stomach. You thought of all the times he’d been there, a constant, quiet presence in your life. The hugs that lasted a second too long. The way his hand would sometimes linger around your waist.

The silence was deafening. His words hung in the air, a challenge and an invitation all at once. Your mind was a whirlwind of confusion and a terrifying, undeniable pull. He watched the internal conflict play out across your face, his expression softening from intense to something more patient, more understanding.

"You’re scared."

"I’m not.." You shake your head, your gaze flickering to the empty glass in your lap with a soft sigh. The denial was weak, even to your own ears. Your fingers tightened around the stem of the empty wine glass, a flimsy anchor in the sudden, swirling intensity of the moment.

He reached out, his movements slow and deliberate, and gently took the glass from your hands, setting it aside on the table. "S’okay to be scared. This is a…” he exhales. “a lot to process."

His hand returned to yours. The air felt thick, heavy with unspoken desire and the weight of crossing a line that could never be uncrossed. He didn't pull his hand back completely. Instead, he let his fingertips trail softly over the back of your hand. "I, uh, I watched you for a long time, y’know… become this incredible woman,"

His thumb stroked a slow, hypnotic pattern on your skin. "I wanted to wait a lil longer, 'cause I have waited. Out of respect f'your father." A faint, almost sad smile touched his lips. "But as much as you're tired of boys not seeing your worth, it's gettin' to me too."

The confession was staggering, and you know it wasn't a sudden impulse he felt from the confines of your cozy living room, because it didn't sound like it. It was a years-long, simmering yet quiet desire that he was finally letting boil over.

"Now, you've been awful quiet." He laughs softly, gazing down at where your hands connected. His glasses fell slightly on his nose. "I just wanna know what you're thinkin'. If this isn't what you want..."

"I do, Michael.. I'm just tryna... process it all."

You weren't necessarily lying. It was true. You would be absolutely stupid to say no to Michael, especially with your attraction to him in mind. The attraction you thought you'd have to bury away for the rest of your life because it never crossed your mind that this would be possible.

His soft laugh was a vibration you felt more than heard; it settled deep in your bones. He gently lifted your chin with his fingertips, forcing your gaze to meet his. "Then stop processing. Just feel." He leaned in slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. The first brush of his lips against yours was achingly soft. Nothing like the rushed, sloppy, nasty kisses you'd experienced before. His lips were reverent against yours.

But when you didn't pull away from him, he deepened the kiss, his hand moving from your chin to cup the side of your face. His other hand found your waist, pulling you gently closer until you were flush against him. The sheer size of him, compared to yours, was a dizzying revelation to you.

The kiss was a slow and deep exploration. His lips moved against yours with a practiced patience that stole the breath from your lungs. It wasn't like anything you imagined from him — it was so much better, the intensity and realness giving you goosebumps alone. The way his hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers tangling gently in your pressed hair, it was too much.

His lips trailed down from your mouth, a slow, deliberate path of soft kisses along your jawline. He took his time, as if memorizing the feel of your skin. His mouth found the sensitive hollow of your throat, his kiss there lingering, warm and damp against your cool skin. "You're so soft."

A shiver ran down your spine as he nuzzled into the curve of your neck, his nose brushing against your pulse point.

He pressed a soft and open-mouthed kiss to the spot just below your ear, his voice a low murmur against your skin. "That feel good?"

A breathy sigh was your only answer. Your hands, which had been clenched at your sides, slowly came up to rest tentatively on his shoulders, and he hummed in approval, the sound vibrating through you.

"Good, that's it. Just relax for me, sweetheart."

His lips continued, alternating between soft kisses and sucking nibbles that made your head spin. The contrast between the gentle exploration of his mouth and the solid strength of his body pinning you gently to the couch was intoxicating.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His dark eyes searched your face, his glasses crooked on his.

"You're trembling a little, you okay?" His thumb stroked your cheek, and his question hung in the air. You could only manage a weak nod before mustering up the small yet revealing words from your throat.

"Y-Yeah, it's just — I... I haven't done this before. 'm so sorry.."

You watched his face, waiting for the shift, the judgment, the disappointment you were always fearful of.

His thumb stilled on your cheek, and for a long moment, he was perfectly still, his expression unreadable. "Haven't done... this?"

His voice was quiet and carefully neutral, which you hated. He wasn't pulling away, but the intensity in his eyes had shifted from desire to something more contemplative. He searched your eyes, which were angled down to the purity ring that still sat on your finger.

"I haven't really been with anyone, Mike. Not like that."

The directness of the answer sent a fresh wave of heat to your face; you couldn't help but feel ashamed. Not about the fact that you were raised in such a religious way, where you were practically forbidden to hold hands with a man until you were of age, let alone kiss one. Your father made that very clear from the moment he forced the purity ring onto your dainty little finger.

And from the guys you've been around, evidently, they proved that they weren't worth "corruption" — as your father would call it — so you didn't bother giving in. No matter how much your dates tried to push for it.

That didn't mean you didn't explore in your alone time. The box of toys underneath your queen-sized mattress was proof of that.

But it was about the idea of being judged. Since you were a freshman in college, you were ironically made fun of for still wearing the worn-down, busted-up purity ring your daddy got you on your 16th birthday. Shamed for being the only virgin in the group, insecure for being the only one who had no fun sex stories to share throughout undergrad.

They made you feel like a child, something fragile, like you couldn't understand the fundamentals of lovemaking.

But you don't see that with Michael.

Michael gently tilted your chin back up, forcing your eyes to meet his. There was no mockery in his expression, only the familiar softness you've grown fond of. "Hey, look at me."

His voice was a low, soothing murmur, a tear you didn't realize you were holding back escaped and traced a path down your cheek. And he caught the tear with his thumb, his touch impossibly gentle. "There's nothin' to be sorry for. I was the same way when I was your age. Don't let anyone tear down your faith."

The reassurance was so immediate, the endearment a caress as he pressed a small kiss on your forehead. "You sure you want to do this? With me?"

You let out a meek nod, his fingers tucking messy strands behind your ear.

"I need words, sweetheart."

"Yes, Michael. 'Want it to be you. No one else."

A genuine smile spread across his face, his features impossibly tender, his voice a soft promise as he leaned in again. But this time, the kiss was different, still gentle, but now with underlying possession.

He broke the kiss, and his hand slid from your back, fingertips tracing a slow, deliberate path up your side, just brushing the curve of your breast. "Is this too much?"

A jolt of pure electricity shot through you at the unfamiliar yet comforting touch. Your eyes were half-lidded and fixed on his. "N-no. Feels good..." You shake your head.

His eyes darkened, his other hand stroking your hip with his thumb. "Or this?" His hand slid lower, palm flat against your thigh, applying a small, firm pressure. You swallowed hard, shaking your head again. The sheer size of his hand, the confidence in his touch, was overwhelming yet not enough simultaneously.

Nothing had ever felt like this, especially by yourself. A soft sound escaped you, and your body slightly into his touch, a silent plea for more. His gaze on you was intense, watching every tiny reaction that flickered across your face as he studied you.

He had to; he couldn't allow anyone else to learn you the same way he did. He wanted to take the time to learn exactly what made you feel good and what didn't.

And one thing he did take note of was how expressive you were.

Every sigh, every twitch under his touch, he's never seen anything like it. You were so open when you responded to him — so honest. A pure, unfiltered reaction, and it was all for him. Only for him to see.

His fingertips continued slowly upwards, skating along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The touch was feather light, but he could feel the heat radiating off your skin. It was furnace-like, sending waves of anticipation through you.

"Wanna know what you're feeling. Could you tell me?"

You took a shaky breath as your mind went blank for a second, your focus only narrowing to the point where his hand rested too close to where you needed him most.

"Hot."

His lips curved into a soft smile, and his gaze was stuck on your beautiful face.

His hand shifted higher, his fingers applying a slightly firmer pressure against the seam of your jeans, moving in slow and deliberate circles against your clothed pussy. "And now?"

A sharp gasp caught in your throat. Your hips jerked involuntarily against his hand, a purely instinctive response. And before you had the room to feel embarrassed, his voice was low and approving, whispering sweet praises in your ear.

"...I want more."

"Say what?"

"I.. I want more, please."

You guided his hand from the seam of your jeans, towards the button, pleading for him to move further. You were practically aching for his touch, his sensation turning from unfamiliarity to unadulterated lust and sexual desire. His touch was a revelation. All the shame, the insecurity you'd carried for years, began to melt under the heat of his presence and the certainty of his touch.

His breath hitched at your plea, his eyes dark pools of the shared desire, searching your eyes for any kind of hesitation. When he found none, only desperation, his slender fingers deftly worked the button of your jeans. The pop of it opening sounded impossibly loud.

The zipper slid down with a soft, metallic whisper. His hand slid inside, his palm warm and firm against the thin fabric of your panties, feeling the wet spot against your lips.

"You're so wet... barely touched you."

The pressure of his middle finger was sure as he moved your underwear to the side, his cool skin tracing soft circles against your clit. Cooing softly as your head falls back. Every nerve in your body was alight and hyper-focused on the rhythm of his fingers. It was overwhelming, but in the best way possible. It was like you finally understood the language you had ever heard in hushed whispers from the women around you.

It was almost embarrassing how his soft praises washed over you —mingling with the increasing speed of his fingers — built your orgasm. And he could tell from another soft moan that escaped your lips as you relaxed against the couch. Your fingers tightened their grip on his shoulders, anchoring yourself as your orgasm threatened to overwhelm you.

He then pulls his hand back slowly, his touch retreating, the sudden absence becoming a physical ache. And your eyes fly open, a desperate sigh leaving your lips as you meet his unwavering gaze.

"Mike," you whine, "Why'd you stop?"

He leans in, his lips meeting yours in a soft kiss. "Relax, girl, 'want you to cum on my tongue first."

The words shoot directly into your ears, and they send a fresh wave of desire through you. He cups your cheek, thumb stroking your skin. "Is that something that you'd want?"

You nod eagerly, and he stands from the couch. His movements were fluid as he offered you his hand, and you took it. Your heart grew loud in your ears, anticipation sending shock waves through you.

The bedroom door is ajar, and he pushes it open, his gaze sweeping through the room before landing on your bed. The cozy, warm space suddenly feels sacred in his presence.

He stops just inside the doorway, turning to face you. He brings your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.

"Lie down for me."

His voice is a low command, softened by the reverence in his eyes. You moved to the bed on unsteady legs, settling against the duvet. He follows you, kneeling on the floor at the edge of your bed. The position was startingly intimate, submissive even, but he didn't have a care in the world how he looked. Especially when his focus was solely on your pleasure.

You lift your hips slightly as he pulls off your jeans, leaving you in your tank top and your thin panties, so soaked that they're practically transparent. The cool air hit your bare skin as he tossed the jeans aside. His hands slide up your calves, to your thighs, then hook his fingers in the waistband of your panties.

His gaze lifts to meet yours, a silent question, and you give a slight nod.

He pulls them down, his sharp exhale tickling your sensitive clit as he sees you. So pretty and so exposed. He was the first to see you. And he'd be the first to take you. The first to ruin you so sweetly.

He leans forward, his face inches from you as his warm breath ghosts over your most sensitive skin. "So beautiful, sweetheart."

He doesn't rush. His lips press soft, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thigh, his barely noticeable stubble a rough, thrilling contrast to the softness of his mouth. His hands spread your thighs wider as he gets closer, then his tongue darts out, a quick, experimental action that makes you jolt. Then his mouth is on you, his tongue flat on your clit, laving slow strokes that make your back arch.

He hums at the taste of you, so clean, so sweet, and it was all for him to devour. His hands slide under your hips, lifting you slightly to get a better angle, and his tongue finds a rhythm. Circling your clit then moving downwards to push his tongue against your entrance, grinding his nose against your sensitive bud in the meantime.

You can barely hear the words coming out of his mouth, and he doesn't put in any effort to pull away from your pussy. You could only manage choked sobs and high-pitched moans as the vibrations of his praises shot through you. Your fingers tangle in his hair as his tongue grows relentless. Worshipful. It became a sensation you were only just beginning to get used to, but he was anything but patient. His mouth worked you over in building intensity, his groans of approval sending your orgasm over like a freight train.

Your hips buck against his face, but his hands hold you steady. Strong and firm, allowing no escape from his mouth.

"Fuckfuckfuck — Mike, slow down, I-I'm gonna —"

He focuses his attention, his tongue flicking rapidly against your clit. "Come on, baby. I can feel you shaking. Give in to me."

The world dissolves into pure sensation. A broken cry is torn from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you, violent and overwhelming. Small whimpers flow from your lips at the sensitivity of him tonguing you through your orgasm.

He finally lifts his head, his lips glistening, his breathing ragged. His glasses were long discarded as he kissed your inner thighs softly. He rose from his knees, his movements fluid and deliberate, and joined you on the bed.

He loomed over you, his larger frame caging you gently against the mattress. The scent of your arousal and his cologne mingled in the air. His thumb brushed a stray tear from your cheek, and his gaze was soft as the hard line of his bulge pressed against your thigh. He leaned down, kissing you claimingly, possessively, his hand anchoring himself beside your head while his other worked at the fastening of his own pants.

He didn't have to be fully exposed to see the sheer size of him. The sound of his zipper was loud in the quiet room. He shifted, then you felt him, heavy against your thigh. He pressed his tip, achingly hot against your entrance.

"Look at me."

You obeyed, your gaze trapped in his. The first push inside you was an immense pressure that stretched you wide, making you gasp.

"Breathe, sweetheart. Just breathe for me. I'll go slow."

You took in a shaky breath, and he pushed forward again, slowly, inexorably filling you. The sensation was overwhelming — a fullness you'd never known, coupled with a sharp, fleeting sting. His body trembled with a low groan, evidently showing the effort of his restraint before sinking into you completely.

And for a moment, he stilled, the initial discomfort you felt began to fade, replaced by a throbbing ache of pleasure. Your shaky gasps transformed into breathy moans as you clawed at his shoulder. He began to move, a slow, rocking rhythm. The pace was patient, and his eyes never left yours, reading every flicker of emotion on your face.

He grabbed your face gently, lifting you up slightly into a deep kiss, muffling your shared moans, and the feeling built again. but different than before. His dick kissed your sweet spots so tenderly, and your hips began to move tentatively with his, meeting his slow thrusts.

The rhythm found its own pace, a building cadence that had the world narrowing to the feeling of him inside of you. His breath was ragged as he moaned against your ear, loud and unshameful. You could tell his control began to fray, his hand sliding between you to rub firm circles against your clit, matching the pace of his thrusts.

"F — Shit, sweetheart, I can't... you're so warm around me... Gonna make me cum —"

His confession sent a thrill through you. You arched into him, a silent plea for more as you felt your second orgasm shoot waves through you. With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself inside you, his body tensing as his release washed over him. His breath was harsh in your ear, his heart hammering against your chest.

He shifted slightly, propping himself up on his elbows to look down at you, his expression soft and searching. "Are you okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?" You immediately shake your head, pulling him back down as you wrap your arms around his neck in the comfortable silence.

And it was like that for a while. Before you feel him inhale softly in your ear.

"Nobody else gets to see you like this. Ever. You understand?"

God, there was something about the way she had her hair tied up in a messy bun, her top accentuated her waist, revealing her perfectly sculpted abs, the outline of her abs making itself known; and her night shorts that sat low on her hips, perfectly sculpted to her lower half.

There was something so attractive about the way she smiled at you or the way her hand touched your arm, her fingers lingering on your skin, sending tingles through your body, your stomach fluttering as she laughed at something you said, her head falling onto your shoulder.

“Jan?” You spoke, watching as she lifted her head off your shoulder, making sure that she was now facing you.

“Hm?” There was a brief pause, your eyes darting around in an attempt to look at anything but her eyes, the sound of the TV filling in the silence.

“Have you ever, y'know…kissed someone? "You weren't even sure why you asked that question in the first place; maybe it was how close she was to you or maybe it was the heat from her body that lingered long after she pulled away.

“What made you ask that?” She laughed, tilting her head slightly, only emphasizing her confusion.

“That was stupid... forget about it," you nervously laughed, swatting at the air as to brush off the embarrassment. The courage that you once had was quickly diminishing, replaced by the feeling of bashfulness, and if you thought you could look her in the eyes before, you sure as hell couldn't now.

“Hey now, it's not stupid, but to answer your question, sure I have," she reassured, her hand finding its way to your lower thigh as she shifted on her bed, moving closer to you. "What? You haven't?” Her guess was not far off at all. In fact, you had never done anything of the sorts, but what she didn't guess was that you wanted your lips pressed against hers, to feel the warmth that emitted from them.

“No…” your voice trailed off, your eyes hesitantly meeting with hers.

“Wanna practice?” Her eyes wandered down to your lips, scanning them before dropping them lower to your chest, then back to your eyes. 

“Jan! Stop, you don't mean that." On the outside you seemed embarrassed, but deep down your stomach fluttered, excitement boiling quickly from the tension that seemed to flourish between you.

“I do though." She moved closer, so much so that you could feel the warmth of her breath against your skin, her nose close enough that it nearly touched your own as her lashes fluttered closed before opening again. Suddenly the room felt so hot, like the AC suddenly blew out, your skin burning from the proximity. 

"Jane—" you spoke before the feeling of her lips mashing against yours stopped you mid-sentence. Her lips moved fluidly as you tried your best to keep up, attempting to deepen the kiss as her hand moved from your thigh, up your waist, to your chest, only to stop at your cheek, the softness of her thumb caressing your cheek. 

“You're a natural," she murmured against your lips before diving back in to devour them, her tongue gently sliding against your bottom lip, politely asking for entry, taking the opportunity to slip her tongue in as you opened your mouth slightly, giving her full permission to explore your mouth. Her fingers finding their way to the waistband of your shorts, snapping the band of them, the loud snap cutting through the air like a knife.

“I want you so bad, please, Jan," you whined, leaning back, giving her room to climb on top as she placed her knee intentionally between her lips, her lips still moving rhythmically against yours.

“Yeah? Tell me what you want, baby." Her voice dropped lower, more seductive, and more lustful as her fingers tangled with the waistband of your shorts. 

“Whatever you want." You grinded against her knee in an attempt to get any kind of friction with the heat that pooled in between your legs. 

“Whatever?” You nodded rapidly, earning a giggle from Janet as she watched how desperate you were for her. She let her fingers trace the outline of your hips before tugging down your shorts, your panties slipping down along with them as she tossed them somewhere on the floor with a soft thud as your legs automatically opened on your own, like your body somehow already knew what to do when Janet was in front of you.

She took her time, slowly kissing down your body till she was right at your core, pressing a sweet kiss to your clit before her lips wrapped around it, gently sucking on it, earning a quiet whimper that slipped past your lips as you used your hand to cover your mouth, muffling the other sounds that ripped through your throat. 

Your body felt that it was on fire, tingling like bolts of electricity sending waves through your body as your eyes fluttered close. Your face twisted into pure pleasure as her tongue flicked constantly against your slit, hitting your clit every time, sending your body lurching forward. Your fingers tangled in her bun, making more of a mess than it was originally supposed to. The lewd sounds of Janet lapping up your slick and her moans filling the room.

“F-fuck, that's it," you moaned, tossing your head back, your back arching from the pure pleasure running through your body almost making you feel dizzy. 

“Yeah?” She hummed approvingly, the pure strength of her hands keeping your legs open as they tried to clamp down on her head only to be stopped. Your body moved on its own. You tried to scoot back, but her hands moved quicker, preventing you from moving even farther.

There was a weird feeling building up as you tried pushing her back. “Jan, I feel weird, shit!” You whined, your hips bucking wildly against her face, the sound of the clear liquid splattering against her face and the sheets, your legs clamping closed, and the remaining ecstasy splattering against the inside of your thighs.

“Who knew you could do that?” she laughed, wiping her face with a nearby tissue.

“Stop, this is s'embarassing” you buried your face in the pillows, attempting to not make eye contact with her.

"C'mon, it's not! In fact, want to practice on me? I'll teach you" 

©angelfacediary