aurelia𓏲ּ

hayvenhurst was uncharacteristically quiet for once since the jacksons had begun occupying it. most of the siblings were out doing their own thing, joseph was likely somewhere trying to strong arm some poor television or label executive into making a deal for his sons, katherine was visiting her mother, and you…

well, you were here to see your man. 

it had been a bit of a chore convincing frances, the house manager, to let you in. she was strict about who was coming and going, but you told her you wanted to surprise your baby. for whatever reason she looked skeptical, then a bit concerned as she opened the door for you and let you in the house. 

“he has a friend over, i’m not sure if—”

“it’s fine mrs. frances, i’ll be quick.”

you made your way up the winding steps and into the hallway where the bedrooms were. usually activity could be heard everywhere—doors opening and closing, laughter, yelling—but the only thing you could hear was your own dull footsteps against the carpeted floor as you walked to a familiar door. the closer you got, you could suddenly hear noise. it was faint, but very clear what was going on.

your hand found the knob of the door and you slowly twisted it, smiling when you realized it wasn’t locked.

how careless.

all you had to do was crack the door and the faint noises were crystal clear to you now. you peak inside and there he is, balls deep in her. you recognize her from the back of her head—long, dark perfectly curled hair that was currently pinned up to keep from touching her neck. some of the curls had unfortunately escaped and settled against her neck making them begin to revert back to their natural coiled state. you watched in fascination as she bounced up and down on your man, moaning and carrying on like she knew how to make him feel good. 

then your eyes settled on him. he was a picture of perfection, eyes on her like she was air, plump bottom lip between his teeth, hands settled on her hips as he watched her work. you loved that about him, how attentive he was, made you think he couldn’t live without you. that was why when he did things like this…

well, it pissed you off.

“you doin’ s’good, mama,” he groaned, meeting each bounce with a thrust. 

you tempt fate and push the door open a little wider, catching each flex of his arms, each word of adulation and encouragement, each expert movement he makes that matches hers. and she’s a needy little thing, always asking if she’s “doin’ it right?”, asking him “you like that, daddy?”, wanting to know, “can i go faster?”

and he just smiles, telling her how good she’s doing. it bores you a bit, but you can’t help but feel something when a moan leaves his mouth. it’s like an itch is scratched in your brain and you suddenly forget to be mad. your fingers find the zipper of your denim shorts and you’re pulling it down as quietly as you can. your fingers slip inside of your panties and you keep watching, you and him both biting your bottom lip at the same time as you begin rubbing your clit.

“mar, i wanna switch…” she whines softly.

quitter.

“knew you couldn’t handle it,” he chuckles and brings her closer to kiss her, holding her as if she were precious cargo, “c’mon,”

they both start to maneuver themselves into a new position and it’s then that he briefly glances at the doorway, then back to her before his eyes snap back to yours.  you keep going, staring into those amber eyes as he seems to try and figure out what to do next. 

you’re smiling now, two fingers deep, thumb occasionally brushing your clit. a soft gasp leaves you and the look on marlon’s face makes you want to laugh at him.

got you, bitch.

“actually baby, you was doin’ a real good job,” he says, “stay right here…please, f’me?” he murmurs into her neck and she throws her head back, eyes closed much to his relief.

“my legs are tired…”

“just sit there and look pretty baby, i got you.” 

you have to see how he manages to pull this off. your smirk never leaves you as he begins thrusting inside of her, his eyes never leaving yours through the cracked door. you speed up your own ministrations, tamping down your moans and allowing soft gasps to leave you. she can’t hear you over her own moaning and the sound of skin slapping, but marlon knows exactly what noises you’re making by the look on your face. 

and his eyes do not move from your face.

“mar, baby, i’m gonna—”

“come for me, mama,” he whispers huskily and you obey his command, because he isn’t just talking to pin curls over there.

her thighs are shaking and she’s moaning, sounding something like a cat in heat. you grip the molding outside of the door as your own orgasm rocks through you, a small soft moan escaping your lips as it does. 

he didn’t even climax, he damn near pushes her off of him and you’re sure if she hadn’t just had her own orgasm she might have cussed him out for that. 

you would’ve.

he’s up and out of the bed, his condom covered dick still standing at attention as he pulled on a discarded pair of pajama pants from the floor. "baby where are you go—”

“water.” he says shortly as he rushes over to the door.

you’re smiling as he grabs your arm and closes the door behind him before dragging you to the nearest bathroom. his jaw is clenched as he stares down at you and you can tell he wants to cuss you out. the silence stretches on before you get fed up with it and roll your eyes.

“she’s cute.” you comment casually.

“girl—”

“hold that thought,” you bring your fingers to his parted lips, “clean me up, it’s the least you could do.”

“you’re a fucking nut, you know that?”

he obliges you anyway, grabbing your wrist and wrapping his lips around the digits. “a nut that got her nut,” you smile softly, tilting your head as he lapped at your index and middle fingers

“and when you kiss her, she’s gonna taste me.” 

when he’s done with your fingers, he lets go of your wrist and watches you as if he’s trying to figure out what to say or do next. your eyes wander down to his still hard dick, straining through the thin fabric of his pajama pants. 

he lifts your chin with his finger, “who let you in?” 

“mrs. frances,” you shrug, “if you gave me a key we wouldn’t have these problems.”

“we broke up 6 months ago, why the fuck would i give you a key?” he snaps.

you rolled your eyes, “you keep saying that, but then you do things like this.”

“like what?”

“you just had my fingers in your mouth.”

“i was helping a friend in need.”

“i see another friend in need.” 

you look back down then back up. he’s dropping his pants before you can blink and you smirk. “that’s what i thought.”

“shut up,” he mutters, leaning down and pressing his lips to yours.

you kiss him back, and the second you feel his tongue pressing against your lips, you open up your mouth and allow him inside. his fingers are hooked on the belt loops of your shorts, but before he can pull them down, you stop him. 

“take that girl’s condom off my dick,” 

“i’m getting another one, i’m not about to be tied to you for 18 years.”

“you’re tied to me for life, nigga. might as well.”

he kisses his teeth and rolls the condom off painstakingly slow, like delaying the next 10 to 15 minutes is going to piss you off. what marlon never seems to understand is that you have time. 

you have all the time in the world.

he tosses the condom in the wastebasket, “better?”

“yeah, i like it when i can see my dick, you know? you been letting that girl neglect him and i don’t like that.” you say, reaching out to rub your thumb over his tip.

“poor thing didn’t even get to come,” you bring your thumb up to your lips and put it in your mouth.

he flips you around and yanks your shorts and panties off in one fell swoop. it happens so fast, you almost want to applaud him, but your hands are busy gripping the sink counter so you don’t fall. marlon is pressed into your back and you can feel his length on the crack of your ass. 

“anybody been in my pussy?” he whispers in your ear.

you’re both staring at each other in the mirror, twin looks of lust in your eyes. the smirk on your face makes him clench his jaw in frustration and he grabs your hips, pulling you flush against him. “mama,” he nips your earlobe, “i asked you a question.”

“they weren’t you baby,” you press your ass against him even harder if it’s even possible, “just like she ain’t me, that dancer from soul train ain’t me, that fan from your little club ain’t me,”

you spread your legs for him and he uses his thumb to rub you.  “you been stalking me?”

you smirk, eyes never leaving his in the mirror, “don’t act like you don’t know who’s been in your pussy.”

he slides in you without warning and it takes everything in you not to jump up on the counter from the intrusion but you won’t give him the satisfaction. he fucks into you, hard and fast, the growing sounds of his pelvis rutting against your ass filling the bathroom as you both watch each other in the mirror, refusing to let even a whimper leave either one of your lips.

“you must be tired after having to do all the work in there.” you comment, resting your elbows on the counter.

marlon chuckles low in your ear and continues his pace. you see his hand moving toward your afro and he takes a fistful before yanking your head back, his lips latching onto your throat as your back collides with his chest. 

“there he is,” you gasp, giggling.

“you’re annoying as fuck,” he mumbles against your neck.

you just hum in contentment as he fucks you, each thrust going deeper than the last. you’re moaning and gasping, being loud on purpose now. he  just laughs in your ear because he knows what you’re doing. you both did the same song and dance every time. if he caught you out on a date, he’d be waiting inside of your apartment with the bent coat hanger he used to get in still in his hand. if you saw him on a date, you would beat him home, give frances an excuse as to why you were there so she’d let you in and you would wait on his bed for the happy couple to come home. 

then you both played stupid and started the game all over again. 

“you’re such a sweet talker.” you moan as you try to gain some leverage.

both of your palms are on the edge of the counter and you attempt to right yourself so you can meet his thrusts with your own rhythm. you feel his large, warm hand make its way to your throat. his index finger presses against your jaw, forcing you to look back up in the mirror. 

“marlon? you okay? i heard something from the room…it’s taking you a while to get water baby…”

a smirk pulls at your lips and marlon presses a kiss to the side of your face. “because i’m not getting water, mama.” he chuckles breathily.

you decided to put on a show and marlon sensed it before it happened, a smile coming to his face as he sped up his pace.

“oh my god, daddy you’re so big.” you gasped, stifling a laugh.

“marlon who the fuck is that?”

“she’s just my ex baby, she’ll be gone in a minute.” he says casually.

you start making the same noises she had been making earlier, causing marlon to pinch your sides and hide a laugh in your neck. the door swings open but you're both so close you don’t dare stop. she’s yelling and screaming as you feel that familiar tightness in your belly that signals your release coming. 

“look at you,” he murmurs in your ear, ignoring the cries of his date as she slaps him on the arm, “you gonna come baby?”

“i wanna come with you,” you whine.

“marlon!”

he continues thrusting, “i’m right behind you mama, go ‘head.”

he’s coming inside you and you’re gasping and shaking as his grip tightens on you so you don’t hit the counter. 

“i’m telling everyone about you. you’re fucking disgusting marlon jackson!” “yeah baby, i’ll call you later.” he mumbles, catching your eyes in the mirror.

you’re both watching each other, panting, hot and sweaty. he kisses your jaw then your cheek, “you got what you wanted?”

“not really.” you answer truthfully.

he pulls out of you and you moan softly as he does, but you don’t break eye contact with him. “we gotta stop doing this to each other,” he says, wrapping his arms around your waist, “and other people.”

“only way we can do that is if we get back together.” you murmur.

“we ain’t good together, mama. you know that.”

“then i guess it won’t stop.”

you both continue watching each other.

“What’s got you all chipper this morning, Maine?" Tito questioned making everyone turn their heads towards him.

“This is the smile of a man who got some love last night.” He replied with a self-satisfied smirk.

Janet groaned fake gagging whilst his brothers erupted into loud laughter and whistles, knowing grins plastered their faces as they patted him on the back. 

Michael gave a small smile watching the scene unfold, but he refocused his attention on Janet—–he never was one to be interested in sex talk and his brother's manly habits. He believed sex and intimacy was something to be cherished—something to be kept privately between a male and female.

Which is why no matter how many times his brothers tried to pry or be nosey about his and yours relationship, Michael always shooed them off before enjoying you all to himself behind closed doors. He really was the black sheep of his brothers. 

Whilst explaining the cross word to Janet, he felt Jermaine’s hands clap his shoulders as he took a seat beside him. “Hey Mike.”

“Hey maine, how you been?”

“Good. How about you and mrs lover girl?”

Michael felt his face grow warm at the mention of you, he always grew shy whenever you were brought up—his brothers never failed to tease him over it. 

“She’s good, we’re good– she’s comin over tonight actually.” He replied before adding “How’s you and Hazel?” 

“Extremely good as you can tell” Jermaine replied mischievously whilst gesturing to himself with his hands—Michael rolled his eyes with a smile at his brother's cockiness.

“Yeah i can see that maine, whats that?” He asked curiously whilst he nodded his head towards a purplish coloured bruising resting just above Jermaine’s collarbone. 

His brother’s grin only grew cockier before he responded. “That, my innocent lil brother, is a hickey.”

Michael blinked confused—completely unaware of the term whilst his two older brothers Jackie and Tito turned around after the conversation caught their attention.

“A hickey?” Mike repeated, testing out the words still not understanding whilst his three older brothers bursted into laughter—he shrank into his seat feeling embarrassed.

“C’mon mike, you know what a hickey is man.” Jackie said expecting Michael to have been joking but when he saw his younger brother avoiding eye contact he stopped laughing “Oh you serious.” 

“Mike you mean to tell me you and her still ain’t done nun yet?” Tito inquired.

Even though he didn’t like having his brother's noses in his love life—Michael wasn’t a virgin, but he was still relatively new to it all—only having done anything with you maybe once or twice, which is why the concept of hickeys was still something that was foreign to him. 

“I’ve told you guys before, its nun of your business.” He replied, growing irritated by their questioning. 

“He still ain’t done nun yet that's why he avoiding the question.” Tito said, making the brothers laugh uncontrollably again whilst Michael sighed shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“Don’t worry Mike, when you finally get one of these you’ll become a man.” Jermained laughed whilst he pointed to the hickey on his neck.

Feeling offended by his words his brows furrowed “I am a man Jermaine.”

“Whatever you say Michael.” Jackie responded between laughter.

“Go get a hickey from her and we might take you seriously.” Jermaine remarked sarcastically, trying to stifle his amusement. 

“Oh you think i can’t?” Michael retorted, sitting up more straight—starting to feel slightly competitive by their doubt.

The three brothers exchanged amused glances—their reactions speaking for them before Michael scoffed standing up to walk out of the kitchen.

“Watch me.”

𓂃⋆.˚  

The sound of lips smacking filled Michael's bedroom. His family were fast asleep in their rooms whilst he was up against his headboard holding onto your waist where you straddled his lap, exploring his mouth with your tongue. 

You arrived at Hayvenhurst for a sleepover a couple hours ago when you had dinner with the family. Michael had been quiet the entire time, barely talking to his brothers the way he usually would, when dinner was over and the two of you headed up to his bedroom—you barely made it across the room before he started kissing you hungrily.

“Baby– keep it down we can’t be too– loud.” He said between the kisses whilst your fingers caressed his fro, tipping his head back to kiss him deeper.

“You started this Mike, you shouldn’t have started kissing me like that.” You whispered against his lips grinding onto his growing erection through his pajama trousers.

“Angel–” kiss “Angel wait– i-i need to ask you somethin.” 

You paused, pulling your head back to look at him. “What's wrong Mikey?”

His eyes flickered away from yours. “Nothing i just…”

“Tell me mike.” You cupped his face forcing him to make eye contact as he exhaled softly.

“What's a hickey?” He asked nervously.

Your eyes widened slightly—expecting anything but that. “A hickey?” You repeated.

“Yeah…a hickey….Jermaine had one when he came home this mornin n they were all teasin me about not knowing.” 

He began to explain the comments they made, the way they laughed, and how Jermaine doubted he could ever get one. 

Understanding flashed across your face as you started to piece everything together—his silence towards his brothers during dinner and the heated kiss he gave you. 

“Well for starters i’m gonna kick their asses for teasing you.” 

He cracked a smile, chuckling slightly at your words.

“Don’t worry baby, I'll tell you all there is to know, okay?” You said softly, caressing his cheek with love whilst he nodded looking up at you with those big doe eyes you fell in love with. 

“Okay so, a hickey is when a person places their mouth on someones skin, and sucks real hard till it bruises—dont worry though, it feels really good, especially if it's on the neck in a sensitive area of the skin.” You explained whilst Michael listened intently, visualising it whilst you spoke.

“Have you…ever received one?” He asked suddenly feeling shy.

“Yeah baby i have.” You responded.

“Oh..” His tone was mixed with slight jealousy—a rare appearance that always made you turned on whenever it happened.

“Wanna give me one mikey?”

His dick slightly twitched in his pants—which you felt because you were still straddling him—at the seductiveness of your voice.

“I-i…i wouldn’t know how–”

“I can teach you. You want me to teach you baby?”

As if hypnotised by your words he nodded turning into complete jelly at the sound your voice. You smirked before adjusting yourself on his lap, getting yourself comfy again before you placed his hands on your waist to hold.

“Good, now lean into my neck and just start off with soft kisses mikey.” You murmured softly as he hesitantly leaned in but started pressing gentle kisses onto the skin of the right side of your neck.

The sweet smell of your natural skin mixed with Cocoa butter made his tense muscles relax completely as he spread the warm kisses around the area feeling the way your own body melted onto him.

“Mmh that feels good baby, okay now make the kisses a little wetter, add your tongue into it.”

He does as told gently placing his tongue flat before smooching onto the skin, he repeated this about five times as your eyes closed and your bottom lip was folded between your teeth trying not to release a moan that was starting to form in your throat.

Growing slightly confident, he trailed the tongue filled kisses across your neck moving to your left side which had you finally release the small moan you were trying to hold back.

“Does it feel good angel?” Michael muttered against your neck seeking reassurance as you nodded rubbing his back urging him to continue.

“Mhm y-yes baby it does…okay now i want you to suck onto the skin, still making it wet but this time suction your mouth baby.” You instructed softly.

He listened, you felt him readjust his mouth before his lips closed over the area in a sucking motion—instantly, he sucked onto your sweet spot that was just where your pulse was and you moaned again, tipping your head back more for him.

“Oh yes…yes baby you’re doing so well, m’so proud of you.” You spoke lowly, slightly feeling breathless.

Hearing the way your responses start to become breathy, Michael sucked onto your neck with more confidence, his tongue swiping all the areas that triggered more moans from you as you started to grind your hips onto his now completely hard crotch.

Feeling your hips move—it was Michael’s turn to release pleasure filled sounds which he released onto the area he was sucking, his hips bucking upwards as the grip he had on your waist became tighter. 

“I love you baby– love making you feel good, I love being good for you.” His hot breath tickling your wet bruised skin as he panted softly against it at the way your clothed core was grinding onto his pajama pants where he was now leaking precum through his boxers.

“I love you too, such a good boy for me Mike, doing so well marking me up—you like marking up your girl hm?”

Michael nodded whilst he groaned against your neck painfully and possessively as he continued to suck on your skin like there was no tomorrow. 

“Aht aht, i need your words Mikey.”

“I do! I love marking you up baby—love marking up my pretty girl.” He responded frantically.

Just as he was about to suck on the other side again, you pulled back slightly, lifting his head up—he whined about to protest before you silenced him with a hungry kiss to his lips that he returned gratefully, his tongue wrapped around yours passionately, neither of you caring how loud your kisses were as you deepened it before pulling away with a playful tug at his bottom lip with your teeth.

“How do you like your work, Picasso?” You teased as you tilted your head back allowing Michael to get a full view of the fresh dark prominent hickeys on your brown skin.

His eyes darkened seeing the outcome of his work, once again you felt him twitch beneath you as you pulled your head back forward meeting his gaze with your lustful one. 

“You liked that mikey? Like seein me all marked up because of you?” You whispered against his lips with a smirk as he nodded rapidly still staring up at you as if he was in a trance. “y-yes i do.”

You pulled back and he leaned in not wanting to escape your warmth but you rested your palm on his chest creating distance. “Now that I've taught you the principles of a hickey, and how it works….its my turn.”

The excitement that filled your boyfriends wide eyes caused you to chuckle gently as he eagerly gripped your waist again pulling you impossibly closer till you were chest to chest.

“Looks like someone's eager.” You ribbed 

“Please, please I need to prove Jermaine wrong—needa wipe that smug grin off his face, all of em.”

Fueled by your own desperation to help your boyfriend succeed, you leaned into his neck—the warm scent of clean skin and faint cologne filled your nostrils before you pressed soft kisses on the area doing the same exact process you taught him—licking his skin gently you smiled against him hearing the way his breath hitched. 

“Just relax baby, gonna make you feel so good.” You whispered before you started sucking on the area.

Michael’s eyes flickered shut as he released a soft shaky moan—so this is what a hickey felt like.

He bit on his bottom lip trying not to moan too loudly but when you started to roll your hips again—resuming your actions from earlier, he buried his face onto your shoulder whilst you moved against him and continued to work your mouth on his skin. You licked it, feeling his pulse quicken against your tongue.

“O-oh that feels so good.” He whimpered, moving his hands to your ass and squeezing a handful—his sudden confidence made you release a surprised sound onto his skin before you continued sucking.

“That’s it baby, grip my ass while i mark you.”

He continued to dry hump with you, neither of you losing the momentum as you panted into his skin grinding your now completely drenched clothed core onto his erect Pajama pants pushing your clit forward and back until you were a moaning mess. You sucked hard onto the skin making sure you left your mark on the very visible area before you released his skin with a pop and switched to the other side. 

Just like he did earlier, your mouth immediately found his sweet spot when you moved to his right side—Michael released a quivering moan tipping his head back to give you more access to the skin as you continued to abuse it, slurping and sucking on it whilst your hips moved on their own accord.

"F-fuck mikey you feel so good against me, so perfect and hard for me baby." You praised.

The two of you were now moaning in unison—completely losing yourselves, Michael’s head was thrown back with drool escaping his lips at how good your mouth felt on his neck and how good your pussy felt dry humping him, your spit trickled down his neck as you sucked hungrily over his adams apple.

“Ngh– oh God— oh baby—” Michael was an incoherent mess his words scrambling over each other as he pushed your hips down on him—harder, faster whilst you were your own disaster still latched onto his neck with tears of pleasure rolling down your face. 

“A-angel, angel im coming— im com— aghh!”

Michael came hard into his boxers his grip on you deliciously painful as he held you tighter, moving your head you bit onto his shoulder just as your own orgasm crashed through you as well whilst you continued to relentlessly rub your overstimulated clit through your panties onto his crotch before releasing his skin from your mouth with a whiny moan. 

After it became too sensitive and too much to handle, your hips gradually slowed down, the two of you panted heavily—both of your eyelids heavy as Michael rubbed your back soothingly with his palm. 

“You okay?” His voice low and soft.

“Yeah, you?” You replied as he nodded with a tired smile formed on his lips, his eyes sleepy but filled with love as they stared at you.

You stared back with matched tiredness and infatuation, brushing your thumb against his wet hickeys—a wide smile of pride painted your pretty face.

“Lets get some rest angel face, you got some showing off to do in the morning.”

𓂃⋆.˚  

The family's loud breakfast morning routine took place as usual, this time Latoya and Rebbie were there to make sure the pancakes weren’t burnt this time, whilst the brothers—marlon, Jermaine, Tito and Jackie sat at the table playing cards above their cereal bowls.

The loud chatter and bickering filled the atmosphere as the late morning sun shone through the sheer floral curtains of the kitchen. 

Janet was sat up on the counter completing the crossword Michael had taught her how to do yesterday whilst Randy got on her nerves trying to distract her. 

After finishing up the pancakes—Rebbie took the motherly role like always and fixed everyone a plate before she raised her finger and counted everyone in the kitchen then asked. “Where’s Michael?”

As if on cue, the third to last sibling strolled in, his face wearing the same exact expression that his brother had on yesterday. 

He took a seat at the table completely ignoring the extremely loud silence that had filled the air along with the heavy weight of eight eyes being directed at him as he took his plate from Rebbie, thanking her.

“Mike…” Latoya trailed off her lips parted in shock at the sight of him.

Ignoring what was on Michael’s skin, was like trying to ignore the elephant in the room—his entire neck was decorated with massive deep purple—almost black, bruises. They covered almost the whole neck skin, around five to six on each side, each one being larger than the other. 

Michael finally looked up meeting the shocked eyes of everyone before shrugging. “What?”

His brothers looked between themselves before wide massive smiles plastered their faces and they jumped up rushing to Michael with cheers and laughter, playfully slapping him on the back and jostling him whilst his sisters rolled their eyes resuming what they were doing.

“My man!” Jackie exclaimed proudly, ruffling his afro.

“Ain’t no way.” Marlon’s jaw dropped.

“Mike– you out done me. You actually out done me.” Jermaine said, still shocked but filled with excitement.

“Let me see! Let me see!” Randy tried to pull his head back.

For the next five minutes, his brothers continued to joyfully shove him around, demanding answers to their millions of questions that were being thrown at the speed of light whilst Michael tried to hold in his laugh giving them short responses.

Their game of twenty one questions was interrupted when you’d finally come down from his room, you cleared your throat and leaned against the kitchen’s door frame with your arms crossed wearing one of Michael’s old t-shirts—your brown skinned neck mirroring his own, your curls in a high ponytail to proudly show it off.  

Latoya and Rebbie turned to you with knowing grins before his brothers immediately left Michael and rushed to you, they swarmed you with their own shocked questions whilst Michael smiled and watched with a fuzzy feeling inside. 

“Yup, and don’t make fun of my man again.”

𑣲⋆｡˚

Thank you so much for reading <𝟑 .ᐟ

The truck rumbled up the gravel drive a little after four in the afternoon, its tires crunching steadily over the loose stones as it made its way toward the house, kicking up a thin cloud of dust that hung lazily in the warm air before settling back onto the drive.

The late afternoon sun had already started to turn everything a softer shade of gold, catching on the tops of the trees and stretching long shadows across the yard, and for a moment, the only thing you could hear from inside was the low, familiar growl of the engine getting closer. You heard it before you saw it, of course.

After working around cars and trucks for most of your life, you could tell half the vehicles in the county by the sound they made coming up the road, and this one was impossible to mistake. The engine purred far too smoothly, the tires were far too quiet over the gravel, and the whole thing looked like it cost more than your dad's old squad car had ever been worth.

By the time you wandered over toward the front window, wiping your hands absently against the sides of your jeans, the truck had already rolled to a stop near the porch. You caught sight of Bill climbing out of the driver's side, big and broad-shouldered, his sunglasses pushed up onto his head as he stretched one arm over the roof of the truck and looked toward the house with that familiar grin of his.

He had the same easygoing look he always seemed to wear whenever he showed up, like he'd never had a bad day in his life and probably didn't intend on starting one now. You watched him shut the door and glance toward the passenger side before shaking your head to yourself, already knowing exactly who was sitting in there and wondering, not for the first time, how long it would take before that particular city boy came wandering through your door again.

And then the passenger door opened.

You already knew Bill, of course. He'd been coming around for as long as you could remember, long before you'd been old enough to understand what he did for a living, back when he was still just your dad's friend and the two of them were young enough to think they were invincible and stupid enough to prove it. Bill had known your family for years, long enough that nobody really thought twice when he showed up.

He was practically part of the furniture by now, turning up every few months with a bottle of bourbon tucked under one arm and some ridiculous story about something he'd gotten himself into years ago, staying for dinner if your aunt had enough food and leaving before it got too late. You'd known him since you were little, had heard him laugh at the kitchen table more times than you could count, and could usually tell he was coming before you even saw his truck because he'd honk twice as he pulled into the drive.

But the man climbing out of the passenger seat was not Bill.

You stayed by the window, watching him straighten slowly beside the truck, and for a second your brain didn't quite know what to make of him. He was lean where Bill was broad, all long legs and narrow shoulders, dressed in black despite the Tennessee heat that had you feeling warm just standing inside the house. Black jeans, a black jacket, dark shoes that looked far too clean for the gravel driveway, and sunglasses that looked expensive enough to cover a month's worth of rent if you could somehow convince the right person to buy them. He shut the passenger door carefully behind him and then stood there for a moment, looking around as though he wasn't entirely sure what he'd been brought to.

His gaze moved slowly across the property, taking in the old farmhouse, the weathered barn sitting farther back beneath the trees, the fields stretching beyond it, and finally the police cruiser parked crookedly beside the shed.

There was something almost cautious about the way he looked at everything, like he was trying to memorize a place he'd never expected to see for himself. Then he reached up and pushed his sunglasses into his hair, and the afternoon light caught his face just enough for you to finally see him properly.

You stopped breathing for half a second.

You knew that face.

Of course you knew that face.

You'd seen it on magazine covers at the grocery store, on television, on record sleeves sitting behind the counter at the diner. You'd heard his songs whether you'd meant to or not, because there wasn't a radio station in Tennessee that hadn't played them to death. You'd watched half the country lose its mind over Thriller, had seen his name printed so often that it had become almost ordinary to look at, even though the man himself certainly wasn't.

Still, there was something different about seeing him standing there in your driveway, dressed like he was trying very hard not to be recognized, with one hand shoved into the pocket of his jacket and his curls falling messily around his forehead.

Your brain seemed to take an extra second to catch up with your eyes.

Michael Jackson.

Actually standing in your yard.

You stared through the glass.

"...Well, I'll be damned."

Not a poster. Not a magazine. Not a voice coming through your car speakers while you drove the back roads with the windows down, one hand resting lazily on the steering wheel while his songs played through the crackling speakers. This was Michael Jackson, standing in your driveway like he had somehow wandered into the middle of your ordinary Tennessee life by mistake, looking at your house with an almost curious expression as though he was still trying to figure out how he'd ended up somewhere like this in the first place.

You stepped back from the window before anybody could catch you standing there and staring, though it was probably too late for that. Your heart was doing something completely stupid against your ribs, beating hard enough that you could feel it in your chest, and you pressed your palm flat against yourself as if you could physically tell it to calm down. It didn't listen. Of course it didn't. You'd spent the last few minutes reminding yourself that he was just a man, just somebody who happened to have a very famous face and a voice you'd heard more times than you could count, but that argument became considerably harder to believe when said man was standing twenty feet away in your driveway.

"Baby girl!"

Your dad's voice thundered up from downstairs before you could even collect yourself, followed by the familiar squeak of the screen door opening and the warm boom of his laughter carrying through the house and out into the yard. "Get down here, we got company."

You closed your eyes for half a second.

Baby girl.

Of all the things your dad could have called you today, he had to pick that one.

And in front of Michael Jackson, no less.

You were going to die.

Taking one slow breath, you glanced down at yourself and immediately became aware of every little thing you'd never given a second thought to before. You tugged at the hem of your shirt anyway, smoothing it down as if that might somehow make the situation less embarrassing, then caught sight of yourself in the old hallway mirror and stopped. You stared at your reflection for a second, considered doing something, then immediately decided against it.

Another burst of your dad's laughter floated up from below. You sighed, nd finally headed for the stairs.

The old wooden steps complained beneath your bare feet as you made your way down, each creak somehow sounding louder than usual in the sudden awareness that you were about to walk into a room containing a man you'd only ever seen on television. By the time you reached the bottom, you could hear Bill talking, your dad answering him, and another quieter voice mixed somewhere between them. You slowed slightly as you reached the corner, suddenly very aware of yourself again, before forcing your feet to keep moving.

When you rounded the corner into the living room, all three men were already inside, your dad standing near the couch with one hand resting against the back of it, Bill leaning comfortably against the armchair like he'd been there a hundred times before, and Michael standing a little farther away from them with his hands loosely clasped in front of him.

Then Michael's gaze drifted across the room once more, almost absentmindedly, until it landed on you.

And stayed.

Not a glance. Not a polite acknowledgment. And for a long, strange second, neither of you moved or spoke. He looked at you. He looked at all of you. Your face, your throat, your chest and the curve of your hips. His jaw shifted, and his throat moved like he was swallowing something that tasted difficult.

Then your dad's voice broke through.

"There she is. Michael, this here's my daughter."

You stepped forward and offered your hand, because that's what you did when someone came to your house. You shook their hand like a normal person who had simple manners. "Hi."

Michael looked at your hand. Then at you. Then he took it, and his palm was warm and dry and his fingers wrapped around yours and held on a half-second longer than a handshake required.

"Hey," he said, and his voice was softer than you expected. Lighter. A little breathy around the edges. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice t' meet y' too."

His gaze flickered— a spark, there and instantly gone again.

"Soooo... y' Bill's friend," you said, pulling your hand back.

"Somethin' like that."

Before either of you could say anything else, Bill reached over and clapped Michael firmly on the shoulder, the gesture so familiar and casual that it almost made you forget who was standing in front of you. He treated Michael exactly like he treated everybody else, with the same easy familiarity he'd always had with your family, as though he hadn't just brought one of the most recognizable people in the world into your parents' living room.

"This one needed a few days off the road," Bill explained, giving Michael another friendly pat on the shoulder, "and I told him your daddy's got the best property for thirty miles. Peace and quiet."

"And a damn good grill," your dad added from beside him, already grinning. "Hope you like steak, son."

Michael's smile at that, and he glanced toward your father before giving a polite nod. "Sounds perfect."

But when his eyes came back to you, they stayed there for just a fraction longer than they needed to.

You felt the heat climb your neck before you could stop it. His stare wasn't subtle. It wasn't trying to be. It dragged down the length of you again— your hips, your thighs, the way your shirt pulled a little tight across your chest— and when his eyes came back up to yours, there was something in them that made your stomach drop, hot and sudden.

He wanted you.

You'd seen that look before. On boys at the county fair, on men at the bar, in countless movies. You knew what it meant. What you didn't know was why Michael Jackson was looking at you like that — like you were something he wanted to unwrap and taste.

"So," you said, crossing your arms under your chest, which did something interesting to his expression, "y'all stayin' for dinner or what?"

His eyes flickered again.

"Wouldn't miss it," he said quietly.

Your dad was already steering Bill toward the kitchen, one hand settling around his shoulder as he launched into a detailed explanation about some new smoker he'd bought, apparently determined to give Bill the entire history of the thing before either of them had even made it through the doorway. Bill listened with the patient expression of a man who had clearly heard several versions of your dad's latest projects over the years, but just before he disappeared into the kitchen, he glanced back at Michael.

It was quick, almost imperceptible, but you knew that look well enough to recognize it immediately. Bill's eyebrows lifted just slightly, his mouth twitching at one corner as if he were trying not to smile, and the message was obvious even without words: behave yourself. Michael caught it too, judging by the tiny shake of his head and the embarrassed little smile that crossed his face before Bill finally turned away. Then the kitchen doorway swallowed both men, your dad's voice immediately rising above Bill's as they started arguing about barbecue.

And just like that, you and Michael were alone.

You tilted your head. "Y' always stare at people like that?"

Michael blinked. A flush crept up the back of his neck, dark against his skin, but he didn't look away. "Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Didn't mean to be rude."

"Didn't say it was rude."

His mouth opened. Closed. You watched him fumble for a response and for some reason— maybe the nerves, maybe the way he was looking at you, maybe the sheer absurdity of Michael Jackson standing in your living room getting flustered— you laughed.

It came out warm and easy, and something in his shoulders loosened at the sound.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"Nothin'." You smiled. "Y' just ain't what I expected."

"What'd you expect?"

"I dunno." You shrugged. "Bigger, I guess. More... I don't know. Shiny."

"Shiny?"

"Y' know what I mean."

His smile broke through then— real and crooked and a little shy— and it changed his whole face. "'m shiny enough for you?"

You felt your smile widen.

"I didn't say that neither." You stepped past him toward the kitchen, close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his arm. "C'mon, city boy. Daddy's gonna talk your ear off about that smoker if we don't rescue him."

He followed. You could feel him behind you, feel his eyes on your back, on the sway of your hips, on the way your jeans hugged the curve of your ass. You didn't turn around, but your cheeks went hot, and your pulse beat hard in your throat.

Dinner went like dinner always went when Bill came around—loud, slow, and full of stories you'd heard so many times that you could practically recite half of them yourself.

Your dad had the grill going out back before the sun had even started to sink, and the smell of smoke and charcoal had drifted through the open kitchen windows for nearly an hour while the three men talked over one another on the porch.

Bill had already told some story about a fishing trip from years ago, your dad had interrupted at least twice to correct the details, and by the time the steaks finally made it onto the table, both of them were arguing about whose memory was worse. You were used to it. This was what dinner looked like when Bill came around, plates being passed from one side of the table to the other, glasses being refilled before anybody had to ask, your dad laughing loud enough to be heard from the other end of the house, and Bill always having one more story ready whenever the conversation started to quiet down.

The sun had dropped lower by then, leaving the kitchen windows glowing with that deep orange light that made everything inside look warmer than it really was. You sat across from Michael, and it took you a moment to realize that he had chosen the chair directly opposite yours.

There had been other seats available, but he'd taken that one without making a big deal about it, settling into the chair quietly while Bill and your dad argued over who was responsible for burning the first batch of steaks. You didn't think much of it at first. It was simply where he'd happened to sit. Still, every time you looked up from your plate, you found him there, and every now and then your eyes met across the table for a second before one of you looked away.

Michael seemed to be taking everything in. The food, the conversation, the house, the way your daddy talked with his mouth full despite your mother's complaints about it for years, the way Bill leaned back in his chair whenever he laughed. He looked comfortable. Then you'd catch him smiling at something your dad said, or laughing quietly when Bill exaggerated some part of an old story, and you'd decide he probably was.

"So Bill tells me y' a writer," your dad said eventually, sawing into his steak. "What kind of stuff?"

Michael's eyes flicked toward you for half a second before returning to your dad.

"Songs, mostly."

"Songs." Your dad nodded slowly, apparently deciding that was a perfectly respectable profession. "Y' write 'em yourself?"

"Yes, sir."

Your dad pointed his fork at him.

"That's good. Too many folks these days don't write their own stuff."

"Dad."

"What?"

"You don't even know what he's written."

"I know enough."

Michael smiled into his plate, clearly trying not to laugh. Your dad leaned back in his chair and looked at him again. "How 'bout you sing somethin' after supper?"

You immediately looked across the table.

"Daddy."

"What?" He looked genuinely confused by your reaction. "Boy's got a voice, don't he?"

You gave him a look that clearly said please stop embarrassing everybody.

Michael, meanwhile, ducked his head slightly, that same shy smile appearing at the corner of his mouth as his fingers moved absently around the edge of his glass.

"Maybe later."

Your dad grinned.

"That's what I like to hear."

You rolled your eyes and went back to your plate, though you couldn't quite stop the smile that tugged at your own mouth. When you looked up again a moment later, Michael was already watching you, and the second your eyes met, he smiled again.

You watched him through the candlelight— the way his fingers moved when he talked, the way he barely touched his food, the way his eyes kept finding you over the rim of his glass. Every time your accent curled around a word, you saw his attention sharpen.

"So, y' off the road for a bit?" you asked.

"For a few days," he said. "Bill thought I needed to slow down."

"And y' came 'ere?" You laughed, gesturing at the kitchen, the faded curtains, the dog barking somewhere down the road. "Ain't exactly the Ritz."

His gaze settled on you, heavy and warm. "That's the point."

You felt it low in your belly. That look. The way he said that's the point like he meant you're the point.

"Pass the oil, baby girl."

Your dad's voice snapped through the little pocket of tension before either of you had quite figured out what to do with it, calling across the table for the bottle of steak sauce. You reached for it automatically, your fingers closing around the glass before you even looked up, and held it out toward him. Your dad took it with a distracted thank-you, already turning back toward whatever story Bill was telling, but when you lowered your hand again, you caught Michael still looking at you.

Not just glancing.

Looking.

There was something almost absentminded about it, like he'd gotten caught somewhere between listening to the conversation and paying attention to you and hadn't quite realized he'd been doing it. His eyes moved over your face for another second before finally meeting yours. You couldn't help the small smile that pulled at your mouth.

"Y'alright there?"

Michael's eyebrows lifted.

"Fine."

His answer came a little too quickly, and his voice sounded rougher than it had a moment ago. He cleared his throat quietly, lowering his gaze toward his plate as though the steak suddenly required his full attention.

You watched him for another second, amused.

"You sure?"

He nodded, though he still wouldn't quite look at you.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

There was something about the way he said it that made you want to tease him, but you let him off the hook for the moment, reaching for your glass and taking a sip while trying not to smile. Across the table, Michael finally glanced up again, and this time there was a faint smile on his face too, like he'd realized you weren't going to make a big deal out of it.

Bill was watching him now. Bill knew. You could see it in the way his eyes narrowed, the way he glanced between you and Michael like he was reading a situation he didn't love.

"So," Bill said, leaning back in his chair and wiping the corner of his mouth with his napkin, "you got that creek still runnin' through the back forty?"

"Sure does," your dad answered immediately, already pushing his chair away from the table as though Bill had just reminded him of something he'd been meaning to show him all evening. "C'mon, I'll show you."

Bill stared at him for a second, clearly caught off guard by how quickly he'd volunteered himself.

"Now?"

Your dad gave him a look.

"What, you got somewhere to be?"

"Didn't say that."

"Then get up."

Bill laughed under his breath, shaking his head as he slowly stood from the table and reached for his glass. He glanced toward Michael before following your daddy toward the back door, and there was something in that look that made you narrow your eyes slightly. It was the same expression he'd given Michael earlier, only this time there was a little more amusement behind it. Michael caught the look too, judging by the way his eyes followed Bill for a second before dropping back toward his plate.

Neither of them said anything.

The screen door banged shut behind them a moment later, and the sound carried across the quiet yard before gradually fading into the distance along with the low murmur of their voices.

For the first time since dinner had started, the kitchen seemed almost strangely still. The refrigerator hummed from somewhere behind you, the old ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, and every now and then you could hear the faint creak of the house settling around you. The table was still covered with the remains of dinner, half-empty glasses, crumpled napkins, a few crumbs scattered across the plates, and the serving dishes your daddy had left sitting in the middle because nobody in your family had ever been particularly good about cleaning up immediately.

You looked across the table.

Michael had set his fork down.

He reached for his napkin and wiped his mouth slowly, almost absentmindedly, before folding it once between his fingers. Then he looked up.

Straight at you.

This time, neither of you looked away.

—

You didn't remember who moved first.

His mouth crashed into yours and your back hit the hallway wall, his hands everywhere at once— your waist, your ribs, the back of your neck pulling you closer. The kiss was all tongue and teeth, messy and desperate, spit-slick and gasping. He kissed like a man starving, like he'd been sitting across that dinner table losing his mind and couldn't hold it another second.

You grabbed a fistful of his jacket and yanked him against you. He groaned into your mouth.

"Your room," he panted, pulling back just enough to breathe. His lips were wet, swollen, already wrecked. "Where's your—"

"Upstairs."

You grabbed his hand and dragged him. The stairs groaned under both of you, and halfway up he pulled you back against his chest, mouth finding your throat from behind, teeth grazing the soft spot below your ear.

"Keep walkin'," you breathed. "Ain't stoppin' on the stairs."

He laughed against your skin— breathless, giddy, ruined already.

Your bedroom door banged open. Then shut. Then his hands were on your face, cradling your jaw, kissing you slower now but no less desperate, his tongue sliding against yours while his thumbs traced your cheekbones.

You walked him backward. He went easy. The backs of his knees hit the mattress and he sat, looking up at you with those dark, blown-out eyes, his chest already heaving.

You dropped to the floor between his legs. His breath caught. "What are you—"

"Shh." Your hands found his belt, worked the leather through the buckle. "Been thinkin' 'bout this since y' stepped outta that truck. Been thinkin' 'bout gettin' my mouth on this pretty city boy cock."

"Baby—"

"Tell me t' stop."

He just looked at you and opened his mouth, but no words came out.

You yanked his belt open. Popped the button. Pulled the zipper down and watched his jeans part, and there he was— thick and hard, straining against his briefs, a dark wet spot already soaking through the cotton where the head pressed. You leaned in and mouthed him through the fabric, wet and hot, and his hips bucked off the mattress.

"Oh god—"

You pulled his briefs down. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the head flushed deep and slick with pre-cum, already dripping down the shaft. You wrapped your hand around the base and he was hot in your palm.

"Shit," he whispered.

You looked up at him. His chest heaved. His mouth hung open. His hands were fisted in the sheets like he didn't trust himself to touch you.

"Y' want me t' suck your, baby?"

He shook his head. Swallowed hard. "yes..."

"Then sit still."

You lowered your mouth.

The first taste—salt and skin and the slick bead of pre-cum on your tongue—drew a groan from somewhere deep in his chest, a sound so raw it vibrated through you. You licked a slow, flat stripe from base to tip, letting your spit pool and drip down the shaft, and his thighs tensed under your free hand.

"Oh god— baby.."

You took the head between your lips and sucked. Gentle at first, just the tip, your tongue swirling around the ridge while your hand worked the base in a slow twist. His head fell back. His throat went long and taut.

Then you took him deeper.

You let your jaw go slack and pushed down, taking him inch by inch until he hit the back of your throat. You gagged around him, wet and loud, not trying to be quiet about it, and spit dripped down his shaft, pooled at the base, slicked your fingers where you gripped him.

"ah—" His voice cracked. "Your mouth— baby, your mouth is so—"

You pulled off with a slick, obscene pop and grinned up at him, mouth slick, chin wet, a string of spit still connecting your lips to his dick. "So what, baby? Use your words."

"So good." He sounded wrecked. His hand found your hair, not pushing, just holding. "Sooo damn good, baby. I can't— I've never—"

"Never what?" You licked a long stripe up the underside of his shaft, slow and filthy, and his hips jerked. "Never had a girl suck your dick sloppy like this?"

"No— no, never—"

"Shame." You took him back into your mouth and went deeper this time, until your nose pressed against the dark curls at the base and your throat convulsed around him. Your spit dripped down his balls. The room filled with the wet, obscene sounds of your mouth working him— slick and messy, gagging and slurping, no pretense at being neat about it.

He was falling apart above you. His thighs trembled. His stomach clenched. One hand was in your hair and the other was still fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, and every sound he made was needier than the last.

"So thick," you mumbled around him, pulling off just enough to breathe, your hand pumping the slick length of him while you talked. "Soooo goddamn thick, Mike. Heavy on my tongue. Y' know how good y' taste?"

"Mmmm..."

"Could suck this pretty cock all night." You dragged your tongue over the head, catching another bead of pre-cum, and he whimpered. Actually whimpered. "Y' want that? Want me to keep goin'?"

"Yeah..." His hips rolled up into your hand, desperate and involuntary. "Please. Baby, please— I want— I need to be inside you..."

You pulled off with a wet pop. Wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, slow and deliberate. "Yeah?"

"Please." His voice broke on the word.

"Good boy."

He whined. A high, desperate sound that went straight through you, his whole body shuddering.

"Yeah?" His voice was trembling, wrecked. "'m your good boy?"

"Mhmm." You crawled up his body, pushing him back onto the bed, straddling his hips. "My good boy."

He surged up and kissed you, hands fumbling with the hem of your shirt, yanking it over your head. Your bra followed— his fingers working the clasp with more desperation than skill until it gave. The straps slid down your shoulders. He pulled the lace away and let it fall, and then his mouth was on you.

Hot and open-mouthed, his tongue dragging flat across your nipple before he sucked it between his lips. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your back arching into him, offering more, and he took it. He laved and sucked and bit down just enough to make you gasp.

"God, look at you." He pulled back, hands cupping both breasts, thumbs dragging over your nipples. His eyes were dark, reverent. "So soft. So beautiful. Y' so beautiful, baby."

"Michael—"

"I mean it." He looked up at you, earnest and wrecked. "Been losing my mind all night. Every time you looked at me. Your voice— the way you talk— I couldn't think. Couldn't breathe."

You kissed him hard and sloppy and pushed him flat on his back.

"Then don't think."

You shimmied out of your pants and panties, kicking them off the bed. He watched you the whole time, propped on his elbows, his cock slick and hard against his stomach, and when you straddled him his hands found your hips like they belonged there.

"Wait," he breathed.

"What?"

"I want to see you." His palms slid up your sides, slow, deliberate, over the swell of your stomach and the soft curve of your waist. His thumbs traced the stretch marks on your hips, pressing into the give of your flesh. He didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate. "Every inch. You're gorgeous, baby. These hips. This stomach. All of you."

Heat flooded your chest, your throat, your cheeks.

"Y' gonna make me emotional 'fore I even get y' dick inside me."

"Can't have that." His smile was shaky but real. His hands squeezed your hips, fingers sinking into the softness. "Come here, baby."

You reached down and wrapped your hand around him. He was slick with your spit, still leaking, thick enough that your fingers didn't quite meet around the base. You lined him up, the head pressing against your soaked entrance, and you both sucked in air at the same time.

"Ready?" you whispered.

"Mhm..."

You sank down.

The stretch of him knocked the breath from your lungs. Inch by thick inch, filling your wet pussy until there was nothing but the feeling of him— hot and heavy and so deep. Your head dropped forward. Your nails bit into his chest.

"Ohhhh, fuck— y' so, so thick, baby—"

The words slurred out of you, drunk and babbling. You couldn't help it. The stretch was obscene, splitting you open, and he just kept going until you were seated flush against his hips, every inch buried inside you.

"Feel good, baby?" His voice was strained, barely holding together. His hands were gripping your hips so tight you knew there'd be bruises. "Tell me— tell me it feels good—"

"S'good. S'fuckin' good. Y' so deep— so thick inside me, Mike— feel so full—"

He moaned, head pressing back into the mattress, throat bared. "Move. Please move. I need you to move."

You did. Slow at first. Just a roll of your hips, grinding down on him, feeling every inch drag against your walls. Then faster. Then harder. You braced your hands on his chest and rode him into the mattress, your tits bouncing in his face, your soft thighs slapping against his hips.

He stared up at you like you were a revelation. Mouth open. Eyes blown wide. Watching your body move above him— the bounce of your breasts, the way your hips rolled.

"Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, baby, look at you— look at you riding me—"

"Y' like watchin' me, baby?" Your voice was breathless, catching on every stroke. "Like watchin' this pussy take your dick?"

"I love it." His hands slid up your ribs, cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples while you rode him. "Love watchin' you. Love these tits. Love this body— love the way you feel— so wet, so tight—"

"So heavy," you babbled, grinding down harder, feeling him hit that spot deep inside. "Y' so deep inside me, baby. Shit. Splittin' me open. S'good— s'fuckin' good—"

"Yeah? You like how deep I am, baby?"

"Love it. Love this dick. Love the way it stretches me out—"

Your tits bounced in front of his face. The angle dragged his cock against that spot that made your vision blur.

"Oooh fuck— Mhm! right there—"

He caught a nipple in his mouth and sucked hard, and your rhythm stuttered. His tongue circled the peak, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, and then he switched to the other breast— mouth hot and wet and greedy.

And then you felt it. That creamy, wet slickness building where your bodies met. The sound of it, obscene and unmistakable, filled the room with every stroke.

"Hear that?" He pulled off your breast, looking down between your bodies, watching himself disappear into your pussy. His voice was reverent. "Hear how wet y' are, baby? Y' creaming all over me."

You looked down. There was a ring of white cream coating the base of his cock, slick and shining, smearing on his skin every time you sank down.

"Not my fault," you gasped. "Y' the one with the pretty face 'nd big dick—"

He groaned and grabbed your hips, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, and started thrusting up into you from below— sharp, desperate snaps of his hips meeting every roll of yours.

"That's it. That's it, baby— make a mess on me— cream all over my dick—"

"Shit!—"

"You're sooo fucking wet. So messy. God, I love it— love this pussy—"

The words tumbled out of him, filthy and wrecked, and you couldn't hold back. You rode him harder, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room, the headboard knocking against the wall. Your thighs burned. Your stomach tightened. You were right there, right on the edge.

"'m close—"

"Me too. Me too." He wrapped his arms around you and flipped you onto your back in one motion.

He was on top of you now. Chest to chest. His forearms braced on either side of your head, curls falling around his face, damp with sweat. He looked ruined. Desperate. Nothing like the composed city boy from dinner.

"Need to feel y'," he breathed. "Need t' be deeper. Need all of you."

"Need y' too...."

He pushed inside again, slow this time, letting you feel every inch, and then he dropped his face between your tits.

His mouth was everywhere. Kissing the swell of your breasts, licking the sweat from your sternum, burying his face in the soft give of your cleavage while his hips rolled into you. His hands slid down your sides, over the curve of your waist, and then they were gripping your ass— both hands full, fingers sinking deep into the plush flesh, pulling you up into every thrust.

"So soft," he groaned against your skin. "So fucking soft everywhere. Love this body. Love your ass in my hands—"

"Mmm, y' fuck me so good, baby.."

"Feel so good, baby. This pussy—" He drove in deep and held there, grinding against you, his face still buried between your tits. "So wet. So wet. Grippin' me so good."

"Y' so deep— y' so deep like this— oh my—"

He fucked you slow and deep, his hands kneading your ass, his mouth working up from your chest to your throat to your mouth. The kiss was sloppy. All tongue and spit and gasping breaths, and when he pulled back there was a string of saliva connecting your lips.

"Need deeper," he said, and it was a plea. "Need— let me—"

He hooked your legs over his shoulders. Folded you nearly in half. Mating press. The new angle made you both groan.

"There." Your voice broke. "Right there, right there!—"

He fucked into you with short, desperate strokes, his rhythm faltering, his breath coming in broken gasps against your mouth. His curls dripped sweat onto your forehead. His hands gripped your thighs, your ass, anything he could hold.

"Baby, 'm not gonna— can't—" He was shaking. His whole body trembling. "can't hold it— y' feel too good—"

"please don't hold it." You grabbed his face, fingers sinking into his damp curls, and pulled his forehead to yours. "Come inside me, baby. Want it. Want all of it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Cream in my pussy. Fill me up."

He buried his face in your neck and drove into you hard— once, twice— and then he was coming. A cry cracked in his throat, raw and broken, his whole body shuddering as he spilled inside you, hot and pulsing, his cock throbbing through every wave.

The feel of him— the hot rush of it, the way his hips kept jerking— tipped you over. Your climax hit like a wave breaking, white-hot and blinding. Your pussy clenched around him, milking every last pulse, and you bit his shoulder to keep from screaming. Your thighs shook. Your nails raked down his back.

He whimpered into your throat, still thrusting weak and shallow, like he couldn't bear to stop. Like he wanted to stay inside you forever.

For a long moment there was nothing but breathing.

He eased your legs down, slow and careful. Pulled out with a wet, messy sound. You felt the slick heat of him and you drip down your thigh, and he collapsed beside you, immediately pulling you into his chest, one arm wrapped tight around your waist.

"Wow," he whispered.

"Mhm..."

"That was—"

"Mhm..."

He laughed— breathless, giddy, still shaking a little. His lips pressed to your forehead, your temple, the tip of your nose, your mouth. The kiss was soft now, tender, a different kind of desperate.

"You called me a good boy?"

You felt your cheeks go hot. "Don't get a big head 'bout it."

"Too late." He nuzzled into your hair, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your hip. "Definitely too late."

From somewhere out in the yard, your dad's voice rang out: "Told you that creek still runs clear!"

Michael froze. Then his body shook with silent laughter, his face pressing into your hair to muffle it.

"Bill's gonna kill me."

"Bill's not gonna do shit." You tilted your face up and kissed the corner of his mouth, tasting salt and yourself and him. "'sides. Worth it."

He looked at you. Brushed a strand of hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear.

"Yeah," he said. "It was."