Pairing: Michael B. Jordan × Black!OC (London)
Genre: Celebrity × Fan | Smut | Romance | Sugar Baby Tension | Soft Power Shift
After a slow-burn one-night stand, London—an indie comic artist and lowkey Twitch baddie—ghosts Michael B. Jordan without looking back. Weeks later, he spots her again and makes her an offer: no strings, no label, just let him take care of her.
She doesn’t chase money. She doesn’t chase men.
But he’s not just anyone.
And when she finally says, “Okay. Show me,”
He learns real quick: she doesn’t do anything halfway.
A story of slow grinding, filthy tension, emotional checkmates, and one very possessive man who thought he was in control.
The house was the kind with three levels and no soul. All glass and stone and LED lights, draped across the Hollywood Hills like it knew it was better than you. Inside, the music pulsed low and heavy, like the whole place had a heartbeat in its walls — sexy, slow, just shy of sleazy.
London sipped her drink and leaned against a marble counter that probably cost more than her last year’s rent. Tequila, lime, no sugar. She hated cocktails that tried too hard. She hated people that tried too hard, too — which made this party an exercise in patience.
She’d come with a girl she barely knew from Twitch — some mutuals had invited her to “something chill,” which clearly translated to: a rooftop full of half-drunk influencers trying to manifest brand deals.
London wasn’t dressed for the camera, either. Black off-shoulder crop top, silver hoops, hair piled up in a curly puff that made her look soft around the eyes. Just lip gloss and a little liner. Skin glowed like she drank water and minded her business. She did.
She was scrolling through her phone, trying to avoid the tall dude in red shades who kept inching closer, when a voice broke through the reverb of bass and rooftop chatter.
It was low, casual, confident. She glanced up once. Then again.
Michael B. Jordan was here. And he was looking directly at her.
Not scanning. Not glancing. Looking.
London blinked. Took a slow sip. Didn’t smile.
He was about fifteen feet away, leaning against the balcony doorframe, sipping something clear over ice, dressed like he’d thrown shit on and still looked expensive: gray tee, silver chain, wristwatch. The fade was clean. Skin better in person. Eyes darker, more amused.
He didn’t move toward her. Just raised his chin a little, like a challenge.
London raised her glass back, deadpan.
She turned and kept scrolling.
Some girl walked up to him — long legs, platinum wig, BBL obvious — and touched his arm. He nodded politely, but his eyes slid right back to London.
Maybe ten minutes later, she felt him step beside her. He smelled like cedar and citrus and something warm underneath — clean, rich, but not obnoxious. She glanced at him, eyebrow cocked.
“You always that cold?” he said.
“I’m not cold,” she said, sipping again. “I’m just hydrated.”
That made him grin. “You know who I am?”
She shrugged. “You’re the guy who’s been staring like I’m the TV and you lost the remote.”
He laughed. Actually laughed.
London turned to face him now, finally giving him her full attention. Up close, he was even better — skin like polished brown velvet, the curve of his smile sharp, teeth perfect. His voice sat low in his throat, velvet and gravel.
“You from out here?” he asked, eyes dragging slowly over her frame. Not disrespectfully. Appreciatively.
“I got a P.O. box and a floor futon, so… depends who’s asking.”
He laughed again. “I like that. You funny.”
“Didn’t say I was joking.”
He looked her up and down again, a little slower now.
“You’re fine as fuck,” he said. Just like that.
London’s smile tugged at one side. She didn’t blush, but the look in her eye shifted — like a warning.
“And you’re confident as hell,” she said.
“You try that line on everybody?”
“No,” he said. “Just the ones who pretend they don’t care.”
She leaned in closer, lips parting like she might say something else — but instead, she swiped his drink from his hand and took a sip. Then handed it back.
He looked… shocked. Turned on.
“Damn,” he murmured. “Okay.”
“I’m London,” she said, finally.
“I know who you are,” she said, deadpan, already walking away.
She didn’t look back to see if he followed.
But she could feel it in her spine —
He would.
She was already halfway across the room, slipping between bodies like water, when Michael caught up.
She stopped at the edge of the dance floor, glancing over her shoulder just enough to show the slope of her jawline in the dim light. One brow up. That same unbothered smirk.
“You always chase girls who steal your drink?” she asked.
“Nah,” he said, stepping closer. “Just the ones that leave a taste.”
That one hit. She didn’t show it, but her tongue ran slow across her bottom lip. Deliberate.
The DJ dropped the tempo — heavy drums, thick bass, something with a slow, filthy rhythm.
London didn’t ask. She just turned and moved.
She didn’t face him. She just rolled her hips into the beat, back arched, ass moving hypnotic like she was born with it.
Michael stepped behind her.
Hands low, not touching — not yet. His breath grazed the back of her shoulder.
“You don’t dance like you shy,” he murmured near her ear.
She dipped lower, hips grinding back once against his thigh, then forward again — like she wasn’t even doing it on purpose.
“I’m not shy,” she said, voice soft. “I’m careful.”
“Letting people touch me.”
Michael let his hands hover at her waist, not grabbing, just there.
He slid his palms forward, just grazing her hips with his thumbs. Not squeezing. Not pulling. Testing.
London tipped her head back, resting it on his chest, eyes half-closed.
He laughed, low in her ear. “That mouth got a limit?”
She turned, slowly — chest brushing his, breath hot between them.
“No. But your time does.”
She slipped her arms around his neck and started moving again — this time face-to-face, her body barely touching his, grinding slow like she didn’t care who watched.
He let his hands fall to her waist, gripping now. Harder. Mouth grazing her jaw.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.
Her hands slid down his chest, fingernails dragging soft over his abs. She rolled her hips into his — slow, deliberate, the kind of grind that meant I know exactly what I’m doing and I hope it drives you insane.
His breath hitched. She felt it. Smiled.
“You like that?” she asked, mock innocent.
“Good,” she said, pulling away, walking toward the balcony again.
Michael stood there for a second, like he’d just been pickpocketed — breath stolen, dick half-hard, sanity gone.
The balcony was quieter. Cooler. A breeze rolled in from the hills, brushing against London’s bare shoulders and cooling the flush rising in her cheeks — not that she’d ever admit it.
She leaned against the glass railing, arms crossed, watching the Hollywood lights flicker beneath them like a broken galaxy.
Michael joined her a second later, drink still in hand. Didn’t speak right away.
Just stood beside her, staring out like they were on the same wavelength.
Eventually:
“That was rude,” he said, glancing at her.
“Walking off after doing all that.”
“All what?” she asked, turning toward him slowly, teasing in her tone.
He stepped a little closer. “You know what.”
She tilted her head. “I was just dancing.”
“Bullshit,” he said, smiling. “You felt what you did to me.”
She let her eyes drop, just for a second — toward the subtle bulge in his jeans.
Then met his eyes again, lips curving.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “I felt it.”
His jaw clenched just slightly. “Then why’d you stop?”
London reached out and plucked the drink from his hand again — took a slow sip, this time licking the rim before passing it back.
“I wanted to see if you’d follow,” she said.
He took the glass, set it on the ledge behind her, then closed the distance between their bodies until his chest nearly brushed hers.
“You trying to make me crazy?”
She shrugged. “Is it working?”
He reached up, fingers grazing the back of her neck, playing with the loose curls that framed her face. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.
“I got a suite at the Pendry,” he said. Voice low. Sure.
Her lips parted, just slightly. “You bring all your girls there?”
“Don’t bring girls anywhere,” he said. “I don’t chase.”
She smirked. “Then what’s this?”
“This,” he said, hand sliding to the small of her back, “is me about to take you home and make you forget how to talk.”
London exhaled, slow and soft.
They walked down the driveway together, silent, electric. Michael tapped something on his phone. A matte black SUV pulled up within two minutes.
The driver didn’t say a word.
London climbed in first, legs crossed, skirt riding just a little higher on her thighs. Michael slid in beside her — not on the other side. Right next to her.
The cabin smelled like leather and money.
She didn’t speak. Just let her thigh press against his, slowly shifting like it was accidental.
He glanced down at the contact. Then up at her.
“You doing that on purpose?”
She looked at him through her lashes. “Doing what?”
“You’re a menace,” he muttered.
She smiled, soft and innocent. “I’m just sitting here.”
His hand slid onto her thigh — just above the knee. Warm. Firm. Possessive.
“You keep acting like you don’t know what you’re doing,” he said, voice lower now.
“I don’t,” she said, leaning closer, lips near his ear. “You’ll have to teach me.”
Michael’s exhale sounded like a growl.
By the time they reached the Pendry, his hand hadn’t left her skin once.
Inside the elevator, they stood in silence.
The moment the doors closed — he kissed her.
No hesitation. No finesse.
London moaned into his mouth, soft and breathy, her hands sliding up his chest, fingers twisting into the collar of his shirt. He backed her against the mirrored wall, one hand gripping her ass, the other tugging her closer by the waist.
She kissed him back like she’d been starving.
Grinding again — slow, purposeful, small rolls of her hips against his jeans. He groaned into her mouth, low and real.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious,” she whispered, lips brushing his jaw.
He pulled her by the hand, not looking back.
The suite door slammed shut behind them.
Clothes started coming off before the lock clicked.
The suite was sleek — too clean, all stone and black leather and gold accents — but neither of them gave a fuck.
The door slammed. Michael pinned her against it before she could take another breath.
His mouth found hers again, desperate, tongue sliding deep like he needed to taste the smirk off her lips. She kissed him back with heat and ease, like her mouth had been built for this exact rhythm.
He shoved her crop top up. No bra.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, looking down.
Her tits were soft, round, perfect — nipples already hard.
He didn’t ask. Just took one in his mouth, sucking slow, tongue circling, teeth grazing the edge just enough to make her gasp.
“Mmm—fuck,” she breathed, arching into him.
Her hands tangled in his curls, tugging just enough to pull another growl from his chest.
“You like that?” he asked against her skin, voice low.
“Keep going and find out.”
He dropped to his knees without warning.
Skirt up. Panties down — black, lacy, damp.
“Fuck me,” he said, staring. “You’re already wet.”
London smirked, breathless. “Told you I don’t need much.”
Michael slid his tongue between her folds in one slow, devastating stroke — nose pressed to her clit, mouth open wide like he was trying to drown in her.
Her head hit the door behind her.
“Oh my god,” she gasped, one leg hitching up over his shoulder.
He licked her like he owned her — slow and messy, teasing the edges, then zeroing in. Sucking. Flicking. Spitting. Groaning like he couldn’t get enough.
She tried to grind her hips into his face, but he gripped her thighs tighter.
“Stay still,” he growled, voice vibrating against her pussy.
“Fuck—” she whimpered, breath catching.
When her legs started shaking, he backed off.
“Not yet,” he said, standing up and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I want you begging.”
She licked her lips, eyes glassy. “You don’t think I will?”
He yanked her skirt all the way off and tossed her onto the bed — flat on her back, curls spilling everywhere, legs spread with no shame.
He stripped fast. Shirt over his head, chain still on. Pants and briefs down in one motion.
“God damn,” she whispered.
He was thick. Veiny. Long. Hard as fuck.
He climbed onto the bed, crawling over her, pressing the tip against her entrance, teasing her slit slow.
“You wanna act innocent?” he said. “Then you better start praying.”
London giggled, soft and dangerous.
“Go ahead,” she said, pulling him closer. “Wreck me.”
She gasped — sharp and real — eyes wide as her mouth dropped open.
“Say that again,” he growled, bottoming out with one slow, brutal thrust.
“Michael,” she moaned again, breath shaky.
He started fucking her slow. Deep. Controlled. Making her feel every inch. His hands pinned her wrists above her head, his hips grinding into her just the way she’d teased him on the dance floor.
“You feel that?” he said through gritted teeth. “That’s mine now.”
Her back arched. “You wish.”
“Still wanna act like you don’t care?” he asked.
“No,” she whispered. “I care. I care so much—fuck—”
He let go of her wrists and grabbed her throat — gentle but firm.
“Good,” he murmured. “Now take it.”
She wrapped her legs around him and pulled him in harder.
Their rhythm turned rougher. Faster. The bed creaked beneath them, headboard tapping the wall like applause. Her moans got louder. Less controlled. She wasn’t teasing anymore — she was unraveling.
Sweat slicked their skin. His chain bounced between her breasts. Her nails raked down his back.
He leaned down, lips against her ear.
She shook her head, stubborn. “Not yet.”
“Oh, so now you wanna tease me?”
He sat up, flipped her over in one quick motion — ass up, back arched.
She gasped as he slammed back inside, hands gripping her hips like handles.
“This what you wanted?” he said, fucking her harder now.
She was a mess. Hair wild. Voice breaking.
“Yes—yes, fuck, right there—”
He reached around and rubbed her clit in slow, tight circles.
She came hard — legs shaking, mouth open in a silent scream.
“Fuck me,” she gasped, collapsing forward.
He kept going, slower now, riding it out, until he pulled out last second and stroked himself fast.
Her answer came too late. He came all over her ass and lower back with a growl, his hand braced against the headboard, chest heaving.
For a moment, they just breathed. Both of them wrecked.
London turned her head slowly, cheek pressed to the sheets.
“Well,” she said, panting. “That was decent.”
Michael laughed — ragged, real.
“Girl—” he said, collapsing next to her, “you’re gonna be the fucking death of me.”
She just smiled, eyes closed.
The sheets were a mess — rumpled, wet in spots, still warm with sweat and skin and something Michael hadn’t felt in a long time:
London lay on her stomach, arms folded under her chin, hair wild across the pillows. Her back rose and fell in slow waves. Her skin shimmered under the glow of city lights seeping through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Michael watched her like he was trying to memorize something. Like if he blinked, she’d vanish.
She cracked an eye open without turning.
“You’re staring,” she said, voice soft, raspy.
She smiled, lazy. “Stop that.”
“Because now I gotta pretend I’m not flattered.”
He laughed under his breath, resting his head back against the headboard. The silence between them felt easy. He couldn’t remember the last time that happened after sex.
No awkwardness. No fake small talk. Just… stillness. Breath. Skin.
He glanced down at her again. At the curve of her spine. The soft rise of her ass. The way her ankle dangled off the edge of the bed like she was born to lounge.
“You always this cocky after you nut?” she asked without looking at him.
He raised an eyebrow. “You call that me nutting? I had to hold your ass down while you screamed into my pillows.”
“Hmm,” she said. “You right.”
He smirked, rolled toward her, and traced a line down her spine with one finger. “So you gonna tell me your real name now?”
She yawned, stretched like a cat. “I did. London.”
He leaned closer. “No last name? No socials? No favorite color?”
“I’m not a LinkedIn profile,” she muttered into the pillow.
Michael laughed. “Damn, alright.”
She rolled over then — lazy, naked, glowing — and looked him full in the face.
“You got what you wanted, right?” she asked, no edge to her voice. Just curiosity.
“I don’t know yet,” he said.
That made her blink. Just once. Then she smiled — slow, private, like he’d just said something that amused her more than it should.
She sat up, pulling the sheet across her chest, even though modesty was clearly not her thing.
“Through there,” he pointed, watching her every step as she padded across the floor, curves swaying, bare feet silent on stone tile.
She didn’t come back right away.
He stared at the ceiling for a minute. Replayed the night like it was a movie he didn’t want to end.
He didn’t even notice he was smiling.
By the time he heard the door again, she was dressed. Crop top back on. Skirt. Hoops in. Her curls were gathered in a loose bun again, a few tendrils framing her face.
He sat up. “You leaving?”
London nodded, pulling her phone out of her purse.
“No breakfast?” he asked.
“I don’t eat with men I fuck on the first night,” she said with a wink.
He chuckled. “So what now?”
She shrugged. “I go home. You go back to being famous. And we both pretend this was just another night.”
Michael tilted his head. “You think I’m gonna forget you?”
“I think you’ve already forgotten girls way badder than me.”
He stood now, fully naked, not even caring. Walked toward her slow.
“I don’t think you get it,” he said.
She looked up at him, eyes unreadable.
“I’m not some fan,” she said quietly.
“I didn’t do this because you’re Michael B. Jordan.”
“I did it because you looked at me like you meant it.”
They stared at each other for a beat too long.
Then she stepped close, real close, and kissed his collarbone. Soft. Once. Then his neck. Then his jaw.
Her lips brushed his ear.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I know who you are.”
And with that, she walked out.
No number.
No note.
No promises.
By the time the suite went silent again, Michael realized—
He didn’t even know her last name.
It had been weeks since the hotel.
Three weeks, maybe four. Long enough for the scent of her skin to fade from his sheets. Long enough for him to wonder if he’d made her up.
Michael never got her number.
No @. No last name. Just London.
And in this town? A woman like that with one name was like a ghost — beautiful, untouchable, and gone before sunrise.
Still, he kept her in his head.
Little things brought her back.
A track she moaned to. The shape of another woman’s lips that didn’t quite match. The way nobody else teased him with that same mix of soft and savage. That innocent smirk while riding his dick like it was a sport.
And that was rare. Because Michael didn’t dwell. Especially not over flings.
But London hadn’t just fucked him. She’d unbalanced him.
So when he saw her again, it was instinct.
He was at a rooftop event in West Hollywood — a soft launch for someone’s tequila line, sponsored by a brand that thought it understood “edgy minimalism.” Clean lines. Dim lights. Music that sounded expensive but said nothing.
He was half-listening to an actor talk about doing mushrooms in Tulum when his eyes drifted over the terrace.
Sitting on a low couch near a glowing fire pit, hoodie pulled halfway over her curls, gold hoops catching light, bare legs crossed like she didn’t need to impress anyone. Her drink was mostly ice. Her phone rested face-down on her thigh. She wasn’t talking to anyone. Just chilling.
Michael’s heart kicked hard — once.
It was like seeing something stolen from a dream. Only sharper. Realer. Way fucking finer than memory had allowed.
The actor beside him kept talking, something about energy healing and third eyes.
Michael didn’t hear a word.
“Yo, one sec,” he said quickly, already moving.
He crossed the patio with slow purpose, adjusting his chain, licking his lips once. He wasn’t nervous. But he wasn’t casual, either.
This was cosmic correction.
London looked up right as he stepped into her space.
She didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch.
Her expression was cool. Neutral.
Like seeing him was fine.
“Oh?” he echoed, sitting on the edge of the couch beside her.
“You look surprised,” she said, lifting her drink.
“I am,” he admitted. “I thought you died or something.”
She sipped slow. “Nah. I’ve just got really good boundaries.”
Michael tilted his head. “So disappearing counts as a boundary?”
“I’d say it’s more of a lifestyle.”
He laughed softly, leaning in, elbow on his knee. “You do that a lot?”
“Have unforgettable sex with people and vanish without a trace?”
London smiled. Not with her mouth—with her eyes.
“Why not you?” she said back.
He studied her now — hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows, fingers stained faintly with ink. Her legs glowed gold from the firelight. The drink in her hand didn’t even have a garnish. No flair. Just chill.
“You’ve been on my mind,” he said quietly.
He leaned closer. “That a flex?”
“No,” she said, eyes locking with his. “That’s just what happens when you fuck people worth remembering.”
He sat back, trying not to look as wrecked as he felt.
“You’re dangerous,” he said.
“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow. “What are you offering—another night?”
Michael pulled his card from his jacket. Black. Heavy. Set it on the table next to her drink.
She looked at it like it was an inside joke.
“I’ll cover your rent,” he said. “Your gear. Your travel. No strings. Just… let me take care of you.”
London picked it up between two fingers. Spun it once. Then set it back down.
“You want me on payroll?”
“No. I want you in my life.”
She laughed. Not loud. But enough to sting.
“And you think money makes that happen?”
“I think money makes access happen.”
She leaned forward slowly, elbows on her knees, face just a little closer.
“And what if I don’t need access?” she asked. “What if I’m not looking for someone to sponsor my life like a startup pitch?”
Michael didn’t blink. “Then walk away.”
She stared at him for one long, quiet second.
Left the card on the table.
And as she turned, she tossed one line over her shoulder:
“If I want something, I’ll let you know.”
Same sway in her hips. Same silence.
She still owned every second.
The card sat in his wallet like a monument to rejection.
Three days.
No texts.
No DMs.
No cute little story tagged with a location he could use to casually pop up.
And Michael didn’t chase.
He was the one who got chased.
London had flipped the whole thing — walked away from his offer like it was a party favor, not a blank check. And he’d let her. Partly out of pride. Mostly because he knew she wanted him to sweat.
And fuck, he was sweating.
She lingered like perfume on his fingers. Every quiet night was worse. Her laugh in his head. Her hips in his lap. That look she gave him right before saying “If I want something, I’ll let you know.”
The message came through on a Thursday night. 11:37 PM. He was watching a fight rerun, half asleep, phone on his chest when it buzzed.
@london.jpeg:
Okay. Show me.
No emoji. No punctuation. No follow-up.
He sat up so fast the remote hit the floor.
“Holy shit,” he muttered, thumbs already tapping.
Three dots appeared. Then a location.
Somewhere in the Arts District. A loft building. Downtown L.A., warehouse-style.
He didn’t even grab a jacket.
Threw on sweats and sneakers, called his driver, and told his assistant to cancel tomorrow morning’s meeting before she could ask why.
By midnight, he was at her door.
Unit 3B. Top floor. No elevator.
He climbed those steps two at a time, heart pounding like he was twenty and about to ruin his whole career.
London stood there — hoodie off now. Bare shoulders. A tank top with no bra. Ink on her fingers. Music low behind her, some slow beat with no lyrics. She looked like sleep and sin and something soft beneath the surface.
“Hey,” she said, casual as hell.
Just stepped inside and kissed her.
She tasted like orange juice and weed.
The kiss was instant, deep — no warm-up. Her hand curled into the back of his shirt as she pulled him in, body flush to his, lips soft but greedy, like she’d been fighting the urge to text him for days and now she couldn’t stop.
Michael kicked the door shut with his foot.
“Damn,” he said against her mouth, voice rough. “You missed me or what?”
“I was bored,” she whispered, kissing him again, slower this time.
“Yeah? This what you do when you’re bored?”
“No,” she murmured, lips brushing his jaw. “This is what I do when I’m curious.”
She turned and walked deeper into the loft, leaving him to follow.
The place was pure her — high ceilings, exposed brick, tall windows covered with gauzy curtains. The walls were scattered with her art — moody, surreal panels sketched in black ink and splashes of red, like comic book dreams that bled.
A record spun low in the corner — D’Angelo, Playa Playa, barely audible. The air smelled like sandalwood and pencil lead. There was an ashtray on the windowsill. A sketchbook open on the kitchen counter, half a figure drawn in bold strokes.
She didn’t try to explain any of it.
Just tossed her phone onto a chair and padded barefoot to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and pouring juice from a mason jar.
Michael followed her movements like she was art too.
“Nice spot,” he said, standing in the middle of her world.
London sipped, then looked at him over the rim.
She leaned back against the counter, arms folded. “It’s dusty. I don’t clean for people.”
“Good,” he said. “I’m not people.”
That earned the faintest smile.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled something out. Set it on the table without a word.
A brand new iPad Pro. Wrapped. With a custom Apple Pencil. Engraved.
“To London. Don’t be subtle.”
Then flicked back to him.
“Yeah,” he said. “That shit you showed me at the hotel? On your phone? You need to be drawing on something that keeps up with your hands.”
She stared at it like she didn’t know whether to be flattered or pissed.
“You give gifts to all your groupies?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You think I call groupies back?”
She stepped forward, close enough to take it, but didn’t.
“You trying to own me?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I’m trying to make it easier for you to create shit that’ll make you impossible to ignore.”
Then she picked it up, looked at it again, turned it over in her hands.
“It’s nice,” she said softly. “A little aggressive. But nice.”
“You want me to back off?”
“No,” she said. “I want to see how far you’ll go.”
That look in her eyes again — the quiet dare, the power shift, the calm beneath the current. She wasn’t testing him because she didn’t want him.
She was testing him because she did.
And she needed to know if he could handle her without the gloss.
“You wanna play games?” he asked.
“I am the game,” she said, deadpan.
Michael licked his lips, smiling now. “Alright then. Let’s play.”
Her voice was soft, but it landed like a command.
Michael didn’t ask questions.
He backed into the armchair in the corner of her loft — deep leather, low-slung — and sat, legs spread, hands on his thighs, watching her.
London moved slowly across the room, flipping the vinyl without a word. The new song rolled in like warm honey and sweat — SZA’s “Shirt.” Low and thick. Bass pulsing like a heartbeat between them.
She didn’t look at him yet.
Just moved to the center of the room, the hem of her tank top barely grazing the curve of her ass. No pants. Just soft cotton panties that hugged her hips like they were painted on.
Her eyes closed as she rolled her shoulders. One arm lifted, fingers grazing the side of her neck, then down to her collarbone. Her hips started to move. Not in a rush. No choreography. Just slow, lazy rhythm — the kind of dancing that said I don’t need attention. I pull gravity.
Michael exhaled hard. “You trying to fuck me up?”
Just kept swaying, circling her hips like the beat was inside her bones.
Each step deliberate. Each look half-lidded and unreadable. She climbed into his lap without a word — knees on either side of his thighs, settling right over his dick, not grinding yet. Just letting him feel the warmth.
Michael’s hands hovered at her waist.
“Nope,” she said, tracing the curve of his jaw with one fingertip. “Not yet.”
Then she started to move.
A slow grind — smooth and rolling — her heat dragging right along the ridge of his dick through his sweats. Her breath hitched when she felt how hard he already was, but she kept her pace steady. Patient.
Like she was milking the moment.
Like she could keep this going for hours.
Michael groaned low. “You’re fuckin’ evil.”
“I’m curious,” she said softly, lips near his ear. “I wanna see if you break.”
She dragged her nails down the back of his neck. Rolled her hips again — slow, teasing, her panties slick now, and he felt it.
His fingers twitched on his thighs.
“Say the word,” he murmured, “and I’ll flip you over and make you scream.”
“Mm,” she hummed, “but then I’d miss the show.”
She moved faster now — not much, just enough to make his jaw clench.
Her hands slid down her own sides, thumbs hooking the waistband of her panties, teasing just below.
Michael’s eyes followed every motion like he was watching salvation and damnation happen in real time.
“You ever had a girl make you beg before?” she asked, rocking again, wet heat soaking through his sweats now.
He stared up at her — chest rising, lips parted.
“You want me to be the first?”
He nodded once. “Yeah. Fuckin’ please.”
London smiled like a secret and rolled her hips harder — once, sharp, deliberate — grinding her clit right against the bulge in his pants.
He bucked into her. Couldn’t help it.
Leaned down. Kissed him once, barely brushing his lips. Whispered:
Michael stared, breathless, hard as hell, hands fisted at his knees.
“You done?” he asked, voice raw.
She walked toward her bedroom, over her shoulder.
The bedroom was warm. Dim. Smelled like cedarwood and something faintly sweet—maybe her hair, maybe her skin, maybe just the way she lived. There was no headboard. Just pillows stacked against the wall and a comforter the color of rosewater.
London crawled onto the bed like she had nowhere else to be.
Michael followed, tugging his hoodie off on the way, his T-shirt after. His sweats hit the floor with a heavy thump, boxers right behind them.
She turned and looked him over, eyes dragging down his body like she was shopping for trouble.
“Still hard?” she asked, voice low.
“Still yours,” he muttered.
Tank top peeled off next. No bra again. Her breasts soft and full, her skin warm and glowing in the ambient light. She shimmied her panties down her thighs, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact.
Michael sat on the edge of the bed, watching like he was scared to blink.
She straddled him again, naked now, skin against skin, and his hands finally found her—gripping her thighs, kneading her hips, sliding up to cup her tits in both palms.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re unreal.”
“Real enough to make you lose your mind.”
She angled her hips, reached down between them, and guided him to her entrance.
She sank onto him, inch by inch, slow as sin.
Michael’s head fell back with a groan — deep, loud, like it ripped from his chest.
She rolled her hips once, soft, then froze.
“I want you to watch me,” she whispered.
He looked up, met her eyes. They were heavy-lidded, almost lazy, but shining.
“I am,” he said, breathless.
“No. I mean watch. Like you don’t get to touch unless I let you.”
He let go of her waist instantly. Hands back on his thighs.
She started moving again.
Long, slow strokes. Up just enough. Down again with a twist of her hips.
Her moans were soft. Controlled. Little gasps that caught in her throat but didn’t break. She wasn’t chasing anything — she was savoring.
“I know,” she whispered. “I feel it.”
She reached behind her, took one of his hands, and dragged it forward — placed it right over her breast.
“I said watch,” she murmured, “not suffer.”
He gripped her now, full palms, as she rode him harder — the slap of skin getting louder, wetter, her pace picking up just enough to keep him on edge.
Then she leaned forward, chest brushing his, arms draped around his shoulders.
And everything slowed down.
Her lips were right by his ear now, hips still moving, but slower. Deeper.
“I want you to come inside me.”
“Say it,” she whispered. “Tell me you want it.”
“I do,” he growled. “Fuck—I do.”
“You gonna let me have it?”
She kissed his jaw, then his lips, then bit the corner of his mouth just enough to sting.
He thrust up once, deep, hard—and she gasped.
He came with a moan so loud it echoed off the walls, hands gripping her ass, breath ragged.
She kept riding him — slow, softer now — milking every twitch from his body, every last breath.
He looked up at her, sweaty, wrecked.
She smiled like the goddess she was.
Quiet. Tight. Lips parted. Eyes closed.
No dramatics. Just pure, warm release that pulsed through her in waves.
They stayed like that for a while.
Then London curled into his chest and sighed like she’d just solved a math problem.
Michael stroked her back in lazy circles.
“You mine now?” he asked quietly.
“No,” she said into his skin.
“But you wanna be,” he murmured.
“Maybe,” she whispered. “If you keep begging like that.”
London was on the couch when the internet found her.
Hair in a bonnet. Hoodie three sizes too big — his — sleeves chewed at the cuff from years of biting her nails. Her iPad rested against one thigh, half a sketch open. A woman drawn in hard lines. Her eyes blacked out.
The music was low. Ari Lennox. Something soft enough to fill the air without demanding it.
She hadn’t posted in two days.
Had barely left the apartment except to pick up Thai food and condoms.
Notifications swarmed like bees — texts, DMs, Twitter tags. Her home screen flooded. Her group chat was full of all caps and screaming emojis.
She opened Instagram first.
But Twitter had the goods.
Blurry, taken from across a street.
Her, in Michael’s hoodie, standing outside the back entrance of the Pendry. Hair wrapped. No makeup. Just sweatpants and socks in slides.
Michael stood beside her, head tilted down like he was listening to something only she said quietly. His hand was on the small of her back. Casual. Familiar.
The caption was already making the rounds:
“Y’all… this the third time we’ve seen MBJ with hoodie girl 😭 he smiling like a man who deleted all his hoes.”
London stared at the screen.
He showed up twenty minutes later.
No entourage. No press mask. No hoodie this time — just him, shirt slightly wrinkled, chain tucked under his collar like he didn’t want attention either.
She opened the door before he knocked twice.
“You saw it?” she asked, not quite a question.
Michael nodded once, stepping inside. His jaw was tense.
Then, after a pause:
“No. Not really.”
He pulled her into a hug.
His hands slid up her back, fingers spread, thumb pressing into that sweet spot at the base of her neck like he’d memorized it. She pressed her forehead against his chest.
“They’re gonna find everything,” she whispered. “My old drawings. Tweets from when I was twenty. Videos of me on Twitch talking shit about celebs—”
“You were talking shit about me?”
“Not directly,” she muttered.
He smirked. Kissed the top of her head. “I’m honored.”
She pulled back, looked up at him. Her face was tight with something real — not fear, but exposure.
“I didn’t want this,” she said. “Not the attention. Not the chaos. I just wanted to keep this soft. Quiet.”
He stepped back, serious now.
“I’ll keep you a secret if you want,” he said. “We don’t gotta post shit. No red carpets. No press leaks. Just me and you. My place. Your place. My hoodie on your floor.”
She stared at him for a long second. Something shifted behind her eyes. A softness cracked open.
Then she whispered, “You’re not what I thought you’d be.”
“Worse. Way worse,” she teased. “You made me catch feelings on accident.”
He smiled slowly. “That mean I’m off probation?”
“No,” she said, stepping closer. “It means I’m gonna keep letting you fuck me stupid until I decide if I want to fall in love with you.”
Michael leaned in, lips brushing hers.
Like she was giving him her answer without saying a damn word.
