apple head

Your hands move over Michael’s body, greedy and desperate. He signed at your touch and held the back of your neck as you kissed him. Your tongues dance with each other, tasting and exploring each other’s mouths while you loosen the tie around his neck.

Michael shifted you onto his lap, hands resting on your clothed thighs, before they rubbed gently over them. You managed to get his tie off, slinging it to the ground before your fingers work feverishly to unbutton his shirt.

“Need you so badly, Mike.” You whisper, resting your forehead against his. He chuckles and pecks your lips. He dipped his hands beneath your t-shirt, pressing them flat on your bare back while you continued unbuttoning his shirt. When you fully unbutton it, you run your fingers over his chest, pulling a contented groan from him. Michael tilts your chin down and presses his lips to yours in another sweet kiss.

“Stand up for me,” Michael commands softly, patting your thighs. You comply, standing right between his legs, close enough that he can hook his long fingers on the strap of your leggings, pulling them down along with your cotton panties. You lift your feet to let the fabric pool at your sides while Michael tosses his t-shirt with them.

“Beautiful.” He whispered, guiding you back onto his lap. His fingers find their way between your legs, squeezing the warm skin of your inner thigh before he presses his thumb against your clit. You gasp and giggle excitedly when he pushes his index and middle fingers between your wet pussy lips. Without warning, he slips his index finger into you, then his middle finger, thrusting them into you, lazy and unhurried. Your hips grind on his fingers involuntarily, walls gently pulsating around them while he keeps that slow pace.

“Mike, I’m…” Your heartbeat quickens, and he hums, biting his lower lip with a wicked grin plastered across his face. With a shaky hand, you run your fingers through his hair, semi-focused on his expression as you ride his fingers.

Your inner thighs tingle as a soft orgasm threatens to come over you. Michael doesn’t let up. He curls his fingers just right with every thrust, hitting that perfect spot within you as he tilts his head to watch you fall apart. Soon enough, you cumming on his fingers. Your hand in his hair grips the back of his neck, lower lip between your teeth as you sigh loudly—a pathetic attempt to muffle your moans.

Michael scoffs at your reaction, shaking his head in disapproval. “Tsk, I don’t like that.”

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You lie completely naked on the king-sized bed in the main bedroom, your back against the cool duvet as Michael rids himself of his pants and boxers.

“Gonna make you cum all night, baby,” he teases, gripping the underside of your knees before pulling you to the lowermost end of the bed, “Gonna make love to you, then fuck you, then make love to you over and over again.”

“Fuck—” His words shoot straight to your middle, a hot, fuzzy feeling erupting right below your belly button. The slight friction burn from him yanking you forward goes unnoticed as he kneels between your legs and presses teasing kisses to your inner thigh. Your hips buck, needing more attention right where he’s purposefully ignoring you.

“So needy,” Michael blows on your clit, then kisses your thighs again. “What do you want, ma, hmm?”

“Please?” You whine, attempting to push his head forward.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart.” Mike resists your push, blowing on your clit again. His cool breath makes your body tingle, nipples hardening in response.

This is torture. He’s so close yet so far. You could easily push yourself forward and connect his lips to your needy centre, but he’d just pull back and leave you begging.

“Tell me,” Mike repeats, squeezing the flesh of your butt with two fingers.

“Eat my pussy, Mikey. Please.” You give in, pressing your head hard against the mattress.

“Good girl.” Michael praises you before diving right in. His tongue flattens over your vulva, then slides upwards before he presses open-mouthed kisses over your clit. He moans like a starved man, sucking and licking your wet skin with lustful eyes focused on your reaction.

Your back arches as he devours you, hands gripping the duvet while you moan uncontrollably. Michael lifts your legs up and places one on each shoulder, giving him more access to your dripping pussy. He circles his tongue over your clit, then slides two fingers into you. Your breath goes frantic when he sucks on your clit and curls his fingers inside of you, causing yet another orgasm.

“Oh my god—Mike!” You finally speak, voice strained and shaky. Your hips rock in tandem with his fingers, a tight knot in your belly so close to unravelling.

“That’s it, sweet thing,” Michael mumbles with his mouth still wrapped around your clit.

You fall apart again, eyes squeezing shut as you moan his name with a cracked voice. Your legs shake and press against Michael’s face, pussy oozing with arousal over his chin. Michael hums against you, lapping his tongue over your juices with a satisfied grin.

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You’re on all fours, face pressed into a soft pillow with your mouth slightly hanging open. Michael’s on his knees behind you. His hands are gripping your hips while he ploughs into you with unimaginable speed, leaving you mumbling sweet nothings, senseless and dumb. His dick, long and thick, stretches you out unapologetically with every sharp snap of his hips.

Michael—ever the tease—strokes the back of your head with a gentle touch, cooing to you in a voice so soothing it leaves your mind numb.

“Such a good girl, hmm? Taking me so fucking well, sweet thing.” He speaks between thrusts, dipping his other hand between your legs to play with your clit. He rubs slow circles on it, a juxtaposition to his feverish thrust. Your mumbles turn into cries of pleasure, eyes watering and dampening the pillow below, while your pussy clenches around Michael.

“Mike—Mike, slow down—shit!” You beg through whimpers, your hands gripping the top of the duvet.

“Are you sure? Ah—” Michael asks mockingly before he moans too.

You shake your head, whining a loud ‘no!’ as another orgasm takes over your body. Your moans are loud, really loud. Michael pulls your head up by the hair when you try to muffle your pleasurable whines in the pillow. You scream his name, pussy gripping his dick so hard he comes undone too. Michael’s seed pours into you, coating your walls with warm arousal as he groans over your back, falling flat on top of you.

You both lie there unmoving, breathing erratically while Michael strokes your head again. He chuckles, and you do the same, knowing damn well what he’s thinking.

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Michael pushes into you again, making you both whine at the contact. You’re on your back again, legs circled around his hips with your hands gripping his biceps as he uses your hips to guide himself in and out of your sensitive pussy. His thrusts are unhurried, rolling his hips with a lazy rhythm. He’s making love to you now, teasing your clit with his thumb while one hand cups your boob. Each push of his hips makes you sigh breathlessly. Your eyes stay closed most of the time, opening them when he almost pulls out completely just to push back in with that leisurely pace.

“So sweet for me,” Michael moans, pinching your nipple, “Wish I could lie in you forever.”

“Michael…” You whimper, raking your finger over his toned back when he leans down to press a kiss to your lips. Michael groans into the kiss, mouth parting to let your tongue slide over his lower lip. You suck on his lip, then bite it before licking to soothe it. To say you’re lost in a sensual  haze is an understatement. You’re completely gone. Your eyes are glossy with shiftless tears, hands gripping every reachable inch of Michael’s warm body while you moan and whimper mindlessly as he makes you come yet again.

This time, your orgasm is lethargic, drawing long and dazed moans of Michael’s name out of you. Michael buries his face in the crook of your sweat-slick neck, breathing in your scent while your pussy squeezes him with fluttering pulses.

“Fuck, you’re so tight—mmmm.” He whimpers near your ear, trying his best to hold it together. You wrap your arms around his neck and curl your fingers in his hair, moaning directly in his ear.

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Michael leads you downstairs, hand holding yours as your feet patter barefoot on the cool tiles. You’re both parched, throat dry from all the panting and moaning. He opens the fridge and grabs two bottles of water, popping one open and handing it to you. Your throat thanks you when you take a sip, letting the cold liquid slide down your pharynx.

“I ain’t done with you, you know that?” Michael sips from his own bottle, holding soft eye contact with you.

“Are you serious?” You almost choke on water, skin cooling down as you both stand in the kitchen naked.

“What did I say before you came on my mouth?”

Fuck

“Come on,” Michael tosses his empty bottle in the bin, placing yours on the kitchen island as he holds a hand out for you, “I wanna try something new with you.”

You raise your brows, curiosity evident in your smile as you take his hand in yours and follow him upstairs. On your way up, you poke his butt with your acrylic nail, making him scowl playfully.

“Watch it.” Michael turns around, dick hardening already for what’s to come.

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Michael lies on his back, calm and drunk with desire. He motions for you with a finger, eyes hooded and dark as you crawl on top of him. You drop your hips and straddle his fully-hardened dick, rocking over him. Your slick coats his length in your arousal as he ponders for a moment.

“Come ride my face, sweet thing.” He taps his cheeks with long fingers. “Lemme taste that pretty pussy again.”

You wasted no time, crawling further up his body until your glossy centre’s inches away from his lips. Michael inhales your scent, humming in admiration before he tapes your round butt.

“Turn around for me. Want that ass right here.” Michael’s voice rumbles between your legs.

You raise a nervous brow, tilting your head to the side with an awkward smile. “Are you sure?”

“Do I look unsure?” He quips and licks his lips.

You look down at him and bite your lip, shaking your head in disagreement.

He looks very sure.

You turn around, legs on either side of his upper body. The new angel gives him complete access to your ass and pussy. He wastes no time, pulls you down to his lips, pushing his tongue into your needy hole. His tongue explores you as much as possible, lapping at your fresh arousal like a man dying of thirst.

You groan in surprise, fondling your tits as your hips rock against his mouth. When you look down, you notice his unattended dick lying hard on his thigh. As if driven by sheer hunger, you lean forward and wrap your hands around him, still moaning as Michael works behind you. You spit on his tip, thick silva trailing down his large length before you stroke him lazily. Michael’s tongue inside you halts for a second when he whimpers at your touch. Your hands squeeze him in between strokes, making him moan more and more against your dripping pussy.

When you wrap your lips around his tip, all hell breaks loose. Michael thrusts involuntarily into your mouth, whimpering around your clit, which makes you moan too. A sultry song between lovers breaks in your shared bedroom. Your moans vibrating through his body only make him moan, doing the same to you. Not only do your moans add extra friction between you two, but they also fuel you both on. You bob your head over Mike’s thick dick, slurping on your own slip, which trails down his length. Michael bucks his hips in unison with your head bobs, hitting the back of your throat with a twitching tip. He doesn’t stop eating you out either. His tongue buries itself in your pussy again, moaning over your clit while he messily sucks on it. His chin and cheeks are drenched in a mix of yours and his arousal, a mix of wetness and semen coating his chiselled jaw while he presses open-mouth kisses to your vulva.

You cum concurrently. Michael’s hands grip your soft ass while he spills into your mouth. His warm cum coats your throat, some dripping out of your mouth as you cough from choking slightly. You don’t stop stroking him. Your hands move up and down his dick while you suck on his oozing tip, milking him dry for all he has. When you cum, you cover Michael’s lips in slick arousal. He drinks it all, whimpering and lapping his tongue to capture every drop of your orgasm into his mouth.

“Tastes so good—fuck!” Michael groans, drinking your last drop of arousal. He smacks your ass then rubs the plush flesh, definitely leaving a bruise. Your legs finally give in, and you almost suffocate him with your ass when you fall against him. Michael laughs a hearty but exhausted laugh when he pushes you off his face.

“Sorry.” You giggle and rest your head atop his sweaty chest, wiping a drop of your cum off his lip. Michael grasps your hand and licks your finger clean, greedy for every drop of you. “Jeez, Mike.”

“What?” He shrugs and kisses your finger. “You taste good, ma.”

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Birds chirp outside, indicating the dawn of a new day. Michael flips you both on your side, spooning you under the thick covers. His hand cups your boob, then slides down to push your leg slightly forward. His dick lies hard on your thigh, ready for another round.

“Nigga, you’re crazy.” You whine, fighting sleep, but suddenly feel turned on again.

“I made you a promise.” Mike presses his tip to your entrance, asking for permission. “Sun’s not up yet.”

You nod and he slowly—lazier than before—eases himself into you. You both sigh. Michael drapes his arm over your belly, pressing his face to the back of your neck with closed eyes. Your eyes are shut too, cheek pressed against your pillow as you intertwine your hand in his.

He makes love to you again, hips thrusting sluggishly from all the sensitivity from your previous activity. He whimpers into your skin, praising how you feel and how much he loves you and your body. You’re utterly gone too, mouth ajar and drooling on your pillow. You whine his name over and over again, letters morphing into each other as you twitch from super-sensitivity.

“Sweet thing. You drive me wild.” Michael grazes his teeth on the back of your neck, dick twitching inside you. His pace lets you feel every vein and ridge of his length, turning you on more than you thought possible.

“I love you, Mikey.” Your voice cracks, and you orgasm one more time. “I—I love you so much.”

“Love you more, ma.” Michael fills you with seed once more, groaning pathetically on your skin as his hips falter. “I love you more.”

@pyt03 @lov3lylxvender @nobleumbrashrine @zerosugarcherrydrpepper @angeleface @beberock375 @michaeljacksonsleftnipple @xxhoneymo0n @kordulka @iiovey0u @michaeljacksonsbae @mikesbian @kneelarmhstrung @mikejacksbabymommaaaaa @nunusmoll @istayuptoolateonthisapp15 @funkaoverwar @khxna @uconnwbbloversworld1 @plan3tch1ld @theyluvchanel @18lkpeters @0-n-1-x @myhobari @lilitheebaddest @tojiswifeforlife @butt3rfleye @lover-of-games-horror-music17 @cloverjeanmj @star-gurl4life @michaelkisskissgirl @zero820 @justglennreading @peachypeanut @1andonlytashae @thebabykashmere @ghostlycrestcurse @delictezz @heyitsconysstuff @calicina @fruitysoulorg @ilikyo @likewf @sebbysbaby @blacclotusss @whimsicalangel07 @cunty000 @froggyreadsss @mjsbiggestlover @iimsopretty

your home, once scented tobacco, smells of musk and skin when michael enters sapped, and from afar, bleary.

the click of the door lock pulls your attention from the tv to his beat face, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead and back, clinging to his white tee, creating transparent patches and the faithful impression of how weary he is.

you grab onto the back of the couch as you twist your torso to earn a better view, and at that moment, his tired gaze makes its way to you.

previously half-lidded, his eyes ever so slightly widen at the sight of you clad in nothing but an oversized shirt and panties, because in all sincerity: you didn’t expect him to arrive home so early. it’s usually early mornings to past midnight with michael's schedules, yet it’s only 8 pm.

rising to your feet, your brows crease in worry as he walks over to the couch. “baby,” you breathe, hands reaching out to help him. as he moves closer, his panting grows more evident as well as the scent of sweat and the faint smell of his lingering perfume. only then did your nose take in the scent. “what—”

he nears and takes your hand in his, intertwining your fingers together and gently squeezing as he collapses himself onto the plush cushions and pillows of the couch, pulling you down with him, though with a lighter landing.

a content sigh escapes him as if he only just revived his memory to breathe. leaning closer, you can hear faint sounds of him panting through his headache; the way it catches in his throat and he has to swallow to breathe properly again; one breath being light, and the other grows heavy to then heavy again and so on; the way he expels a low moan during lighter exhales.

his previously stiffened body finally releases the tension he’s been unknowingly holding all day. he finds comfort in the bolsters of the couch, the welcoming warmth of his home, the quiet dialogue from the television, and most importantly, the presence of you. heck, his head was pounding in his skull before he even came through the door, however, now the first wave of ease washes over his head for the first time in hours as he feels his heartbeat slowing in his chest.

picking himself up, he lays his hands on the cushions, one balled into a fist, and pushes himself toward you. it happened so fast. his head lowers as his fist spreads to hold onto your waist, his other hand reaching for the back of your neck, something you can’t feel until his thumb begins to trace circles against your nape. glancing down, the hand gripping your waist trembles as he caresses your side. he buries his head into the crook of your neck.

“baby, ‘m so tired,” michael sighs into your skin as you feel his sweat adhere to you. his breath is hot against your neck, and you shudder as you try to strain a sentence out of your newly stubborn throat.

“i couldn't tell,” you somehow manage, voice seeping through quivering at first before you could find your poise as you give a languid nod. he lets out a pfft with a laugh despite his exhaustion, still able to muster up strength to laugh with you, and a smile tugs on your lips.

and then you feel it. though it’s feather light, he presses a kiss to your neck. and another. as though it were instinct, your hand makes its way to his curls, lightly scratching at the back of his scalp as his hands twitch from the touch. as they pile up, a giggle bubbles from your throat. “mike—”

“shh,” he chuckles sluggishly, grinning against your skin, “i wanna kiss you.” he intervenes with another kiss, humming into your neck. a hot flush you can’t swallow overwhelms your cheeks as it spreads down to your neck with a shudder, seeking to pass it off as merely tepidity radiating from michael—as if that makes the spin of your mind any better.

you don’t know why this feels different.

your eyes narrow as you gander down and scan his face. his cheeks have grown a little rosy—you’re unsure whether it’s from his exhaustion or if he even walked in with that tint on him at all. his styled edges are visibly a bit soaked from his sweat, regarding the droplets of it, and a faint grin sneaking itself through his kisses, yet the only thing distracting you is how his lips feel on your skin.

they aren’t even on your mouth, you shouldn’t be so affected by it.

and yet, to make it worse, he starts to suck crudely along your neck, a wave of heat hitting your body with embarrassing haste, and your eyes inadvertently shut. your fingers twine with his curls once more, yet this time, it seems as though he tries to stifle something like a groan—something you feel you shouldn’t have caught. the action heedlessly pushes him closer, and he doesn’t pass his chance to mark the rest of your skin accessible to him, kissing you almost ardently, like he got excited from the new reach. your stomach churns.

despite it, you bat your eyes back open. the awareness of how eager he came to be hits him, and with a flush to his cheeks, he reluctantly slows his kisses, suckling gently on your neck, and he splays his quivering hand on your nape. that's when you feel your lungs still, and you belatedly call attention for yourself to take a breath.

michael tightens his grip on your waist, the hand to your nape sliding down to hold your hip with waiting intention unbeknownst to you. his hands snake around your stomach and make their way around your waist until his arms are full of you, so unsought that your gaze instantaneously travels down to his arms around you, and looking back, it leads to your eyes searching him again.

a blemish near his cheekbone, a sweet, lasting mark from his bygone acne as your interest flickers to the tip of his nose retreating with each tender kiss. he tilts his head and settles into the backrest, every so often altering with each new area he covers just to rest back there again; as he does so, the dim light from the television grazes over his skin, and though brisk, you catch sight of the excess beads of sweat sitting on his forehead.

firmly, with his strikingly risqué hold on your waist, he hoists you onto his lap, an almost inaudible gasp leaving your mouth—a sound his ear giddily perks at.

michael lets a low simper make off at your hand in his hair wincing before harking back to your side and onto his wrist, a fleet sound that wriggles its way into your spine and down to your lower back, your stomach stirring anew.

it should’ve been cute; you assume it oughta, but as he digs his face back into your neck and litters wet kisses against your skin, the air around grows someway bawdier than it already was.

his self restraint is unmistakable. he's trying to save his kisses gentle, you can feel it, and yet, his efforts prove in vain as he drifts further from what little control he has in his allegedly tired body. his tongue grazes your skin between a kiss, and michael feels you shudder in his hold.

the television is practically inaudible now—twofold when you’re so drawn to each wet noise he makes when he stops sucking on your skin, and every soft sound that escapes his lips when he leaves another kiss on you.

you can smell him—the faint damp and tangy scent from his sudor, the smell of the vanillas in his shampoo laying just underneath, the airy amber from his perfume, and the raw, musky moisture from his skin that for whatever reason, affects you drastically as your thighs clamp together before you can even have a say in your actions.

michael's heart is hammering against his ribcage. he feels heat bleeding into his cheeks, and as a way to ground himself, he gives a light squeeze to your hip every few kisses, and spoilers, it’s forlorn.

he can't keep ignoring this forever. he needs you so, so madly right now, and the tension in the room only coils in his stomach and bullies his composure (which is something he’s surprised he even has at the moment).

and then it slips.

it starts when his lips caress your earlobe, lightly nipping it with his teeth, and he stops for a heartbeat too slow. his breath stutters in your ear, airy and hot with desire.

and suddenly, you’re hyper aware of the fact you’re merely wearing panties when a pool of heat reaches your lower back.

he presses his lips together, a little wet from his own saliva, and tries to stabilise his breathing (to no avail). he moves down, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses near your nape, then the dip of your neck, to near your collarbone, until abruptly, he finds the sensitive bit of skin on you, to which you suck in a breath and curl your lips inwards as a sound begged to be let out of your throat. as his teeth nip the area, it prompts your head to tilt averse onto the back of the couch, and michael grows dizzy with pure want.

his hands seep their way into your shirt and caress your sides as he drags his lips, teeth grazing your skin as his breath sends another wave of heat through you.

it was so sudden. both of you didn’t pre-empt it, and it shows when he rolls his hips into you, and a mewl knocks itself out of your throat as michael lets out an audible gasp.

“baby—baby, i'm so sorry. is… is this okay?” his words are strangled as he pulls away from your neck, lips parted. turning your head, your eyes meet his.

they’re wide and hazed, laced with need. his brows are high and drawn together as his last effort to hold back.

and with that, you cracked.

your lips crash onto his, hot and messy, hips grinding against the growing bulge in his slacks as you do so, and michael groans into your mouth. almost immediately, his hands grasp back onto your waist to spin you around, breaking the kiss before settling you onto his lap again, a choked moan leaving his lips at the contact, pressing his lips back on yours as he tilts his head.

painfully, you haul yourself along the thick ridge of his tent, a moan leaving your mouth to which michael eagerly swallows. he pulls away to catch his breath.

he pants lightly against your lips with hooded eyes, yet he can’t manage to keep them off you, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth and peppering more down to your jaw, lips wet from you.

you rock down on him, the friction so delicious, yet not enough to satiate. his head promptly drops, forehead sticking to the side of your neck a whimper spills from him, trickling with hunger, and he’s not trying to hide it, either.

his lips find their way back to yours, pure, full-blown desire woven into it as you feel your panties soaking, clenching around nothing, and likely leaving a wet patch on michael's pants.

“mikey, please,” your voice comes wrecked as you force yourself away from him just enough for you to speak, and the sound of you begging alone gets a groan out of him.

he rubs up against you, lightly nipping your bottom lip as an unstable gasp shakes out of you. “yes, pretty?” his words hit firm and teasing, a smile creeping onto his face, one hand sliding from your waist to your thigh, gently squeezing your skin to egg you on.

“need you…” you gulp back a gasp, running words through your head, nitpicking ones you find too vulgar or dirty and scrambling them in frantic obscurity, “make love to me, pl-ease,” you finish meekly. your hands grab onto his shoulders, dipping your head down gingerly in a flustered haze, primarily because you have never done this with him, let alone said such a thing, and the tremble of his hands on you says so much with so little. he connects your lips again, nodding into it as a sign of approval.

his shaky hands move to the backs of your upper thighs, keeping a strong grip as he warily lifts you up. by instinct, your legs wrap around his waist as your arms did around his neck, and he grins into the kiss.

he brings you to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him and coming to a halt when his knees hit the mattress, settling you down onto the sheets as if you were a delicacy.

michael wastes no time in peppering kisses down your body—your jaw, neck, your collarbones for a moment too long before moving to your inner thighs.

your panties are so embarrassingly damp from your arousal, and his bottom lip quivers as his breath hitches from the mere sight of you soaked.  

he leaves a burning, wet trail of kisses up your thigh up until he feels a hand in his hair, upping his head to avert his attention to you. and suddenly, his eyes slightly widen as he grows meek at his actions, a red tint bleeding up to the tips of his ears.

almost instantly, you clamp your thighs together. “w-wait,” you squeak, and your mouth goes dry. never in your life have you felt more self-conscious, and even more when you feel as though you’ve fissured the moment. humiliation bounds around your muscles and renders you stiff.

the cognisance roots itself into his skin in prickles. his eyes change into something gentler, his brows fleetly lifting before pressing together lightly. he scans your face, looking for an ounce of jest in your expression, because frankly, he can’t wrap his head around how the woman he loves most, the woman who is so incredibly perfect in his eyes, could be thinking negatively about herself. and yet, he finds none.

hand leisurely settling on your thigh, he caresses your skin so tenderly it almost burns, radiating into your chest and down to your core. “mama, you’re so perfect,” he coos, and there’s nothing but pure sincerity dowsed in his voice, your cheeks growing so hot you think he can see it. “i hope you see yourself as i see you. i'll make you feel so, so right, just—please… let me please you. i want to feel like i deserve you, let me—just,” his breath trembles, voice breaking just slightly, so devoutly and longingly you could only take a pause.

and then he glances up.

his eyes glimmer and practically pleads, brows creasing up, and so incredibly desirous it messes with your head. you take your bottom lip amidst your teeth.

barely through your nod, michael's eyes go wide and pries your legs back open, diving down between them and sweetly kissing your inner thighs as a finger twirls around the cotton of the only thing keeping your pretty pussy away from him. the shudder of your breath only urges him further, only cutting short when he reaches too closely, taking another glimpse of you to make certain it’s alright.

rather than a nod, or even a simple yes, he receives your hands tangling themselves in his hair, and that’s all the confirmation he needs.

he slides off your panties almost frantically, precariously pulling ‘til they fall neatly on the hardwood of the floor, raising your leg over his shoulder as the other locks your leg down in a meek, yet firm grip. michael revels in the sight of you all soaked for him so pretty, tentatively staring before a slight tug of his hair spurs him on, shyly dropping his head between your thighs.

he leaves a soft kiss to you, something experimental as his hot breath fans your cunt, fingertips digging into the back of your knee more so for himself. and without thinking, he licks a long, tantalising stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit, and your mouth gapes, slipping a whimper from your throat. “m-mikey, th-that feels so good—” you scarcely manage, words jumbling in your head as you struggle to make them coherent.

your flavour on his tastebuds intoxicate him and cloud his mind, nose bumping against your bud and savouring your taste as he licks up greedily, humming against you, inducing a choked noise out of your mouth. wrapping his lips around your clit, you pull on his hair with a whine.

“you sound so pretty.” he smiles into your cunt as his tongue probes you. “taste s’sweet—” he cuts himself off like he can’t keep away from your taste for long, hungrily burying himself back into you and swirling his tongue around your clit.

it doesn’t take long for his narrowly reserved pace to speed up as he eats you like he’s been starved of this for far too long, moans muffling against you as your body jolts at the pleasure. his tongue pushes past your folds, messily fucking you with his tongue, barely acknowledging the saliva running down his chin. every little sound of his vibrates up your spine, mewling at each one.

generously, your juices coat his lips and the surrounding skin, legs almost buckling if not for his hold on you. your breath catches in your throat before you choke out a cry of his name, and his ears instantly perk.

he craves to hear it again.

without thought, or even with him regarding it, he brings two digits to you and buries them in the warmth of your cunt, a sob almost immediately ripping through your throat. he laps at you as if it’s the only thing he knows how, nose harshly pushing your clit upward before giving it a suck again.

all he can think about is you—your smell suffocating him so sweetly, your essence all over his face, how responsive you are, all of it driving further and fogging his head. you have not the slightest clue of what you do to him. he wants so badly for you to fall apart right on his tongue, and he’s gonna have it. his tongue enters you again, and you can feel how it drives deeper and deeper, walls fluttering around his muscle as he relishes in your aroma and taste as he loses himself further in you. lewd, filthy noises of him slurping stills in the air, your pants and moans drowning it as your back arches off the mattress, his hand travelling under your thighs to hold your hips down, and your leg instantly closes around his head, only pushing him deeper as his groan hits right to your clit.

his fingers curl inside you again, his eyebrows drawn taut with immersion, eliciting a strangled mix of a whine and a sob from your mouth, quietly gasping reiterates of his name. “baby,” he muffles, refusing to stray from your taste, “wan’ hear you…”

a vulgar string of drawn-out whimpers fall from your lips before his name slips again in a loud moan, squeezing at your hip as he groans in pure satisfaction, pumping his fingers increasingly hastier, the squelch of your walls hitting his ears so obscene he begins to rock against the mattress.

“mikey—please, mh, i think i’m g-gonna…” you barely shove the words out of your mouth as you pant out, legs shaking around his head, waves of pleasure threatening to crash over you with each waking second.

you didn’t have to forewarn him in the slightest. not when he can taste and feel you so undeniably in his mouth—how the band of your lower tummy tightens as your walls succeed, back fighting to arch off the bed, nails digging into his scalp and tugging on his curls.

“i know, pretty… let go f’me, please, baby. need to taste you—mm, wan’ try something,” he mutters breathlessly, pulling away fleetly to take his digits out of you, tentatively pressing his thumb down on your clit as you writhe at the sensation, ecstacy overwhelming your senses as your orgasm ripples through your body, and michael is quick to attach his mouth back on you to lap at your juices.

“mmpfh—mh, taste as good as y’sound—oh,” he moans as he completely engulfs himself into your taste, thumb beginning to lazily draw circles on your bundle of nerves as his tongue plunges into you as if you’re the only thing that’ll quench his perennial thirst, and you pull at his hair, eliciting an elated sound from him.

“t-too much!” you cry, voice increasing in pitch as your trembling legs unwillingly wrap him into you nearer, contrasting as you wholly try to push him away.

withdrawing himself from you pains him more than he can feel.

but when he does, his eyes meet yours, pupils dilated and swallowing the brown of his iris, and with a brief glance down, his lips gleam in the dim light, drenched in you, chin dripping with your arousal, the sight immediately rushing heat up your neck and into your cheeks.

then his eyes flash with guilt. “baby,” he says, voice is trickling with urgency as his tongue darts out to taste yourself on his lips, still covetous even as he apologises, “i’m so sorry, pretty, i should’ve stopped—‘m sorry, are you okay?” his large hand caresses your quivering inner thigh and kneads the skin there, free hand finding perch on the plush of the bed next to your other thigh, propping himself up as the mattress dips with the weight of his knee. his other knee settles beside your hip, the hand that assisted him in climbing on the bed landing on the sheets behind you, his disparate hand never halting motion on your skin.

michael’s eyes flicker between yours, big and hazy, glutted with concern as though he’d done something unable to be pardoned. you can only scoff, the tip of your index tracing his jaw without a thought, and you take in the sight of his eyes briefly splaying as your finger wipes your arousal off his jaw. his breath stutters once you reach his chin, flicking your finger off and cupping his cheek as fast as you jerked your finger, gently coaxing him in before your lips meet again in a tender kiss.

he melts into it instantly, the hand rubbing your thigh flying to hold the small of your back. drawing averse, he pants as he murmurs a hot string of babbles of how he adores your taste, a breath-width away from your lips before he delves back, pushing his tongue in your mouth to help you taste your flavour. “y’taste like a dream,” he sighs into your mouth, smiling against your lips with gratitude more than anything. the flavour of your essence mingled with michael’s own taste is enough to take a precedent swelling moan out of you and into his ears, to which he drinks with the same indebtedness.

heedlessly sliding your heel toward you, your knee lifts and catches itself when it makes the slightest contact with the aching tent in michael’s slacks he’d been desperately trying to disregard, a whimper leaving him as quick as his head dips in the crook of your neck, hand holding back from squeezing your skin in a fit of self-restraint. he’d been holding back. “mike,” you mutter just loud enough to reach his ears as he barely manages to lift his head, eyes locking to yours with a critical aching need consumed in his gaze—something you can’t bear to pay no heed to. “let me take you.”

who are you not to repay him?

your words come sheepish, timid, yet to him it hits with a newfangled ripple of unadulterated need searing ardently through his veins. you gesture to the edge of the bed with a tilt of your chin. he knows better than to ask how despite his struggle to credit the prospect of you taking him in any of the perverted ways that is on his mind. he heaves himself away from you. jointly, you find your way to the contrasting cold of the floorboards from the warmth of his sheets. the cold almost instantly dissipates under the contact of your knees as michael seats himself on the outskirt of the mattress with untrained eyes indulging in how your eyes look under the dim light as your attention flickers to his trousers.

and a rush of deep red amasses into his cheeks, mouth parted, yet producing no sound as he catches his breath at the fleeting recognition. “oh—wait,” he says, his usual soft tone welling with uncertainty as well as a faint, almost eager undercurrent—which he can’t veil when your eyes find their way to his once more.

“i can’t…” he takes a deep swallow, “no, i can’t let you do that, pretty, you shouldn’t be down there doin’ somethin’ like… that,” he speaks already as though he floundered to make something articulate.

“you’ve helped me, haven't you? can’t i do the same?”

he stammers as his head tries to conjure a valid reason against yours. “let me, baby.” your hand taps his knee, a smile playing at his lips like it always does when you call him that, yet an unfamiliar, almost heated shiver wriggles up his spine at the tap of your finger. “i want to.”

his dire need garners and gluts his senses as the allure of your glim unwavering causes his reason to fail him, both mingling into something he’s impotent to reject. he parts his lips, though not without reluctance. “you’re sure?” he asks, however, by this time, your leisure taps move into full-on caresses, and his limbs draw themselves tense. and before you could answer, your unplanned touch ignites a feeling that travels through his veins with haste. “ah- ah, it’s… why is it— why does… okay, okay,” he qualms as the emergent bulge beneath his pants begins to sore like he’s never felt before, his lower abdomen burning. is it supposed to feel like this? he didn’t know it could get this bad, and embarrassment seeps through his bones.

with his wince and agreement, briskly, you tug on his pants as he lifts himself from the sheets so you can slide them off, the fabric leaving his skin also leaving a fire with them as ardour hums everywhere in his body. and as your hands make contact with the waistband of his underwear, an unmistakable wet patch that formed a while ago from his generous amount of precum visible to you, his mind, as well as his heart, racing.

his hands aviate to cover his face when you free him from the confinements of his briefs. as soon as the cold air hits him, his mind races a slew of protests.

you’re too pretty to be down there. this is so dirty. on your knees is so, so dirty—as if he didn’t just eat you out and would do it for hours if you just let him. what if you think it’s… i dunno, ugly? you shouldn’t be doin’ something like this. he shouldn’t have accepted, but how could he not when desire settles and rattles his bones? the words weigh on his tongue until he can’t carry it any longer, lips parting to give way to his protest.

with such tenderness his heart aches, your plush lips wrap around his mauve tip, previously coated in precum with now your saliva, and the words lodge in his throat almost violently as a hearty wail ousts it. your eyes flick up just in time to view the hands shielding his face trembling and moving down, revealing his crimson-painted cheeks with his brows creased and oh, what a sight it is. his hands descend to steal a glimpse of your mouth around his length, and from the mere gander, a whimper slips his throat.

you have never thought of such about him when you finally viewed him. tip slick with so much precum, the mere sight already soaking you again, veins running prettily along his length. if he’d been looking at you earlier, he’d see the way you were gaping him with such awe. as if he couldn’t get any more perfect, this sure solidified it.

you give him initially shy kitten licks on his tip, whimpers already spilling out of his mouth before you start lapping, savouring the taste of his leaking slit before moving down—though not without taking a hefty inhale first—his big hands finding purchase in your locks.

the sight is so filthy to see. how you meld to him, engulfing his dick and letting him feel the warmth of your mouth, dim light shimmering in the shade of tears stilling in your waterline. his hands twine themselves in your hair and gently tugs as your hands wrap around the area you can’t reach with solely your mouth. lifting your head up and off of him, your tongue traces along his prominent vein, applying pressure with which his head starts to swirl at as his hips jerk without his say. he’s grateful he didn’t do that while he was in your mouth—until it happens.

your lips envelop him, bringing him back into the warmth of your mouth, swallowing him as your hand experimentally squeezes his base. before you could ask if that felt okay, his hips thrust up into your mouth again, and he’s immediately spewing apologies. he loves it so much, and you’ll do it again if it means eliciting that mewl out of him again. you pull yourself up from him with a pop, hands working his shaft to replace the absence of your mouth.

“i didn’t mean to… oh, ‘m s’sorry,” his words slur as your hand unwavers, and he’s sneaking his bottom lip between his teeth as you finding leverage on his shirt, yanking him toward you and colliding your lips together in a hot, muddled kiss, interjecting his effort to suppress the noises slipping from his lips so he could speak. his slick on your tongue transferring to his tastebuds spins his mind as a hand to your hair moves to your cheek.

your arm wraps around his neck, hand tugging on his shirt as he sets out a whimper to your mouth before complying, breaking off the kiss so he can lift his shirt up and over his head only to reattach your lips to his just as quickly as he hurls the fabric to who-knows-where in the room. you break it off once more. “stop apologizing,” you whisper, squeezing as you pump him, thumb rubbing along his prominent vein glossed in your spit, and a cry tears through him as he pulls himself back with his hands tangling in your hair again. licking a long stripe, your hands settle back near his base anew before you have him back in your mouth, unconsciously humming against him as vibrations shoot up his spine expels itself as a moan.

“th-that… that feels weird, mgh, do it again… please,” he mutters breathlessly. your cheeks hollow, and his head throws back as his oozing tip brushes the hind of your throat, his bottom lip quivering when you bob your earnestly. oh, you look perfect like this—hair tussled from his tugs, lips moulded to his shaft, eyes glossy and cheeks flushed a rosy tint, peeking through your eyelashes to glance at his expression, eyes falling to his abs coated in a light sheen of sweat before shutting your eyes again—something he doesn’t fail to miss.

“y-you have such a pretty mouth—ah, feels so—” he blabs, cut short by his own whimper. his hips stutter at the feel of you rotating your wrist, one hand moving down from your scalp to caress your cheek, tracing along your jaw with gentle, yet jagged lines as he strains to keep his head steady. as his tip hits the back of your throat once more, you ardently fight your gag reflex, throat tightening around him as he fills with concern. “can you—ngh,” he cries, “breathe? o-oh, baby—” his hand draws taut in your hair, and when you peek up, tears are stinging his waterline. “baby, please,” he pleads, voice cracking, “i can’t… i don’t wanna c-cum like this,” he divulges, gripping the sheets with his hand formerly on your cheek with a firm hold.

michael’s arm, placed precariously behind him with his hand outward and grasping the sheets for poise, collapses as his strength leaves him, his elbow hitting the mattress. and generously, craving to fulfill his desires, you climb on the bed and move to the left of him as he discerns you with impressive haste, pushing himself back so his legs won’t dangle out of the mattress anymore.

propping your knees to either side of him, you hover your sopping cunt above his waiting dick as tenderly, he kneads the side of the small of your back—more so for himself. and when he finally regards what you’re about to do, his object is cut short by his tip prodding your entrance, and your whimpers mingle with the burning aroma of the space.

gradually, sorely, you sink down into him, both of his hands flying to your lower back, nails digging divots into your skin as his cock twitches inside of you, forcing a whine from your throat. he’s filling you up, head falling low as whimpers leave you in strings. your hands head for his shoulders as gently, he brings you in until you embrace, tilting his head and whispering tenderly in your ear. “y’r doin’ so well, ma… jus’ a little— m-ore,” he coos, sighing barely through the latter, unable to mask the garbled moans that escape his mouth.

“o-oh my—mike,” you choke out, shaking with each inch you descend as your grip on his shoulders grow firm, then weak again. his arms tremble as they assist you in falling into him, whining dulcet in your ear as the feeling of being stuffed overwhelms your system before you’re to the hilt. you pant against his chest as he does your head, his hand tracing leisure, consoling circles to your skin.

the moment you finally pull off him, the sweat coating his torso clings to your shirt before you fully asunder. the hold you have on his shoulders linger as you begin to move, his breaths coming ragged and in a medley of bursts and drags. “hoh, you…” he swallows deeply, “y’feel s’ warm, so tight… oh, you’re s’tight—didn’t know it felt like this, oh,” he cries, and when your head lifts, tears are threatening to fall and lacquer a watery line down his cheeks. the sight alone makes you clench down on him, drawing a groan from deep in his chest and sending searing flurries of heat through his veins as you find your rhythm.

his hands work to guide your hips, bucking his up with every pummel he ushers from you, clit brutally bumping against his pelvis with each. his name falls from you, breathy and mingled with his plethora of babbles as your nails bore crescents in his shoulders, your eyelids fluttering shut and back open just to see the blissed out expression adorned on his comely face. his thumb caressing your inner hip falters when you roll your hips on him without his guidance, his hands tightening around you and rocking you down, and with it, a tear that was stilled in his eyes finally founders and leaves a line of salty liquid as it falls, then another—but that one mixes in his sweat. the feeling of your walls suffocating him leaves him delirious, but the notion of you exhausting yourself up there pains him, and oh, he doesn’t know how much longer he can keep still. and it doesn’t at all take long for him to act.

his hands grasp stiff and unyielding to your hips, flipping you both and stealing you of your breath as he snaps his hips and rips a lewd sound that lands somewhere between a mewl and a cry from your achy throat. he grabs firm to your shirt and briskly pulls it up and over your head and off to somewhere in the room as swiftly as he had flipped you.

he gapes at you from this newfound angle of being on top of you, and it knocks a strained grunt out of his parted lips as he begins to move. “mikey, w-what—ah! mh, ke-keep going, please…” you sob as his dick drags in your gummied walls, melding each ridge and vein of him into you and stretching you impossibly more than you already have been. eyes ripping from yours, his burning stare is pulled to where you two join, and michael ogles at how his cock continuously buries and disappears into the warmth of your sweet cunt. each thrust forms a frothy ring of his precum and your arousal at his base, his eyes eagerly drinking up the sight before his fixation moves just slightly up.

his pupils blow wide when they land on the swell outline of his dick in your tummy, and from the sight alone he chokes out a strangled moan. “am…” he pants as his hands move near your navel, “am i doin’ that?” he presses lightly on your abdomen as he bucks his hips a tad harsher than intended, and your body quivers, back arching off the sheets as his tip dotingly kisses your cervix, letting his head fall as well as his jaw.

with the shift in your positions, the feverish newfound angle has his cock hitting deep into the sponge tissue of your sex, and your mouth gapes. “th-there! right there, mikey, please…” your whimpers are drowned by the lewd noises of his pelvis slamming against your moist skin as his pace grows relentless at your spur.

all that consumes him is how your hot cunt sucks him in and the filthy squelch that comes with it. his dewy eyes dart between your disheveled face and the curve of his dick bulging from your stomach, and when your walls clamp down on him again, he shuts his eyes, the salty droplets that had settled in the rim of his eyes rolling down his rouge tinted cheeks and falling from his chin. “you’re… y’r squeezin’ me—hoh,” he moans, head reeling as his hands hastily shrithe to envelope your torso, slogging to refrain from collapsing on you as he lowers until you’re wholly flush against his clammy chest. he strains a throaty mix of a huff and a whine against your cheek before smashing his lips onto yours in a searing kiss, his hand caressing your side and leaving heat where it was once placed.

each snap of his hips have him continuously ramming into and abusing the sweet dip in the inlay of your womb. the bedframe gashing the paint off the wall with every rock accompanies the wet plaps of skin slapping skin and the descants of your fused moans—sounds that send tingles through michael’s body—sounds he’s eager to devour. his swollen lips trails wet kisses down to your lower lip, your chin, and to your jaw, and you let your head fall back only for michael to capture your lips in his again, your raised head only deepening the sloppy motions of your mouth against his, and you squirm as you struggle to keep up, for each buck of his hips swirls your head absurdly further.

his head falls into the dip of your neck, panting against your skin, your pussy pulsing around his length as your abdomen twists. “mh, mikey, hoh! ‘m s-sssso close,” you choke, hands clutching at his shoulders and the flesh of his upper arms as you clamp around him, suctioning his girth deliciously as he brings a hand to return to your belly, the pressure from his wring reducing your mind to a haze of nothing but him.

“i-i’m close too, ohmy— oh, wh-where should i… do i do it—” he’s cut short by his own cry and swallow, “inside? wan’ me to pull out?”

you claw at his back, only mustering a frantic shake of your head, holding him firm in place, his large hand once on your belly trembling as he takes a soft hold to your cheek. the rhythmic pace of his thrusts grow sloppy, overbrimming with primal need, to which your sight distorts ‘til you’re convinced the whites clouding your vision are clusters of stars.

the hot coil in your lower abdomen snaps when he fills you to the hilt again, your body falling limp, cunt throbbing around him as ripples of pleasure glut your being, creaming his dick and gushing on the sheets as he helps you ride out your orgasm. michael’s mouth hangs open, slurring a series of moans and incohesive blabs as he soaks in every contortion of your face, the bucking of his hips turning desperate. he buries himself in you wholly when his warm seed spills and earnestly coats your velvety walls in white, filling you so full with his release it shows with a mere glance at your tummy.

the both of you stay like this for a little while—panting against each other’s skin as he stills inside of you, the dripping of cum spilling out your sopping cunt and droplets running down his length eliciting quivers out of you two until he slowly drags his leaking cock out of the warmth of your sex. “are… are you okay?” he breathes before raising his head from the comfort of the curve of your neck, meeting your dazed eyes as his thumb grazes your cheekbone. 

his curls cling to the clammy skin of his forehead, eyes hazy and pupils blown wide, lips red and swollen. “mhm,” you hum, nodding your head as a smile adorns his elated face. with one last peck to your lips, he heaves himself up and off the mattress, heading to his restroom and back with a cloth before he settles himself between your aching thighs again. his cheeks flush a deep red upon the sight, shyly swiping the cloth to wipe away the mingled essences of the both of you, and as he progresses closer to your core, your body flinches and some of his seed seeps further out of you, and his teeth tug on his lower lip as he can’t seem to pull his eyes away.

when he finishes up, he plants a tender kiss to your inner thigh. he then waits outside the door of the restroom as you use the toilet a few minutes later. by this time, you two are dressed back up, although hodieral in pyjama attire.

the moment he hears the twist of the doorknob and you swinging the door open, he’s already on you—lips crashing onto yours in a messy, yet gentle kiss as he devours each of your laughs, a smile tugging on the corners of his lips as he backs you into the bed and sends the both of you collapsing onto the plush pillows.

the final thing you’re able to recall is how his lips travel to your cheek, leaving sweet pecks in between ‘thank you’s before your eyelids give out on you.

　　　　　　　　　© doemj.

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

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

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

Or so you thought.

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

Michael Jackson.

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

There wasn't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was ridiculous.

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

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

Easy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sudden silence was short lived.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yep."

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

Internally, you were spiraling.

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

And he was looking right at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The pleasure is mine," he replied warmly.

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

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

A smile immediately spread across Michael's face.

"Are you now?"

Blanket nodded enthusiastically. "A huge one."

"[Name] said she'd help."

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

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

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

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

Paris giggled.

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

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

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

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

"Dad," Prince groaned dramatically.

"What?"

"We play every day."

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

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

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

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

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

"That would be lovely, thank you."

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

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

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

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

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

You turned your attention toward him immediately.

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

For a moment, you blinked.

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

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

The concern in his voice was genuine.

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyebrows lifted slightly.

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

That finally earned a laugh from you.

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

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

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

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

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

"A giant one?" you would ask back.

"A giant one."

"With blankets?"

"Obviously."

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

"Because forts are cool."

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

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

And then there was Michael.

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

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

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

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

What surprised you most was how attentively he listened.

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

It was a small thing, really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There. See? Much easier."

Later that night, you finally made it home.

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

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

"Hey, babe."

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

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

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

"Mhm."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Different how?"

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

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

"Yeah."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was no explanation for it.

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

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

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

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

Just enough to leave you wondering.

The looks were somehow worse.

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

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

The problem was that Michael noticed things.

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

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

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

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

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

You hated yourself a little for noticing it.

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

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

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

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

"Three."

"One."

"Two."

You narrowed your eyes. He narrowed his right back.

"One."

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

"Fine."

Across the room, Paris giggled into her pillow.

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

"I've noticed."

"And it works every time."

"It does not."

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

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

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

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

"Of course."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

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

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

10:47 PM.

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

Which meant you'd be staying over.

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

The house felt entirely different at night.

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

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

Again.

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

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

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

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

"Hey." No enthusiasm. No warmth.

Just... hey.

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

"I was just calling."

"Okay."

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

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

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

"[Name]..."

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

"I texted you."

"You sent me two words."

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

"What?"

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

"Because I'm tired."

"Tired of what?"

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

Your eyes squeezed shut. There it was.

Every single time.

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

"You are."

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

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

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

"What?"

"Forget it."

"[Name]—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"[Name]?" Your head snapped up.

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

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

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

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

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

"No, you're not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I guess." His jaw tightened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was what broke you.

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

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

You leaned toward him instinctively. Seeking comfort and warmth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His thumb caught it before it could fall.

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

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

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

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

The room fell silent for a moment.

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

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

His thumb brushed across your cheek again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shifted his grip, his hand sliding up to the back of your thigh to hold you securely against him, while his other hand stayed firmly on your waist.

As he reached the landing, he leaned in again, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck. He pressed a series of soft, warm kisses there, his breath hot against your skin, making you arch your back and bury your face in the crook of his neck as he made his way to his bedroom.

The bedroom door shut with a soft thud, leaving the rest of the house feeling miles away. The room was quiet, lit mostly by the moonlight coming through the window, making everything feel calm and private.

Michael didn't just drop you on the bed; he lowered you onto the mattress slowly, staying right there with you. As you settled into the blankets, you felt a little flustered, a shy smile tugging at your lips. You were definitely blushing, but you didn't try to hide it you actually found yourself leaning closer to him, wanting to be in his space.

Michael was smiling too. It wasn't some intense, brooding look; it was just a warm, genuine smile that made him look incredibly handsome.

He leaned down, giving you a quick, sweet kiss before pulling back just an inch. His eyes were roaming over your face, taking you in.

"You have no idea," he said, his voice low and casual, "How hard it's been to actually act normal around you."

You let out a little embarrassed laugh, looking down at the duvet for a second, but he reached out and gently nudged your chin so you’d look at him again.

"Seriously," he continued, his gaze dropping to your shoulders before meeting your eyes again. "Every time you were here helping with the kids, watching you laugh or just seeing you move around the room... it was driving me crazy. I'd be trying to talk to someone else, but I'd just be thinking about you."

He shifted a bit closer, his hand sliding down to rest on your waist. His touch was warm and steady.

"And you're so damn beautiful," he added, his voice dropping a bit. He wasn't being dramatic; he was just telling you the truth. "I've been staring at you for weeks, just wondering when I'd finally get a chance to be this close to you."

A nervous, happy sort of flutter went through your stomach. You felt a little shy under all that attention, but it felt good. It felt right.

He leaned in, kissing your cheek and then your temple, his voice a constant, low murmur of praise. "I've wanted this since the first day you walked in here," he admitted, his lips brushing against your ear. "Just to have you all to myself like this."

He didn't stop there. His hand, which had been resting on your waist, started to wander, his palm sliding up under the hem of your shirt. The contact of his warm skin against your stomach made you catch your breath, a small, shaky sound that he answered with a low, appreciative hum.

"You're so soft," he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip as he pulled your shirt up just a little further.

The shyness was still there, making you feel a little breathless, but as he leaned down to kiss the hollow of your throat, you found yourself reaching for him. Your hands slid under his shirt, your palms pressing against his back.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice a low, rough rasp. It wasn't a timid question; he could tell you wanted him, but he was still being the man he promised to be the one who took care of you.

He moved his hands to the waistband of your pants, his fingers grazing the skin of your hips. He paused for a second, his eyes locking onto yours, checking in.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his voice sounding a little more strained than before. "I've been thinking about this... about you... for so long."

He slid your clothes down, his movements slow and deliberate, making sure you were comfortable every step of the way. As you lay there, feeling the cool air hit your skin, a sudden wave of nerves hit you. You felt exposed, and as he shifted, moving his body down the bed, your heart started to hammer against your ribs.

You'd seen it in movies, sure, but the idea of him actually being down there... it felt a lot more intense in person.

"Michael?" you breathed, your voice a little shaky. You reached out, your fingers curling into the sheets. "Is... is it okay if we just... slow down a little?"

He stopped immediately, propping himself up on his elbows so he could look at you. He didn't look frustrated or impatient; he just looked incredibly focused on you.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice a warm, grounding weight. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

"It's just..." You bit your lip, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. "I've never really... had a guy do that. You know? Like...eat me out. It's just a little intimidating."

A slow, incredibly sweet smile spread across his face. He reached up, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering on your cheek.

"Intimidating?" he teased gently, though his eyes were dark with a hunger that was hard to miss. "Angel, there's nothing to be nervous about. It's just me. And trust me, there ain't nothin' in the world I want more right now than to taste you."

He leaned down, pressing a lingering, soft kiss to your stomach, just above the line of your panties. You let out a tiny, startled gasp, your hips giving a small, involuntary twitch. You were so wet, you were sure that a wet patch has formed on your panties already.

"Been dreamin' about how you taste since the first time you sat on my sofa," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and teasing. "I wanna take my time with you. Gonna make sure you feel every single thing. Does that sound good?"

You looked down at him, seeing the genuine yearning in his expression. He genuinely wanted to taste your pussy so bad. The hesitation was still there, but it was being drowned out by the sheer heat of his gaze.

"Yeah," you whispered, a small, shy smile returning to your lips. "That sounds really good."

He didn't move away once you gave him the green light. Instead, he moved with a quiet, predatory grace, sliding down the length of your body until he was positioned between your thighs. The heat radiating from him was a physical weight, making your skin prickle with anticipation.

As he hooked his fingers into the elastic of your panties, his eyes never left yours for a second. He peeled the fabric down your legs with a slow, agonizing deliberation, leaving you completely bare and trembling under his gaze. The cool air of the room hit your damp skin, but you felt like you were burning from the inside out.

Then, he leaned in.

The first touch of his tongue wasn't tentative. It wasn't a light, polite graze. It was a heavy, soaking swipe that started at the very base of your mound and dragged all the way up to your clit.

A loud, unbidden moan tore from your throat, your back arching off the mattress as the sheer, wet friction sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core. You expected him to be careful, to be "gentle" in the way he always was, but the Michael looking up at you now was different. His eyes were hooded, dark, and glazed with a raw, unadulterated lust that made your stomach flip.

He didn't just want to taste you; he wanted to devour you.

He leaned back in, his face disappearing between your thighs. The sound of his mouth against your wet, swollen folds was loud and unapologetic, a heavy, rhythmic slap of skin on skin that made your toes curl into the sheets.

"Oh god, Michael..." you gasped, your head thrashing against the pillow.

"I've got you, pretty baby," he murmured, his voice vibrating against your most sensitive skin. He pulled back just for a second, his lips glistening, his eyes dark and blown out with pure, unadulterated lust. "You're so wet for me. You're so slick, angel. Just look at you... you're a beautiful, soaking mess."

He didn't wait for a response before he dived back in, his tongue working with a frantic, desperate hunger. He was lapping up every drop of your nectar, his tongue swirling deep into your slit, catching the heavy, syrupy flow of your arousal. He was being so thorough, so goddamn greedy, that you could feel the warmth of his breath mingling with the wetness of your own juices.

"That's it, sweet baby," he groaned, the sound muffled by your pussy. His thumb began to grind in heavy, punishing circles against your clit.

The sensation was too much. It was too much, and yet, you were begging for more, your fingers knotting into the bedsheets until your knuckles turned white. Every time his tongue swiped upward, catching the sensitive peak of your clit, a fresh wave of heat crashed over you, making your vision blur. He wasn't being the gentle, careful Michael you knew in the daylight; he was a man possessed, a man driven by a hunger that seemed bottomless.

"Michael... oh, god, Michael..." you sobbed, your hips jerking upward, trying to meet the relentless pressure of his tongue and the heavy, rhythmic grind of his thumb.

"That's it, angel... just like that," he murmured, his voice a dark, vibrating hum against your swollen folds. He pulled back just enough to let the cool air hit your dripping heat, only to dive back in with a sudden, forceful suction that made your entire body seize. "You're so loud for me, baby... so beautiful when you're losing control."

He was being so greedy, so unapologetically thorough, that you felt like you were drowning in the sensation of him. The wet, slapping sounds of his mouth against you were the only thing you could hear, drowning out the quiet hum of the house around you. He was lapping at you, tasting every drop of your arousal as if it were the most precious thing he’d ever encountered, his breath hot and frantic against your inner thighs.

"Please... Michael, please, I'm gonna—" Your voice broke, a high, keening whine escaping your throat as the tension in your lower belly tightened into a hard, pulsing knot.

"Gonna what, sweetheart? Gonna come for me?" He teased, his voice thick with lust, before he increased the pace. His tongue became a frantic, swirling blur against your clit, while his thumb applied a heavy, punishing pressure that sent jolts of pure electricity straight to your brain. "Let it go, baby. Give it all to me. Show me how much you want it..."

You couldn't hold back anymore. The world fractured. Your back arched violently off the mattress, your toes curling as the first wave of your orgasm crashed through you. It was a violent, beautiful explosion of pleasure, your internal muscles clamping down hard and pulsing around the empty space where his mouth was, desperate to hold onto the sensation.

"Oh! Oh, god!" you screamed, your head thrashing from side to side as you came, the sheer intensity of it leaving you breathless and trembling.

Michael didn't pull away. He stayed right there, drinking you in, his tongue continuing to swirl in slow, soothing circles to catch the aftershocks, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you steady through the tremors. He let out a low, guttural groan of satisfaction, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as he watched you unravel beneath him.

"Mm, so sweet..." he whispered, his lips and chin glistening as he finally looked up at you, his eyes dark, blown out, and completely undone by the sight of your messy, beautiful climax. "You taste like heaven, baby. Just heaven."

The aftershocks were still rippling through you, leaving your skin hypersensitive and your breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. Michael didn't move away immediately; instead, he lingered, his lips pressing soft, reverent kisses to the inside of your thighs, his hands roaming over the lush curves of your hips. He looked up at you, and the sheer worship in his eyes made your heart ache. He didn't just want you; he was in awe of you.

"Look at you," he breathed, his voice a low, reverent rasp. He reached out, his palms sliding up the soft, generous swell of your hips, his fingers sinking slightly into your skin. "So soft... so perfect. Every inch of you is a miracle, angel."

He moved up the bed, his body a heavy, warm weight as he hovered over you. He didn't rush. He took a moment to just look at you, his gaze tracing the curve of your waist, the fullness of your breasts, and the way your thighs spilled beautifully against the sheets. To him, you weren't just a woman; you were a masterpiece of soft lines and delicious weight.

"You're so beautiful, pretty baby," he murmured, leaning down to press a slow, lingering kiss to the swell of your hip, his mouth trailing upward. "Could spend a lifetime just exploring you. Just worshiping you."

He captured one of your breasts in his hand, his thumb grazing the peak as he leaned in to take the swollen bud into his mouth. He sucked deeply, a low groan vibrating in his throat, while his other hand slid down to find where you were still slick and pulsing from your climax.

The friction of his hand against your wetness, paired with the heavy, insistent pull of his mouth on your breast, sent a new wave of heat crashing through you. You reached for him, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, needing the friction, needing the weight of him to fill the emptiness.

"Michael... please," you whimpered, your hips tilting upward in a silent plea. "I need you. I need to feel you."

"I know, baby. I know," he whispered against your skin, his breath hot and frantic. He pulled back just enough to strip away the last of his own clothes, and when he pressed himself against you, the sheer, veiny heat of him made you gasp. He was massive, a heavy, pulsing weight that promised to stretch you to your absolute limit.

He guided himself to your entrance, the head of his cock smearing your own nectar across your opening. He paused there, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that felt like it was stripping your soul bare.

"Tell me you want it," he commanded softly, his voice thick with a desperate kind of hunger. "Tell me you want me to fill you up, sweetheart."

"Please," you choked out, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him flush against your soft curves. "Fuck, Michael, please... fill me up. All of you."

With a slow, deliberate thrust, he began to sink into you. He didn't slam in; he moved with a heavy, agonizing patience, letting your walls stretch and accommodate his girth. You felt every inch of him, the way he filled you so completely that it felt like he was touching your very core. You let out a long, broken moan, your head falling back as your body yielded to the delicious intrusion.

"Mm, so wet... so fucking perfect," he grunted, his muscles corded and tense as he bottomed out. He stayed there for a moment, buried deep, his chest heaving against yours, letting you adjust to the sheer fullness of him. He began to move, his thrusts slow and deep, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in with a heavy, rhythmic force that made the bed creak beneath you.

The sensation was overwhelming. It wasn't just the friction; it was the way his body interacted with yours the way his hard, lean frame contrasted against the soft, yielding curves of your hips and thighs. Every time he slammed home, his hips hitting yours with a wet, heavy thwack, you felt the impact in your entire soul.

"You feel so good, baby," he groaned, his pace picking up, his thrusts becoming harder, more urgent. He reached down, his large hand splaying across your stomach before sliding lower to cup the underside of your ass, lifting you slightly to meet his every lunge. "I love how you feel around me... so warm, so wet... like you were made just for this."

He was relentless. He drove into you with a primal, driving rhythm, his hips snapping forward to ensure he hit your sweet spot with every single stroke. You were lost in it the sound of your skin slapping together, the scent of your shared arousal, and the overwhelming, heavy sensation of him plowing through you.

"Oh, god, Michael—" you cried out, your hands roaming wildly over his back. You were being driven to the brink again, the friction of his cock against your internal walls sending sparks of white hot pleasure through your nervous system.

"That's it, baby... take it all," he urged, his voice a guttural growl near your ear. He was pushing you harder, his thrusts becoming frantic and shallow as he neared his own limit, his breath coming in harsh, jagged gasps. "Give it to me, angel... let me see you come again..."

The world finally stopped spinning, the frantic rhythm of his hips slowing into a heavy, pulsing ache that settled deep in your bones. As the peak of your climax began to recede, leaving you limp and trembling, Michael followed you over the edge. He let out a long, strangled groan, his body tensing violently as he buried himself as deep as he could possibly go, his entire frame shuddering with the force of his release.

He didn't pull out. Instead, he collapsed against you, his chest heaving in sync with yours, his sweat slicked skin clinging to yours in the most delicious, heavy way. He stayed buried deep inside you, the sensation of his hot, pulsing length filling you up as he slowly began to settle.

"Mm... oh, baby," he breathed, his voice little more than a broken whisper against the crook of your neck. He didn't move to separate; he just held you, his weight a comforting, grounding presence that made you feel safe and cherished in the wake of the storm.

He began to move, but it wasn't the frantic, hungry driving from before. It was slow, so agonizingly slow that every tiny, infinitesimal twitch of his cock inside you felt like a caress. He was just... existing within you, letting the sensation of being joined sink in. He nudged his hips in a tiny, rhythmic circle, a gentle friction that sent soft, warm ripples of pleasure through your sensitized walls.

"You're so warm," he murmured, his lips grazing your jawline as he spoke. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes soft and glazed with a profound, quiet adoration. "You feel so good, sweetheart. So perfect. I never want to leave you."

He reached down, his hand sliding under the small of your back to pull you even tighter against him, making sure there wasn't a single millimeter of space between your bodies. He began to pepper your face with tiny, soft kisses your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose each one.

"Michael..." you sighed, your eyes fluttering shut as you drifted in the haze of afterglow. You felt so full, so cherished, as if his very essence was being poured into you.

"I got you, angel," he whispered, his hand moving from your back to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a reverence that made your heart swell. "I got you. Just breathe. Just feel me."

He continued that slow, hypnotic movement, a gentle, pulsing slide that was more about connection than conquest. It was a worship of the quiet moments the way your breath hitched when he pressed a kiss to your collarbone, the way your hands instinctively curled into his hair, the way your bodies seemed to hum in a shared silence

In the quiet of the room, with nothing but the sound of your synchronized breathing, it felt like time had stopped.

The room was quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing and the distant, muffled hum of the world outside that seemed a million miles away. Michael was still draped over you, his head resting in the hollow of your shoulder, his skin still warm and damp against yours. He was moving with a slow, almost hypnotic lazyness, his hips occasionally giving a tiny, affectionate nudge that kept you tethered to the sensation of him still being buried deep within you.

"You're so quiet, baby," he murmured, his voice a low, sleepy vibration against your skin. He lifted his head just enough to press a lingering kiss to your temple. "Thinkin' 'bout something?"

"Just... how much this feels like a dream," you whispered, your fingers tracing the line of his shoulder, feeling the lean strength of him. "it feels like if I blink too hard, the world is gonna come rushing back in and take all of this away."

Michael went still. The playful, sleepy haze in his eyes shifted, replaced by something much more intense, much more grounded. He shifted his weight, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at you. The soft light of the room caught the dark, serious depth of his gaze.

"It ain't a dream, angel," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming that steady, commanding weight you had come to rely on. He reached out, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. "I don't do anything halfway. You know that. When I want something... when I want someone... it's everything."

He paused, his eyes searching yours, reading the flicker of hesitation that always lived in the back of your mind. He knew about him. He knew about the man you were supposed to be with, the one who was supposed to be your "stable" choice, but who left you feeling half empty and unappreciated.

"You're so good to everyone," Michael continued softly, his hand sliding down to cup your cheek, his touch heavy and warm. "You take care of other people, you take care of the kids... you're so selfless, angel. But who takes care of you?"

Your heart gave a painful little thud against your ribs. You knew where this was going.

"Michael..." you breathed, a warning and a plea all at once.

"He don't see you," Michael whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips before snapping back to your eyes, fierce and unwavering. "Not the way I see you. He doesn't know how to worship you. He doesn't know how to make you feel like the center of the whole universe."

He leaned down, pressing a slow, firm kiss to your forehead, his forehead resting against yours. "You don't gotta decide anything tonight. Not while we're right here. But just... just think about it, okay? Think about what it'd be like to be with someone who's actually hungry for you. Someone who's gonna give you everything you deserve."

He pulled back just a fraction, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips, a hint of the man who could command thousands, but was choosing to use that power just to hold you.

"Because in a way, you're mine, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice a promise as he lowered his head to kiss you again, deep and slow. "In every way that matters... you're already mine."

As he pulled you closer, his body settling back into yours, the weight of his words lingered in the air, more intoxicating than the sex had been. You closed your eyes, drifting off to the feeling of him inside you, wondering if the dream was finally starting to become your reality.

The third time that you passed by Michael without letting him touch you, he knew something was off.

He was miserable.

It seemed like you were doing everything except speaking to him. As of right now, you were cooking dinner. Michael had followed you into the kitchen like a lost puppy. He had tried wrapping his arms around your waist while you stood at the stove. Kissing on you. Of course, you'd shrugged him off with a stern,

"Boy stop. I'm busy."

Sighing, Michael leaned back against the counter behind you, watching your every move.

"What did I do, baby?" he asked softly. "Why aren't you talking to me?"

The hurt in his voice almost made you give in. Almost. Until you remembered what started this whole mess.

Two days ago, it had been movie night. Michael had been upstairs on the phone with Frank while you rummaged through the cabinet beneath the television, searching for a VHS tape the two of you hadn't watched a hundred times already.

Your fingers landed on one labeled neatly in Michael's handwriting.

Michael with Fans — October 1990.

Curious, you smiled to yourself and slid it into the VCR.

Seeing Michael's public persona had always fascinated you because it was so different from the man you knew behind closed doors. The world knew Michael Jackson. You knew Mike.

The screen flickered from blue static to grainy camcorder footage. Michael stood in the middle of a shopping mall, absolutely surrounded by screaming fans. He laughed, signed autographs, hugged little kids, kissed grandmothers on the cheek. It was sweet.

Then he looked toward the cameraman and said—

"Let's go over here... there's some more good fish over here."

You blinked.

"What the hell...fish?"

On the television, Michael immediately made his way toward another group of beautiful women, reaching for one of their hands before posing for a picture. Your eyebrows slowly rose in disbelief. 

"...Hold up."

You rewound the tape.

Click.

"Let's go over here... there's some more good fish over here."

You stared at the television.

"...Fish?"

Another rewind. Clicked play.

"...There's some more good fish over here."

Your jaw slowly dropped.

"Hell naw."

When the tape finished, you ejected it so hard it nearly flew out of the VCR. Absolutely not. Marching straight to the phone, you dialed the first Jackson brother that came to mind. The one who knew everything there was to know about Michael. They were practically twins.

The phone rang twice.

"Marlon speaking."

"What does fish mean? And don't lie."

Silence trilled through the receiver.

"...Marlon?"

More silence and then Marlon sighed.

"...Mike done got himself in trouble, huh?"

"What does it mean, Marlon?" Another pause. You were tapping your foot impatiently, growing tired of waiting.

"...It's what we used to call pretty girls."

Your eye twitched. Suspicions confirmed.

"...Excuse me?"

"I mean—"

"So he was fishin'?"

"No!" Marlon barked, already laughing. "No, no, not like that!"

"Then why was he walkin’ over there talking about, 'there's some more good fish over here?'"

Marlon had absolutely no defense. His brother was caught.

"...See... when you say it out loud like that..."

"It sound crazy, don't it?"

"...Lil bit."

You thanked your brother-in-law, hung up the phone, and walked upstairs without another word. No movie night. No cuddling. No goodnight kisses for Michael. Nothing.

Now, two days later...

Michael Jackson had absolutely no idea why his wife wouldn't speak to him.

Later that afternoon, Michael again sauntered into a room he knew you inhabited. He gazed at you quietly for a moment, large doe eyes watching you carefully and waiting patiently like a good boy to be acknowledged. 

Early afternoon glow began to settle over the room, highlighting your features with a soft golden warmth. You were seated at the kitchen table reading a new book. You sensed his presence. Like you always did. But you refused to raise your focus from your book.

You were a stubborn woman, he had to admit. Once you committed to something, you’d burn the house down with yourself in it. So, he brushed his lips against the back of your neck and gave a soft “I love you”, laying down your favorite flowers on the table next to you. 

You hummed in approval,

“Thank you, they’re beautiful.” The phrase came out simply. No kiss or smile attached. No reinforcement for Michael. Sulking, Michael silently retreated from the room.

He needed advice.

“She won’t talk to me for nothin’” Michael was exasperated, rubbing his hands up and down his face frustratedly. He hated being ignored. Especially by you. You were quite literally his favorite person on the planet, other than his mother. 

He was so desperate that he’d driven to his sister’s place, praying she had some insight. 

La Toya continued to organize her closet, bustling about as she listened to Michael’s woes.

“Women don’t give you the silent treatment for this long, Mike. Somethin’ happened.”

“I haven’t done anything! I’m so lost.” The poor man was needy for your attention, and he couldn’t get to the root of the problem. 

His sister was no help. So, he wandered to Marlon’s next. Really just bored and looking for companionship.

“What’s wrong Mike, you in the dog house?” Marlon pulled his brother in for a hug, patting him on the back gingerly. Michael rarely stopped by unannounced. Usually when he did, something had been troubling him. 

Michael sulked over to the couch, plopping down with a sigh.

“I don’t even know WHY”

Unbeknownst to Michael, immediately his brother became fidgety and nervous. Uh oh.

“She won’t even let me touch her.” Michael whimpered, dropping his face into his hands.

Marlon scratched the back of his neck and looked away, eyes growing wide. He remembered his last call with you. Very well.

“Soooo… hypothetically… if a man got caught calling women fish by his woman…”

Immediately Michael’s head snapped toward Marlon. 

“What you mean?” Michael’s eye contact never left his brothers, burning a hole in the side of his profile as Marlon feigned distraction and gazed in the opposite direction.

“I’m just saying. Hypothetically.”

Slowly, Michael’s eyes widened. He didn’t. He wouldn’t.

“She talked to you? And you didn’t tell me?” Under the pressure Marlon cracked. He immediately held his hands up in surrender as his brother shoved him.

“I ain’t say nothin’!” 

“You told her!”

“I didn’t tell her!” Marlon exclaimed, now dissolving into a fit of giggles.

Michael stood up, officially agitated. 

“You supposed to be my brother, and you’re telling my girl our secrets. Come on man” Michael rolled his eyes, of course this was Marlon’s fault. Marlon continued to explain himself through broken laughs. 

“I’m her friend too, Mike!”

“I’m leaving.” Michael grumbled.

“C’mon Mike, just apologize.” Marlon said, laughter dying down. “You did call them fish.”

“So did you, but did I tell Carol!” 

“Hey, this ain’t about me!” 

“Bye Marlon” Michael grumbled, finally making his way toward the door. His brother’s giggles followed him out the front door, further agitating him.

When Michael finally arrived back home, he closed the front door behind him silently. His head dropped against the door behind him as he sighed heavily. He was in trouble. 

He found you in the kitchen, he hadn't bothered to call out to you. He had grown used to your sweet voice not answering him when he was looking for you.

But when he found you, he felt a very familiar heat building in the pit of his stomach. There you were, standing at the kitchen sink and absentmindedly humming a tune. Michael’s eyes trailed up your figure, admiring the way the sundress you wore perfectly hugged your body, framing your hips and cutting just above your ankles to expose your pretty anklets. Your ass raised in the hair as you leaned over to grab more dish soap.

The kitchen smelled like lemon dish soap and the faint trace of the smothered greens you’d made earlier, the radio in the living room still playing Luther Vandross low and slow like it knew what was coming. You stood at the sink in that soft little yellow dress—the one that always made Michael’s eyes go heavy—scrubbing the last plate, warm water up to your wrists, hips swaying just a little to the music without even thinking about it.

You didn’t hear him at first. But you felt him. That solid heat sliding up behind you, chest to your back, the familiar weight of his arms wrapping around your waist like he’d been starving for the shape of you all day. His nose brushed the side of your neck, breath already shaky. 

This time, you didn’t pull away.

“Been watchin’ you all day, baby” he muttered, voice low and rough from hours of holding back. “All evenin’. Makin’ the bed, foldin’ clothes, standin’ here doin’ these damn dishes like you ain’t the finest thing I ever seen. Got me hard just lookin’ at you, girl.”

You felt it then—thick and insistent, pressing against the curve of your ass through his loose black slacks. He rolled his hips once, slow and deliberate, letting you feel every inch of him already straining, already leaking. The grind was filthy, unhurried, like he had all night to ruin you right here against the sink.

“Mike…” you whispered, fingers still curled around a wet plate. He didn’t answer with words. Just another deep grind, cock sliding heavy between your cheeks. One big hand slid down to fist the hem of your dress and yanked it up over the swell of your ass in one smooth motion. The cool air kissed your skin for half a second before his palm was there, squeezing, spreading you open like he owned it.

“I missed you all day, baby…”

It was muttered on a sharp exhale as he bent you forward over the edge of the sink, your chest pressing into the counter, water splashing over your forearms. He made quick work of your panties, dragging them down to your ankles with one impatient tug. Two fingers pressed against your lips, tapping gently.

“Open,” he breathed. You obeyed immediately.

He slid them in, slow, letting you suck them wet and warm while he worked his zipper down with his free hand. You could hear the low, filthy sound of him pulling his cock free—thick, heavy, the head already shiny with pre-cum from hours of watching you move around the house like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing to him.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he groaned against your ear, pulling his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop. “All soft and domestic. Got me thinkin’ about bendin’ you over every surface in this house.”

Those same fingers, still slick from your tongue, slid straight between your thighs and pushed deep into your cunt without warning. You squeaked, the stretch sudden and perfect, back arching as he curled them immediately, finding that spot like he had a map to get to it.

“If only they knew,” he whispered, voice dark and sweet at the same time. “How this smart, pretty girl turns into such a needy little thing the second I get my hands on her. How bad you love letting me play your pretty little body like an instrument. Am I right, mamas?”

You made a choked, gaspy noise when he started fucking you with his fingers—fast, precise, obscene wet sounds filled the quiet kitchen. Your knees nearly buckled. He allowed saliva to slowly drip from his lips down onto his aching length, slicking himself up with a low groan that went straight to your core, and then the blunt head of his cock was nudging at your entrance.

He pushed in slow. So slow you felt every thick inch stretching you open, the burn and the fullness making your eyes flutter. When he bottomed out, hips flush to your ass, you both moaned, his deep and cracked, yours high and shaky.

“Say thank you, baby,” he whispered against your ear, one arm sliding around your waist, the other hand coming up to rest lightly at your throat. Not squeezing, just holding, owning.

You tried. The first sound that came out was nothing but a whimper.

His palm cracked across your ass, hard enough to make you jolt and clench around him.

“T-Thank you,” you gasped, voice already cracking. “Fuck—thank you, Michael—”

“That’s my girl,” he hummed, and then he started moving.

Not fast. Deep. Rolling his hips in those slow, grinding circles that dragged the head of his cock over sweet spots only he could touch on every pass, the faint swell of him pressing against your lower belly from the inside. You could feel it every time he sank in to the hilt, relishing in the way he flattened his palm there.

“Feel that?” he rasped, grinding deep, staying buried while his hips worked in tight, filthy rolls. “That’s me, baby. Stroking all those little spots only I can reach, ain't that right sweetheart?”

Your fingers clawed at the edge of the sink. Your thighs started shaking as you leaned forward on your tip-toes. The wet, obscene sound of him fucking you—slow and heavy, mixed with the low music and the occasional drip of water from the faucet you’d never turned off.

He felt you getting close, felt the way your walls fluttered and squeezed.

“There it is,” he cooed, voice going soft and dangerous. “Come on, mama. Let me feel it. Cum for me.”

When it hit, it was hard.

Your eyes rolled back so far your vision blurred. A needy cry tore out of your throat as your pussy clenched and gushed around him, sticky arousal sliding down your thighs. His hand around your throat eased its hold but stayed there, steady and warm, keeping you upright as the pleasure kept rolling through you in thick, helpless waves. Your eyes stayed rolled back, walls squeezing and fluttering tight around his thick cock while he pressed soft kisses to your temple and along your jaw, nose nuzzling gently against your cheek until your body went slack and heavy in his arms.

Michael didn’t stop though. He just adjusted his pace into long, lazy, deep strokes, grinding in slow circles while you came, letting you ride it out while he kissed the side of your neck, your temple, nuzzling his nose against your cheek like he was trying to crawl inside your skin. Saliva dribbled down your chin as you tried to gather your thoughts to no avail.

Michael couldn’t tear his eyes away from you, eyebrows furrowing at how your pretty face contorted with pleasure through his torment.

“Good girl,” he breathed, voice shaking. “Such a good fuckin’ girl for me. Look at you… droolin’ all over yourself. So pretty when you can’t even talk.”

You were still twitching, still fluttering around him, when it started building again, deeper, harder, the hand at your throat tightening just enough to make your head spin in the best way. 

Your second orgasm crashed into you before you were ready, thighs shaking so bad you almost collapsed. He caught you, arm locking tight around your waist, hips never stopping.

“Michael—fuck—too s-sensitive—oh my God—”

“I know, baby,” he groaned, voice breaking into something raw. “I know. But you can give me one more, can’t you? My good girl can take it.”

He pulled out slow, the wet sound filthy, your essence combined with his pre-cum was dripping down your legs in messy strings. Before you could even catch your breath he was turning you, lifting you onto the counter like you weighed nothing, knocking a clean plate into the sink with a clatter. 

Your dress was bunched around your waist, panties still around one ankle, and he stepped between your spread thighs like he belonged there. He gently tugged the strapless dress below your breasts, cooing softly at how your nipples hardened when they touched the cool air.

You tried to hide your face, suddenly shy under the bright kitchen light, under the way he was looking at you hungrily—like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“Don’t hide from me,” he whispered, catching your chin, making you look at him. His eyes were glassy, lips swollen, voice already raspy. “Wanna see those pretty eyes roll back again.”

He pushed back inside in one smooth thrust, and you sobbed, overstimulated, stretched so wide around him it burned in the sweetest way. He stayed deep, grinding in those slow, devastating circles, one hand on your lower belly again so you could both feel the way he moved inside you.

He rolled his hips in slow, searching circles, the thick head of his cock prodding gently at your insides as he tried to find that little spot. The one that always made you fall apart. He adjusted the angle with each careful roll, hips moving with focused intent until—oh, he found it. The second he did, your whole body jolted, a broken sound slipping from your lips, and he locked right there, grinding against it with every pass like he was trying to etch it into your memory.

Your third orgasm built slower, your whole body trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks from how good it was, how much it was. You couldn’t even form words anymore—just incoherent little sounds, stuttering attempts at his name.

As he rolled his hips in those deep, filthy grinds, your voice came out small and shaky between gasps. “I love the sound of your voice… when you talk to me like that. God, Michael, it does something to me…”

He continued to roll his hips slowly, eyes darkening with fresh heat, a slow, wicked little smile tugged at his swollen lips at your admission. Music to his hears after being ignored for two days.

“Yeah?” he murmured, voice dropping even lower, rougher, the way he knew drove you crazy. “Then be a good girl… touch yourself for me and I’ll keep talking for you.” The words landed softly, touching something hot and sensitive deep in your core.

He would say whatever you wanted him to, hell he’d sing every word, if it meant you’d finally speak to him. And you did. You chanted his name like a prayer.

Your hand slipped down between your bodies without hesitation, fingers finding your swollen clit while he stayed buried deep, grinding in those slow, perfect circles that made your toes curl. He didn’t stop talking, he kept that low, raspy praise pouring right into your ear like he promised.

“That’s it, mama… rub that pretty clit for me while I’m deep inside you. Fuck, you feel so good squeezin’ me like that. My good girl. My perfect girl...Look at you, touchin’ yourself just ‘cause I told you to… so fuckin’ pretty when you fall apart for me. I could stay right here all night, just grindin’ in this sweet pussy, listenin’ to every little sound you make…”

Your fingers moved faster, the combination of his voice and the thick drag of his cock against your g-spot pushing you right to the edge again. Your thighs shook around his hips, free hand clutching his shoulder like a lifeline.

Michael’s own control was slipping. His hips stuttering every few rolls, breath coming in broken little groans against your neck, but he kept talking, kept praising, voice cracking with how good it felt for him too.

“Come on, baby… let me feel you. One more time, please? I got you. Always got you. That’s my girl…” When it hit, it wrecked you completely.

Your eyes rolled back hard, mouth falling open on a silent scream as your pussy fluttered helplessly, clenching down around him as you gushed again, soaking his cock, his thighs, the front of the counter. Michael grunted with approval. Your whole body shook like you were coming apart at the seams, fingers still working your clit through every pulse while he held you through it, whispering the whole time.

Michael followed you over with a low, guttural moan—hips stuttering and his cock jerking deep inside you as he came hard, flooding your walls with rope after rope of warm cum. The excess leaked and smeared around him with every trembling thrust. His voice cracked on your name and his face was buried in your neck. Arms locked around you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

He didn’t pull out. Just stayed buried to the hilt, rocking in these tiny, overstimulated grinds while both of you trembled through the aftershocks. His breath was hot and ragged against your skin. Yours was worse, little hiccuping gasps, tears still sliding down your cheeks, drool on your chin.

“Shhh,” he whispered eventually, voice hoarse, kissing your jaw, your temple, the corner of your mouth. “I got you, baby. Breathe for me. That’s it… my good girl. My everything.”

His hands moved slow and careful, rubbing your lower back in those deep, soothing circles you loved, thumbs pressing into the sore muscles from being bent over. He nuzzled into your neck, breathing you in like he needed it to live.

“I love you,” he murmured, over and over, like a prayer. “Love you so much it hurts sometimes. You don’t even know what you do to me… how you make all the noise in my head go quiet.”

You were boneless in his arms, still twitching around him, still full of him. He stayed inside you until the trembling eased, until your breathing slowed, until the only sounds left were the low music and the occasional drip from the faucet.

Then he finally pulled out, gentle, careful, watching with dark, tender eyes as his cum spilled out of you in thick, messy rivulets down your thighs and onto the counter. He felt his cock twitch at the sight, already ready to have you again.

He grabbed a clean dish towel, wet it with warm water, and cleaned you gently, murmuring soft apologies every time you whimpered from oversensitivity.

When he was done he lifted you off the counter like you were made of glass, guiding you into the living room with his arms wrapped around you, soft kisses pressed to the top of your head. He laid you down on the couch and stripped off what was left of your dress, pulled his own shirt over his head, and climbed behind you, pulling you back against his chest.

One big hand kept rubbing slow circles into your lower back while the other stroked your hair, your arm, anywhere he could reach.

“You okay, mama?” he whispered against your shoulder, voice soft and a little shy now that the storm had passed. “Was I too rough?”

You shook your head, nuzzling back into him, still too fucked-out to speak properly.

He smiled against your skin, pressed a kiss behind your ear.

“Good. ‘Cause I ain’t nowhere near done lovin’ on you tonight. Just… let me hold you for a minute first. Let me take care of my girl.”

And he did. For a long time.

A comfortable silence had settled over you both. Michael held your smaller hand in his, calloused fingers gently pressing into the muscles in your hand.

“So you been talkin’ to Marlon, huh?” he mumbled sleepily, amused.

“No” you said quickly. But Michael felt your body tense. You were never able to lie to him, and he loved it.

“You know… you’re my favorite fish baby.”

He erupted into laughter when you huffed and elbowed him. Unfortunately, you couldn’t help the giggles that slipped past your lips too at the joke.

“I’m kidding baby, only joking. Don’t be mad with me anymore.” His fingers continued to stroke your belly gently.

“You had me out here thinkin’ you’re shopping, and you out here fishing.”

“Baby, never. I wasn’t. I’m yours. All of me.” He murmured against your neck, lips lazily brushing the skin there.

You couldn’t help the cheesy grin that broke through. 

You were sprawled across the bed irritated. You had known his concert would run late this life came with waiting.

Your phone was in your hand as you scrolled with sharp, restless movements, the kind that said everything your silence didn’t.

You heard the keycard slide into the lock. The door opened. Closed. The soft pad of his expensive loafers tapped against the floor.

“Baby?” came his voice, softer than the stage version of him you knew the world worshipped. Tired. Careful. Almost searching.

"I know I'm late. The concert ran over, and then there was the afterparty, and i couldn't get away.”

You looked up from your phone. He was at the edge of the bed already, just standing there like he wasn’t sure if you were going to talk to him or ignore him.

“I don’t care about the afterparty, Michael,” you said, meeting him at the edge of the bed.

He sighed, long and deep. "Don't do this. Not tonight. I've had a long day. The crowd was insane, and I gave everything I had on that stage, and all I could think about was getting back to you."

You looked up at him, letting him see the frustration in your eyes.

“I’ve been in this suite for hours. I chose not to go to the show tonight. I watched you perform live from here, and then I just… waited. I’ve reorganized the minibar, counted bathroom tiles, watched like three soap operas I don’t even understand.”

He stood there in a all black tailored jacket, fitted shirt underneath slim trousers that clung to him so well.

He looked so good in black too good, honestly.

"I'm here now," he said softly.

"Are you?" You sat up, tossing your phone aside. "Because it feels like I'm dating a ghost. A very busy ghost who forgets I exist”

His jaw tightened, a flicker of frustration in his face before it softened. “You know that’s not true. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I wasn’t here.”

“Then why does it feel like that every time?” Your voice came out quieter now, less angry and more tired. “I know you don’t mean it, Michael… but I’m still the one sitting here feeling it.”

His eyes met yours again, softer now. “It gets chaotic out there and I come off stage and it’s just… people pulling me in every direction. Interviews, crew, everyone needing something from me.” He shook his head slightly. “And then I get back here and I realize I didn’t even check in with you properly.”

He ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. “I’m not trying to make you feel like that.” A pause. “I swear I’m not.”

"Then prove it." You said smirking.

He took a step closer then another, not breaking eye contact.

"You want me to prove it?" His voice dropped, losing that soft edge and gaining something darker. "Is that what this is about?."

That was exactly what you wanted. You were angry with him, but underneath it all, the need was there.

It had been a while since you two had sex his busy schedule had kept him away from you.

“Well-”

"Don't." He held up a hand, and your mouth snapped shut. "Don't lie to me sweetheart . I know you. I know that look in your eyes. That challenge. Like you're daring me to do something about it."

You met his gaze, refusing to back down. "Well maybe i do want you to do something about it."

He was standing too close. Looking too good. Smelling like that familiar cologne that made your focus slip.

“Mm.”

“Talk to me. Tell me what you need right now.”

A small breath left you. “You,” you said quietly. “I need you. Right now.”

A long pause and then, slowly, he reached up and unbuttoned his jacket.

He shrugged it off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor without looking at it.

Then he tugged his shirt over his head.

You couldn't help but let your eyes trail over his lean torso, the smooth skin, the subtle definition of muscles built by years of dancing.

He took your face in his hands, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones.

"Baby," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Look at me please."

You did. Oh, you always did. Those eyes of his pulled you in like gravity.

"I know I'm gone too much. I know it's hard. Harder than you thought it would be when you signed up for this." His thumb brushed your lower lip. "But I need you to understand something. When I'm out there, in those lights... a part of me is always here. With you. You're the only real thing in my life, do you understand?"

"Yes but why do I feel so invisible?" The words came out cracked, vulnerable.

"Because I'm an idiot." He smiled his smile was so pretty. "Because I get so caught up in trying to be perfect for everyone else that I forget to be perfect for the one person who actually matters."

He leaned in and kissed you your hands came up to grip his shoulders, as the kiss deepened instantly, turning messy and heated. His mouth moving against yours with desperation.

“Fuck…” he muttered when he finally pulled back for air, eyes dropping to your lips he was addicted to your lips.

“Your mouth is so sweet.”

He kissed you again his tongue sliding against yours, slower this time, savoring it, and the soft sound that escaped your throat only seemed to make him melt further into you. One of his hands tightened at your waist while the other moved up your neck, holding you close like he couldn’t get enough.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he whispered against your mouth.

“How?” you asked softly, tilting your head just enough to look up at him through your lashes like you didn’t already know exactly what that tone in his voice meant.

His fingers slid slowly along your waist beneath the thin fabric of your nightgown. "I’m about to show you."

He undressed you slowly each piece like he was unwrapping a gift he'd been waiting years to open. When you were bare beneath him, your skin prickling in the cool hotel air, he just looked at you. His gaze traveled over every curve, every dip, every shadow.

"God, you're beautiful," he breathed. "Do you know that? Do you know how many nights I've thought about this? About you? When I'm out there, dancing, singing, giving myself to thousands of people... all I can think about is coming back here and being inside you."

He pressed you back against the pillows, his body covering yours. He kissed down your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. His tongue circled your nipple, and you arched into him, your fingers tangling in his hair.

"You like that?" he murmured against your skin.

"You know I do."

"I want to hear you say it."

His mouth moved lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, your hips. Your breath hitched as he headed further down your body.

"Baby?"

"Hmm?" He looked up at you, his lips inches from where you wanted him most. His nose traced along your inner thigh, and you felt his breath hot against your core. "Something you want to say?"

"Stop teasing."

He laughed, low and dark. "Always demanding." His hands pressed your thighs apart, spreading you open to his gaze you were so wet.

"But I know how to shut you up, don't I?"

He lowered his head.

The first touch of his tongue against your clit was electric. You gasped, your hips bucking, but his big hands held you in place. He licked you slowly like he was savoring you. Like you were a delicacy he'd been denied for too long.

"Oh, fuck..."

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Your fingers grabbed the sheets your thoughts scattered as heat blurred everything you were trying to stay mad about.

He hummed against you, the vibration alone sending a ripple straight through your whole body.

His tongue circled your clit dipping lower against your entrance. He fucked you with his tongue, and you clutched the sheets even tighter, your mind going blank.

“That’s it,” he said, pulling back just enough to speak. “There she is.”

“Couldn’t wait to get back here and put my mouth on you."

"Oh, please"

“Please, what?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

“Please don’t stop,” you said, barely above a whisper.

He didn't his tongue worked you with skill that made your toes curl and your eyes roll. He found every sensitive spot, every place that made you gasp and moan. His fingers joined the party, sliding inside you, curling in that perfect come here motion that hit your g-spot dead on.

"You're so wet for me," he said, his voice muffled against your flesh. "So perfect. All mine. I can just taste how much you need me."

"Yes, yes, all yours-"

"Who do you belong to?" He looked up at you, his chin glistening, his eyes dark with hunger.

"You. Only you, Michael. I promise."

"That's right." He went back to work, his tongue lapping at your clit while his fingers pumped inside you.

The pressure was building, coiling in your belly like a spring being wound tighter and tighter. Your hips moved against his face, chasing the pleasure, and he let you. He let you ride his mouth, his tongue, his fingers.

"Come for me sweet girl," he coaxed. "Please, baby, wanna taste it." He begged.

That was all it took. The wave crashed over you, and you screamed his name, your body convulsing as pleasure ripped through you. He didn't stop, lapping up every drop, drawing out your orgasm until you were a trembling, gasping mess. He groaned against you as you came, like he was drinking in your pleasure, needing it as much as you needed to give it.

He crawled up your body, kissing your stomach, your breasts, your neck, until he was hovering above you. You could taste yourself on his lips when he kissed you.

"See?" he whispered. “That's what you've been missing. I'm going to remind you, over and over, just how much you mean to me.”

He reached down, and you heard the sexy rustle of his belt, the zip of his pants.

"I've been thinking about being inside you all night. Every dance move. Every moment I was on that stage, I was imagining this."

He kicked his pants off, and you felt his cock, hard and thick, pressing against your thigh.

"And now I'm going to fuck you until there's nothing in your head but me."

"Promises, promises." You teased.

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just a raw, predatory intent. "Still smart-mouthing? Don't worry. I know exactly how to fix that."

He lined himself up at your entrance, the tip pressing against you, but he didn’t move. He just held there, teasing you with what was coming next.

"Keep your eyes on me."

You did.

"I love you," he said. "I know I don't say it enough. I know I don't show it enough. But I love you. And I'm going to spend the rest of this night proving it. I need you to understand that every time I'm out there you're all I can think about."

He pushed in slowly inch by inch. You felt yourself stretching around him, accommodating to his size. He filled you completely, deeper than you thought possible, and when he was fully sheathed inside you, he paused.

His gaze dropped to where your bodies were joined a low breath leaving him.

“Oh, what a sight…” he said his hands tightening against your waist.

“Nothing between us. I need this. I need you.”

"Oh fuck..it feels so good."

"Tell me you love me."

"I love you."

"Again."

"I love you, Michael. I love you."

He began to move. Slow, deep strokes that hit places you didn't know existed. His hips rolled against yours, and the sound of skin slapping skin filled the room. He wasn't fucking you fast or hard. Not yet. He was making love to you, taking his time, worshipping you with every thrust.

"You feel so good," he breathed against your ear. "Taking me so well. So perfect. This pussy was made for me, wasn't it? Tell me it's mine."

"All mine. Come on say it."

"Yes, yes, it's yours-"

"It's all yours. Every part of me."

He kissed you, deep and demanding, his tongue fucking your mouth in time with his cock fucking your cunt. His hand found your clit, rubbing in circles, and you felt that coil tightening again.

"Already?" He smiled against your lips. "You're so sensitive tonight. Or did you miss me that much?"

"Shut up and fuck me."

"There she is." He laughed, but it turned into a groan as he picked up the pace. "There's my bratty girl. Always gotta have the last word, don't you?"

"Make me shut up then if you don’t like it.”

His eyes flashed. He pulled out, and before you could protest, he grabbed your legs and pushed them up, hooking your ankles over his shoulders. The position opened you up completely, and when he slammed back into you, he went deeper than ever before.

“I.. you’re so deep.” you mumbled not even able to finished what you were going to say fully.

"That's what I thought." He braced his hands on either side of your head, caging you in with his body. His face was inches from yours, his breath hot on your lips. "You wanted my attention? You've got it. All of it every drop i'm right here, baby. I'm not going anywhere.

The new angle was hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars. Your fingers clawed at his back, your moans turning into incoherent babbles. His skin was slick with sweat, the vitiligo patterns on his back glistened under the light.

“You drive me insane,” he grunted.

“Being so good for me now, after how angry you were minutes ago.”

“I was-I am-“

"I know." He leaned down, his forehead pressing against yours, his hips never stopping their relentless rhythm. "And I deserve it. I deserve every bit of your anger. But right now, I just want to make you feel good i need to feel your body come apart around me."

"Michael..." you babbled that was all you could say.

"Give in to me. I've got you. I'm not going anywhere. I love you so much it scares me sometimes."

He kissed you, sloppy and desperate, his tongue sliding against yours. His hand found yours, interlocking your fingers, pressing your palm into the mattress beside your head. He held your hand tight, like he was afraid you might disappear.

"I need you," he whispered against your lips. "I need you so bad sweet thing. You don't even know. When I'm out there, when the lights are blinding me and the crowd is screaming, I close my eyes and I see your face. That's what gets me through. That's what keeps me going."

His thrusts grew more urgent, even more desperate. "I can't do this without you. I don't want to do this without you. You're everything to me."

His other hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit again. He rubbed you in frantic circles, matching the pace of his hips.

"Come for me," he commanded, but his voice was raw, pleading. "Please, baby."

Your orgasm ripped through you, so intense that you saw white. You screamed his name, your body convulsing, your inner walls clenching around him like a fist. He kept his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes locked on yours, watching you fall apart.

"That's it," he breathed. "That's my princess. I love you. I love you so much."

He didn't stop though. He kept fucking you through it, riding out every wave, every pulse. And then you felt him stiffen, heard his guttural groan as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, filling you up completely. His body shuddered above you, his grip on your hand tightening almost painfully as he rode out his orgasm.

"I love you," he gasped, the words falling from his lips like a prayer. "I love you, I love you, I love you." He didn’t care how many times he had to say it.

He collapsed on top of you his cock twitching inside you as he rode out the last of his orgasm. For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Finally, he shifted, pulling out slowly. But he didn't move away. He stayed close, his body still covering yours, his face buried in your neck.

"I'm sorry," he whispered against your skin. "I'm sorry I make you feel like you don't matter. I'm sorry I'm always gone. I'm sorry I'm not here when you need me."

“Michael, you-” your voice caught, breath uneven. “I’m sorry… I should’ve just-”

You looked away for half a second, guilt finally breaking through the frustration you’d been holding onto all night.

"No, let me say this." He lifted his head, and his eyes were wet. "I know I'm not easy to love. I know I'm complicated. I know I have all these walls and all these fears. But you... you break through all of them. You make me feel like I can be normal. Like I can just be a man in love with a woman."

“I know you’re tired,” you whispered. “I know you’ve been working nonstop and I just… I miss you so much sometimes it makes me angry.”

“Babygirl…” he breathed, forehead resting against yours. “You never have to apologize for wanting me.”

"Angelface." You said reaching up, cupping his face in your hands. "I'm not going anywhere. I love you. All of you. Every part of you."

"You mean that?"

"I mean it."

He kissed you, soft and sweet this time. Gentle. A promise.

"Let me show you again," he whispered.

"Ride me," he breathed. "I want to watch you.“

He shifted, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him until you were straddling his hips. His hands found your waist, guiding you as you sank down onto him, taking him deep inside you.

You moved on top of him, finding your rhythm. His hands slid up your thighs, your hips, your stomach, finally cupping your breasts. His thumbs circled your nipples, and you moaned, throwing your head back.

"You're so beautiful," he said, his voice full of awe. "How did I get so lucky? How did I find someone like you?"

“You’re so sweet” you muttered softly, almost shy now as if you weren’t currently riding him.

"I mean it." His hips bucked up into you, meeting your movements. "I don't deserve you. But I'm too selfish to let you go."

“You’re not selfish,” you murmured weakly, the words breaking apart as moans slipped from the both of you.

"I am. When it comes to you.”

He sat up, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. The position changed the angle, and you gasped as he hit that spot again. He held you tight, his face buried in your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

"I need you so much it hurts.“

"Tell me you're mine again."

"I'm yours. All yours Michael."

He kissed your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder. His hands gripped your hips, guiding your movements, setting the pace.

"Come for me again," he begged. "Please.”

You were close. So close. The pressure was building, coiling tight in your belly. He reached between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles.

"That's it," he coaxed. "I've got you. I'll always have you."

You came with a cry, your body shuddering against his. He held you through it, his arms wrapped tight around you, his lips pressed to your skin.

He came too, his body tensing beneath you, his groan muffled against your neck. You felt him spill inside you again the sensation sent another wave of pleasure through your oversensitive body.

You stayed like that for a long moment, tangled together, breathing together. Finally, he pulled back, looking at you with those, beautiful eyes.

"You tired yet," he said.

"Never."

"Good."

He kissed the tip of your nose. "I'm going to spend the whole night showing you how much I love you. Every hour. Every minute.”

When you woke up the suite was quiet sunlight spilled through the curtains in soft streaks, warming the sheets tangled around your legs.

At some point during the night, you must’ve drifted off completely. You didn’t even remember when.

“Morning,” Michael murmured against your skin, his voice rough with sleep.

One of his arms tightened around your waist instinctively, pulling you a little closer against him beneath the sheets.

His hand slid down your side, over your hip, settling on your thigh.

"I love you," he said again, like he couldn't say it enough. Like he needed to fill every silence with those three words.

“And i love you more.”

"I don't deserve you," he whispered.

"Stop saying that."

"It's true."

“That’s not true.”

He kissed you softly. "I'm just not used to it. Not used to someone wanting me for me."

"I want you for you. Just you."

He held you close, his body pressed against yours, his heart beating against your chest.

The laughter downstairs carried through the walls anyway. Someone had started another round of "Happy Birthday," though half the kids had already abandoned the song in favor of yelling over each other.

The music from downstairs dulled instantly. Michael didn't even look at you. Instead, he crossed his arms and stared out the window like he'd been personally wronged by the sun. You sighed. "Really?" still no answer. "Michael." Still nothing. "Oh, so we're doing the silent treatment now?"

"I have nothin' to say." You blinked. "Then why did you drag me in here?" His jaw flexed. "I didn't drag you."

"You literally grabbed my wrist."

"I guided you." You laughed once. "You're so unbelievable."

"So are you."

"What does that mean?" He finally turned. "What does it mean?" He gestured toward you. "You're wearing that."

You looked down at your dress. The black one.

The one that hugged your waist just right, dipped a little lower in the back, and had earned the nickname 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙠𝙞𝙨𝙨 𝙢𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨 years ago, because every single time you wore it, Michael couldn't keep his hands off you.

Back when he was your husband. "It's a dress, Michael..get over it."

"It is not just a dress."

"It absolutely is." He scoffed. "You know exactly what dress that is."

"Oh god."

"You wore it on our anniversary in Paris. You wore it when we renewed our vows, goodness.. you wore it when i couldn't stop makin' love to you."

"That was eleven years ago." His face twisted. "You don't have to remind me miss." Your lips pressed together. "You don't get to tell me what I wear anymore."

"I know."

"But you're acting like you do."

"I know."

"So what's the problem?" He looked away. His voice came out quieter. "I don't like other men looking at you."

Your face slightly softens. "...Michael." He looks up. "I don't."

"You lost that privilege." You said with no empathy. "I know." He laughed bitterly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Believe me, I'm painfully aware." The tension softened.

You hated when his voice did that. That tiny crack. That little glimpse of the man you'd built fifteen years of your life with. "You looked..." He searched for the words. "Beautiful."

Your heart jumped. "I couldn't stop noticing." His gaze dipped "You weren't supposed to." You tease.

"And every man downstairs was looking at you." You folded your arms. "Were they?" He shot you a look. "Don't do that." A smile tugged at your lips. "Are you jealous?"

"No." He said fast. "look at me...michael." and he did. "I'm irritated." You roll your eyes. "That's jealousy."

"It's different."

"It really isn't." He groaned dramatically, dropping into your brother's desk chair. "I hate this."

"What?"

"Being divorced." Your smile faded. "I hate that I can't walk over and put my hand on your waist." He looked at the floor. "I hate that I have to pretend it doesn't bother me." Another beat of silence. Then, from the hallway— "uncle applehead?"

Both your heads snapped toward the door.Your brother's oldest son. Cameron, muffled voice came through.

"Auntie (name)? Uncle bryan said we're taking a family picture." You and Michael exchanged a look.

He stood, straightening his jacket. "You still drive me crazy," he muttered.You smirked. "Oh, I know."

"...You wore that dress on purpose." you bite your lips. "I did." His eyes widened. "You are evil." You grinned all the way out the door. "And yet..." You glanced over your shoulder. "...you married me."

He couldn't even argue. He just shook his head with the tiniest, most lovesick smile. "Cameron..tell uncle bryan we're a little busy 'kay?"

ᯓᡣ𐭩.ᐟ ⊹

he murmured, his hand brushing your cheek. "Let Daddy take care of his girl, hm?" His words made your heart skip and your thighs clench around him as he lined himself up with you.

The first slow push had you gasping. He was still stretching you inch by inch after all this years, your nails pressing into his back as he moved carefully.

"O-oh sooo good," he groaned, burying his face in your neck. "Still so tight—So warm, baby.." Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut as your body adjusted to the feeling of him...so big, filling you so deeply you couldn’t think.

"You’re doing so good, sweetheart," he whispered, kissing your shoulder as he bottomed out. He stayed still for a second, letting you breathe, his hand still holding your waist, his touch grounding. Then slowly, he began to move. Your moans were soft at first, breathy and needy, hands gripping onto his back like it was the only thing grounding you.

But then he started to go deeper. His hips snapped forward harder, more purposeful, and your sounds shifted, whimpers, then moans, broken and high-pitched.

He groaned low in your ear, his pace steady but rough, his large hands locked tight around your waist. "Y-you feel that, mama?" he rasped, eyes dropping down between your bodies.

You blinked through the pleasure, dazed and flushed, until you followed his gaze, and your breath hitched. There. A faint bump rising under the skin of your stomach every time he drove into you.

"Look at that," he muttered, voice full of awe. "You feel me here, huh, sweetheart?" Your lips parted, no words coming, just a shaky moan as he flattened his palm over the bulge. You trembled under him as he pressed down, and your body clenched tight around him.

"Shit," he hissed, "You’re so Beautiful, mama. Can y'feel every inch of me?" You nodded frantically, tears almost pricking your eyes from how full you were, from how deep he was.

"C-can’t believe I’m this d-deep in you," he growled, thrusting up again, and again, letting his hand stay firm on your stomach while your fingers gripped the sheets. "Taking it so well f’me. My perfect girl." Michael's hotel room was filled with the sound of skin against skin, the wetness between you obscene and constant, your voice breaking into gasps as he kept pounding into you.

You moaned louder and louder, he brought his hand down between your legs, fingers finding your clit with ease.

He started circling, slow and firm, and it was like your entire body shutdown. "C’mon, let go f’me," he murmured, lips grazing your temple. "My pretty lady." It only took a few more strokes of his fingers, perfectly timed with the deep thrusts of his hips, and your body tensed underneath him.

a loud moan broke from your throat as you came hard, everything pulsing, your walls fluttering around him, your thighs shaking uncontrollably.

He groaned at the feel of it, hips stuttering slightly, hands tightening around your waist to steady you through it. You barely had a moment to breathe before he pulled out and flipped you onto your stomach.

still trembling from your orgasm, you blinked up at him over your shoulder, dazed. He was already stroking himself at the sight of you like this. Face down, ass up, skin flushed and glistening. He leaned over and kissed the base of your spine, both hands caressing your ass as he lined himself back up. "Y-you can give me one more for Daddy, yeah?"

You were already nodding, dazed and needy. His large palms smoothed over the curve of your ass before he gave a sharp, affectionate squeeze.

You whimpered into the pillow when he slipped back inside, deeper now somehow, your body so sensitive. He bent forward over your back, mouth brushing your shoulder. "You’re so good to me..mmh.." he praised, hips rolling into you harder.

"I miss you mama,.. i dont deserve you." Your fingers clawed at the pillows as your body rocked with his rhythm, a fresh wave of pleasure building fast, hotter, messier.

He slid a hand around your waist, fingertips finding your clit again, rubbing soft circles that made your legs tremble. "mmhhm!!—mikey!" you whimpered, body arching as his hand kept moving so deliciously. "Close, sweetheart?" murmured in your ear, his voice hoarse, strained. "shit, m-me too…" you nodded frantically, barely able to form words. "Y's-so big.. i missed you daddy—M’so close!"

"I’m gonna make you a mommy," he whispered, voice gravelly in your ear. "Fill you up just right—watch you carry my baby, yeah?" Your whole body jolted at his words, the sound of them shooting straight to your core.

You nodded uncontrollably, thighs clenching, the pleasure unbearable now, building fast and out of control. "Daddy—m’gonna—ahh!" you moaned, voice breaking into a high-pitched moan as the wave finally hit you.

Your body shook violently, hips jerking, and then it happened, your climax crashing over you so hard, you couldn’t stop the gush that followed, soaking everything beneath you. "yesss atta girl, so good mama," he hissed, watching it happen under him.

The sight alone was enough. His thrusts faltered and his grip on your waist tightened almost bruisingly. "s-shitttt, I’m gonna cum—shit—" With a final, deep groan and whimper, he buried himself to the hilt and came inside you, cock pulsing as he spilled every last drop into your still twitching cunt.

He flipped you over, and shoved his mouth onto yours, kissing you hungrily, his hand cupping your jaw. You both lay there for a long moment, chests rising and falling in sync, the quiet only broken by your mingled breaths.

His forehead rested against yours, eyes half lidded and soft as he murmured, "I missed you so damn much baby..divorce sucks, I’ll buy you the pill in the morning, okay?" you smiled sleepily, brushing your fingers gently over his cheek. "I missed you more angel, its okay." you whispered, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips.

A few minutes passed, and then Michael shifted, letting out a long exhale before resting his head against your bare chest, his arms lazily wrapping around your waist like he never wanted to let go. You threaded your fingers through his hair without thinking, letting your nails lightly scrape over his scalp in slow, soothing motions. He let out a quiet hum, almost like a purr, before speaking—voice lower than before, like a secret he hadn’t meant to say aloud. "Would you like to get on tour with me again, love? i miss you so bad."

© KAIOMII. ‎‎‎ ❤︎ all rights reserved. all works are a work of fiction. do not copy.