Pure Escapism

The heavy bassline of “Another Part of Me” echoed off the high, mirrored walls of the rehearsal studio, vibrating through the polished hardwood floors. Sunlight filtered through the dusty top windows of the Los Angeles facility, cutting through the haze of heat, sweat, and electricity. 

Michael stood at the center of the floor, the focal point of a dozen dancers moving in precise, razor-sharp synchronization. He was stripped down to a black top, broad shoulders tight, black leather pants clinging to his frame, and his signature fedora tilted low over his dark, glossy curls. His eyes were locked onto the mirror, watching every line, every pop, fixing every fraction of an inch.

Until the heavy double doors at the back of the room clicked open.

He didn’t stop moving—his instincts wouldn’t let him—but his eyes flicked to the reflection in the glass.

Walking in with that effortless, quiet regal grace was you.

You were taking a three-day breather from your own sold-out arena tour, keeping things low-key. But low-key for a woman carrying a voice like yours–and a face that had graced every major magazine cover from Coast to Coast was impossible. You had your hair done up in those high-volume, soft ‘80s curls that brushed against your shoulders, skin rich and luminous under the warm studio lights.

And then Michael caught what you were wearing.

It was an official Bad tour shirt—except you had altered it. The collar was cut wide, slanting off one golden-brown shoulder to expose smooth skin and a hint of a delicate strap. The hem was cropped just high enough to reveal a sliver of your midriff every time you breathed, paired with tight, high-waisted dark denim that hugged every single curve of your hips. Across the lush swell of your chest, his own eyes stared back at him in bold red and white paint.

Michael missed the beat.

He didn’t just miss it; his foot caught on the turn, and he stopped dead in his tracks. The band behind the partition stumbled, the brass section trailing off into an awkward, dying whine. The dancers behind him practically ran into his back, panting and catching their breath.

“Hold up, hold up,” Greg Phillinganes called out from behind the keys, laughing a little. “Mike, what happened to the bridge, man?”

Michael didn’t hear Greg. He didn’t hear the dancers groaning in relief as they dropped to take a water break. He just stood there, chest heaving, his doe eyes wide and fixed on you as you casually leaned against the soundboard in the back, holding an iced tea, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across your glossy, painted lips. 

He pushed his curls back on his head, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple with the back of his arm.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured under his breath, though his voice carried across the quiet room, soft and slightly raspy from singing. “You know that? Total trouble.”

You crossed your legs, swaying your hips just a little as you walked toward the middle of the floor, your heels clicking against the wood. "I just came to see if the star of the hour was keeping up with his homework," you said, your voice smooth, melodic, carrying that distinct, rich Jersey-shaded warmth. "Didn't mean to break your concentration, Applehead."

Michael reached out before you were even in full arm's length, his hand wrapping tightly around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest. The sudden heat of him—the smell of sweet sweat, expensive cologne, and hair pomade—engulfed you instantly.

“Look at you,” he whispered, his eyes dropping down to the front of the shirt. His big, slender hand flattened right over the center of the cotton, his fingers spreading over your breasts, feeling that fast beat of your heart underneath. His thumb rubbed a small, possessive circle over the fabric. “Where’d you get this?”

“Bought it at your show in New York,” you purred, tilting your chin up, looking at him through long eyelashes. “Thought I’d wear it so everybody knows who I’m rootin’ for.”

Michael’s jaw set slightly, that deep, intense Bad era edge flicking behind his eyes. He hated being teased in public, but he loved you teasing him even more. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath hot against your neck.

“You look s’good,” he muttered, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly register reserved only for you. “You look so nasty in my clothes, girl. Drive me crazy.”

He nipped gently at your earlobe, and you let out a soft, breathy gasp, your fingers instinctively curling into the leather at his waist. 

“Michael,” you whispered, trying to keep a straight face as a few dancers giggled nearby. “You’ve got a rehearsal to finish.”

“I don’t care,” he murmured, his hand sliding down from your waist, dipping lower to cup the swell of your hip, pressing you firmly into the front of his thighs. You could feel how hard and rigid he was already getting, right through the heavy black leather. "I can't think. Look at you. How am I supposed to dance when you're standing there looking like a doggone miracle?"

"Try," you teased, placing your palm flat against his bare chest, pushing him back half an inch. "Give the people what they paid for, Jackson. I'll be right back here waitin’."

Michael bit his bottom lip, his dark eyes flashing with a mix of frustration and pure, molten desire. "Ten minutes," he told you, squeezing your hip one last time before letting go. "Give me ten minutes, and we're out of here."

He turned back to the band, his voice suddenly sharp, commanding, and filled with a fresh, restless energy. "From the top of 'Smooth Criminal'! Let's go! Fast tempo!"

For the next ten minutes, Michael didn't just dance; he performed like a man possessed. Every kick was higher, every spin faster, his eyes never leaving yours in the mirror. He was marking his territory from across the room, letting you know exactly what was coming the second those studio doors closed behind you.

The windows of the white ‘88 Lincoln town car blocked out the fading sunset lights of the Sunset Strip. The second the heavy door clicked shut, Michael’s hands were on you. 

"Mike—" you started, a light laugh bubbling up in your throat.

He cut you off, his mouth swooping down to cover yours in a deep, hungry kiss. There was nothing patient about it. He took your bottom lip between his, sucking softly before his tongue tangled with yours, tasting like sweet mint and heat. One of his broad hands cupped the back of your head, tangling into your dark, soft curls, while his other hand slithered up under the cropped hem of the Bad shirt, his bare palm hot against your smooth stomach.

“Mmm, missed you,” he growled against your lips, pulling back just an inch, his dark eyes pitch-black in the dim interior of the car. “Missed you s’bad.”

“I can tell,” you breathed, resting your forehead against his, your chest heaving. Your hand slipped up his arm, feeling the tense, sculpted muscle under his damp skin. “You almost killed your horn section back there.”

“They’ll survive,” he muttered, his lips tracing down your jawline, dropping sweet, wet kisses down the length of your exposed throat. “You shouldn’t have worn this shirt. You knew what it would do t’me.”

“I wanted you to look at me,” you admitted softly, arching your neck as his mouth hit the sensitive spot right where your shoulder met your neck.

“I’m always lookin’ at you,” he whispered, his thumb lightly stroking the side of your breast through the thin lace of your bra. “Can’t look at nobody else.”

By the time the car pulled into the private underground garage of the hotel, Michael was practically vibrating with nervous, passionate energy. He kept one hand firmly locked in yours as you rode the private elevator up to the penthouse suite, his thumb constantly moving over your knuckles, his gaze heavy and unblinking.

The second the suite door closed behind you, the silence of the top floor wrapped around you both like velvet.

Michael didn't bother turning on the main lights. The orange-pink glow of the Los Angeles twilight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the vast suite in warm, amber shadows. He tossed his key card onto the entryway table and pulled you back into his arms, backing you up until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the oversized king bed.

“Look at my girl,” he whispered, his hands cradling your face. His thumbs caressed your cheekbones, admiring the rich tone of your skin in the sunset light. “s’beautiful. My queen.”

“Mikey…” you murmured, your hands sliding up the cool leather of his jacket, slowly pushing it off his broad shoulders until it dropped to the heavy carpet with a soft thud.

He helped you, slipping his arms out of the sleeve, leaving him in just the black shirt that clung to his sculpted chest. He reached down, grabbing the broad hem of your altered Bad tour tee.

“This gotta come off,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, rich and thick with intent. “I wanna see what’s mine.”

You raised your arms, letting him slowly lift the shirt over your head. He threw it somewhere behind him, his eyes dropping down to take you in. You were left in a simple, delicate black lace bra that contrasted gorgeously against your smooth skin. Michael let out a quiet, shaken breath, his hands trembling slightly as he reached out, his knuckles lightly grazing the swell of your breasts.

"God," he whispered, a pure, stunned smile breaking through his intense expression. "You're so fine. It ain't even fair."

"Come here," you whispered, reaching out to pull his head down to yours.

This time, the kiss was soft, sweet, dripping with deep affection. Michael groaned into your mouth, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist, bringing you down onto the plush mattress with him. He hovered over you, supporting his weight on his forearms, his dark curls falling forward to frame his face, brushing against your cheeks. 

He began to worship you slowly, taking his time now that he had you completely to himself. His lips moved down from your mouth to your chin, down the long curve of your throat, his tongue leaving a damp trail over your collarbone. You arched up into his touch, your fingers gripping the muscles of his back through his thin shirt, a low sigh escaping your lips.

“Tell me what you want,” Michael murmured against your skin, his hands moving down to unbutton your heavy denim jeans. “Tell me, baby.”

“I want you, Michael,” you said, your voice thick with rising heat, your fingers tugging at the waist of his dark pants. “No more teasing.”

He chuckled softly, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. “I wasn’t teasin’. I was dyin’.”

He sat back on his heels, efficiently kicking off his loafers and sliding his black pants off, leaving him in just his dark briefs. The sight of him—lean, long-legged, packed with sleek muscle from hours of daily dancing—made your stomach do a delicious flutter. 

He leaned back over you, his long fingers working the front clasp of your bra. With a gentle click, the lace parted, exposing your breasts to the warm room air. Michael gasped softly, his eyes darkening as he looked down at you.

“So pretty,” he breathed. He leaned down, taking one warm, dark nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive areola. 

You gasped aloud, your hands instantly flying to his hair, clutching his soft curls as a sharp jolt of pleasure shot straight to your core. “Oh… God, Mike…”

He suckled you softly, then with a little more rhythm, his hand moving down to slide the denim down your thighs, taking your small silk panties with them until you were completely bare beneath him.

Michael shifted, kneeling between your thighs. His eyes swept over every inch of your body, full of an intense, reverent wonder. He reached down, his slender fingers brushing over the warm, soft skin of your inner thighs, spreading them gently apart.

“Look at you,” he moaned, his breath coming faster now. “You’re so wet f’me already, baby…”

“Because of how you were lookin’ at me in that studio,” you confessed, your voice raspy, a sweet blush rising on your cheeks. “You knew what you were doing.”

“I didn’t know anythin’ except I needed to be inside you,” he said softly.

He reached for the side table, grabbing a small foil packet and slipping a condom on with practiced, trembling quickness. Then he settled back between your legs, the warm tip of his dick pressing against your slick entrance.

Michael paused, hovering just over you, his chest heaving. He looked down into your eyes, his gaze overflowing with an intense, sweet devotion. 

“I love you s’much,” he whispered, his voice trembling slightly. “You know that, right?”

“I know,” you breathed, reaching up to cup his jawline, bringing his mouth down to meet yours. “I love you too, Michael. Please…”

He sank into you in one long, smooth, agonizingly sweet push.

A high, breathless moan tore from your throat, muffled against his lips. You wrapped your legs tightly around his hips, pulling him as deep as he could go. He was large, filling you completely, the heat inside you wrapping around him like silk.

Michael froze for a second, his eyes sliding shut as he let out a harsh, deep gasp, his brow furrowing in pure, unadulterated pleasure. “Oh, girl…” he whimpered softly, his hips shuddering against yours. “You feel… God, you feel s’good. s’tight…”

He began to move, establishing a slow, deep, rhythmic glide that made your heels dig into the small of his back. Every time his hips met yours, the friction sent sparks along your nerve endings. He wasn't rushed anymore; he moved with the precise, rhythmic grace that was built into his very bones, rolling his hips into yours, hitting that sweet spot deep inside you over and over again.

"Mike—oh, yes," you cried out, your hands slick with sweat, holding onto his trembling shoulders.

"Like that?" he gasped out, dropping his head into the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. "You like when I hit it like that, baby?"

"Yes... right there... don't stop..."

He didn’t. He picked up the pace, his thrusts turning faster, harder, driven by the weeks of longing and the visual torture you’d put him through all afternoon. The bedframe groaned softly under the rhythmic weight of your bodies, the skin-on-skin sound echoing in the warm, dim room.

Michael lifted his head, watching the way your body reacted to his, watching your chest heave and your lips part as you lost control. The sight drove him over the edge. He reached down between your bodies, his thumb finding your sensitive, swollen clit, applying a steady pressure right in time with his thrusts.

That was it. The pleasure swelled up like a tidal wave, crashing over you so hard your toes curled and your back arched high off the mattress.

“Michael!” you screamed out, your gummy walls gripping him in tight, rhythmic spasms of pure ecstasy.

Hearing your voice break, feeling your body clench around him, pushed Michael completely over his own limit. He gasped out your name, his body coiling tight before he drove into you one last deep, trembling time, holding himself buried inside you as his own orgasm ripped through him. He groaned loudly, a dark, primal sound, his muscles locking up as he rode out the wave, pouring himself into the barrier between you.

He collapsed forward, catching his weight so he wouldn't crush you, burying his face in your chest as you both panted heavily, your skin slick with sweat, hearts hammering together in a wild, matching rhythm.

For several minutes, neither of you moved. The quiet of the room settled back over you, saved only by the sound of your heavy breathing.

Michael slowly shifted his weight, kissing the valley between your breasts before gently pulling out of you and disposing of the condom. He immediately came right back, pulling the heavy velvet duvet over both of your damp bodies and gathering you up into his arms.

He pulled your head onto his chest, his long fingers threading softly through your curls, untangling them with endless patience.

"You're amazing," he murmured into the top of your head, his voice soft, airy, back to its gentle, everyday cadence. "My sweet baby."

You smiled against his skin, tracing a small circle over his ribcage. "You weren't so bad yourself, Jackson."

Michael chuckled, a light, happy sound that vibrated against your cheek. He reached down to the floor, picking up the crumpled, cut-up Bad shirt he had thrown earlier, tossing it over the nightstand.

"You're wearing that shirt again tomorrow," he whispered teasingly, his mouth pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

"Oh yeah?" you giggled softly, looking up at him. "And what happens to rehearsal tomorrow?"

Michael smiled down at you, his dark eyes filled with warmth and a hint of mischievous light. "We'll just have to cancel it."

© 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐲𝐭𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛𝐱 ; 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒅. 𝒏𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒅𝒖𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒊 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒅.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey maine, how you been?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Watch me.”

𓂃⋆.˚  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He cracked a smile, chuckling slightly at your words.

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

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

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

“Yeah baby i have.” You responded.

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

“Wanna give me one mikey?”

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

“I-i…i wouldn’t know how–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aht aht, i need your words Mikey.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Looks like someone's eager.” You ribbed 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You okay?” His voice low and soft.

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

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

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

𓂃⋆.˚  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ain’t no way.” Marlon’s jaw dropped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

𑣲⋆｡˚

Thank you so much for reading <𝟑 .ᐟ

The air in the hotel suite was filled with a heavy mix of expensive cologne, cigarette smoke, and the feeling of something about to snap. You walked in, sliding your heels off, feeling like you’d hit the jackpot. You’d been seeing Slash on the low for a few weeks, and the thrill of the secret was almost as good as the sex. You knew you were playing with fire—keeping Michael in the dark about the specifics and letting Slash believe you were single was a straight-up violation of the code you and Michael had built. But you figured, man, it ain't that deep, as long as you kept the two worlds separate.

You didn't notice the way the lights were dimmed just a bit too low, or the way the silence felt curated.

"Hey, baby," a low, gravelly voice rasped.

You turned to see Slash leaning against the dresser. Wearing tight black leather pants that hugged his thighs, heavy boots that looked like they could crush a skull, and those wild, curly locks spilling over his shoulders. He wasn't wearing the hat. He never wore the hat when things got physical, and seeing those eyes focused on you made your stomach flip.

"Damn, you look fine as hell," you purred, walking toward him with a sway in your hips. "I been thinkin' 'bout you all day, for real."

As you reached for the buckle of his belt, a light flickered on in the corner of the room. You jumped, your heart hammering against your ribs. Sitting in a velvet armchair, looking poised and heartbreakingly calm, was Michael.

"Hello, darling," Michael said, his voice soft, a sweet gentleman as always, but there was a sharpness in his eyes you’d never seen before.

You froze, your hand still on Slash's leather. "Mike? What... what you doin' here? I thought you were in the studio."

Slash didn't move, but his expression had shifted from lust to something colder. "He's here because we had a little chat, sweetheart. About the husband you forgot to mention."

The blood drained from your face. "I... I can explain."

"Don't bother," Michael said, standing up slowly. He walked toward you, the silk of his top fluttering. He stopped just inches away, the scent of vanilla and luxury enveloping you. "We had a deal. Communication. Honesty. You broke the one rule that kept us safe."

You looked between them, feeling trapped. But as Michael’s hand slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him, the anger in the room shifted into something darker, more primal.

"Since you wanted to play games," Michael whispered against your ear, his breath hot, "I think it's only fair we play them together."

Slash let out a low chuckle, stepping closer, his heavy boots thudding on the carpet. "I don’t mind a crowd if the view is this good."

The betrayal was there, but the arousal was stronger. You were sandwiched between the sexist man you’d ever known and the finest man in the city.

"Y'all really tryin' to punish me?" you breathed, your voice shaking. "Cause if this is the punishment, I might just be a bad girl for life."

Slash didn't waste another second. He grabbed the back of your neck, pulling your head back to crash his lips onto yours. He tasted like nicotine and rebellion, his kiss aggressive and demanding. While he devoured your mouth, Michael’s hands were everywhere—sliding under your clothes, pinching your nipples through your bra, his touch light but possessive.

"You've been a very naughty girl," Michael murmured, his lips grazing your jawline. "Do you know how much it hurts to be lied to?"

"I'm sorry, baby, I'm so sorry," you moaned, arching your back as Michael’s hand slid down to your panties, finding you already soaking wet.

Slash pulled back, his eyes dark. He reached down and ripped your lace panties aside with one violent tug. "I don't care about the drama right now," he growled. "I just want to fuck you."

Slash stepped behind you, his leather pants creaking as he moved. He reached around, his large hand gripping your breast while the other worked his own dick out of his trousers. You felt the heat of him pressing against your backside—thick, hard, and impatient.

At the same time, Michael stepped in front of you. He had shed his clothes, revealing his lean, toned body. He looked like a work of art, but the look in his eyes was pure hunger. He took your hand and guided it down to his own dick, which was pulsing and ready.

"Touch me," Michael commanded softly. "While he takes you."

You wrapped your fingers around Michael's dick, squeezing him tight, while Slash groaned behind you. Without any more warning, Slash gripped your hips and slammed into you from behind.

"Fuck!" you screamed, your head snapping back against Slash's chest. He was huge, filling you completely, the friction of his movement sending sparks through your nerves. "Oh my god, Slash... damn!"

Michael leaned in, capturing your moan with a deep, slow kiss. He tasted like sweetness and longing. As Slash hammered into you, his heavy boots anchoring him to the floor, Michael began to stroke himself, his eyes locked onto yours.

"Look at me," Michael whispered. "I want you to see who you belong to while he's inside you."

"I'm yours... I'm all yours, Mike," you gasped, your voice breaking. "Please... I need you too."

Slash was relentless, his pace increasing, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. He was growling in your ear, his voice a rough sandpaper rasp. "You're so tight... fuck, you're taking it all."

You were caught in a whirlwind of sensation. The contrast was intoxicating—Michael’s gentle, loving gaze and the way he kissed your forehead and cheeks, and Slash’s raw, animalistic power driving into you from behind.

"I can't... I'm gonna..." you sobbed, your muscles tightening around Slash's dick.

"Do it," Michael whispered, his hand moving to your clit, rubbing it in perfect rhythm with Slash's thrusts. "Come for us, baby."

The orgasm hit you like a freight train, your walls clamping down on Slash as you screamed into the quiet of the room. Seconds later, Slash let out a guttural roar, his body shuddering as he pumped his load deep inside you, filling you with a hot, thick rush.

As Slash slumped against you, breathing hard, Michael didn't pull away. He stepped closer, guiding his dick to your mouth. You didn't hesitate, taking him in, sucking him deep, wanting to give him everything you had. You worked him with your tongue and lips, hearing him moan, his fingers tangling in your hair.

When Michael finally came, he groaned your name, his body trembling as he released into your mouth.

For a few minutes, the only sound was the heavy breathing of three people. Slash stepped back, adjusting his leather pants, his expression unreadable. He looked at Michael, then at you.

"I'm out," Slash said simply. "I can't do the 'secret husband' thing. But damn... that was worth the trip."

He turned and walked out of the suite, the heavy thud of his boots fading down the hallway.

The silence that followed was deafening. The erotic haze evaporated, leaving behind the cold reality of what you’d done. Michael stepped back, his expression returning to that of the sweet gentleman, but the warmth was gone.

He walked over to the dresser and picked up a robe, tying it slowly.

"Sit down," he said. It wasn't a request.

You sat on the edge of the bed, shivering, feeling small.

"We had a system," Michael began, his voice steady but laced with pain. "We talked for hours about the boundaries. The one month every three years. The approval. The communication. That wasn't just a set of rules, it was the foundation of our trust."

"Mike, I just... I got caught up in it. I didn't mean to hurt you," you whispered, tears blurring your vision. "I love you. You know I love you."

"Love isn't just a feeling, it's an action," Michael replied, looking at you with a profound sadness. "You chose to lie. You chose to hide the truth from him and from me. You gambled with our relationship for a thrill."

"I know. I messed up. I'm so sorry, baby. Please, just tell me how to fix it."

Michael sighed, rubbing his temples. "We agreed, if a ground rule was broken, especially one involving honesty, the open arrangement ended. Immediately."

Your heart sank. "You mean... no more?"

"No more," Michael said firmly. "I can't trust you with that kind of freedom right now. I love you too much to let you keep lying to me or anyone else. From this moment on, it's just us. No exceptions. No 'open' periods. Just you and me."

You looked up at him, seeing the hurt in his eyes, but also the unwavering love. You knew you deserved this. You had played a dangerous game and lost the one thing that actually mattered.

"I accept that," you said, your voice trembling. "I'll do whatever it takes to earn that trust back. I don't want anyone else but you anyway."

Michael walked over and pulled you into a hug, holding you tight against his chest. He kissed the top of your head, his sweetness returning, though the scar of the lie remained.

"I know you do," he whispered. "But we're going to have to talk. Really talk. No more secrets. No more 'it ain't that deep.' Just the truth."

The heavy bass of the house party thrummed through the soles of your shoes, vibrating up through your knees until your whole chest felt rattled. Neon pink and murky blue lights strobed across the crowded living room, turning the sea of laughing, swaying bodies into a dizzying slideshow.

You leaned your shoulder against the cold plaster wall near the kitchen, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. You hated this.

Every single second of it.

Your dark denim jeans felt a little too tight and the simple black silk camisole—an outfit your best friend, Donna, had practically begged you to wear because it “complemented your rich brown skin so beautifully” and because tonight was supposed to be a “girls’ night out.”

In reality, you were acting as an overpriced human shield and hype-woman.

Donna and Sherry had spent the last three weeks dropping subtle, stinging comments about how you’d “disappeared off the face of the earth.” Ever since Marlon came into your life, your weekends had ceased to belong to anyone else.

You had spent the last two months tucked away in Marlon’s world—in quiet studio sessions where the smell of vinyl and cologne hung thick, on long midnight drives listening to raw master tapes, or wrapped up together in his bed while he rested his head against your shoulder, letting the ruthless pressures of his career melt away.

Marlon possessed a quiet, possessive warmth that pulled you in completely. He was intense, deeply attentive, and fiercely protective of your time together. When you were with him, the rest of the world felt loud and unnecessary.

So, out of a burning sense of guilt—a feeling that you owed your friends a debt of being absent, you agreed to come to this chaotic party in the Hills.

“Girl, stop starin’ into space like you’ve lost your mind,” Donna yelled over the deafening funk synth blasting from the massive cabinet speakers, her eyes glazed over from the punch. “You’ve been glued to that wall for an hour!”

“I told you, Donna, I’m not socializing with people I do not know,” you said, glancing down at your pager on your hip. “I promised I’d stay until eleven. It’s past that.”

“Marlon ain’t gonna die if you spend one night with us,” Sherry chortled, stumbling over with a red plastic cup in hand. “Come on, we’re going to the back room to play cards. Go get a drink!”

“I’m drivin’ us home, so I’m sticking to soda,” you reminded her with a tired smile.

“Fine! Go grab a ginger ale or somethin’. Just stop lookin’ like a wallflower!” Donna waved you off, pulling Sherry away into the crowd.

You squeezed your way into the kitchen, which was an absolute wreck—sticky spills, overturned plastic cups, and a thick haze of smoke hanging near the ceiling. You popped the tab on a cold can of ginger ale, pouring it over ice in a plastic cup.

Your pager buzzed against your belt. You unclipped the small black box, looking at the digital screen.

04-14-3 — Marlon’s private code. 'Where are you?'

A soft smile broke across your face. You walked over to the wall-mounted chorded telephone hanging near the pantry, dialing his home garage.

“Yeah,” Marlon answered on the first ring, his voice smooth and low. “You ready for me to come get you yet?”

“I miss you,” you confessed, leaning your head against the wall. “Donna and Sherry are off playing cards. I just poured a soda, then I’m dragging them to the car.”

“Good,” Marlon said, a low rumble in his throat. “Cause I’m tired of waitin’. Call me the second you get to Donna's”

“I will,” you whispered, hanging up the reciever. You picked up your plastic cup from the counter where you’d left it for ten seconds, taking two long, thirsty gulps of the cold ginger ale to cool your dry throat.

It tasted fine—maybe a little sharp, but you didn’t think twice about it. You tossed the plastic cup in the trash and turned back toward the living room.

You never noticed the guy in the dark velvet jacket standing by the refrigerator, watching you walk away with heavy, calculating eyes.

Ten minutes later, the house party turned into a nightmare.

The punchy synthesizer lines pounding from the speakers began to warp, dragging down into sickening, low groans. The flashing colored lights smeared across your eyes in thick, nauseating ribbons of neon yellow and hot pink.

Your head felt like it was full of wet sand. Your legs grew impossibly heavy. You took two steps toward the back hallway, but your knees gave out slightly, making you stumble sideways into a wall.

“Whoa… watch it,” someone grumbled.

“Sorry,” you slurred. The word dragged out like a cold syrup.

Panic, sharp and icy, pierced right through the chemical fog in your brain. I only drank ginger ale. I left my cup on the counter when I called Marlon.

You had been spiked.

“Hey… you alright there, beautiful?”

A voice spoke right beside your ear. You turned your head slowly—every movement feeling like it was taking place underwater, and saw the guy in the dark velvet jacket. He had two friends standing right beside him, their expressions relaxed, expectant, predatory.

“You look real unsteady on your feet,” the guy said, his heavy hand coming down to grip your upper arm. His thumb pressed deep into your skin, firm and unyielding. “Why don’t we go upstairs? Get you somewhere quiet?”

“No…” you breathed, trying to yank your arm back, but your muscles felt like wet paper. “No… my friends…”

“Your friends are busy, sweetheart,” one of his buddies snickered, closing in to block your path back to the living room. “Come on. We’ll take real good care of you.”

Terror flooded your system, momentarily burning through the haze. You yanked your arm back with everything you had, breaking his grip, and stumbled blindly down the narrow, dimly lit service hallway to your right.

“Hey! Wait up!”

You heard their heavy boots pounding against the floorboards behind you. Your vision was tunneling down to a pinhole. Desperate, your shaking hand scraped against the wall until your fingers hit a brass door handle. You yanked it open—a utility coat closet—throwing yourself inside, slammed the door, and twisted the small brass lock until it clicked.

“Hey! Open up! Don’t be like that!” a voice muffled through the heavy wood. The knob rattled violently.

You slid down the back of the door, hitting the hardwood floor in the dark, surrounded by the smell of mothballs and wool coats. With hands shaking so violently you could barely work the rotary dial, you picked up the house utility phone installed inside the closet wall and dialed Marlon’s private line by heart.

Forty minutes away, in a quiet, low-lit private garage, Marlon was leaning over the hood of his classic black sports car, a rag in hand as he wiped down the sleek paint. The air smelled of motor oil, leather, and sweet tobacco. Across the room, his brothers were scattered—Michael sitting on a flight case tweaking with Tito’s guitar, Jackie checking a car engine, and Randy leaning against a workbench.

The landline phone on the garage wall rang.

Marlon picked it up casually. “Yeah, baby. You ready for me to come get you?”

There was a beat of absolute silence. Then a ragged, terrified gasp came through the speaker.”

“Mar… Marlon…”

Marlon froze. The rag slipped from his fingers, falling to the concrete floor. His posture went completely, terrifically rigid.

“Baby?” Marlon’s voice changed instantly. The smooth warmth vanished, replaced by a sharp, deadly quiet that Michael looked up from the guitar immediately. “What’s wrong? Where are you?”

“I didn’t drink… I only had soda, Marlon, I swear…” Your voice was trembling, heavy, broken by soft sob-like gasps. “My head… the room is spinning… I can’t stand up…”

His dark eyes narrowed into lethal slits. His knuckles turned stark white around the receiver.

“Listen to me real carefully,” Marlon commanded, his tone dropping into a register so quiet, so cold, it made the air in the garage freeze. “Did somebody put somethin’ in your drink?”

“I think so… there were guys… they tried to grab me…” A loud, violent thud echoed through the phone line—someone kicking the bottom of the closet door outside. You let out a stifled shriek. “They’re outside the door! I locked myself in the closet… I’m scared, Marlon… please…”

Marlon’s breath hitched, a wave of dark, murderous fury crashing him so hard that his entire frame shook. Someone had touched you. Someone had poisoned his woman and backed her into a corner.

“Listen to my voice, baby,” Marlon ordered, his voice laced with a fierce possessive authority. “Nobody is gonna lay another hand on you. You hear me? Keep your back against that door. Don’t you open it for nobody. Nobody but me.”

“Hurry… please…”

“Give me the street name. Right now.”

You slurred out the address, your words falling apart as the drug dragged you under. Marlon slammed the phone back onto the wall hook so hard the plastic cracked.

“What’s going on, Marlon?” Jackie asked, standing up instantly.

Marlon turned to his brothers, his face a mask of terrifying rage.

“Get in the truck,” Marlon said quietly, his long fingers curling into tight fists. “Someone spiked my girl. They got her locked up in a closet in the Hills.”

Michael sets the guitar down with terrifying speed, his jaw setting hard. Randy reached over, grabbing a heavy steel tire iron from the workbench without saying a single word.

“Let’s go,” Marlon snapped, grabbing his jacket. “And God help whoever is standing in that hallway when I get there.”

Outside the closet, the noise was persistent.

“C’mon sweetie, open the door,” a voice called out, followed by another heavy kick against the wood. “You’re messed up. We just wanna take you home.”

You curled into a ball on the floor, holding the phone receiver to your ear like a lifeline. The dial tone sealed your fate as time went on.

Meanwhile, Marlon was tearing through the streets on a mission, a mission that whoever on the other side of the door wasn’t ready for. His heavy black SUV tore up the winding driveway of the estate, its tires chewing through the grass before slamming into park right at the front steps.

Marlon didn’t wait. He threw the door open and stepped out into the rain. He wore his dark leather jacket, his hair slicked back, his sharp profile carved from pure fury. Behind him, Jackie, Michael, and Randy stepped out, moving like a wall of solid iron.

Marlon threw open the front double doors of the party. The synthesizer music was deafening, but the moment he stepped inside, a dead silence swept across the room. He didn’t look like a guest. He looked like an executioner.

“Where is the utility hallway?” Marlon demanded, reaching out and grabbing a guy holding a plastic cup by his denim jacket, dragging him forward until they were eye-to-eye.

“B-back by the kitchen! On the left!” the guy stammered, terrified by the sheer darkness in Marlon’s eyes.

Marlon shoved him aside and marched down the corridor.

At the end of the hall, the three guys were still surrounding the closet door. The leader in the velvet jacket had a heavy brass candleholder in his hand, preparing to break the lock.

“I said move back, man, I’ll pop the catch—”

“Touch that door again,” a voice dark enough to rattle the walls roared from the end of the hall, “and I’ll break every bone in your hands.”

The guys spun around.

Marlon closed the distance in three long, terrifying strides. Before the leader could even raise the brass candleholder, Marlon grabbed him straight by the throat, slamming him violently into the drywall. The plaster cracked under the force.

“She’s with me,” He snarled right into his face.

The guy’s friends stepped forward, but Michael and Jackie stepped in seamlessly. Michael grabbed one by the jacket, driving a brutal right hook into his midsection that dropped him to the floor gasping for air. Randy stood at the end of the hall, blocking the exit, his arms folded, eyes ice-cold.

The leader choked, clawing at Marlon’s hands, but Marlon’s grip was unbreakable. He shoved the man down to the floor, kneeling over him for a terrifying second with his fists clenched, before tossing him aside like trash.

“Get out of here,” Marlon hissed, stepping over them. “Get out of my sight before I do somethin’ I won’t regret.”

The three men scrambled over each other, bruised and terrified, sprinting down the back exit.

Marlon turned slowly toward the closet door. The terrifying aura surrounding him melted away, replaced instantly by an overwhelming, desperate tenderness. He knocked softly on the wood.

“Baby?” he called out softly, his voice shaking. “Baby, it’s me. It’s Marlon. I’m here.”

Inside, the sound of his voice broke through the suffocating darkness. You dragged yourself up, your shaking fingers finally twisting the brass lock open.

The door swung outward.

The hallway light flooded in, but a tall, broad frame dropped quickly to his knees, blocking the glare.

“Oh, God, baby…” Marlon breathed.

He reached in, his strong arms wrapping around you immediately, pulling your soft, limp body out of the closet and straight against his chest. One of his large hands cradled the back of your head, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, right against the warm skin and the comforting, familiar smell of his cologne.

You burst into soft, ragged tears, your hands clutching weakly at his leather jacket. “Marlon… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to…”

“Shh, keep quiet now,” Marlon whispered fiercely, pressing his lips against your hair, your cheek, your forehead. “Don’t you dare apologize. I got you. You’re safe.”

Michael handed him a wet towel from the kitchen. Marlon took it, gently wiping the cold sweat from your forehead, his eyes dark with residual anger as he looked at your pale skin.

“Can you walk, baby?” he asked softly.

“No… my legs feel like lead,” you slurred, your eyes fluttering shut.

“I got you.”

Marlon slid one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you up into his arms effortlessly. He held you tight against his chest, shielding your face against his jacket as his brothers formed a human shield around you both, carrying you out to the car.

Now, safely tucked in his king-sized bed hours later, the terror had receded, leaving only the quiet comfort of his room.

Marlon’s hand rested heavily on your waist, keeping you pressed flush against his side while his thumb stroked the back of your hand.

"You terrified me tonight," he whispered into the dim room, his gaze searching yours. "When I heard your voice on that phone… when you told me someone was trying to break that door down…"

He leaned in, his voice dropping into that firm, quiet authority that left no room for argument.

"Don't you ever go anywhere like that without me again," Marlon said softly, his dark eyes locked onto yours. "I don't care about your friends' feelings. I don't care about no debts. You belong with me, safe right here. If anybody ever tries to hurt you again, I'll burn the whole damn city down to get to you."

You reached up weakly, resting your hand against his jawline, feeling the light stubble under your fingers. "I know," you whispered. "I'm sorry, Marlon."

"Don't be sorry," Marlon softened, leaning down to capture your lips in a slow, deep, possessive kiss. He claimed you completely, holding you until he was sure you were safe and entirely his. When he pulled back, he wrapped his arms tightly around you, pulling you against his chest and resting his chin on top of your head.

"Just sleep now, beautiful," Marlon whispered into your hair, his grip tightening protectively. "I'm right here. Nobody touches you ever again."

© 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐲𝐭𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛𝐱