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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants to be as close to you as possible.

husband!michael who loves to steal kisses from you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you do.

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

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

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

It's a little past one in the morning, and Michael and I sit in my living room on the floor, cushions around and under us, my new music playing from the speakers. Unheard, unreleased. The lights are low, ambience set. This album is meant to feel upbeat, passionate, alive and sexy, and yet every time I hear it something isn't clicking. Despite what those executives said, I don't know if I like my own sound anymore.

I swallow a mouthful of tea and reach over and pause the song. "Do you see what I mean?" I settle back on the cushions, dressed in simple pink pyjamas. A button down shirt, and short shorts.

Michael hums, he's tied his hair back with one of my scrunchies, and sits only in his loose boxers and t-shirt. I have the fire on, filling the room with nice warmth. "Kind of," he murmurs, "but it sounds good, I don't see what the problem is."

"It just doesn't sound right to me, like the lyrics are flat," I reply, pushing some hair out of my face. I pop my mug down beside me and reach over to my pile of notebooks. I'd been working in here before, so all my stuff was still here from before Michael had come over. "Like, read this. I wrote this recently." I had him a notebook and watch him. I'd never been particularly shy about sharing my writing, I'd written most of my songs, with some help, here and there, so I just got used to that vulnerable feeling.

Michael reads my song whilst chewing on his thumb. Seeing him so dressed down is kind of exhilarating, now that I think about it. I tilt my head, observing him closely as he takes in my lyrics. The song he's reading was taken from something I'd written in my journal. It basically encapsulates the feeling of having a crush, that excitement. The anticipation of all that could come from it.

"Yeah, okay," he says nodding, licking his lips, "I see what you mean."

"Thank you," I sigh, pleased with the validation. He reads the song again, brows furrowing a little, and it occurs to me in the moment that my lack of shyness has actually revealed quite a lot. The song is personal, and inspired by our exact situation. I'd shown it to him without thinking, and I can see him taking it all in, thinking deeply. I reach over and swipe the notebook back.

"Hey," he protests.

"You've already read it enough," I frown, then laugh softly. "I'm embarrassed now," I confess, placing the book back with the others.

"why?"

"it was private," I mumble, blushing. "I don't know why i..." I trail off, unsure of what I'm trying to say. I jumped the gun, eager to show off maybe.

"but you wanna use it, right?" he replies, "sometimes the best songs are personal. Did you write the others?"

"Yeah," I agree lightly, silently thinking my lucky stars he isn't teasing me too much. "It's just I put a lot of effort into my latest ones, and it's been like a whole year since I released anything, and the label want more stuff out. I've committed to it and yet I don't feel, like, connected to the songs anymore."

Michael nods as I talk, reaching for his tea and taking a sip.

"I dunno," I sigh, I shift on the cushion, and curl my legs under me, "maybe I'm overthinking it. I don't think they'd go for a change in direction this late in the process. I've already started teasing the album."

"Did you tell them you wanted to go in a different direction?"

"No," I snort, looking at the piles of notebooks with about eight songs I can think of off the top of my head I'd love to replace all my current recorded songs with. Most of those have been written in the past month, too.

We talk about music all the way into the early morning. I show him a few of my very recent demos, which are mainly me just singing and mumbling some new lyrics, trying to figure out the sound. We end up in this sort of weird working dynamic where he is giving me genuine, helpful advice, and I'm just staring at him, all doe eyed and trying to fight it, except the exact face I'm making always comes out when I'm interested in a topic, and admiring the talker.

I respect his opinion. He has almost a decade on me in terms of experience, it would be silly of me not to take what he's on board. But then he pauses mid sentence, just as he's suggesting perhaps I rerecord the album with new stuff and present it as a part 2 to the current album I have coming out soon, and says:

"stop looking at me like that," he glances at me briefly before looking away, a little smile playing on his lips. "I can't focus on what I'm saying."

I fix my face immediately.

"Sorry," I giggle gently, "I can't help it sometimes."

He carries on, and we discuss the lyrics of some of my songs, what works and what doesn't. He likes my writing skills though, and I'm beaming through my skin, enjoying sharing my creative process with him.

At some point close to about four in the morning, we end up falling asleep in the living room. I get the blankets and we use the cushions as pillows. I wake sometime in the late morning. I'm up before Michael, who's passed out on his back, arm over his eyes. I tip toe to the kitchen to make us some coffee and throw together a light breakfast, when the kitchen phone rings.

I snatch it up before it can echo through the house. "Hello?" I answer, tucking the landline between my ear and shoulder as I twist back to the coffee machine and blindly press buttons until it works. I hate this thing, never works the way I think it does and I forget immediately how to use it when it does work.

There's a brief pause and then a man clears his throat. I recognise it immediately and pause.

"Johnny?" I say quietly.

"Hey Tab," Johnny says quietly. "How are you?"

I hesitate for a touch too long. "Fine," I reply, glancing towards the kitchen doorway. Michael hasn't appeared. "Where are you?" I ask.

"I'm still at the hotel," he explains, "I just needed some time to sort myself out, I'm sorry."

I don't say anything. The coffee machine whirs quietly in the background, filling the silence. I stare at a point on the wall, trying to decide what emotion to feel first. "You haven't called me back for a week."

"I know, babe, I'm sorry," he murmurs, "It's just... with the tour and everything starting. I've just had a lot on my plate, and I'm really stressed and exhausted. I miss you."

"Are you still in California?" I ask. A deep ache forms right under my ribs, and I'm not sure why hearing him speak to me in this tone hurts my feelings. Mainly because I can feel this between us coming to an end, like a train coming right at me, and I'm tied to the tracks.

"Until Tuesday, then we're going to Dallas."

I stay quiet again. The coffee machine beeps noisily and I twist away from it, and fiddle with the phone cord. "What happened at the show, Johnny?"

"I saw you talk to him."

Him. As in the him still snoozing in the living room. Him who had me twice last night.

"I'm... I'm not accusing you of anything, Tab, I just don't trust him near you. I don't want him near you. I just can't bear the thought of losing you to a guy like that," he says, then quickly adds just as my brows furrow, "I just can't bear the thought of losing you at all. Ever. I love you so much."

I can't even lie and say nothing is going on. I can't even reassure him, and... I don't know if I want to. I just stand there, squeezing my eyes shut. A meaner, maybe smarter woman might've lied through her teeth. A kinder one would not even started the affair. I stand somewhere between them all, unable to choose any of the paths ahead of me to pull myself out of this.

Apparently my silence means something to Johnny, because he keeps talking. "I'll be home tomorrow, can you... would you wait for me, so we can talk?" he sounds... nervous. And now I'm nauseous. I have to end things, don't I? I have to be a grown woman, and handle my shit.

"Mm. Sure." I say quietly, my voice raspy. Movement catches my attention in the corner of my eye, and I look up to see Michael padding into the kitchen.

"Is there--" he begins, but my hand shoots up to stop him, eyes widening. He freezes, lips pressing together as my heart pounds. I can't even look at him right now, not whilst Johnny is in my ear, telling me goodbye, telling me he loves me. He hangs up, and I put the phone back on its hook.

I take a second before I turn and look at Michael. "Was that Johnny?"

"Yeah," I reply quietly, "he's coming back tomorrow to talk."

Michael nods slowly, biting his bottom lip a little. He watches me with those big doe eyes, brows a little furrowed. I blink at him then turn away, stepping to the coffee machine. "Do you want some?" I ask him, voice tight.

"Do you have tea?"

"Yeah," I breathe, pointing to the draw where I have all the tea stored. The kitchen is quiet as I pour myself some coffee, mind racing. Is Johnny going to dump me? Or is there something else he wants to talk about?

I'm genuinely nervous, unable to even make conversation as Michael makes himself a cup of tea, moving quietly in the background as I stare at a point on the tiled ground, thinking, holding my mug with both hands. I hate breaking up with people. I hate doing this. I hate being this person. I feel awful and sick and disgusting.

"Talk to me," Michael murmurs. I glance up at him. He stands in front of me, leaning against the counter, steaming cup in one hand. His face is calm, but there's something in his eyes that makes me frown.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"It's not right," I whisper, "I can't talk to you about him. I won't."

"But I want to listen, ma. I want to know what's on your mind."

I think back to last night, what he asked of me and hold a hand up to my face, covering my eyes. My expression twitches. I want to cry, and I feel my eyes dewing as the anxiety takes over. It takes me ten seconds to swallow that feeling before I drop my hand, shaking it off. "I need to clean up the house before Johnny gets back."

I can't confess, but I can end things maybe.

Michael frowns a little, but then shakes his head, puts his mug down. "I'll head out, then." He walks out the kitchen, shoulders tense. I bite my lip, stomach twisting. I put my mug down and hurry after him.

"I'm not kicking you out."

"That's sure what it sounded like."

I huff, growing frustrated, speed walking after him as he climbs the stairs. "My god, Michael, what did you expect?" I say, throwing my hands up, I stop halfway up the steps and he pauses, turns to look back at me.

"Are you going to leave him?"

I flounder, "I... I don't... Why would you ask me that?"

"You don't, what?" Michael repeats, he walks down the few steps between us, and I tip my head back, looking into his eyes. "You don't know, is that what you meant to say?"

My heart races. I just stand there, like an idiot. Not speaking.

"When didn't you know? before or after you begged me to come over?"

"Beg?" I repeat, then press my lips together. Michael waits, and when I don't speak again, I see his eyes darkening. Frustration and something else, something sadder maybe, clouding his expression.

"You know what? Don't worry," he chuckles sarcastically. "Let me help you clean up actually, because god forbid you keep the sheets on the bed I fucked you in twice when you go to sleep with your damn boyfriend tonight."

My expression flattens.

"Get out."

Michael stares down at me, going as still as a statue.

"I'm serious, get out." I say flatly before frustrated tears swell and drip down my cheeks, "You don't get to shame me in my own fucking house. You knew what situation you were walking into!" I then say, raising my voice. "Get your shit, and get out!"

His jaw works. But he says nothing, turns, heads up the stairs and towards the master bedroom. He's gone for all of two minutes before he's returning, fully dressed. He walks right by me and towards the front door, yanking it open, and striding out into the morning daylight.

I walk after him, grabbing the edge of the big oak door, because no way is he doing to slam my front door, when I can do it just fine. "And don't even think about calling me!" I shout out the door.

"I won't!" He shouts back, descending the stairs and striding angrily towards his car. I slam my front door.

That evening, he calls.

I don't answer.

The next evening, Johnny's home. I'm waiting in the living room, hair un-done, face make up free. I'm dressed simply: in a camisole and black leggings. I play with my own fingers, waiting for the sound of the door. When it comes, my heart lurches.

I've gone over what I want to say to him a hundred times. Now that the time has come, I fear I'll be sick instead of speak.

Johnny appears in the doorway moments later. He was looking for me. He smiles, flowers in his hands, a box of my favourite chocolates, and velvet jewellery box. Long and rectangular. Very much not a ring, to my quiet relief. Instead, it's a diamond tennis bracelet, beautiful and very sparkly. And probably cost a small fortune.

He sits me down after I accept my gifts, and before I can speak, he opens up. Pouring out all his thoughts and worries. I'm confused, because I haven't seen this side of Johnny in a long time. Not since we first agreed to be exclusive with each other. He holds my hand as he talks, showing me a piece of his soul with his words, telling me about how he's so afraid he's going to lose me. That he's worried he's going to fuck us up. That I'm his muse, the love of his life.

Fuck.

I stare at him as he talks, eyes doe-ing and teary, just thinking: what the fuck have I done? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"I'm so sorry I'm a nightmare, Tabi," he whispers, looking as if he's about to cry, pupils blown, "I just love you so fucking much."

Did he know I was going to dump him, is that the reason for all this? Or did he see something in my eyes, or body language that night at his tour's first show? It had just been a split second. But how much had I given away? What was he not saying?

"Do you forgive me?"

"Yes," I whisper, because how could I not? I had cheated on him. Several times. In the bed that we shared.

I swallow, wiping away some of my tears.

It's time.

I take a deep breath.

"Johnny, actually, um..." I continue. "I... want to say, uh..." I'm about to confess. The words are right there, formed already behind my teeth. My whole speech. "I..." I try to say again, but I can't. Not when he looks at me with those bloodshot blue eyes, face so crumpled like he's in physical pain. "I'm glad you talked honestly to me." I say instead.

Inside, my body recoils. I'm so disappointed in myself it hurts.

"I don't want to lose you, baby," he replies with a smile, holding my hand tighter. He shifts off the couch, lowers himself to his knees, puts his head in my hands. "If we broke up, I don't know what I'd do," he whispers against my closed thighs. "I'd die. I know I would. I'd end it."

My stomach sinks. Because now it suddenly feels like the walls are closing in, and my exit route just vanished.

That night I stay up late. I'm in my little make-shift studio that barely has room for three people, staring down at my notebook at one of the songs I'd written recently. The one about Michael. It stares back at me, full of passion, full of confession, and I just know there is noway I can ever let this see the light of day.

I close the notebook and tuck it away in a drawer, hiding it under some sheets of music from an old project. I'm about to head upstairs to bed when my cell phone rings. I glance at the caller ID, heart lurching once I see Manager 2 on the little screen.

I watch it ring. Thirty seconds I'm staring at that thing before it stops. Thirty seconds of me fighting myself not to pick up, to hear his voice. Because I know if I do, I won't ever stop wanting to hear it. The affair will go on and on. He'll start having expectations. I'll fall in love. I'll trap myself in an even tighter hole than I am now because, what if Johnny really means what he said? What if he hurts himself? It will be all my fault. I'll break his heart and kill him.

I pick my cell phone up to turn it off when it chimes again, screen coming alive with a voice mail.

I hold my breath.

Delete it, I beg myself. Delete it, delete it, delete it. But I'm already lifting it to my ear to listen to it.

"Tabi, please pick up," Michael's voice comes out, so soft spoken it makes my whole body ache. "I was acting stupid and childish. I didn't mean to upset you, ma, I'm sorry. Come out and talk to me."

I sit there for a few seconds before I listen to it again. Wait. Did he say: 'come out and talk to me?'

My heart starts pounding, and I get up and speed walk to the front door, creaking it out. It's late, like super late, almost nearing midnight. Though as I stare out into the dark, I don't see a car or anything on the other side of my gate, on the street. The light over my porch is on, illuminating me, and I'm about to close the door when my clunky black cell phone vibrates in my hand.

It's Michael again.

I pick up, but don't say anything. "I'm across the street." he says. Seconds later, the headlights on a black car flash, showing me where he is. I glance back into the house. All is quiet, only a few lights on. I know Johnny is probably asleep upstairs, finally knocked out after we'd spoken for a long time this afternoon.

He'd been on something, I could tell pretty quickly. The bloodshot eyes, blown pupils. The emotional rambling. Despite all of this, I feel like he was being honest. And it frightened me a little.

I stare out the door again. Michael hasn't said anything on the phone. Just been listening to my breathing. I'm still in my leggings, camisole, and slippers.

"Five minutes," he says softly.

I can do five minutes. I leave the door propped open just a crack and step out into the night. I hang up the call and make my way across my courtyard to my gate, and slip out the side gate after punching in the code. I walk across the street to the dark car, squinting at it. Black rolls Royce convertible.

Of course he has one. Why am I not surprised?

What does surprise me, is that he's alone. No security. Just him, plain clothes, cap and shades. He has his cell phone in his lap when I open the passenger door and climb in. "five minutes," I whisper.

Just being near him makes my body hum, reacting to his energy like each of us are two opposite halves of a magnet. "How are you?" he asks, taking off his shades. I physically react seeing his eyes, those big sweet brown eyes that feel like they've just punched a hole through my chest. I shift in the seat, trying to steady myself.

"Stressed," I reply more bluntly than I wished to. Michael nods slowly, keeping his hands calmly in his lap.

"I'm sorry for what I said, Tabi," he then says softly, "I didn't mean to disrespect you."

"You meant it."

"I was frustrated," he replies, speaking softly, "he doesn't deserve you."

"and you do?"

"That's not what I'm saying."

"I am not a toy to be won, you know. I'm a human being, okay. I have my own shit going on, I can't just-- just-- do whatever you want when you want me to. This is hard. Johnny and I have history, we live together, for fucks sake. I hated you and loved him three months ago, I'm confused."

"I didn't come here to argue with you," Michael says quietly.

"So don't."

He doesn't respond right away. I'm getting worked up way too fast, and it's humiliating. I wipe at my eyes, and quietly breathe. I don't look at him. Instead I stare out the windscreen and across the street, at my house.

"If you want me to leave you alone, I will." His statement hangs heavily in the air. My eyes dew immediately, but I hold myself together. "But I don't want to leave you alone, Tab," he murmurs. "This is hard for me, too, to see you with him. But I'd rather that than not see you at all."

I look at him finally. "What do you mean?" I ask quietly.

"I like your company," he explains, "I think we could work great together as friends." The word sounds funny coming out his mouth, like it's foreign to him, but his expression remains calm. Though... his eyes are giving everything away.

"friends," I echo softly, then breathe out in a huff, and wipe under my eyes. "You'd like to be friends?"

"yes..."

"Just friends."

He nods. I can't tell if I like this idea or not, but I find myself agreeing to it. We can be friends. Just good friends. No mess. No drama. Just friends.

I look at him, and he looks at me. Our new deal hanging in the air between us. He smiles, and I just nod a little bit, mimicking his smile. "Did everything go okay when Johnny got back?" he asks after a few seconds of quiet.

"um..." I hesitate, "yeah, he... just had a lot to say."

"and how are you feeling about it?"

I laugh softly, shifting in my seat again. I feel so weird talking about this with him, but, also... it's nice. "I am looking forward to things getting back to normal, I guess," I say, shrugging. "hopefully Johnny can sort himself out and we can kind of refocus on, um..." I trail off. Michael is listening intently, and I feel like I'm confessing something secret. "yeah," I sigh instead. "anyway, I should probably head back inside."

"Okay," Michael agrees, but then I just sit there. We're looking at each other again, air humming between us. He licks his lips, and in my peripheral vision, I notice one of his hands carefully curl into a fist. He's breathing carefully, eyes focussed on me.

"Okay," I whisper, knowing I should get out of the car before one of us looses a hold on our impulse control. "Goodnight."

"Night."

I slip out the car, then I'm jogging across the street, heading back inside my property. I get to my front door and glance back. Michael's rolls Royce comes to life, engine purring. The lights flash once, then he's peeling away from the curb. Seconds later, he and his nice car are gone, and I head back inside.

A couple weeks later, I'm on a plane to New York. I have some time off, and I want to spend some time in the city. Johnny is fully on tour now, still playing shows in California and Texas, a few of which I've been to, but right now I just need some alone time with my friends.

Three of us are on the jet, already cracking open a bottle of champagne, giddy about our holiday. It's me, Jane and Heidi, and we've got a full weekend planned of shopping, eating, and well, essentially just partying, and then hitting the spa in our hotel on Sunday to soothe our hangovers.

We chat and sip Champagne on the flight between los Angeles and New York, discussing our love lives, or lack there of... though I don't admit that. In fairness to myself, I just finished my period. Which gave me an excuse not to get all that intimate with Johnny on his days off.

We land in New York, head to our swanky hotel that's near Central Park, and head straight out to shop for some outfits to create our disguises for our low key night out. I'm browsing the mens section for an oversized shirt when my cell phone rings.

I slip it out of my little purse and see the caller ID. Manager 2. I side glance my friends as they laugh loudly over an outfit idea a few steps away from me, then answer. "Hey," I could have changed his contact name, but I haven't told Johnny about this yet. Though I'm unsure how I could, like: hey, I started fucking Michael Jackson, who I hated three months ago, but we decided to cool it and just be friends because I felt super bad for stepping out on you. That okay?

Please.

"Hey, you busy?" Michael asks. We've had regular phone calls since that night, just catching up or talking in general. He makes the friend thing really easy, getting me to open up and talk to him about everything. He doesn't even flirt. Just... talks with me. Like a friend. Oddly, it makes me like him a lot more.

"I'm just with my friends, we're shopping," I play with a printed t-shirt on a hanger, a little smile on my face.

Heidi glances over, sees me on the phone. "tell Johnny we say to leave you alone! she's with us now!"

I internally cringe, but just smile at the girls and step away. My security watch me closely, following at some distance as I move around the luxurious store to a quieter part as Michael says, "Shopping for what?"

"I'm going out tonight," I say lightly, "we do trips like this every now and then, just to blow off some steam, have some fun. Dress up."

"Yeah? Where?"

"New York..." I say coyly. Because I know he's here in the city, and I kind of want to see him. He'd told me he'd like to see me soon, too, so... I guess I made it work.

I hear him chuckle, and my skin tingles excitedly. "No way," I can hear him grin, "Where're you staying?"

I tell him the name of our hotel, and he whistles, impressed. I giggle at that. We talk for a little bit, and I end up suggesting that he comes along tonight, and meets my friends. Since we're all friends. Just good buds.

"Let me ask the girls first before, though." I say, "Can I call you back?"

"sure."

I hang up and hurry over to my friends. When I tell them, they both look at me with a mixture of excitement and confusion. They'd met super famous people before but I guess the thought of meeting and hanging out with Michael Jackson has thrown them. "But I thought you guys hated each other," Jane says, "like... or was that all a PR thing?"

"No, that was true but we bumped into each other at that after party and we've been trying to figure it out, I guess. Be mature and that." I grin.

Heidi looks at me hard, faint smile on her lips. I look at her for only a second before I know that she knows. I sharply look away. "Johnny cool with this new friendship?" she asks, smirking a little. She's never liked him.

"He doesn't choose who I'm friends with!" I say back playfully defensively back. "So can he come?"

"Will he dress up?"

"I think so," I reply,

"Then fine. But one of us gets to choose what he wears. I vote ME!" Jane shouts, throwing her hands in the air. I laugh a little, but my stomach does a weird little tense flip, but I brush it off quickly.

That evening, when a knock comes at the penthouse suite door, Jane is up like a lightning bolt to answer it. My stomach does that thing again, but I ignore it and gulp down more wine as Heidi keeps doing my make up. I'm half way in my disguise. A clip on half wig, disguising my lighter hair with a darker colour.

"welcome, welcome," I hear Jane say in the foyer, and a few male voices reply. I hear Michael immediately, commenting on the decor, and my heart lifts. "the boys brought alcohol!" Jane chirps as she waltzes into the room, swinging her hips, holding up two big pretty bottles of some dark amber liquid. After her Michael follows, then two of his brothers.

He frowns when he see's me. Considering I'm being dressed like a goth, heavy eye make up, black lipstick. A black wig to cover my roots, that also gives me a thick fringe. "Tabi"? he asks.

"Hey," I say plainly before Heidi and I start giggling. I can't keep a straight face, since she's painted herself as a goth too, and it's been tickling us for hours, considering she doesn't wear make up and likes wearing sporty clothes, and I love a sixties baby doll dress and bows on my heels. Jane, however, has opted for a more toned down look, her style mimicking a raver. Neon clothes, fishnets. Heavy colourful make up.

"You look... yeah, not like you," Michael chuckles, coming over to me. Heidi immediately glances between us, unable to hide that fascinated look. I kick her subtly.

"So who do you guys want to be?" Jane asks, coming back into the room from the little kitchen space where there's a mini fridge. She hands drinks to everyone.

"Do we have to dress up?" One of Michael's brother's asks, I don't know his name. But I know he's not randy, since Randy is quietly observing us all.

"Of course!"

Eventually they decide, or rather, Jane decides, and I'm finished with my look and opt to help dress the boys into hip hop clothes with flannels over their heads and caps to hold them in place. I'm figuring out which baggy sweatshirt to give Michael when Jane sidles up to me.

"He is just... crazy sexy, oh my god," she whispers excitedly. "Do you think he's single?"

"Who?" I ask.

"Michael!" she hisses, rolling her eyes, "do you think he'd go for me?" she asks, as she looks away, looks towards Michael whose engaged in conversation with his brothers, all of them poking fun at each other for how they look, even if I think they all look genuinely very handsome in this style. My face tenses, because the thing is, Jane isn't ugly. She's gorgeous. Great body, great hair. So many dudes go for her.

I want to speak against it, but I can't. Michael isn't mine. And I have a man already. It wouldn't be fair for me to guard him like he's mine. "Probably. Go talk to him."

Jane practically skips away from me and over to him, swiping up the big black sweatshirt I chose to give it to him. I can't even look, and instead, start gulping down my drink, which I think is whiskey. "Jesus," Heidi murmurs, judging me.

I pointedly ignore her, and pretend to sift through the clothes to find something else to wear. I hear Jane laugh flirtatiously, and lock my jaw. Eventually I find a black micro skirt we picked up today, with a bunch of buckles on it and a see through dark, long sleeved top with a visible bra underneath. I originally was going to find something more toned down but, hm. I just don't feel like it now.

I slip out the room and get changed. The skirt is so short any movement practically reveals an ass cheek, but I don't really care. I've drunk enough to forget how to feel shy about being immodest off stage.

I fix my hair, touch up my make up, then pad out my bedroom and into the living space where everyone else is still drinking. I'm pissed off immediately. Michael is sitting on the couch, and Jane has perched on the arm rest, legs almost over his. He's talking to her, actually talking to her, and I have no right to be mad, yet I am.

I skip the next round of drinks before we all head out. The boys successfully do not look like who they are, and neither do we. Jane hangs off Michael's arm, playing up her drunkenness and acting like her heels are hard to walk in, which is such a regular tactic of hers, that I hate that all of a sudden it's annoying me.

I love my friends. This is so stupid.

"So Mike," Heidi says, walking backwards as we move down the sidewalk as a group, heading towards where the nightclubs are. "You been out to a club before?"

"Of course," he chuckles, steadying Jane as she trips and grips him. He glances back to Heidi, shades on so we can't see his eyes.

"Yeah, we were in the clubs in our teens." His brother laughs. "Which we sure as hell shouldn't have been," he adds, laughing more with his brothers.

"Where did you go?" Heidi asks.

"Studio 54."

Jane gasps, "Oh, I've always wanted to go there!"

I've gone mute, listening to them all talk about their clubbing experiences, trying to get myself out of this funk. "Now tonight you can't dance like you want, remember," Jane adds, smirking at Michael, as she nudges him. "Everyone will know who you are in a minute."

"I'll try," Michael chuckles.

We eventually find the club we want to go into, it's packed, queue all the way down the street. Heidi strides up to the bouncer, whispers something in his ear and the hands him some cash. He waves us all through, not even bothering to check who we are. "I know the guy!" she calls back to us as we move into the club, lights flashing inside.

The sound of Insane in the brain by Cypress Hill thumping out of the speakers draws me to the dance floor immediately. I side step through all the thrumming bodies dancing to the beat and find a spot in the middle of the dance floor.

Heidi joins me quickly, but I push myself to get lost in the music. We dance for what feels like maybe, five minutes, before I'm approached. I already know I don't look like myself, but I'm wearing a provocative outfit, and the guy doesn't even speak before he invites me to dance.

I accept, since it's just dancing. I feel Heidi give me the tap, signalling she's just behind me, dancing with another guy. At some point we switch, grinning, moving in time with the music.

"You guys dancers?" The guy shouts at me. I can only just hear him over the music. I give him the thumbs up, but just carry on enjoying myself. I don't dirty dance with the guys, but they're close enough that it could be seen as that. After a half hour or so, I'm thirsty.

I tap Heidi on the shoulder and we escape from the guys into the crowd, finding the bar. The moment I'm there, I wish we hadn't gone. Jane is still putting moves on Michael, talking into his ear, hand on his arm by the wall. He's listening closely to her, and then his head lifts as if he's looking at me. I sharply look away, stomach lurching.

I order my drinks, pass one to Heidi, chug it, then I'm back to the dance floor. I don't even wait to see if she's behind me.

I'm back to dancing to the loud hip hop music, alcohol swarming my veins, dizzying me. I startle when I hear one of my songs at one point, my own voice spooking me. I grin, giving a slow twirl to take in the rest of the club, watching all the other women dance and shout along to the chorus, even mimicking the little dance I do in the music video.

The bass pounds in my ears, my head's swimming, but I'm having so much fun, just simply dancing, hearing the club sing my song before it moves on. I'm soon dancing with another guy, and I'm barely noticing him holding my hips. Then he's too close, too much in my space.

I edge back and thump into someone else. His cologne fills my nose and I spin, hoping it's actually him. He doesn't say anything, but a protective hand slips around my back and he pulls me around, putting his back to the other guy. He tries to protest, but Michael only looks over his shoulder, jaw tight enough that the other guy just throws up his hands and walks off.

My stomach flutters, but I don't say anything. Instead, I turn back around, putting my back to Michael, and continue to dance to Pharrell William's Frontin'. I sway my hips, tossing my hair over my shoulder. I can sense him right behind me, and try to hide my little smile when he holds my hips to turn me to face him. But I spin, and remain facing away.

I keep dancing, and I pout playfully angry as he leans over my shoulder to peer at my face, his chest against my back. He's dancing with me, keeping in time with my simple steps, even whilst trying to get a peak at my face. "Where's your little friend?" I say, feeling just so... petty.

He leans in close to hear me. "What?"

"Your little friend!" I say into his ear.

"She's your friend," he replies, grasping my hips again and turning me to face him. "And who was that?"

"I dunno," I shrug, looking up at him, into those shades. I don't know how he can see. I beckon him close. He leans down to hear me again. "Are you jealous?"

"Are you?" he calls back. He's holding the small of my back, keeping me close.

"Why would I be? We're friends, right?" I say loudly.

"Right," he agrees, nodding. "We can dance as friends, right?"

"Right!" I nod. So we dance, except, song after song, we get closer, and closer. Then I'm dancing with my back to him, his hands on my hips, my ass pressed into him, chest against my back. My eye are closed as I lean back against him, drunk, and turned on at how gentle he's being whilst also not. He digs his fingers into my hips, and he's tucked his face into my neck, determined to keep it there even if he has to lean a little. Like my heels are tall, but not that tall.

The best part is, absolutely no one is paying any attention to us. Everyone else is doing their own thing. Grinding on each other, making out, or simply dancing. The air is thick and humid, and I'm way too hot, but I want to stay right here for as long as I can.

I turn in Michael's arms, not really thinking, and kiss him. His lips latch onto mine, and what was perhaps meant to be a peck, turns into a full make out session in the middle of a night club. My arms are around his neck, my lips are locked with his, and one of his hands is fully cupping my ass under my skirt whilst the other holds me up and against him.

His mouth tastes delicious, sweet alcohol and mint. I'm being eager, kissing him hard, because I want him like crazy. I pull away after a few minutes, lust clouding my mind so thickly it's amazing that I can even breathe on auto pilot still.

I grab his hand and pull Michael out of the sea of grinding bodies, towards the exit. He comes with me, no protests or questions, and then we're out into the night. It's late, but the city is still alive and awake, and there are little pockets of people everywhere. We can walk back to the hotel, but before I can even suggest it, Michael's hailed a yellow cab.

He tugs me in, for our fingers are still entwined, and the moment the door closes and he gives the name of the hotel, he's on me again. Kissing me hard, leaning over me, as I'm pressed into the back seat. He cages me in, and I whine softly as he grips my thigh. "Hey!" the cab driver interrupts, "No sex in back seat!"

Michael pulls away, cringing and I just laugh. I know my make up is a mess, lipstick everywhere. Wig probably off to one side. But I don't care. I'm so turned on right now my underwear is already soaked.

We get to the hotel and hurry inside. I'm surprised I don't trip in my heels, and say as much. Michael's grinning, gripping my hand still.

We get to the suite, the elevator doors barely close

Before we pounce on each other, kissing, grabbing, pulling at clothes and accessories and whatever else we can get our hands on, all of it coming off as we make our way to the bedroom. 

My heart pounds, excitement and desire burning me up. I’m only in my bra and panties when we reach the edge of the bed. Michael’s kissing my neck, popping the clasp on my bra and then tugging it off. He groans, running his hands over me, breathing hard. Then our mouths lock again, tongues entwining. 

He pushes me back onto the bed, then his fingers are on the band of my panties, pulling them down. I lie back, looking up at him, biting my lip as I spread my thighs, and touch myself, showing him how wet I am.

“Tabi,” he murmurs, watching my fingers closely, eyes so heavy lidded he looks sleepy. I hum, and beckon him closer. He palms the front of his boxers, thick length hard and ready for me. “You have no idea how much I’ve been thinking about this,” he murmurs, “about you.”

I hum, touching myself still. I slide a finger through my wet folds, and then show him my arousal. He mutters something under his breath, then slides his boxers down. He climbs onto the bed, leans in to kiss me. 

Our mouths move in perfect synchronisation, the sound of our lips connecting and separating as Michael aligns his cock with my entrance, then easily slides in. We both moan needily, bodies shuddering in unison. Then he starts thrusting, vulgar wet noises leak out of me as our bodies connect over and over. Skin slapping against skin. 

His rhythm is hard and fast, but there’s passion there, not just lust. He breaks the kiss and leans up, gazing down into my eyes. I gaze back at him, holding the eye contact as his thrusts become relentless. 

He feels so could I could faint. Filling me up, hitting all the right spots. My eyes threaten to roll back as I moan in time with his hips, not being quiet at all. “God, Mike,” I whine, holding his hips, watching his body move.

He groans, gripping the sheets, thrusting harder and harder until my vision whites out, and an orgasm hits me. I arch into his chest, crying out in pure ecstasy. But he keeps going, keeps fucking me, driving me crazy. 

My hand grips the back of his neck, his body curled into me, mine curled up to meet his. Our foreheads are pressed together, both of us panting and moaning, sweating and so into this we don’t even hear the others come back, if they do.

Michael’s thrusts start to shudder, he’s pounding his hips against mine, chasing his orgasm as another one for me rises from my toes. I’m tingling all over, my moans getting higher and higher.

“Say my name,” Michael pleads, “please baby,” He’s deep inside me, I can’t think straight. I’m just bracing for the peak, barely able to think.

“Michael,” I gasp, body shaking as my muscles tense. “Michael, Michael, Michael,” I keep moaning his name right up until my next orgasm hits me. I go mute, back arching. I dig my nails into his back, perhaps maybe too hard. 

But it does the trick, and he pulls out sharply, finishing all over my stomach. He’s shaking, hips mindlessly thrusting as he cums, completely lost in the pleasure. I bask in it, humming happily as my heart thuds in delight, and all my muscles relax. 

Michael shifts off me and lies on his back, panting.

“Friends can fuck, right?” He jokes, and I giggle at him. He takes a second before he sits up and helps me get to my feet. We end up showering together, kissing under the warm stream, both of our hair getting wet. 

I can’t stop touching him, running my hands over his toned body as he soaps up, or twirling a curl around my finger once we get out, have dried off, and lie in bed. I lie on my stomach, beside him, staring at him with my eyes going all doe like again. “What are we going to do?” I ask softly. 

“we’ll figure it out, ma,” he murmurs, “don’t worry.” 

I’m about to argue with that when there’s a knock at the door. Michael freezes, and I pull the sheets up over my head. 

I hear one of Michael’s brother’s say: “Do y’all need condoms? Or is it too late?” And then there’s a round of laughter. 

I think I might have gotten away with hiding and remaining unknown when I hear Heidi say: “Goodnight Michael… and Tabi.” before the door shuts. 

end notes:

oooooo they've been caught! and in fairness, they were not being subtle at all.

anyway, it's literally almost 2am, I wanted to add a whole end scene onto this so I started writing, and suddenly it was four hours later lmao. please let me know what y'all think and I'll see you in the next part!

A few hours later, you were sneaking around backstage, standing quietly in the shadows as you watched your husband run through the show. To the rest of the crew, he was polite and perfectly professional, but you knew every line of his body. You could read his body language and facial expressions perfectly, seeing exactly how tense and irritable he truly was behind the mask he wore for everyone else.

When rehearsal finally stopped for the night, you stepped out of the shadows and greeted him warmly. The shock in his dark eyes was instantaneous, but instinct took over and he pulled you in, kissing you purely out of habit.

However, the second he dragged you into his private dressing room and the heavy door clicked shut, the professional mask completely shattered. He paced the small room and completely let you have it, yelling at you for the unintended missed calls and the agonizing hours he spent feeling ignored. "You just showing up here doesn't mean you're off the hook?" he yelled, his chest heaving. "I'm out here losing my mind, missing you, and you're out doing God knows what whenever your man is trying to reach you! You don't keep me waiting like that, like I'm just an afterthought!"

You leaned back against the brilliantly lit makeup vanity, watching this gorgeous, broad-shouldered man throw a complete fit over you. You couldn't help but smile and let out a soft giggle—he was just so unbelievably cute when he was being this wildly needy for you. The way his damp curls framed his face as his brows furrowed in frustration was an irresistible sight to look at.

The sound of your laugh made him stop dead in his tracks. His dark eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching as he prepared to launch into another angry tirade. But you were done listening to his lecture. It was time to show him exactly how much you missed him, on your terms.

You pushed off the counter, boldly closing the distance with a confident, slow stride. Before he could get another demanding syllable out, you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his trousers, forcefully tugging his body closer to yours. You silenced his nagging with a deep, punishing kiss before speaking. “C'mon big daddy,” you teasingly whisper in his ear “you can't stay mad at me forever..”

For a fraction of a second, he froze. Then, a ragged, tortured groan vibrated deep in his chest as his bratty frustration instantly melted into a starving, desperate need. He tried to grab your hips with his usual possessive grip, but you firmly caught his wrists, pushing his hands away.

"Uh-uh," you whispered, your voice a dark, commanding purr that sent a visible shiver down his spine. "I've listened to you complain all day. Now, I'm in charge."

You pushed his broad chest, forcing him backward until the back of his knees hit the plush dressing room sofa, making him drop heavily onto the cushions. You stepped aggressively into the space between his spread thighs, looking down at him. You were fully aware of the breathtaking power you held over him as the bright vanity lights illuminated your flawless, melanated skin. His dark eyes widened, blown completely black with feral lust as he stared up at his beautiful wife, completely captivated and entirely at your mercy.

You slowly reached out, your fingers deliberately unbuttoning his shirt, taking your sweet, agonizing time baring his tense chest to the cool conditioned air. His chest heaved, his earlier anger completely replaced by breathless anticipation.

"You've been whining all day about how much you missed me," you murmured, leaning down to press a wet, scorching kiss to the wildly beating pulse point at the base of his throat. You dragged your hands over his shoulders, slowly pushing the heavy jacket and shirt off his arms. "So sit back, keep quiet, and let me ease all those frustrations for you."

You slowly pushed the button up and white shirt off his arms, murmuring against his skin to sit back and let you ease all of those frustrations. For a fleeting, breathless second, Michael’s heavy eyelids fluttered shut. His broad chest heaved under your touch, completely captivated by your flawless, melanated skin under the bright vanity lights. He was melting into the cushions, his feral lust almost making him succumb to your seduction and forget the agonizing hours he had spent feeling ignored.

But just as you trailed another scorching kiss down his jawline, the intoxicating spell suddenly snapped. The memory of his grueling day, the constant phone tag, and the sheer anger of not being able to reach you came rushing back. He remembered how fiercely unhappy he was, and how he had explicitly told you that just showing up didn't mean you were off the hook.

Before your hands could travel any lower, his large hands shot up, wrapping around your wrists with a grip that was sudden, iron-clad, and ruthlessly possessive.

"You almost had me," he rasped, his voice dropping into a dark, dangerously low register. The breathless anticipation in his dark eyes instantly hardened into a sharp, dominant glare. He wasn't going to let you use your beautiful tricks to simply distract him from how angry he was—not this time.

"You think you can just saunter in here, call me 'daddy,' and make me forget that you treated me like an afterthought all day?" he growled, throwing your teasing words right back at you.

With a sudden, effortless surge of strength, Michael pushed himself off the plush dressing room sofa, completely shattering the illusion that you were in charge. He stood up to his full, towering height, backing you up with slow, predatory steps until the back of your thighs hit the brilliantly lit makeup vanity. He didn't stop there. He crowded into your space, pressing his bare, tense chest flush against you, caging you in by slamming his hands onto the counter on either side of your hips.

"You don't get to call the shots tonight," he whispered harshly, his hot breath ghosting over your lips. The demanding, mean edge from his phone call was back, only now it was dripping with a punishing, blistering heat. "I spent the entire day out of my mind, waiting for you. And now...you are going to wait for me. I'm going to give you the act right you must've forgotten the second you missed my first call."

Before you can even process the shift in his demeanor, Michael's hands grip your hips with a sudden, forceful strength, spinning you completely around until your front is pressed flush against the cool edge of the brilliantly lit makeup vanity. You look up, and your eyes immediately lock with his reflection in the mirror. A dark, dangerous smile curves his lips, entirely replacing the cute, needy pout from earlier. Your breath hitches; you already know exactly what's to come.

You only ever found yourself in this specific, vulnerable position when Michael was really upset. This wasn't just playful dominance—this was the direct result of the grueling time difference, the constant phone tag, and the sheer agony of him feeling like an afterthought while he was out here losing his mind over you.

He grips your waist tightly with one hand, anchoring your hips to the counter so you can't pull away.

"Look at me," he commands, his tone slipping right back into that incredibly demanding and mean register he had used on the phone. You keep your gaze locked on his dark, intense stare in the mirror just as his large, heavy hand comes down, delivering a sharp, stinging smack that makes you jump with a breathless gasp.

"I told you," he lectures sternly, his eyes blazing into yours through the glass, "you don't get to just show up and think you're off the hook."

Smack.

You jolt again, a soft whimper escaping your lips as the sting radiates across your skin.

"Did you really think pulling my pants and using that sweet voice of yours was going to make me forget how you ignored me all day?" he reprimands, demanding you hold his intense eye contact in the reflection before delivering another firm, echoing slap. "You don't keep me waiting."

Every sharp smack sends a blistering thrill straight to your core, but you know this is only the beginning of what he has in store for you. His chest heaves heavily behind you, the bratty frustration completely transmuted into a ruthless need for total control. Michael loves pushing you to the absolute edge when he's this worked up. He wants to completely strip away your confident, teasing facade until you have no choice but to beg him for release. He thrives on this power, fully intending to make you plead and to hear those breathless, desperate apologies fall from your lips before he is finally ready to ease your agonizing frustration and please you.

As he continues his stern punishment, demanding you hold his intense eye contact in the mirror, your confident, teasing facade would finally break.

"I'm sorry, Michael," you shutter breathlessly, your gaze locked onto his dark, demanding reflection. "I'm sorry I didn't pick up the phone..."

The breathless, desperate apologies falling from your lips are exactly what Michael needed to hear. Even through the residual haze of his intense anger over the unintended missed calls and the agonizing hours he spent feeling ignored, the sound of your sweet begging completely shatters the last of his restraint. No matter how mad he was about feeling like an afterthought, seeing his beautiful wife completely submitted to him, whispering how sorry she is, sounded like the softest melody to his ears.

He finally caves. His bratty frustration completely melts into a starving, desperate need to please you.

Still keeping you pinned against the vanity, his large hands grip your hips abrasively. When he finally sinks into you, a ragged, tortured groan vibrates deep in his chest. The jarring contrast between his stern punishment and this overwhelming, consuming pleasure makes your breath hitch wildly.

But he isn't letting you off that easily.

"Say it again," he demands roughly, his dark eyes locking fiercely with yours in the mirror. He refuses to let you break eye contact for even a fraction of a second.

With every slow, deliberate stroke, he demands another apology. "Tell me you're sorry," he commands, his voice dropping into a dark pitch that sends a visible shiver down your spine.

"I'm sorry," you gasp, your gaze helplessly trapped in his intense reflection.

He drives in deeper. "Again."

"I'm sorry, M-michael."

Not only can he hear your desperate apologies, but he can feel every single one of them. With each punishingly deep stroke, he can physically feel your body yielding to him, getting weaker and weaker against his hold. The breathtaking power he holds over you is absolute, and he wields it flawlessly. He sets a ruthless, agonizing pace, expertly driving you dangerously close to the edge of your climax, just as he has always been so incredibly good at doing.

Your knees buckle slightly, your hands gripping the cold edge of the counter as you helplessly unravel under his intense gaze. The bright vanity lights illuminate the heated flush of your flawless, melanated skin as another breathless apology falls from your lips, perfectly feeding his possessive need while he takes complete, intoxicating control of easing all those frustrations for both of you.

He can feel the desperate, involuntary tightening of your body around his, the unmistakable physical stutter of a woman desperately fighting a losing battle against the edge. The realization that you are practically trembling on the brink of release doesn't make him merciful; instead, it completely fuels the vindictive, feral streak brought on by his earlier bratty frustration.

Rather than slowing down, his hips snap forward with a blistering, relentless force. His large hand leaves your hip, his fingers weaving firmly into the thick, gorgeous coils at the nape of your neck. With a deliberate, commanding pull, he tilts your head back, completely exposing the sensitive column of your throat and forcing you to look directly up into his darkened eyes.

He leans in close, stopping only when his lips are hovering a maddening fraction of an inch above yours. A low, wicked chuckle vibrates deep in his chest—a sound dripping with absolute control as he revels in finally easing the day's agonizing frustrations.

"Don't hold back now, pretty baby," he murmurs, his hot breath ghosting across your trembling mouth. "You can make all the noise you want. Scream for me if you need to. It's just us in here."

Another ruthlessly deep stroke pulls a frantic, high-pitched gasp from your lips, your nails digging helplessly into your own hands. But just as you feel your stomach tense, his intense gaze hardens, the demanding, mean edge returning to his voice.

"But you aren't finishing. Not yet," he growls, a dark, unwavering command that sends a fresh shiver down your spine. "You left me out of my mind all day, wondering where you were and treating me like an afterthought. I had to agonize and wait for you. Now, you are going to wait for me."

He sets a punishing, torturous rhythm, expertly holding you suspended in a state of absolute, breathless agony. He makes it fiercely clear that he holds all the power in this private dressing room. "I will let you know when I am finally satisfied with this punishment," he whispers harshly against your jaw, his grip in your hair tightening just enough to emphasize his total authority. "And only when I give you permission, do you get to fall apart.”

Every agonizingly slow, deliberate movement he makes is designed to keep you suspended right on the precipice, fully enforcing his rule that because you kept him waiting, you now have to endure the wait for his satisfaction.

Through the reflection in the mirror, his dark, dilated eyes lock onto yours, watching as the last remnants of your control completely shatter. The sight of your flawless, melanated skin flushed with overwhelming heat, combined with the desperate, breathless apologies you continue to whisper, perfectly satiates the demanding need that had been driving his bratty behavior all day.

He feels the frantic, involuntary stutter of your muscles wrapping tightly around him once more. A physical confession that your body is begging for the relief you are desperately trying to hold back. Seeing you this deeply submitted and entirely at his mercy finally breaks the last of his hardened resolve. The intense frustration that had consumed him since those unintended missed calls evaporates entirely, melting into a starving, desperate love for his wife.

His grip on your waist shifts, his large hands anchoring you with a bruising, territorial hold as his chest heaves against your back. He leans down, burying his face into the sensitive curve of your neck, the damp curls of his hair brushing your skin. His hot breath ghosts right over your ear.

"Let go for me, baby," he growls, his voice dropping into a dark, ragged register that completely consumes the quiet of the room. "You've done such a good job taking it."

With that final, gravelly command, he shatters the torturous holding pattern. He surges forward with a ruthless pace, entirely abandoning his slow restraint. The vocal permission is the exact spark your overstimulated body needed, sending you crashing violently over the edge into a blinding, euphoric release. As your voice cries out, echoing off the walls of the private dressing room, he holds you fiercely through every trembling shudder, pouring every ounce of his love into you as he finally, perfectly eases the day's agonizing frustrations.

As the intense, breathless echoes of your release finally fade into the quiet of the private dressing room, the heavy tension that had suffocated the space completely dissipates.

The dark, demanding glint in his eyes has completely softened, entirely replaced by the absolute adoration he holds for you. He presses a tender, lingering kiss to your forehead, his thumb gently swiping across your flushed skin. With a soft, exhausted sigh, he moves around the room to gather your discarded clothes, his demeanor shifting seamlessly back to his normal, soft, and sweet ways.

Michael was naturally a profoundly kind and devoted lover who absolutely cherished making love to you. However, the grueling demands of his tour and the exhausting time difference often left him incredibly tense and irritable. He found a deeply cathartic release from all that built-up stress when he could finally let go and take it out on you in these intense moments—and seeing the relaxed, utterly satisfied look on his handsome face made it perfectly clear just how much he had needed that release.

His large hands, which had been so ruthlessly possessive and punishing just moments ago, are incredibly gentle now as he helps you step back into your clothes. He smooths the fabric over your curves, taking his time to make sure you look put-together before you both have to step back out into the theater where he wears his polite, professional mask for the crew.

He grabs his duffel bag, intertwining his fingers seamlessly with yours as you both head for the heavy dressing room door. Just before his hand touches the knob, he pauses, pulling you flush against his chest one more time. The damp curls framing his face brush against your forehead as he looks down at you with a soft, deeply affectionate smile.

“stealing my js, huh?” he chuckles, wordlessly pulling the blunt back between his own lips. one hand rests behind his head, biceps thickening, while the other dips under your oversized tee, fingers digging into your side to keep your ministrations steady. “y’r lucky you’re cute.” the dealer endearingly flicks your nose, crooked grin plastered on his face.

you whimper shakily as rafe’s cock nudges that snug, sensitive spot inside. “jus’ want something in my mouth—” you confess wobbly, hands already reaching over to snag the blunt from rafe’s lips. pride be damned, the weed taking its toll on you. the man beneath you swallows at your honesty. “yeah?” he taunts, middle and pointer finger hovering in front of your lips as a silent hint. “sweet girl just wants something in her mouth?”

without thinking, you close your lips around the two digits, teeth scraping over rafe’s family ring. the sharp sensation of your ribbed teeth on his skin overpowers him, the stutter of his thighs vibrating through your cunt. thick smoke billows around you, the bitter smell of the weed swirling in the air.

you whimper lightly at the sensitivity of your mind, the feeling of rafe filling you perfectly to the brim. “such a nasty girl, taking what i’m givin’ you.” he mutters, voice a tad bit slurry, but his eyes are twinkling in wonder. your big doe eyes flutter dramatically at him, tongue swirling around rafe’s thick knuckles.

both of you are lost in the clouds of pleasure. rafe’s sprawled on the bed like a fucking king, just watching you putting in all the work while he puffs out grey smoke once in a while. you’re gone, only chasing the pleasure that seems to be within reach now, whines and whimpers mingling together. you feel so stuffed, feeling the twitch of his cock in you every time you breathe in.

rafe grunts at your sloppy ministrations. “look at you sweetheart. nothing going on in that pretty little head of yours, huh?” he practically grits out. your pussy clenches around him at his tone of voice, his fingers still heavy on your tongue. rafe takes another drag, blowing the smoke in your face like a miserable taunt.

“just— lemme see ya, baby. thaaaat’s it, fuck, just—” he continues to babble as you pick up your pace, low eyes zeroed in on the tacky white ring around his shaft. “gonna get’cha so used to me, moulded to my shape. swear you’re never gettin’ another dealer ever again.”

Jaafar was leaning back, an arm resting along the top of the cushions, seemingly engrossed in a replay of a masterclass bunker shot. But his eyes weren't really on the green. They kept drifting down to the quiet rhythm of your chest rising and falling, the way your lips parted slightly when you were deep in thought, and the soft fabric of the oversized knit sweater that kept slipping off your shoulder.

A sudden, sharp memory hit him. The faint taste of blackberry reduction, the cold marble of the kitchen island, and a very specific, whispered promise about a rematch.

A slow, wicked smirk crawled onto his lips.

'Hey,' Jaafar murmured, his deep voice cutting through the quiet room like a low purr.

'Mmm?' you responded, not even looking up from your page, turning it with a soft rustle.

'Put the book down, baby.'

You blinked, finally lifting your eyes from the text to find him staring at you. The lazy, sleepy expression he usually wore on a rainy Sunday evening was entirely gone. Instead, his dark eyes were heavy, fixed on you with a sharp, predatory heat that instantly made your pulse skip a beat.

'Why?' you asked, tilting your head, a faint, amused smile tugging at your lips. 'Are the golf highlights getting too thrilling for you?'

Jaafar let out a low, breathless chuckle, shifting his weight. He slid down the length of the couch, his long legs moving effortlessly until he was hovering right over you, trapping you between his body and the back of the sofa. He reached down, his fingers gently taking the book from your hands and tossing it onto the coffee table without looking.

'Golf is over,' he whispered, leaning down until his chest was practically brushing yours, his hands coming to rest on either side of your head. 'I just remembered we have some unfinished business. A certain deal we shook on after the great MasterChef tie.'

Your breath hitched slightly as his scent enveloped you. The memory flashed vividly in your mind.

'Next time we should try a different game. Like strip poker... purely for the sake of competition.'

'Consider the deal accepted.'

'Oh,' you murmured, your hands naturally rising to rest on his chest, feeling the steady, heavy thud of his heart beneath his shirt. You arched an eyebrow, your competitive streak instantly flaring up to meet his. 'You actually remembered that? I figured you backed out because you realized how embarrassing it would be to lose to me twice in one week.'

'Lose?' Jaafar’s smirk widened, his eyes darkening with a sudden, competitive hunger. He leaned an inch closer, his lips hovering tantalizingly close to yours. 'Baby, I’ve been playing poker since I was old enough to hold the cards. I was actually giving you a head start by letting you think about it.'

'Bold words for a man wearing a t-shirt, a hoodie, and sweatpants,' you teased, your fingers playfully tracing the hoodie design. 'You layered up on purpose, didn't you? Cheater.'

'It's called strategy,' he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips before snapping back to your eyes, a heavy, dangerous playfulness vibrating between you. 'But if you're scared, we can just go back to golf.'

You narrowed your eyes, a confident, wicked smile spreading across your face. You brought your hands up to his neck, pulling him down just enough to whisper against his lips.

'Get the cards, Jackson. Let's see what you're made of.'

Jaafar didn’t need to be told twice. He broke the space between you, pressing his lips to yours in a quick, bruisingly hot kiss that felt more like a declaration of war than an affectionate gesture, before swinging his legs off the couch.

'Don't move,' he commanded, pointing a finger at you as he walked away. 'And no shedding layers while my back is turned.'

'I play fair,' you called out, shifting so you were sitting cross-legged in the center of the plush rug by the coffee table, clearing off your book to make room for the battlefield.

When Jaafar returned, he had a pristine, unopened deck of cards in one hand and a heavy, dark wooden box of poker chips in the other. He dropped down onto the rug directly opposite you, mirroring your posture. The coffee table sat between you like a neutral border, but the air in the room had shifted entirely. It was thick, highly charged, and undeniably flirtatious.

He popped the seal on the card deck, his long, elegant fingers shuffling them with an effortless, hypnotic rhythm. Snap, snap, snap. The sound was crisp in the quiet room.

You watched him, completely mesmerized.

You had always had an absolute weakness for his hands, but watching the fluid, practiced dexterity of his long fingers arc the cards together was sending a low, sudden spike of heat straight to your core. Your throat went dry as you tracked the sharp lines of his knuckles and the steady strength in his wrists.

There was something intensely commanding about how effortlessly he controlled the deck, and just thinking about those same large, skilled hands touching you later made your pulse tick up a frantic notch. You were entirely hypnotized, and it was getting harder to hide just how much the view was turning you on.

Jaafar’s eyes tracked the cards, but he wasn't blind to your heavy gaze. A slow, knowing smirk played at the corner of his lips.

'Alright, let's establish the rules of engagement,' Jaafar said, his eyes tracking the cards but his mind clearly on you. 'Standard five card draw. No wild cards. At the end of every hand, the loser sheds one item of clothing. Jewelry doesn't count, socks do. And absolutely no backing out.'

'Simple enough,' you smiled, leaning your chin in your hand, watching his fingers work. 'What about the chips?'

'The chips are just to keep track of who's dominating,' he said, setting the dark wooden box directly onto the rug between you. 'Think of it as a scoreboard. Ready to lose, baby?'

'Deal the cards, Jackson.'

Jaafar smirked, dealing out five cards to you and five to himself with practiced ease. You picked up your hand, fanning the cards out, and suppressed a sigh. A pair of fours. Nothing spectacular, but a starting point. Across from you, Jaafar’s face was an absolute brick wall. His eyes met yours over the rim of his cards, completely unreadable, a slow, devastatingly handsome grin cutting through his poker face.

'How many do you want to discard, chef?' he asked smoothly.

'Three,' you said, tossing the useless cards into the center. He slid three fresh ones across the smooth wood. You picked them up. Still just the pair of fours. Damn it.

'Dealer takes two,' Jaafar murmured, replacing his own cards. He stacked his hand neatly, tapping it against his knee once. 'Show 'em.'

You tossed your cards face up. 'Pair of fours.'

Jaafar’s grin widened into something purely wicked. He laid his cards down one by one. A pair of jacks. 'Told you I’ve been doing this a long time.' He leaned back on his hands, his dark eyes raking over your outfit with an expectant, heavy gaze. 'Off comes the sweater, y/n.'

You rolled your eyes, but the heat rushing to your cheeks had nothing to do with frustration. You reached down, grabbing the hem of the oversized knit sweater, and pulled it slowly over your head.

Underneath, you were just wearing a delicate, sheer black lace bra, the exact one you knew was Jaafar’s absolute favorite.

Jaafar’s breath hitched noticeably, the smooth words completely dying in his throat. His gaze instantly locked onto the exposed line of your collarbones, his dark eyes darkening significantly as they tracked down to where the intricate lace met your bare skin. The confident, smug look on his face faltered entirely, replaced by a raw, hungry focus that made your pulse race.

'Your turn to deal,' he rasped, his voice suddenly much lower, rougher around the edges as he tried and failed to look back up at your eyes.

'My pleasure,' you purred, snatching the deck. You shuffled them, intentionally taking your time, keeping your eyes locked onto his the entire time. You could feel the shift in the room; the playful competition was rapidly dissolving into something much hotter, and you were determined to turn the tables.

You dealt the next hand. This time, the gambling gods were on your side: three queens right off the bat. You discarded two cards, drawing a king and another queen. Four of a kind. A statistical masterpiece.

Jaafar looked at his cards, then looked at you, trying to read your expression, though his eyes kept involuntarily dipping down to the lace of your bra. You gave him the most innocent, sweet smile you could muster.

'Show me what you've got, Jackson,' you whispered.

He tossed down two pairs,tens and sevens. 'Not bad. Let’s see it.'

You flipped your cards over with a dramatic flourish. 'Four queens. Take it off.'

Jaafar let out a low growl, a mixture of disbelief and intense amusement. 'You're a cheater. Theres no way.'

'The cards don't lie,' you laughed, crossing your arms and leaning forward slightly, your eyes sparkling as the movement shifted your chest, drawing his gaze right back down. 'The hoodie, Jackson. Let's see what's underneath.'

Jaafar didnt hesitate. He grabbed the bottom of his heavy black hoodie and pulled it off in one swift motion, tossing it carelessly to the side. Underneath, he was wearing a tight fitted white t-shirt that clung perfectly to the broad expanse of his chest and the sharp definition of his shoulders.

He leaned across the small space separating you on the rug, his face just inches from yours now, the heat radiating off his skin completely clouding your senses. He reached out, his thumb slowly, deliberately tracing the line of your jaw, before his fingers slid lower, lightly grazing the skin just above the lace of your bra, sending a violent shiver straight down your spine.

'Round three, baby,' Jaafar murmured, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip, his eyes burning into yours with a dangerous promise. 'Let's see who breaks first.'

Jaafar didn’t wait for you to answer. He shifted his weight, moving off his crossed legs and sliding onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. He was half laying down on the plush rug now, completely relaxed, his long legs stretched out carelessly his long legs stretched out carelessly across the carpet. The casual, sprawling posture should have made him look less intimidating, but with his tight white t-shirt straining against his chest and his dark eyes tracking your every breath, it only made him look twice as dangerous.

'Deal 'em, baby,' he murmured, his free hand lightly playing with a heavy poker chip, flipping it over his knuckles with effortless grace. 'Let's see if your luck holds out.'

Your hands were a little less steady this time as you distributed the cards. The proximity was starting to work against you, every time you leaned forward, his gaze would drop deliberately to the black lace of your bra, a slow, knowing smirk tugging at his lips when he noticed the slight tremor in your fingers.

You picked up your cards. A pair of kings. Solid. You discarded two and drew...nothing helpful. Just the kings.

Jaafar didn't even look at his cards right away. He kept his eyes locked on your face, taking his time before finally fanning his hand out against the rug. He didn't even bother to sit up. 'Dealer takes one card,' he said softly, tossing a discard into the center. He slid the new card into his hand, his expression completely blank. 'What do you have, baby?'

'Pair of kings,' you said, throwing them down on the table, trying to sound confident.

Jaafar let out a low, victorious hum that vibrated through the small space between you. He flipped his cards over one by one, his smirk turning thoroughly wicked. A flush. Five pristine hearts staring right back at you.

'Kings are beautiful, but they don't beat a flush,' he purred, his gaze slowly traveling down from your face, raking over your exposed skin with a heavy, possessive heat. He tapped the coffee table with a single finger. 'Pants, y/n. Let's go.'

You let out a breathless laugh, your heart hammering against your ribs. You rose to your knees slightly, unbuttoning your pants and sliding them down your legs before kicking them away, leaving you in just your matching black lace panties and the bra. When you settled back down onto your heels, you caught the exact moment Jaafar’s lazy composure completely shattered.

The playful chip-flipping stopped instantly. The chip dropped onto the rug with a soft thud.

Jaafar’s jaw tightened, his chest rising and falling in a sudden, heavy breath as his eyes burned into you. He didn't stay half laying down for much longer, the sight of you in his favorite set had him shifting, his large frame tensing as he slowly sat up, crawling an inch closer to the edge of the table.

'You did that on purpose,' he rasped, his voice incredibly deep, thick with desire. 'You knew exactly what you were doing.'

'Maybe I just wanted a tactical advantage,' you whispered, leaning your forearms on your thighs. You picked up the deck, offering it to him with a teasing tilt of your head. 'Your turn to deal, Jackson. Unless you're too distracted to count to five.'

Jaafar let out a low, warning growl, snatching the cards from your hand. His fingers brushed against yours, hot and electric. 'Oh, I can count just fine,' he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with a lethal intensity as he rapidly dealt the next hand, though his eyes never truly left you. 

You picked up your cards, your fingers trembling slightly against the paper. A straight. The universe was practically screaming at you to finish him off. Across the table, Jaafar didn’t even bother to hide his hand, he just stared at you, his dark eyes burning, a heavy, rough edge to his breathing that told you exactly how much the sight of you in that black lace was tearing through his self-control.

'Show me,' he rasped, not even waiting for a discard round.

You flipped your cards over, a triumphant, breathless smile breaking across your face. 'A straight. Looks like you're out of options, Jackson.'

Jaafar looked down at the cards, then let out a low, gravelly chuckle that sent a violent shiver straight down your spine. 'Fair enough.'

He reached down, grabbing the hem of his white t-shirt, and pulled it up and over his head in one smooth, fluid motion, tossing it blindly onto the floor.

Your breath caught completely in your throat. Seeing him shirtless, left in absolutely nothing but his grey sweatpants, was driving you entirely insane. The dim light of the living room caught the broad, cut planes of his chest, the sharp definition of his shoulders, and the slow, heavy rise and fall of his abdomen. But what made your heart batter wildly against your ribs wasn't just how breathtaking he looked, it was his raw, physical reaction to you. His skin radiated heat, his gaze fixed on your lace-clad body with a desperate, heavy hunger that made it incredibly clear he was hanging onto his restraint by a single, frayed thread.

You were sitting with your legs stretched out in front of you on the plush rug, leaning back slightly on your hands, trying to hold his gaze.

'Game over,' Jaafar murmured, his voice incredibly deep and entirely stripped of its playful edge.

He didn't look at the cards. He didn't care about the chips. He slithered across the small space of the rug entirely and crawled directly into your space.

Your eyes widened slightly as his large, heavy frame loomed over yours, his scent of warm skin and cedar completely intoxicating your senses. Before you could even utter a sound, Jaafar’s large, warm hands slid down to your knees. Gently but with an undeniable, unyielding authority, he separated your legs, stepping his knees directly between your thighs to lock you underneath him.

The sudden, intense proximity made you gasp, the heat of his bare chest hovering just inches from yours.

'I can't look at you in this damn set for another second without touching you,' he growled softly, his hands traveling up your inner thighs, his thumbs tracing the edge of your lace panties, leaving trails of liquid fire on your skin. He leaned down, his dark eyes locking onto your lips. 'You won the hand, baby, but I'm taking the prize.'

Jaafar didn’t give you a chance to answer. He slammed his mouth down onto yours, a deep, bruising kiss that completely eradicated any lingering pretense of a game. His tongue slid into your mouth, possessive and thick with a desperate hunger that matched the wild hammering of your pulse. You let out a breathless whine against his lips, your hands flying up to grip his bare shoulders, your fingers digging tightly into the hard, smooth muscle of his back as he tasted you thoroughly.

He tasted like unadulterated desire. His large hands slid higher up your thighs, gripping your hips with enough force to ground you completely against the rug. He dragged his mouth away from yours, panting heavily, his hot breath fanning across your wet lips before he buried his face in the crook of your neck. He bit down gently on the sensitive column of your throat, sucking a dark mark into your skin that had you arching your back off the floor, your chest pressing firmly against his bare torso.

'You are so fucking beautiful,' Jaafar growled against your skin, his voice a gravelly, raw vibration that sent a violent jolt of electricity straight to your core. 'Driving me insane all night in this lace.'

His hands moved to the back of your bra. With a heavy, impatient tug, he unclipped the clasp, spilling your breasts into his warm palms. He let out a low, ragged groan at the sight, his thumbs instantly swiping rough circles over your nipples. The intense sensation had you crying out, your fingers tangling into his dark curls, pulling him closer. He didnt need the invitation, he leaned down, taking one stiff peak fully into his mouth, his tongue swirling and sucking with a fierce, rhythmic heat that made your lower abdomen clench up in an agonizingly sweet ache.

You rolled your hips up against him instinctively, the friction of your lace panties rubbing against the heavy, solid ridge swelling beneath his sweatpants. Jaafar gasped into your skin, his grip tightening on your waist as he pinned your hips flat to the floor.

'Don't start that yet, baby,' he rasped, lifting his head, his dark eyes entirely black with lust, heavy lids hooded as he stared down at you. 'If you move like that, it's over before we even start.'

Without breaking eye contact, he reached down, his large hand sliding under the waistband of your matching lace panties. He hooked his fingers into the delicate fabric and dragged them down your legs in one fluid motion, tossing them blindly into the shadows of the room. You were completely open beneath him now, your skin flushed and trembling in the cool air of the living room, completely locked under his heavy gaze.

Jaafar didn't hesitate. He guided his hand back between your separated thighs, his long, elegant fingers, the ones that had been shuffling cards so effortlessly just minutes ago, sliding over your wet, swollen entrance. You let out a broken gasp, your thighs trembling as his thumb found your hypersensitive bundle of nerves, putting a deliberate, heavy pressure on it that had your head tossing back against the rug.

'Look at how wet you are for me,' he whispered wickedly, his fingers sliding deep inside you with a heavy, slick glide. You were so incredibly tight, wrapping around his fingers instantly. He groaned, plunging them deeper, establishing a filthy, relentless rhythm that had you weeping, your hips lifting off the floor to chase his hand. 'Listen to that sound. You like that, baby?'

'Jaafar, please,' you whimpered, your hands against his chest, trying to get him closer, trying to tell him what you truly needed. The friction of his thumb and the deep, stretching glide of his fingers inside you was pushing you dangerously close to the edge. 'I want you. Please, get rid of the pants.’

Jaafar let out a low, incredibly wicked chuckle against your skin, but he didn't pull the sweatpants down. Instead, he slowly slipped his fingers out of your dripping heat with a torturous, wet slide, making you whine at the sudden loss of friction.

Before you could protest, he reached blindly over his shoulder, grabbed the messy deck of cards from the carpet, and dropped them right onto your bare stomach.

'Shuffle your cards, baby,' he whispered, his voice a lazy, teasing purr as he leaned his weight back onto his knees, hovering over your open thighs. He gave you a slow, maddeningly handsome smirk, his eyes dark with absolute mischief. 'Gotta take these off if I lose, baby. Rules are rules.'

'Jaafar, you are a sadist,' you gasped out, your breath catching as you looked up at his bare, beautifully sculpted chest, his sweatpants practically hanging off his hips, teasing you with the heavy, rigid outline hidden beneath the fleece.

'Again, I'm a man of strategy,' he corrected smoothly, leaning down to press a quick, agonizingly soft kiss to your lips. He tapped the deck against your skin. 'Come on. Deal the final hand. Let's see how bad you want me out of these.'

Your fingers were shaking so badly you could barely square the deck against your stomach. Jaafar watched you with a heavy, hooded gaze, completely unbothered by his own agonizing restraint, thoroughly enjoying the sheer desperation rolling off you.

'Hurry up, baby,' he murmured, his deep voice dropping into that smooth, gravelly register that made your core ache. 'The dealer is waiting.'

You managed to shuffle them, a messy, unpracticed flutter of cardboard, before holding the deck out to him. Jaafar didn't take them. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing his heavy chest against yours, and reached around you to deal the cards out directly onto the plush rug on either side of your head. Five for you, five for him.

But he wasn't going to let you play standard.

Just as you reached up to grab your cards, Jaafar’s large hand slid right back between your separated thighs. He didn't hesitate, driving two long, slick fingers straight back into your tight, dripping heat with a deep, authoritative plunge.

You let out a loud, high-pitched gasp, your back arching entirely off the rug as your internal walls clamped down around him.

'Ah-ah,' Jaafar chided softly, a devastatingly wicked smirk spreading across his lips. He began a slow, agonizingly deep rhythm inside you, his thumb finding your hyper-sensitive bundle of nerves and applying a heavy, relentless pressure. 'Pick up your cards, y/n. Let's see what you're working with.'

'Jaafar—I swear to god—' you whimpered, tears of sheer pleasure stinging the corners of your eyes. You blindly reached for your cards, fanning them out with trembling fingers. Your vision was practically swimming. A pair of aces. You needed to draw.

Across from you, Jaafar didn't even bother to pick up his cards with his free hand. He just rested his palm flat on the floor next to your head, leaning his weight into you, using his other hand to absolutely ruin your thought process inside your thighs. He curled his fingers up, hitting your sweet spot with lethal accuracy.

'Discard,' you choked out, your hips involuntarily lifting off the floor to chase his hand. 'I need... I need three cards.'

'Three?' Jaafar purred, matching your breathless tone. He reached over with his free hand, flipped three cards from the deck, and dropped them onto your chest. At the same time, he drove his fingers deeper inside you, speeding up his rhythm just enough to make you cry out, your cards nearly slipping from your grip. 'Show me the final hand, baby. I'm getting impatient.'

You forced your eyes open, looking at the new cards through blurred vision. Another ace. A three of a kind.

'Three aces,' you sobbed out, throwing the cards face up on the rug. You grabbed his bare, muscular shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. 'I won. Take them off. Take them off now.'

Jaafar looked down at your cards, then up at your flushed, desperate face. The teasing, playful dynamic completely evaporated from his eyes, replaced by a raw, predatory hunger that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

'My pleasure,' he rasped.

He pulled his wet fingers out of you with a slick, heavy sound that made your cheeks burn. In one swift, powerful motion, Jaafar hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his grey sweatpants and boxers, shoving them down his long, muscular legs and kicking them away entirely.

When he moved back over you, he was fully thick, dark, and rigid, a heavy bead of pre-come glistening at the tip. He didn't waste another second. He grabbed your knees, pinning them high against your chest, and drove his hips forward, burying his entire length inside you to the hilt in one deep, brutal stroke.

The sudden, massive stretch of him filling you completely had you crying out, the sound echoing loudly off the high ceiling of the living room. Jaafar didn't give you even a second to adjust. He instantly began to drive his hips forward, a low, guttural roar escaping his throat as he slammed into you, his groin hitting yours with a heavy, wet thud that sent shockwaves of pure pleasure straight to your brain.

'Fuck, you're so tight, baby,' Jaafar groaned, his voice completely raw and ruined. He buried his face in your neck, his hot breath fanning across your skin as he established a brutal, unyielding pace. 'Mmh, yeah...just like that.'

He was moving with a terrifying amount of stamina, his thick length sliding all the way out until just the tip lingered before plunging back in to the absolute hilt. Every single thrust was hitting your G-spot with lethal precision. Combined with the slick, intense friction from his fingers earlier, you were already flying toward the edge. Your internal walls began to ripple and squeeze around him.

'Jaafar—wait, I'm already—'

'Go ahead, baby. Take it,' he rasped, his own pace turning frantic as he felt you clamp down. He arched his back, pushing deeper, his hips jerking hard into yours. 'That's right...give it to me. Let me feel it.'

With a loud, broken scream, your first orgasm crashed over you. Your body shook violently, your internal muscles spasming around him in a tight, desperate vice. The sheer sensation of your climax squeezing his length had Jaafar letting out a high-pitched, breathless moan, a sound so raw and undone it sent a whole new wave of heat straight to your core. He didn't stop. He pushed right through your climax, his thrusts turning heavy, wet, and punishing, driving you immediately back into a state of rising tension.

Before your body could even fully process the release, Jaafar gripped your waist with bruising force. He pulled back, sliding out of you with a slick, loud pop that made you whimper, and hauled you up by your hips.

'On the couch. Come here,' he panted, his chest heaving, his skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat.

He backed onto the plush sofa, sitting down and pulling you right over his lap. You didn't even have time to think before you sank down onto him, guiding his thick, rigid length back inside you. You let out a ragged gasp as he filled you to the absolute top, your knees resting on the cushions on either side of his hips.

The angle was entirely different, exposing your clit directly to the friction of his lower stomach. You gripped his broad shoulders for leverage and began to ride him, rolling your hips in a desperate, frantic rhythm.

The sudden control, combined with the way your sensitive, overstimulated walls were rubbing against him, completely broke Jaafar's composure. He threw his head back against the top of the couch, his fingers digging desperately into your hips to help guide your movement.

'Ah...fuck, baby,' he whined, a loud, uninhibited groan tearing from his chest. His breathing turned into a series of breathless, needy whimpers as you set a relentless, grinding pace. 'Mmh, yeah...right there, keep going baby. You're killing me, baby. Fuck, ride it.'

Hearing him completely lose his mind under you, hearing those deep, needy whimpers and raspy moans echoing right in your ear, turned you on to a dangerous degree. Your mind was completely overloaded. Every single nerve ending in your lower body was screaming from the constant, heavy friction. The overstimulation was massive, blurring your vision, but the sound of his voice kept pushing you higher.

'You like hearing me like this, huh?' Jaafar choked out, his eyes opening, entirely black with lust as he watched your head toss back. He suddenly bucked his hips upward, meeting your downward slides with a brutal, lifting force that hit your sweet spot so hard your jaw went slack. 'Mhm...that's it. Take all of it.'

Your second orgasm hit you like a physical blow. It was completely secondary to the first one, longer, deeper, and so intense your legs went weak, your entire upper body collapsing against his chest. You wept into his shoulder, your body trembling uncontrollably as you pulsed around him.

Jaafar let out a loud, strangled cry as your climax squeezed him, his body jerking beneath yours. He grabbed your waist, flipping you over in one powerful, effortless motion so you were flat on your back against the sofa cushions, your legs hooked over his broad shoulders to open you up completely.

'We're not done,' he growled, his voice thick and dripping with dominant heat.

He didn't give your overstimulated body a single second to rest. He dove back in, his thrusts shallow and incredibly fast, vibrating directly against your hypersensitive entrance.

'Jaafar, please, it's too much—I can't—' you sobbed out, your hands clawing at the fabric of the couch, your hips twitching under the sheer, unyielding overload of pleasure. Every touch felt like fire.

'You totally can, baby. I know it hurts how good it is,' he whispered wickedly, leaning down to trap your mouth in a deep, wet kiss, swallowing your frantic cries. He kept the pace brutal, shifting his angle slightly to grind against you with every single slam of his hips. 'Look at me. Don't close your eyes. Look at what you do to me.'

You forced your heavy lids open. He was staring down at you, his jaw clenched, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your chest, completely consumed by you. He let out a series of low, rhythmic groans with every deep thrust, the sound vibrating right against your chest.

The relentless speed, the vocal, needy sounds coming from his lips, and the sheer, unending friction pushed you straight over the edge for the third time. Your mind completely snapped. You let out a muffled scream into his mouth as your third climax tore through you, a violent, full-body shudder that had your toes curling and your muscles locking onto him like a trap.

The crushing, pulsing warmth of your third orgasm completely broke his stamina. Jaafar stiffened, his eyes flying wide open as a loud, guttural shout tore from his throat. He buried himself as deep as he could possibly go, his hips locking flush against yours, and gave three final, desperate, heavy thrusts before his body completely gave out. He threw his head into the crook of your neck, his chest heaving violently as he pumped wave after wave of thick, burning come deep into your pulsing core, filling you completely to the brim.

The living room fell into an absolute, heavy silence, broken only by the sound of your loud, synchronized pants. Jaafar stayed buried inside you, his heavy, sweaty frame crushing you into the soft cushions of the couch, his heart beating like a trapped bird against your ribs.

After a long, quiet moment, he lifted his head, a completely dazed, dorkily satisfied grin breaking through his exhaustion. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your wet lips, before rolling onto his side and pulling you tightly against his chest, completely content to stay locked together for the rest of the night.

For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. You just lay there in the quiet living room, the scattered playing cards and wooden poker chips still littering the rug around the coffee table like colorful debris from a beautifully fought war.

Jaafar’s long fingers, still lightly trembling from the sheer intensity of his release, began to trace slow, lazy circles up and down your bare arm. A low, thoroughly pleased chuckle started deep in his chest, vibrating right against your cheek.

'Well,' he murmured, his voice incredibly husky, deep, and completely ruined from all the groaning. He reached down, his thumb gently catching your chin to tilt your face up so he could look into your heavy, hooded eyes. A lazy, devastatingly handsome smirk crawled back onto his lips. 'I think... I think it’s a tie, baby.'

━━ SERIES .ᐟ 𝜗𝜚

𝙎𝙐𝙋𝙀𝙍𝘾𝙐𝙏 ━━ 𝟭𝟵𝟴𝟰 ╱ 𝟮𝟬𝟬𝟵. you met him after your first grammys performance, that's all it was supposed to be ━ a congratulations. instead, it became twenty years of almosts, with crossed paths, late-night phone calls, lingering glances, separate lives and feelings neither of you seemed able to leave behind. ( 𝖲𝖫𝖮𝖶 𝖡𝖴𝖱𝖭 ╱ 𝖲𝖴𝖦𝖦𝖤𝖲𝖳𝖨𝖵𝖤 ╱ 𝖤𝖵𝖤𝖭𝖳𝖴𝖠𝖫 𝖲𝖬𝖴𝖳 ).

𝖱𝖤𝖠𝖣𝖤𝖱 𝖶𝖨𝖪𝖨𝖯𝖤𝖣𝖨𝖠 𝖨𝖭𝖲𝖯𝖮 ( 𝗡𝗢𝗧 𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡 ━━ reader has no name and can be imagined however you want. this was just for fun. marriage date is also voluntary innacurate . . . ).

━━ ONE SHOTS .ᐟ 𝜗𝜚

𝙎𝙄𝙂𝙉 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙂𝙄𝙍𝙇𝙎 ━━ 𝗧𝗛𝗥𝗜𝗟𝗟𝗘𝗥 𝗘𝗥𝗔. some rockstars sign their fans' breasts. you wonder if your boyfriend is one of those. ( 𝖲𝖴𝖦𝖦𝖤𝖲𝖳𝖨𝖵𝖤 ).

𝘽𝙀𝙉𝘿 𝙊𝙑𝙀𝙍, 𝘽𝘼𝘽𝙔 ━━ 𝗧𝗛𝗥𝗜𝗟𝗟𝗘𝗥 𝗘𝗥𝗔. after wondering if your boyfriend ever signed a girl's boobs, you wonder if he ever spanked someone. ( 𝖲𝖴𝖦𝖦𝖤𝖲𝖳𝖨𝖵𝖤 ).

𝘾𝙃𝙀𝙍𝙍𝙄𝙀𝙎 ━━ 𝗠𝗔𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗘 𝗘𝗥𝗔. you have a new piercing and you can't wait to show it to your boyfriend. ( 𝖲𝖬𝖴𝖳 ).

PERHAPS YOU WERE tapping the brush a little too hard against the back of the powder, or perhaps you were not being nearly rough enough for your liking, since Michael was still staring at you without batting an eyelid, the corner of his lips slightly turned up. With a roll of your eyes, you dusted his face, the bristles pressing against his skin without much mercy. 

Today, he would not be getting a single bit of special treatment from you ━ that was decided! 

"Lift your head up a bit," you ordered firmly. 

Michael complied without grumbling, his teeth biting the inside of his cheek as if to stop himself from speaking… or laughing. His eyes remained fixed on you ━ on the crease appearing between your eyebrows, on the way your jaw was clenched, and on how your fingers were turning slightly paler as you held the brush oh so firmly in your hands.

He had been sitting perfectly still in the chair for a good fifteen minutes. Michael was already wearing his stage costume ━ a skin-tight metallic top that caught every beam of light, black straps that hugged his forearms, while a slanted zipper cut across his chest. Thick black curls framed his face, one single stubborn curl kept clinging to his forehead and you had had to pin it down back in place. This had earned you a reaction from him you had shut down with a look.

As you applied his make-up ━ foundation matched to his skin tone, applied delicately, especially to the depigmented areas of his face, concealer under his eyes to brighten them, and light contouring along the sides of his nose ━ all the tension that seemed to have built up in him melted away, to the point where he began to watch you with amusement, his fingers occasionally reaching for your thighs, hidden beneath the jeans you were wearing.

You fended off every advance, your annoyance with him growing with every brushstroke across his face. When you tapped his nose a little too hard, that was when your boyfriend decided something had to be said. 

"Ouch! Careful," he complained. "C’mon… how much longer you gonna keep lookin’ at me like that?"

Your only response was an exasperated sigh, as you carried on applying the powder to the rest of his face. Once that was done, you took a black eyeliner pencil from your make-up bag to tackle his eyes. 

"Look up."

Michael hesitated for a moment, looking away from you for the first time. What you were holding in your hands was a veritable weapon to him, and he had absolutely no intention of performing at tonight’s gig with one eye missing. In an almost instinctive movement, he raised his hand to try and rest it on yours ━ you dodged his touch as if it was the plague. 

"Baby…" he sighed.

"Don’t baby me and look up. I’ve got better things to do than put up with your fucking antics."

In a perfectly automatic reflex, Michael coughed as if to erase the swear word that had just slipped from your lips, and that was enough to set the fire that had been simmering inside you for several minutes absolutely ablaze. 

"Oh, fuck off! You say far worse than me sometimes!" you exclaimed. "Look the fuck up, I said."

"Ask nicely."

And he had the fucking audacity to grin at you! You let out another sigh ━ the day was going to be longer than expected. The liner was still clenched between your fingers, the heels of your three-inch shoes tapping impatiently against the floor. 

"Michael... I'm really not in the mood to play games with you right now."

"'t's a simple request, woman. It's called politeness ━ ever heard of that?"

You decided to ignore him completely, your free hand grabbing his face, fingernails digging just deep enough into his jaw ━ you were not about to ruin all your hard work, after all. The liner was now just a few millimetres from his eyes when he closed them.

Fucking stubborn.

"You're so mean to me," Michael pouted, trying to move his head.

"Fire me," you challenged, a small smirk showing itself on your very distracting lips.

"So you'll be free to go work for Prince? Never."

And as if nothing had happened, you let go of him in one swift movement, as though he had burnt you, taking a few steps back. He was always doing that. Michael made you believe he was not angry any more, that everything was forgotten and that he was ready to carry on as if nothing had happened, because he could not bear the thought of you harbouring any negative feelings toward him, even for just a few hours. Then he had to ruin everything, his jealousy catching up with him in a flash. 

Michael tried to catch you again, but to no avail. You dodge him, throwing the liner back into your make-up bag ━ you were done.

"C’mon, girl, you can’t possibly still be ma━"

"Cant fucking still be mad at you for being a fucking controlling, jealous asshole? Oh yes I am! Yes I am!"

You started to pack away your kit, your arms moving frantically. Even though you were really annoyed with him, it was all just an act. After all, you were a professional, and even though Michael was your boyfriend and was getting on your nerves, he was still your employer ━ the one who paid your wages ━ and you certainly were not going to let him leave half-ready. Although… 

"Baby… you can’t possibly leave me like that! I have to be on stage in━" he looked at the clock. "━fifteen minutes!" Michael whined. "I’ll shut up. Please, don’t leave."

You took advantage of the fact that you had your back to him to smile. Got him. Slowly, you turned your head slightly to the side, one eyebrow raised, your chin held high.

"Oh, really? Are you just going to shut up and let me get on with my work?" he nodded. "No more touching?" another nod. "No more comments about me doing Prince's makeup?" there was an hesitation on his part. "Michael!"

There was a long sigh.

"... ‘romise," he mumbled.

You turned your head toward your make-up bag, rolling your eyes. He really was stubborn.

It was at that moment that you felt two hands rest on your hips, a warm breath brushing against your neck. The very next second, something damp pressed against your skin, and it took you half a second more to realise it was his lips. The bastard.

"’m sorry," Michael pressed another kiss.

"Are you now?"

With his hands, he pulled you toward him so that you were sitting on top of him on the chair. Your hands automatically wrapped round his neck ━ for fear of falling, of course ━ his palm resting flat against your thigh. His mouth wasted no time in finding your throat.

"’m just a jealous idiot," Michael murmured against you. "I hate the thought of him lookin’ at you… you touchin’ his face━"

"It’s just work!" you cut him off, trying not to moan at his ministrations. "It’s literally my fucking job!"

Ahem.

"I swear to God if you ahem me once more━"

His laughter cut you off mid-sentence, reverberating against your upper chest. Michael planted a burning kiss just above your heart, which was pounding wildly.

"You’re cute when you’re mad."

You simply rolled your eyes at him, shoving his chest weakly which made him laugh a little more. His hand, which until then had remained quietly on your thigh, began a slow journey up your body, leaving a trail of shivers in its wake.

"You’re being inappropriate," you managed to say, acting like you were about to stop his fingers from touching your heated skin. "I’m your employee."

"Mmm, my favourite employee," Michael kissed your jaw.

You let yourself be swept away by his caresses and kisses for a moment, your eyes closing with desire. He had always been very good at making you forget why you were angry in the first place, but this time you were determined to make him understand that he had gone too far.

Ignoring the way your thighs instinctively clenched around nothing, you opened your eyes again and brought your hands to his face once more. His chocolate-brown eyes met yours and, for a moment, you were on the verge of begging him to devour you just before his concert.

Patience is a virtue, you reminded yourself.

His wayward strand was still perfectly pinned in place by the clip you had put in, his curls brushing against your fingers as you lifted his face toward yours.

"I need you to understand that your reaction was really hurtful, Mike," you said softly, trying to keep your anger at bay for it would not help the situation he was trying to resolve peacefully. "I know you have… Whatever your relationship with Prince is, but… this is a great opportunity for me."

Michael looked down, his lower lip clenched between his teeth ━ a clear sign that he regretted his behaviour. His hands had stopped moving, only his thumb kept tracing circles beneath your shirt. He exhaled before meeting your gaze.

"You’re right…" Michael admitted. "I know you’re right and I apologise for my reaction. Truly. You’re the most talented make-up artist, it should be expected that… that anyone would want you to make them look pretty."

"You don’t need me to make you look pretty, silly," you bit the inside of your cheek to stop you from smiling.

"Does that mean I’m prettier than Prince?" he grinned.

This time, it was you who let out a laugh, swatting his chest.

"Fishing for compliments is sooo unlike you."

"I’ll take that answer as a yes," Michael chuckled, kissing the corner of your mouth.

"Whatever," you looked up.

Stretching on his lap to reach for your make-up bag, you searched for your liner. There was only ten minutes left before the show and he still needed his eyes done. Once you had found it, you tilted his chin up, repositioning yourself better with your legs fully capturing his.

"Hold still," you said gently.

Michael did as he was told, letting you do your work peacefully. He was still wearing that proud grin on his face, knowing full well that you were finally going to forgive him. His hands slid over your bottom, under the pretence that it was to stop you from slipping. You raised an eyebrow at him, not fooled for a moment, whilst your fingers traced a symmetrical line around his eyes.

"You know, with all your bullshit, I believe that I deserve a raise," you spoke, finishing off the outline of his left eye.

"Done."

"I didn’t say how much," you chuckled.

"Doesn’t matter," Michael’s fingers were rolling over your jean. "Whatever you want, baby, you’ll get."

"You’re terrible at managing your money," you exhaled, amused, working on his right eye.

"Good thing I have people to help me with that," he squeezed your bottom. "Name a price, woman, it’s all yours."

"You’re being ridiculous," you chuckled under your breath.

"I’d buy you a house, an apartment ━ whatever you want or…" Michael hesitated in a whisper. "… or... A ring… if… if that’s somethin’ you’d want…"

The liner almost slipped from your fingers, and you left a black smudge on his eyelid as you tried to catch it.

"Shit."

You picked up a cotton bud that was lying on the table, your eyes fixed on absolutely everything except his. You could feel his gaze on you, his hands still resting on your bottom. You wiped away the mark you had just left on his skin before resuming your task, your fingers trembling slightly.

Unable to resist any longer, Michael took the hand holding the liner and brought it to his lips, planting a kiss on your knuckles.

"What do you say?" he asked, raising his eyes at yours. "Mm?"

You stilled for a second. He was so pretty like this, his doe brown eyes looking up at you with a warmth so inviting that you almost leaned in to kiss him.

"I say that… that you don’t need to say that type of things to make me forgive you," you could feel the heat rising in your cheeks.

"That’s good to know, sweetheart, but I’m actually being serious," Michael released your hand, bringing his own to your face. "What do you say?" he repeated shyly.

"I…" you were truly at loss for words, swallowing slowly. "I’d say that…" come on, girl, speak! "… that this better not be your official proposal."

A genuine smile broke his face as he brought you closer to him, his nose and mouth finding the side of your neck. Michael pressed small kisses there again, the scent of mandarine and strawberries enveloping him in a warm embrace.

"Don’t worry, the real one will be much better," you could feel his smile against your skin. "I really am sorry for what I said," he said again, really needing you to know he was sincere. "You know you don’t need my permission to do anything, right?"

Your hands gently caressed the nape of his neck. 

"I know."

"Good," Michael nodded before lifting his head, the corner of his mouth doing the same thing. "That said..."

"Oh, here we go again..." you sighed, rolling your eyes again.

"... Go do your job and do as good as you always do," he continued, catching your hands in his. "Make him jealous. He'll never have the best make-up artist for himself ━ the best girl."

Your breath caught at his words as his brought your hands to his mouth, kissing your fingertips softly.

"And to say I almost believed you when you said you wouldn't be jealous anymore..." you managed to breathe, but there was another kind of heat that tainted your tone.

"But this," Michael gestured to you sitting on his lap. "This special treatment is for me only."

You snorted at that, releasing yourself from his grip, your arms coming around his neck as you bit your lip.

"I don't think that's in my contract, Mr. Jackson."

His hands came to rest on your bottom, squeezing harder than before.

"You should read your contract more carefully, girl," he grinned. "It even specifies that before every show I should take extra care of you."

"Extra care?" you smirked. "Can you even do that in..." you turned just enough to look at the clock. "... five minutes?"

The challenge was there. You saw how his eyes widened slightly before going back to their usual size, a determined look now dressing them. In one swift movement, Michael stood up, bringing you with him as you let out a small, surprised scream.

"Watch me, woman!" he shot back, lying you down on the couch as you giggled.

It’s been almost three weeks, and I haven’t called him.

It’s not that I haven’t wanted to. I kept the little piece of paper where he’d written his personal number, folded it into an old receipt, and stuffed it inside a small clutch bag I barely use in the back of my wardrobe like a dirty little secret.

Which is exactly what this is.

I want to call the man I cheated on my boyfriend with. I want to hear his voice. I want to see him again. But what kind of woman would that keep making me? My god, I had songs about hating cheating guys. My fans resonated with them, and yet here I was, acting exactly like one.

I couldn't stop thinking about that evening. How his lips felt on mine, how he smelt. How he'd learnt me, using those fingers to figure out exactly how to...

oh my god.

My face flushes. I keep repeating that moment, working myself up into a state and then having to force myself to cool down. The way his brows raised, questioning if he'd got the right spot?

I glance over my shoulder from where I'm putting some heels away on a shelf, and stare at that little glittery red clutch bag where his number is hiding.

I want to call him.

But I can't.

I pad out into my master bedroom, bare foot and in a matching pink pyjama set. I shut the double doors of my walk in wardrobe behind me, thinking about taking a cool shower to refocus my mind on the day ahead when someone speaks.

"Have you seen it?"

I yelp loudly, almost jumping out of my skin as I turn and see Johnny standing in the doorway. Blonde hair messy, out of its usual sleek style, and he's in sweatpants and a t-shirt.

"Jesus Christ!" I snap at him, "Don't sneak up on me."

"I didn't," he chuckles, walking further into the room, towards me.

"What have I seen?" I ask, turning away from him, and pulling the wardrobe doors more firmly shut. I keep thinking he'll find the little scrap piece of paper, that at some point it's going to start ringing, alerting him to what I've done.

"The tabloids are having a field day," he smirks, "take a look. This arrived this morning." He hands me a folded newspaper, and I inhale deeply, mentally preparing for what it could be, though, when I actually unfold it, I'm speechless for a few seconds.

Michael's eyes are staring back at me in black and white from the front page. It's a portrait, one where he look half surprised. Brows slightly raised, like he'd been shocked about a question. Curls frame his face, with one hanging down between his brows, whilst the rest are pulled back, showing off that bone structure.

Except, that's not really what's thrown me about all this.

It's me. Right next to him. My portrait, done by the same photographer for the same project, and I'm staring off to the side of the camera, looking slightly like a deer in the headlights. The worst bit is our expressions match, both of our eyes big, the slight frowns.

The headline over our pictures reads: POP ROYALTY RIVALS: BAD BLOOD? OR BURNING CHEMISTRY?

"What... what is this?" I practically whisper. My heart's racing.

"That photographer leaked some photos from his charity project, and he's put you two next to each other." Johnny snorts, amused, but I can hear anger behind it. "Look at the captions, it gets even worse."

I drop my gaze to the bottom of the page where it says, written on the actual book which someone has taken a photograph of: "the superstars, both caught in an unguarded moment, reveal what happens when performance gives way to instinct. I played the other's music whilst taking the photographs, expecting anger, or even annoyance. Except, what I saw through my lens was something quite different. Fascination. Surprise. Maybe even something else, something close to yearning."

Blood drains from my face. I swallow, unable to think of anything to say. The bastard had played Michael's music on purpose.

"These people will say fucking anything to sell a few books, won't they?" Johnny mutters, chuckling again. I glance over the front page again, gaze snagging on our expressions for a split second too long. "Tab?" Johnny asks, sounding more hesitant.

I fold the newspaper in half again, "Yeah," I sigh, clearing my throat.

"... what's wrong?" he asks, frowning. I meet his gaze and my brain blanks, because what is wrong? Technically nothing. This should mean nothing to me. And I can see the assumptions forming on Johnny's face, the thoughts swimming in his eyes, slowly turning against me.

"It's just annoying," I say, "always having to deal with this."

"What do you mean?"

"His name attached to mine, mine attached to his. They just can't leave it alone," I say quietly, passing him the newspaper back. But he grabs my wrist as I'm about to walk past him, pulls me back to face him, firmly, but not hard.

"What's going on?"

"What?"

"What's up with you lately? I expected more of a reaction, but every single time I bring this guy up recently you shut down. You used to jump at the opportunity to dog on this guy." He stares down at me, brows knitted together. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” I reply, “I’m just over it, that’s all.” I slide my arm out of his grip. “It’s been over a year and a half, I just want everyone to move on.”

Johnny stares at me. “Right,” he says slowly, glancing at each of my eyes.

My temper flares. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You haven’t wanted to touch me since that after party. We’ve barely had sex.” He says. And he’s right. We’ve only fucker twice since then. “That same party where you disappeared for half an hour and someone told me you were talking to Michael.”

Fuck. “Someone told you I was talking to Michael?” I repeat, giving myself time to think. “Right. Okay.” I nod, glancing away from him.

“So that wasn’t true?” He presses.

“What are you trying to imply, Johnny?”

“Did something happen between you two?” He asks, then rapidly unfolds the newspaper, opening it up to Michael’s face and showing me. “Did you do something with this guy? The guy I’ve been fucking defending you from?”

“I can’t believe you would even say that to me.”

I walk away from him, heading towards the bathroom. “Answer the question, Tabi!” he shouts after me.

“No!” I shout back at him before I slam the bathroom door. It was technically no. We’d only kissed, and he’d touched me only once. Just once. I hadn’t called him.

And I wouldn’t.

A few days pass when my manager calls me. I’ve had some time off, literally just forty eight hours before getting back to work. I'm in the studio again, pouring over my album, listening through songs, figuring out the order I want it to be presented in, when my cell phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Tabi, hey!" Lorelei greets, "How's things going?"

We walk briefly about my studio time, what needs to be done. After a few minutes, I can tell she wants to change the subject thought. "So, I got an interesting call this morning." my manager continues. My two sound engineers are sipping coffee, minding their own business as I sit off to one side in the low lit room, cell phone tucked between my shoulder and ear as I pick at some dinner.

"Yeah?"

"there's a song that a bunch of other artists are working on for charity," she begins, speaking carefully as if I'm going to tell her I'm not gonna do it.

I'm tempted to decline, considering the effect my last project I worked on had on the general public and tabloids. Despite not confirming or denying anything, it felt like I'd been stripped bare for all to see with the caption that photographer wrote under Michael and I's portraits.

"its volunteer based, so you wouldn't get paid. There are a bunch of artists from different genres doing it. Might be good for some networking."

"Who is doing it?"

"A few people! but I don't have the confirmed final list. What I do know is that you and Johnny are on it."

I stay quiet for a long moment. So long in fact Lorelei prompts me. "Yeah, I'm still here," I say softly. Johnny. We'd been on tentative ground since arguing a few days ago. He'd apologised for jumping to conclusions, and I'd apologised for being so cagey, but it felt strange still. Like he was holding back what he really wanted to say, and I was obviously holding back telling him the truth.

"So what do you say? It's a charity song so it won't be perfect, but the idea is to bring awareness to--"

"I'll do it," I agree softly. I might be good for Johnny and I to work on a project together, give us some time in the same place. He'd been working hard, preparing to tour, and I'd been putting my own shit together. We'd hardly had any face time. Maybe that was part of the reason why it was getting a little rocky, and why I'd... well, done what I did.

Lorelei gives me the details, and I head back to work.

The day comes to begin recording for the charity song. Johnny and I head into one of the most famous recording studios in Hollywood, smiling towards the paparazzi lingering outside. The rapid clicks of their camera shutters fill my ears as we step inside the building, not wanting to stop and answer any questions. Though I do hear someone's name called, and my alarm bells start ringing before I can actually hear what the guy said.

We head upstairs, moving through numerous hallways together. I hold Johnny's hand almost reflexively, since I'd taken it the moment we'd gotten out of the car.

A united front in the face of the rumours spreading like wildfire, all because of that damn photographer's portrait book. No one had outrightly accused me of cheating, but it was implied that my affections were being directed else where. Towards Michael.

Just thinking of him kicks up my heart rate, and I inhale a little shakily. Johnny glances down at me, "are you nervous?" he asks as we reach where we're going to be recording with a bunch of other artists. Some of them are hanging out outside the door. I don't answer straight away, too concerned with planting a smile on my face as those big name singers all turn our way. "You know you could out sing any of them, right?"

I shush him, blushing as we near the others, praying none of them heard that. I get he's trying to be nice, and I give his hand a squeeze. The others seem surprised to see us, but they engage us in conversation anyway, as if we're all colleagues gathered around the water fountain at an office.

After a couple of minutes we head inside the recording room, where the lights are low, ambience set. It's massive, obviously made for large live bands or group recordings, like this. I'm still holding Johnny's hand, glancing around the room to see where we're meant to stand, or if we can stand anywhere, when I see him.

I freeze for half a second, eyes flaring briefly. I instinctually go to let go of Johnny's hand as Michael glances towards us, but then I grip it even harder, fighting that urge. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth as it sets into a slight frown.

He's wearing all black. A military style jacket with gold detailing, black pants, loafers, big shades on, hiding his eyes. His curls are pulled back, aside from that stubborn one that likes to hang over his brows. Despite his blacked out glasses, I can feel him looking at me. Taking me in. I shift, clearing my throat, silently wishing I'd tried more with my outfit.

I'm dressed down, in grey leggings and a cream wrap cardigan. I'm not wearing heels either, but at least I have make up on and my hair done in its usual big sixties style.

My heart races as I tear my eyes away from him, and sort of angle myself behind Johnny as all the other singers begin to file into the room. There's about ten of us, all from various genres. Rock, Pop, R&B, Country, etc.

I keep hiding behind Johnny as we get started, though most of my attention is being dragged to the other end of the room, where Michael is. He stands by himself, not really engaging in anyone in conversation, arms held behind his back as he rests his weight on one leg. He's as still as a statue, just listening as producers or whoever they are running the show let us know what to expect. They give a short speech into what the song is about and what it's raising money for.

We listen to a demo as the lyrics are being handed out on sheets of paper. Each verse is meant to be lead by a different genre, and it's only as I see the first verse labelled pop that something dawns on me. I'm stood with the rock singers. And there's only two pop singers here... me, and--

"Tabi, would you mind standing over here for me please? We'd like to keep the genres together." one of the organisers asks, pointing to the space next to Michael. Where we'd need to share a microphone. There's a brief pause, and the awkward tension in the room thickens. Eyes slide from me, to Michael.

"Sure," I say lightly, reminding myself to be professional as I shift from half standing behind Johnny like a shy kid avoiding speaking in a presentation.

"Is that really necessary?" Johnny asks, but I'm already moving.

"Wherever you need me is fine," I say quickly, flashing a smile towards the organisers then glancing back at my boyfriend. I catch a glimpse of everyone else's faces, and internally cringe.

I wish Johnny hadn't said anything, now I look like an asshole.

I stand beside Michael. Neither one of us says anything. Without my heels he towers over me, much like everyone else, and it is doing nothing to calm the nerves suddenly raging inside of me.

"Alright," the organisers say after stepping away and murmuring to each other. "We're gonna have Michael and Tabi take the lead verse and so on and so forth."

They step away to get things organised, and I glance down at the lyrics sheet in my hands. My lines are highlighted, so at least we don't have to talk about who is going to go first. Michael shifts, and I look towards him. His head tips down, as if to look at me and I snap my head away.

The music starts, and I clear my throat and step up to the mic, having to tip my chin up. Michael reaches forwards and adjusts it, bringing it down to an easier height for me. I don't have time to say thank you before I begin singing, but from the blush burning up my face and neck, perhaps I don't need to.

I read the lyrics as I sing, keeping my eyes down. The song is slow, and peaceful. I have four lines to sing, and out of the corner of my eye, as I do them, I see Michael nodding along slowly. The movement is barely noticeable unless you're looking directly at him. Which I do, and accidentally stumble over a word.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," I rush out. There's soft laughter, and I can't tell if they're laughing with or at me. Outside the recording booth, something clicks, and one of their voices comes through the speakers.

"No problem, again from the top."

I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a second. For fuck's sake, I've done this a million times. I used to be in a group myself, I know how these kind of recordings work. I lick my lips, blocking out all distractions then start again. My voice is stronger now, the vibrato and runs rolling out of my mouth easily. I keep my tone soft and a little husky, taking into consideration this isn't meant to be a belty, up beat song. More like a ballad.

When Michael starts, he changes his voice slightly. He matches my tone, but brings it a little lower into that smooth, silky sound I've heard only a few times. I glance at him, skin tingling. His voice draws me in and I openly watch him sing, much like probably, everyone else is doing.

We run through the song once, but there are a few mistakes. Voice cracks, messing up lyrics. We're just getting a feel of it I guess before we start again.

I sing, feeling a little more sure on my feet. I've read the lyrics a few times now and can remember my four lines, so I lower my hands that hold the sheet of paper and kind of watch the microphone, singing as I do. My gaze flicks up towards Michael again and his head is turned in my direction. He doesn't smile, but I feel his gaze on me, like we're holding eye contact. I finish up, but he leans in before I can fully lean away and subtly invades my personal space. His body brushes my right arm, and I get a whiff of his cologne.

Jesus.

My stomach lifts, heat curling deep. My thoughts all swarm together, replaying the dreams I've had of this man with his hands on me, replying memories of him with his hands on me, how his fingers felt inside me. My libido kicks into hyperdrive and almost knocks me flat.

I blink out of it after a few seconds, then duck my head. Trying not to listen too closely to the way he sings, how his voice subtly rasps like that. I think of anything else. But my mind and I go to war.

Iced water. Ice dripping down his skin. Forest fires. Michael's sweat. Flowers for funerals. He smells so good I could die.

As I try to find anything else to focus on, I feel someone's gazes boring holes into my back. I glance over my shoulder, towards the other side of the room, where Johnny is staring at me, jaw set. I give him a quizzical look, then turn around, remembering I'm here to work.

We run through the song again, and by this point I've fully relaxed. My mind has calmed, refocussing on the task until we're up for a break.

Michael steps away immediately, surprising me. Though I'm not sure why, since he has no reason to talk to me, and I have no reason to talk to him either. He moves over to some of the other singers, and they greet him with warm familiarity. I watch for a few seconds before I turn around, ready to look for Johnny, but he's already right behind me.

"Having fun?" he asks, voice stern as he speaks practically through his teeth. His expression is tight, but he's smiling. Probably for the benefit of everyone else.

"It's a great song," I say, even though I know that's not what he means. "So yeah," I add lightly.

Johnny's smile falters. "Can I speak to you outside?"

I nod, and follow him out of the studio, feeling eyes tracking me from behind. I already know who it is, and don't turn to confirm it. Johnny leads me down the hallway slightly, then turns and pulls me off to one side. There's no one out here but us, so he speaks normally. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"What?" I ask, brows furrowing. "I'm working, Johnny. What the fuck do you think I'm doing?" I shoot back, immediately knowing that this is about.

"Sure, right," he nods, being completely sarcastic, "And does making googoo eyes at Michael Jackson count as that?"

"Goo--" I cut myself off and stare up at him, temporarily stunned, "I'm fucking singing! He's singing, we are singers!" I gasp, "We're both doing our jobs, what we came here to do. Stop making this into something it isn't."

"You guys are practically rubbing arms, how could you expect me not to comment on that? You're my girl. He does not need to stand that close to you!" Johnny's voice raises.

"We are sharing a microphone!"

"There are plenty to go around!"

"If there were, don't you think they'd put more in? This is so not a big deal, Johnny!"

"For fuck's sake, Tab. Why are you defending him right now?"

"I'm not!" I gasp loudly, "What the fuck! I'm stating a fact, this is--" my mind muddles, I'm getting so worked up I don't even understand what to say.

"Don't you think if he wanted another microphone so he didn't have to share he'd ask for one? He wants to get close to you, and you're fucking letting him!" He shouts at me. "The guy called you a slut! The whole world heard that phone call."

"He didn't say that!" I blurt.

"He should have!" Johnny says so loud from the ringing silence in the hall I know it's reached the studio. My face blanks. "Wait, I didn't mean that," Johnny rushes out, "I didn't mean to say it like that."

"Fuck you, dude," I mutter, turning away from him. Though as I do, I see one of the organisers and a few of the other artists leaning out the door, watching us. I freeze, unsure of what to do.

"baby, wait. I didn't mean it like that," Johnny says quietly, trying to grab my arm again but I yank it out of his hold.

"I need some air," I say quietly and turn back around, walking quickly down the hall towards where I roughly know the exit is. I don't head downstairs, and instead just wander until I find an empty studio with its door open. I slip inside and close it a little, flicking the lights on, but keeping them low. I cross the room and sit down on the couch.

I'll only be in here for a few minutes. That's all I'm giving myself to relax and pretend the last five minutes didn't happen before I go back.

I'm sitting there with my hands cradling my face, eyes closed, when the door creaks a little. "Leave me alone, Johnny," I mutter, opening my eyes and looking up. My heart jumps as Michael steps in, shades still on, and closes the door slightly behind him, but not all the way.

"He left," Michael informs me in his usual soft spoken voice.

"Oh," I reply quietly. My boyfriend and my ride left, great.

"you okay?" he asks, remaining by the door, keeping a few metres between us.

"Fine," I sigh, standing up. "Is the break over?" I ask, motioning to the door.

"Nearly," Michael replies. We just look at each other for a few seconds. "I didn't know your relationship was like that."

"Like what?" I ask defensively.

"uh," he hesitates, "so... energetic."

My mouth sets into a firm line. "I don't have the energy for this right now, actually." I go to push by him, but Michael doesn't move. So I just end up really close to his chest. I hesitate before stepping back, looking up at him with confusion.

"You didn't call me."

I say nothing for a moment as I take in his expression. His set lips, the slight frown. Then I whisper; "What would I call you for? I have a boyfriend." I stare into those shades, unable to see his eyes, "I... I can't do this, Michael. The press already thinks there's something going on. It'll destroy me if they ever find out something actually did."

"No one will find out," he whispers back, "I haven't told. Have you?"

"No."

"No one has to find out."

There it is, dangling in front of me. I feel like a fish misunderstanding that the bait on the hook is something to eat without consequences. I stare up at Michael, seeing my reflection in his shades. I'm doing that doe eyed worried look again, and immediately drop it.

"You shouldn't have come in here," I mumble, stepping further back and away from him.

"I wanted to see if you were okay."

"We need to get back to the studio before people start to talk."

He parts his lips as if he's about to say something, but then doesn't. Instead, he steps out of the way, and lets me go first. He walks a little behind me as we head back into the other recording studio, silently taking our spots whilst everyone else talks and pretends not to notice us.

We work on this song for the next ten hours, recording parts over and over until the whole song flows in one take. I'm yawning by the end, checking my watch. It's late, nearing ten thirty at night. I had fun recording, doing vocal runs and adding ad libs when directed, harmonising with Michael a few times. The first time was accidental, a slip up because I got caught up in his voice, but the next few times I did it purposefully since we actually sounded pretty good together, and the project organisers enjoyed it.

I gather up my things as the others slip off into little groups to chat. I pull out my clunky black cell phone, and I'm about to call for a car, when a figure steps into my peripheral vision. "I can take you home," Michael says softly.

I blink at him, then glance towards the other singers in the room. Each and every one is minding their business. I look back to Michael. He smiles, hands held behind his back. "Um... sure." I say softly. We duck out, walking quietly beside each other.

"I have a car out the back," he informs me.

"You drive?"

"Rarely," he murmurs, "but this one is driven by my security guy, Bill."

"Okay," I nod. I itch my cheek, not looking at him.

"Do you?"

"Rarely," I repeat back to him, "It's kind of hard to, with all the... paparazzi, and traffic here, you know." I add. "Doesn't seem worth it." He hums in agreement. Tension ripples between us, thick and practically visible like heat coming off a concrete road. It can't just be me that feels it.

Or at least, I hope it's not. Since, at least for me, singing with him felt suspiciously like flirting. He'd nod along to my voice, lick his lips. Then when I'd harmonise with him he'd smile. I'd sway a little bit as he sung, enjoying his voice, then chime in with a little ad lib when it felt right, just like the others were doing with their genre singing partners.

I'd try not to look at him, but when I did, it felt like we were holding eye contact for a few moments.

"you're very talented, by the way," Michael then says after a minute or so of quiet. I glance up at him. He walks with his hands in his pockets, expression giving nothing away. "You have a beautiful voice."

"Thanks," I say, laughing a little as a frown jumps across my face. "You do too."

He chuckles, showing his teeth as he grins gently. "Thanks," he murmurs, pushing open the door to the back exit of the studio and glances around, just to make sure there are no photographers lurking.

I follow him out into the cool evening air. His bodyguard waits by a low town car, reading a paper. As Michael approaches, he closes it and stands up, smiling. "Home?" he asks, then looks to me, pausing. "Or...?"

"What's your address?" Michael asks, glancing at me.

I say it, and then I'm being shown into the backseat of this very luxurious car with plush leather seats and blacked out windows. "Thanks for doing this," I say, sitting next to Michael as his bodyguard drives us away from the studio, successfully avoiding the paparazzi snapping a thousand and one pictures of us leaving together.

Michael nods.

"I just think that Johnny gets worked up because of the media and all the tabloid stuff, you know. He's always been a hot head." I explain without meaning to, my mouth just starts moving, and words just keep coming out.

"So he saw the latest one, did he?"

"Yes, the headlines were very creative," I chuckle softly, although I don't really find it funny.

"Did he ask you about me?"

"Johnny?"

"No, the photographer," Michael replies, sitting back against these nice leather seats calmly, one arm stretched out, resting right behind me.

"Did he ask you about me?" I say instead of confessing that his song had been playing. Michael smirks, then bites his lower lip, but doesn't answer. The tension thickens, and heat slides down from my stomach to my core, just from that smirk.

Though I guess that wasn't the only reason. It had been all day, this quiet simmering energy, dancing between us. Just like it had been at that cocktail party, then at the after party. I hum quietly, looking away and shifting in my seat. "What is it?" Michael asks softly, voice coaxing.

The city passes by as the car glides through the busy roads, shop windows glowing, streets alive with noise. "I wanted to call you," I murmur, not looking at him. I sigh heavily, but quietly. "I kept your number in an old purse."

"What was stopping you?"

"I write songs about stuff like this. Cheating men. And look, I've become one."

"You didn't step out on him," he murmurs, "a kiss barely counts."

"We didn't just kiss," I hiss at him, aware that just a few metres away his body guard sits. Michael catches me sliding a glance that way and presses a button on his door. A partition slides up between us and his bodyguard with a low hum.

"No one is going to find out, Tabi," he says softly. So sure that I'm going to continue seeing him, if that's even what I'm doing right now. Though I could pass this off as him just taking me home. A very innocent, gentlemanly thing to do after my boyfriend ditched me.

I groan quietly, leaning back against the leather seat. His hand brushes against my left shoulder from where it's outstretched behind me still.

We pull up to my house after getting through the main security gate to the community. I reach into my bag to gate the fob key from my purse for my personal gate and press it, waiting as it opens. "Your man home?" Michael asks.

As his bodyguard pulls into the big courtyard, I don't see Johnny's Cadillac. Something close to rage simmers under my skin. I have no idea where Johnny could be, but no doubt he's decided to do something reckless to get back at me. He is just that petty. But it's funny, because so am I.

"No," I say. I should call Johnny to find out where he is, but instead, I get out of the car and lean back in to look at Michael. "Drink?"

He's out of the car barely a few seconds later. He moves to the driver's seat, says something quietly to his bodyguard then he's moving around the sleek town car to me. "I like your place."

"Thanks, I just bought it," I smile, shuffling in my bag for the key. The big villa in the hills cost me an arm and a leg, but it's right where I need it to be. Close to the studio, but far away and safe enough so that I can relax and disappear from the world for a while. Five bedrooms, each with a big en suite. Multiple living rooms, a games room, a small home studio chefs kitchen. Big pool outside with a jacuzzi attached, and a great view of the rest of the hills. It's perfect out here.

Michael follows me inside and into the kitchen. Everyone's gone home for the day, but there's a note on the island from my chef saying dinner is in the fridge, and all I have to do is heat it up in the oven. "Hungry?" I ask Michael as he looks over my house, inspecting the pictures, the decor. I like the rustic vibe. Dark wood, natural colours.

"I could eat," he says softly, leaning down to peer at a photograph of my family on the countertop near the fridge. "These your parents?"

"Yeah, and my brother."

He nods, then slides off his shades since the dim lighting probably isn't helping with his sight, places them on the counter with a soft click. I grab dinner out the fridge, humming happily once I see it's lasagne, and stuff it in the oven. I fuss, getting plates out, cutlery. Then I set to getting us a nice bottle of wine. Fussing over if I should get red or white, or something else.

"What's your poison?" I ask, not looking at him. He's somewhere behind me, not moving. I can't hear his footsteps anymore.

"Don't mind."

"White, red? Whiskey? Johnny usually drinks the hard stuff..." I trail off, hovering with my head in the fridge. For a split second I don't move, bracing for Michael to comment, but when he doesn't, I exhale. I pull chilled champagne out, pop the cork, then pour two flutes half way up. Still not looking at Michael as I slide one over to him.

"Tabi," he murmurs. "Relax..."

"I am relaxed," I whisper. But how can I be? When directly in my eyeline are a pair of Johnny's shades left there from this morning. I exhale softly and turn towards Michael, finally meeting his gaze.

"To a successful recording day," I smile, clinking my glass against his. He smiles, and I look up into those big doe eyes as he slowly takes a sip at the same time I do. That heat returns like an engine purring to life. I gulp as Michael simply just looks down at me.

"Do... Do you want a tour?" I ask.

He chuckles, immediately grinning, like something I've said is amusing. "Sure."

I show him around my house, which really is my house even though Johnny moved in six months ago. There are traces of him everywhere, and I almost want to kick the things out the way, hide his stuff in the cupboards, or drape a blanket over his guitars left in the living room. Michael takes it all in, gaze lingering on another man's things perhaps longer than he meant for me to see.

He likes my games room the most so far, but I hardly ever come in here. I show him my studio next, which is tiny in comparison to the one we were in today. More of Johnny's stuff is in there, so I quickly move us on, and take him upstairs.

My heart rate kicks up as we climb the spiral staircase to the next floor. There isn't really much up here aside from a small yoga studio I set up in one of the spare bedrooms, and then there's my master bedroom.

It's mostly creamy soft colours. A large bed to the right, then a big wall of windows that looks out over the pool area, then the view beyond. Michael hums, sipping his champagne that's now almost finished. I finished mine about five minutes ago, and now feel gently buzzed and a little more relaxed.

I untie my cardigan, revealing my baby pink camisole underneath and chuck it on the bed. I pull my hair clip out, and put it on the nightstand then turn to face Michael. "So, what do you think?" I ask him, opening my arms as my hair falls about my shoulders, trailing down my spine to almost my hips.

"It's nice," he murmurs, chucking back the rest of his drink then placing it on a nearby accent table, by the door.

"Just nice?" I ask as he walks further into the room, taking it in slowly, like he's really looking at it now.

"Your house is beautiful," he smirks, then directs that doe eyed look towards me. He's prowling, coming closer. I slip my bottom lip into my mouth, electricity skimming up my back. My breaths shallow, and lust clouds my mind so fast I just stand there as Michael nears. "You looked good today, I like you in these," he says softly, glancing down to my leggings.

I blink rapidly. I can practically feel my pupils swelling, my eyes doe-ing, just like Micheal's. "Wait," I murmur as he nears me, stops within a few feet. I can smell his cologne again, it's dizzying and delicious. And now I can't think. "you're in my house."

"I am," he murmurs.

"If we do this... everything changes." I whisper. I hope he knows what I mean, that I'm talking about if we have sex right now, in this bed, everything changes. It's no longer just this little thing. It's a straight up affair.

"I know," Michael says, speaking in soft, lovely tones. "I want this."

"But why?" I ask quietly.

"What do you mean?"

"You... you were so... you sounded so serious in that phone call. I thought you didn't like me, or how I am. I thought we hadn't connected at all."

"I was pissed you walked out," he says, standing so near to me I have to tip my head up. It surprises people usually, when I take off my heels, since I wear them so often they almost appear like a part of my legs. I like that he hasn't commented on it though.

"You didn't talk to me."

"I couldn't think of anything to say. I find you..." he steps a little closer, "... very attractive, Tabi." he lowers his voice, tilts his head a little as he looks into my eyes. I make a weird noise, like a quiet squeak. And he grins, chuckling softly. "You're so pretty, ma," he adds, "made me all nervous."

My body heats, moisture forming between my thighs.

"Stop," I whisper, but he only smiles more, ducks his head to follow my gaze as I break eye contact.

"Tell me something," he continues, touching my chin, lifting my gaze to meet his again, briefly licks his lips, "why are you with a guy like that?"

My brain freezes. I don't know what to say. So I just stare at Michael.

"Why are you with a guy that talks to you like that?"

I shift out of his gentle hold and sit on the edge of the bed, he follows, sitting beside me. "It's complicated."

"How?" Michael asks. I don't answer him immediately. "Tell me, how?"

But I can't. I start frowning, growing irritated. "Don't do that." I hiss.

"Do what?"

"Don't act like you know anything about my relationship just because of today."

"I know that he left you. I know that he cussed you out in the middle of the hallway for everyone to hear."

A different kind of heat floods my face and neck. I stand up, twist towards him. "You don't get to come in here and act concerned."

"Why not?" Michael asks gently, so cool and calm, so unlike me.

"Because this is all your fault," I snap, "we never had issues before you came along and--"

"Kissed you? Put my hand between your thighs?" he asks, he stands up slowly, "you kissed me back, Tabi. You kissed me back more than once. If you and Johnny were so great, you would've slapped the hell out of me and you know it."

I snap my mouth shut. Then my bottom lip wobbles, tears threaten, but I keep it together. "I don't know what's wrong with me," I mumble. This is all my fault.

"Nothing's wrong with you," Michael soothes.

"I can't stop thinking about you." I confess, even though I really didn't want to. I had to say it. Someone had to know. I was tired of bottling this all up. I look at him, expecting, well, I don't even know, but not what I find. He's frowning.

"How long do we have?"

"What?" I breathe.

"Until he gets back?"

"I don't know-- an hour? ten?" I say, glancing towards the clock by the door. When I meet his gaze again, I understand what that frown means. He's worried we don't have enough time.

My skin electrifies, and I'm reaching for him as he reaches for me. Our mouths collide, messy and eager. My arms go around his neck, and I'm pushed up onto my tip toes, furiously kissing him as he rubs his hands over the small of my back then to my ass.

He lifts me, and squeal excitedly into his mouth, pulled flush against his body as he turns, lays me on the bed, then fully leans over me, pressing his body into me.

My sex pulses, excited and needy. I'm already wet, and don't want to waste any time with foreplay. I squirm against Michael, mewling into his mouth as my hips rub against him. He groans, pulls back from the kiss and leans away, hooking his fingers into the band of my leggings and panties and pulling them down.

He throws them to one side, dark eyes staring at my sex as I part my thighs, slide my fingers down to touch myself, and part my slit, showing him the dew. "Fuck," he mumbles, bottom lip slipping into his mouth. His breaths deepen, lust descending over him in a thick cloud as he palms the growing bulge in his pants.

He sends a quick glance towards the bedroom door that's still wide open before he undoes his belt buckle. "Take your top off," he murmurs in a voice so raspy it sends tingles all over my body. "Let me see you, baby."

I do as he asks, crossing my arms over my front and pulling my cami off. I'm left in a pink lacy bra, but I'm already arching my back, pinching the clasp and tugging it off.

He's still fully clothed, and I'm naked, but somehow I'm so turned on that it doesn't even matter. I can barely think. All I want is him. I want to touch him, kiss him, smell him. Feel him inside of me. "Hurry," I whisper, watching greedily as he undoes his pants, pulls down the zip.

He frees himself from his boxers and my eyelids flutter, heady excitement dizzying me. Another gush of arousal seeps out of me and I whine for him, arching my back and running a hand through my hair.

Michael's breathing hard, leaning over me, gaze drinking me in so intently as he scans me from head to sex, then back up. He positions himself at my entrance, then gently slides inside with no resistance. Pleasure licks up my back, delicious and intoxicating, and I arch into his chest, moaning, tingling everywhere. "Yes," I breathe, "this is what I wanted," I moan, biting my lip.

Michael groans, settling himself inside me, giving my body a second to adjust even if it doesn't need it. Then he's moving, and I'm seeing stars in my eyes, feeling everything. Every nerve ignited. "Yes, yes, yes," I pant in time with his thrusts, hard and fast. "Oh my god," I moan.

"Fuck, Tabi," Michael moans, frowning hard, gripping the sheets either side of my waist. "Baby, your body--" he cuts himself off with a moan, face flushed.

This is so fucking thrilling. I'm electrified, pleasure coursing through my veins. I'm completely drunk off it. Drunk off the excitement, how good this feels. Drunk off him.

Lewd noises leak out of my body where Michael thrusts into me. I'm so wet we can hear everything, and he's openly moaning, enjoying himself, and he looks so good whilst he's doing me.

A surge of pleasure takes over me. The tingling begins to solidify in my toes, crawling up. My eyes nearly roll back as I realise what's happening. "Baby, I'm close," Michael murmurs, but that only speeds my orgasm up. In the next second it crashes into me, and I'm blinded, clutching onto him, digging my nails into his shirt. I don't even know when he took his jacket off.

I cry out, gasping for air as Michael's thrusts begin to stagger. He pulls out just in time, and finishes all over my stomach, long streams of his release coating my skin. He trembles, panting hard. "oh my god," he breathes, whispering softly as I lie there, floating down from a high I've never felt before.

I genuinely had no idea I could finish with penetration.

"That was—”

A door shuts distantly from down stairs and both Michael and I freeze.

End notes:

they fucked!!!!!

Please let me know what you thought!!! I made this a fun long one because I haven’t updated in a hot minute but yeah, I hope you liked it!!!

Comments and likes are deeeeeply appreciated sisters, as always of course 🤍 but yeah, I hope this was a fun read for you! let me know what you'd like to see in part four, if you want!

there was no denying that everything about him was making you feel more submissive than you'd been in a while. so when he sat back on his bed, patting his knee for you to lay in between his legs, you replied with a somewhat whispered "yes, sir," and crawled over to him. he'd been dressed casually, a plain t-shirt and jeans. only you were able to see him this way.

you leaned your back against his chest, heart racing as you anticipated what he was going to do next. you felt him place a light kiss against your neck, and it sent a shiver throughout your body. you let out a light moan as his hands roamed downward until they got to the waistband of your shorts.

"can i take these off, baby?" michael always made sure to ask you before doing so. he was being so gentle it made you want to run away and hide. you nodded slowly at him, though you knew he wanted a verbal response. a half-voiced and pathetic "please." is all you can gather to push out as he slides your shorts off. you kick them farther away with your feet, and you can hear michael gasp at the thick wet spot forming in the middle of the cotton fabric barely protecting your aching cunt from whatever was going to happen next.

another kiss, this time below your ear. "poor girl. probably been like this all day, hm?" another whimper escapes you as michael takes his time to admire your wetness, gentle fingers running up and down your clothed slit. "mikey, please..." you buck your hips up a bit at him. he'd always tell you to stay still and take whatever he gave you, usually smacking your pussy with an open palm a few times if you disobeyed. this was your first sign of defiance in weeks, and it was completely unintentional.

his fingers stopped over your heat and you were worried he'd stop and send you to bed unsatisfied. you'd already made the mistake of disobeying him a few times during sex once, and that was unarguably one of the worst punishments he'd given you. instead, he lets out a quiet "hm," and pulls your panties down without warning. you can feel him harden beneath you as he sees long wet strings connecting from your panties to your pussy. you moan a bit as the cold air hits your now completely bare heat.

"what am i going to do with you?" he mumbles, tracing his hands up and down the sides of your arms, ignoring how you buck your hips up again. it felt like your pussy gained its own heartbeat for a second, and you instinctively closed your thighs. michael quickly tapped the side of your leg. "i don't think i said you could close your legs, did i?" you shake your head no.

"gonna be a good girl f'me, right baby? been so good for so long. don't ruin it now." you cry out as he begins tracing up and down your slit again, this time stopping just at the hood of your throbbing clit. "just let me please you. don't worry about anything besides keeping your legs open." michael whispers into your ear. you feel your heartbeat picking up faster than before, something you didn't realize was possible at this point in time. without warning, he began to use the tips of his fingers to rub at your clit with the same gentleness he used to play the piano for you hours ago.

you tilted your head and moaned into his neck as his fingers moved faster. he'd occasionally bring up his other hand to grasp your clothed breast, but that wasn't enough. he pulled his fingers away from your pussy, earning a slight groan from you, and helped pull your shirt and bra off. your clothes were scattered around the floor, and you were now completely naked in front of him.

he swapped positions with you, hovering for a brief moment before taking your sensitive nipple into his mouth. you knew it was over for you right then and there. your legs kicked slightly below him as you gripped the sheets. he used his free hand to pinch the tip of your nipple and twirl it between his fingers. you almost came the moment you two made eye contact, as his big, pretty, doe-like eyes burned holes into yours.

your moans blended with light cries as you continued squirming beneath him. michael knew you were getting close. "i know you're ready, but i need you to hold on a bit longer for me. can you do that, pretty?" you nod at him again, still non-verbal. he was being so gentle with you today that he didn't mind you not vocally answering him, which made your heart do backflips.

michael moves down a bit and starts tracing your pussy again, slowly. he observed the way your back lifted slightly off the bed as you writhed around. smiling to himself as you grew more and more impatient. "just can't wait, can you?" before you can respond, he slides two of his fingers into you slowly, admiring the way you take them in so nicely.

he moves them at a slow pace, though still hitting the right spot. your moans were beyond loud at this point. you cried out in pleasure as he picked up the pace, fucking them into you as if it were his own length. you grip the bedsheets as tears threaten to spill out. "fuck, mikey!" you yell out. he only smiles in response and curls his fingers into you again. "please, sir-" your words get caught in your own throat as he hits your g-spot. "michael! please, please. i'm so close i-" he shushes you, face laced with sympathy.

"i know, angel. is it too much for you? poor baby can't take it anymore." he says, voice low. "don't worry, 's okay. you can cum on my fingers. let yourself go. i got you, pretty girl. you're okay." his words unlock the floodgates of your soul almost immediately. your orgasm hits hard and leaves you shaking. his fingers stay moving gently inside you the entire time even as you arch off the bed and squirm around.

he pulls his fingers out of you and savors the remnants of you on his tongue. it always made you so shy when he did that, and like clockwork you covered your face as he gave you a knowing smirk. "stay right here," he commanded as if you actually had the energy to move. he came back with a water bottle and a towel, positioning you to sit up so that he could clean you off a bit and make sure you actually drank it.

eventually, you cuddle into his side as he settles in bed next to you. he lightly pushes your head against his chest, drawing patterns with his fingertips over your skin. your eyes grow heavy as sleep threatens to take over and pull you out of the moment. michael notices this rather quickly, always in harmony with your emotions. "just rest now, okay angel? did so good for me. my perfect girl." he whispers beside you. your eyes close and you drift off to sleep eventually, not before letting out a half-conscious "love you, michael."