leon kennedy is my bf

One-shots:

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ needy*

As the days pass, during a holiday stay at Hayvenhurst, your need for Michael grows more insistent, leading you to beg for his touch while everyone else is home.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ innocence*

Wanting the best for his angel, Michael takes you to your dream vacation place and makes your first time unforgettable, more special than you could have imagined.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ not like the movies

it's a cliché love story isn't it? The global superstar and a die hard fan who manages to catch her idol's attention during a concert. it's that simple, right?....right?

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ good luck charm*

Michael is a meticulous performer, driven by the pursuit of perfection in every show. Thus, he has crafted the perfect routine to reach his goals and you're an integral part of it.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ first kiss (captain eo)

You confess to EO that you've never kissed anyone before. Rather than judging, he guides you through your first kiss with care and tenderness.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ in the studio*

After weeks of no intimacy due to his demanding schedule you decide to pay Michael a visit at the studio in a short skirt. Oblivious to the effects it has on him you face the consequences.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ crestfallen

After Michael cheats on you with Diana Ross you cross paths again at the Grammy's.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ through the keyhole*

While Michael attends to his duties as a devoted husband (taking you to pound town), the maids arrive unnoticed. Drawn by the sinful sounds echoing from your bedroom, they find themselves unable to resist eavesdropping.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ fast learner*

(related to/continuation of innocence) After taking your virginity and focusing solely on your pleasure, Michael hasn't asked for anything in return, leaving you doubting your ability to please him due to your inexperience. Determined to return the favour you ask him to teach you how to give him a blowjob.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ freaky friday

One ordinary night, you and Michael unexpectedly switch bodies, forcing him to navigate life as you. With no choice, he has to go on set and do his best to act like you.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ heartstrings & rings

A thoughtless act on your part leads Michael to mistakenly believe you're planning to divorce him. Consumed by fear he spirals, thinking he's about to lose you.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ porn stash*

Alone at home, consumed by boredom, you stumble upon Michael's secret stash of tapes. Lost in curiosity, you're oblivious to his return until he catches you red-handed.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ tied & taken*

Michael finally indulges one of his most sinful fantasies: tying you to the bed like the perfect present you are and fucking you stupid over and over, until you're utterly spent.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ word to the jealouss!!*

Spotting the pathetic voyeur through the door, Michael makes sure he is put back into his place and reminded that he'll never measure up.

Drabbles/Blurbs:

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ spit kink*

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ spoiled with pleasure*

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ panty stealer*

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ arranged marriage*

Headcanons:

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ he takes care of you when you’re sick

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ NSFW alphabet*

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ chubby chaser*

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ dating headcanons pt. 1

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ NSFW headcanons*

Last updated: May 8th, 2026

GONE BY MORNING

genre: fluff / smut / angst (18+)

word count: 13.2k

SUMMARY: The year is 1984 and she never asked for this, but when you fall in love with Michael Jackson, life becomes loud. For an entire year, they've built this loudy, messy, tender life together. For the first time in a long time, she was happy, believing that despite the whirlwind that came along with the Jackson craze, Michael's love was unwavering. But the road to fame has many victims and she just might be one. Whispers she tries to ignore, nights when he doesn't come home and the gnawing feeling that she's not the only one he gives himself to continue to grow. When a tabloid photo splashes across the morning headlines, proving what she always feared, she has no choice but to call him from a thousand miles away and hears the truth in the silence.

GONE BY MORNING (part 2)

genre: fluff / smut / angst (18+)

word count: 22.2k

SUMMARY: It's 1987 and with his career reaching heights, Michael Jackson has the world at his feet. His name reads like a mythical legend echoed across the globe, he's at the top of his game and about to embark on his first solo world tour after the release of the Bad album. Everyone tells him he should be celebrating, this is the happiest time of his life, but if that's true, why does he feel so alone? As tabloid gossip runs rampant and press vipers edge closer, he can feel the walls closing in. Stuck between the camera lens, he no longer feels human, just a caricature of a man he no longer recognises. When a blast from the past suddenly reappears in his life (at a funeral of all places), Michael feels a glimmer of hope that not all is lost. Only problem is, she still doesn't trust him after a mistake he made in '84.

JUST AN AFTER THOUGHT

genre: angst

word count: 4.2k

SUMMARY: Working tirelessly on his upcoming album, Michael Jackson starts to neglect the one person actually worthy of his attention. It isn't long before the cracks of their realtionship begin to form and emotions run high. Cancelled dinner dates turn into him just blatantly standing her up. He doesn't mean it, of course, but the damage is already set in motion. An argument ensues, he says words he does mean and maybe his ignorance will be their downfall.

ARROW THROUGH THE HEART

genre: angst

word count: 8.6k

SUMMARY: For ten years of his life, Michael Jackson has known and loved her. An on / off again relationship which a year ago lead him waiting an the altar to commit his life to another. In what felt like forever in the shaky life he had built for himself, he finally felt stability. It's 1992 and the demand for kids was a huge deal breaker for him. The couple wasted no time in trying, but after a year of failed attempts, they worried something might be wrong. Doctors confirmed his worst fears when they announced his wife to be infertile. Desperate for children of his own, Michael jumped the gun by asking a friend to carry his child only two weeks after the diagnosis. When he brings this conversation up to his wife, emotions run high and he might have just lost the best thing that ever happened to him.

MEMORY LANE

genre: fluff

word count: 8.9k

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

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

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

Or so you thought.

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

Michael Jackson.

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

There wasn't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was ridiculous.

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

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

Easy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sudden silence was short lived.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yep."

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

Internally, you were spiraling.

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

And he was looking right at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The pleasure is mine," he replied warmly.

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

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

A smile immediately spread across Michael's face.

"Are you now?"

Blanket nodded enthusiastically. "A huge one."

"[Name] said she'd help."

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

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

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

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

Paris giggled.

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

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

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

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

"Dad," Prince groaned dramatically.

"What?"

"We play every day."

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

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

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

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

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

"That would be lovely, thank you."

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

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

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

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

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

You turned your attention toward him immediately.

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

For a moment, you blinked.

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

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

The concern in his voice was genuine.

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyebrows lifted slightly.

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

That finally earned a laugh from you.

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

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

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

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

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

"A giant one?" you would ask back.

"A giant one."

"With blankets?"

"Obviously."

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

"Because forts are cool."

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

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

And then there was Michael.

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

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

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

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

What surprised you most was how attentively he listened.

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

It was a small thing, really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There. See? Much easier."

Later that night, you finally made it home.

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

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

"Hey, babe."

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

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

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

"Mhm."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Different how?"

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

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

"Yeah."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was no explanation for it.

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

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

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

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

Just enough to leave you wondering.

The looks were somehow worse.

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

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

The problem was that Michael noticed things.

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

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

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

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

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

You hated yourself a little for noticing it.

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

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

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

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

"Three."

"One."

"Two."

You narrowed your eyes. He narrowed his right back.

"One."

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

"Fine."

Across the room, Paris giggled into her pillow.

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

"I've noticed."

"And it works every time."

"It does not."

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

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

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

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

"Of course."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

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

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

10:47 PM.

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

Which meant you'd be staying over.

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

The house felt entirely different at night.

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

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

Again.

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

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

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

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

"Hey." No enthusiasm. No warmth.

Just... hey.

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

"I was just calling."

"Okay."

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

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

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

"[Name]..."

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

"I texted you."

"You sent me two words."

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

"What?"

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

"Because I'm tired."

"Tired of what?"

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

Your eyes squeezed shut. There it was.

Every single time.

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

"You are."

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

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

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

"What?"

"Forget it."

"[Name]—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"[Name]?" Your head snapped up.

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

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

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

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

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

"No, you're not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I guess." His jaw tightened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was what broke you.

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

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

You leaned toward him instinctively. Seeking comfort and warmth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His thumb caught it before it could fall.

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

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

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

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

The room fell silent for a moment.

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

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

His thumb brushed across your cheek again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, he leaned in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your apartment greeted you with the faint, lingering smell of last night's microwave popcorn and the sterile chill of air conditioning.

Home.

You dropped your bag by the door, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet. The date had been a shit show. Daryl — or whatever the fuck his name was — with his overly firm handshake and his insistence that you 'just hadn't given indie men a real chance.'

What kind of bullshit. That sentence alone pissed you off.

You padded into the living area, your eyes automatically drifting to the one nice thing in the room: the large, framed poster of the BAD album cover your dad had given you. Michael's face, frozen in a moment of defiant cool, watched you slump onto the couch. His face a stark contrast to your tired features. God what a night this was. One of the fifty million pointless dates from lonely dating apps. It was exhausting.

After a few coincidental minutes, a soft knock at the door made you jump. You weren't expecting anyone, and you prayed it wasn’t your date following you home, again. You dreaded the thought of calling the police for the third time this month.

Peering through the peephole, your breath hitched. Standing in the dim hallway light was Michael himself, looking oddly casual in a dark button-down and slacks, his hands tucked into his pockets.

You unlocked the door, pulling it open. "Michael? What are you doing here?"

He offered a small, almost shy smile. "Your dad mentioned you had a date tonight." He gestured vaguely. "I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd check in."

In the neighborhood. Your apartment was decidedly not in any neighborhood Michael would ever just 'be in'. But you stepped aside, letting him in anyway. His presence immediately changed the energy of the small space, making it feel both smaller and more significant.

He stepped inside, his gaze sweeping the room with a practiced eye before landing on you. His smile faded into a look of gentle concern. "You okay? You look tired."

Tired wasn’t even the word for it. Defeated, sure. Mortified, absolutely.

"I’m fine. The date was fine," you mumbled, retreating to the safety of the couch.

He didn't push, just closed the door softly behind him. "Can I get you something? Water?"

"Wine. But it’s okay, I can get it. Just… I dunno. Make yourself comfortable."

The words came out more brittle than you intended. You pushed yourself off the couch, heading for the kitchen to give your hands something to do. You didn’t know his true intention of being here, but you were too tired to ask.

He nodded, moving to the couch but not sitting. Instead, he picked up the discarded Thai food menu from the floor. "You eat?"

You pulled a wine glass from the cupboard, the clink of glass the only sound for a moment. "Not really. Lost my appetite."

He set the menu down, his voice was low, a bit humored. "That bad, huh? How many does that make?"

You sigh, grabbing another glass and pouring the wine in both of them, a common curtesy for him being in your company once again. The deep red sloshed into the glasses, your reflection wobbling in the dark surface. Part of you felt ashamed. How could you even tell him? How could you admit that yet another guy made you feel invisible? Inferior? So fucking stupid for allowing him to waste your time?

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. You carried the two glasses back to the living area, the wine threatening to spill over the rims with your unsteady steps. You handed one to Michael, your fingers brushing against his. A tiny, electric shock of contact. He took the glass, his eyes never leaving your face. "Thank you."

You took a large gulp of your own wine, the bitterness a welcome distraction from the lump forming in your throat. You collapsed onto the couch, putting a cushion's worth of distance between you.

He finally sat down, the fabric sighing under his weight. He took a slow, deliberate sip. "You don't have to talk about it."

"It’s not that," you hesitate, your breath hitching as you try to find the right words to describe your emotions. "I just.. I’m just so tired." The words felt like a confession, heavy and true in the quiet room. Tired didn't even begin to cover it. It was a soul-deep weariness from trying to fit into a mold that never felt right.

You half scoff, half chuckle at your own disbelief, "They are just so fucking stupid." The words hung in the air, sharp and final. It felt good to say it, to give a name to the frustrating, hollow feeling in your chest. And the floodgates opened. All the pent-up frustration from the night, from months of bad dates, came pouring out. You gestured wildly with your glass, the wine sloshing precariously.

They're all the same.

They talk at you, not to you.

They're obsessed with being perceived as deep, but they have the emotional capacity of a teaspoon.

And he listened, his expression unreadable. He took another slow sip of wine, his eyes never leaving you as you vented about your love life struggles.

You ranted about Daryl’s conspiracy theories about the music industry, about how he'd tried to explain Michael's own album concepts to you as if you were a child. The irony was almost painful.

A part of Michael felt relieved that he was no longer your age, along with the challenges that came with dating. However, another part of him was astounded by the way men treated women these days. There was no chivalry, no love, no respect, and no desire to court a woman. It was almost pathetic to him.

He set his glass down on the coffee table with a quiet, definitive click. "They don't know how to respect women." His voice was low, but it carried a new weight, a sharp edge that hadn't been there before, laced with platitude and judgement.

He leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. "They don't understand the aspect of making you feel... cherished. It’s a sense of entitlement." His words sounded nothing short of intimate and old-fashioned, and while you would’ve made fun of him for it in any other moment, your words died in your throat.

His gaze was intense as it searched your face, and you try to blame the wine for your breathlessness. "It's not you, you know. It's them. They're boys."

"You need a man."

You pause.

"What?"

He didn't look away, his dark eyes squinting for a moment. "You ain’t hear what I said? You need a real man. Someone who knows what he wants and," he stammers a bit. "and knows how to treat you right."

Oh, he was dead serious.

The air in your small apartment felt thin, charged with an electricity you’d never felt with him before. He leaned back slightly, breaking the tension for just a moment, but his eyes never lost their focus. "They don't see you. Not really."

"And you do?" You speculate, this felt all too real for you. The red wine felt heavy in your stomach, the room tilting on its axis.

"Well, yeah," he scoffs, like it was a silly question to ask. His gaze swept over you, taking in the way you were curled into the corner of the couch, the frustrated set of your shoulders. "You're smart. Y'got a good head on your shoulders. More than any of those lil boys could ever hope to have."

He shook his head slowly, a sad, almost pitying look on his face. "And you're... breathtakingly beautiful. You gotta know that."

"Michael — I don’t understand —"

He turns his head towards you, slightly closing the distance between you. "I think you do understand." His voice was low and soft. "You're too smart not to."

Your mind was racing, a frantic scramble to make sense of the shift in the air. Your dad’s best friend, the same famous man that still took the time to spend time with you when you were in college. Your father would kill you if he found out.

A cold dread mixed with a hot, sharp thrill coiled in your stomach. You thought of all the times he’d been there, a constant, quiet presence in your life. The hugs that lasted a second too long. The way his hand would sometimes linger around your waist.

The silence was deafening. His words hung in the air, a challenge and an invitation all at once. Your mind was a whirlwind of confusion and a terrifying, undeniable pull. He watched the internal conflict play out across your face, his expression softening from intense to something more patient, more understanding.

"You’re scared."

"I’m not.." You shake your head, your gaze flickering to the empty glass in your lap with a soft sigh. The denial was weak, even to your own ears. Your fingers tightened around the stem of the empty wine glass, a flimsy anchor in the sudden, swirling intensity of the moment.

He reached out, his movements slow and deliberate, and gently took the glass from your hands, setting it aside on the table. "S’okay to be scared. This is a…” he exhales. “a lot to process."

His hand returned to yours. The air felt thick, heavy with unspoken desire and the weight of crossing a line that could never be uncrossed. He didn't pull his hand back completely. Instead, he let his fingertips trail softly over the back of your hand. "I, uh, I watched you for a long time, y’know… become this incredible woman,"

His thumb stroked a slow, hypnotic pattern on your skin. "I wanted to wait a lil longer, 'cause I have waited. Out of respect f'your father." A faint, almost sad smile touched his lips. "But as much as you're tired of boys not seeing your worth, it's gettin' to me too."

The confession was staggering, and you know it wasn't a sudden impulse he felt from the confines of your cozy living room, because it didn't sound like it. It was a years-long, simmering yet quiet desire that he was finally letting boil over.

"Now, you've been awful quiet." He laughs softly, gazing down at where your hands connected. His glasses fell slightly on his nose. "I just wanna know what you're thinkin'. If this isn't what you want..."

"I do, Michael.. I'm just tryna... process it all."

You weren't necessarily lying. It was true. You would be absolutely stupid to say no to Michael, especially with your attraction to him in mind. The attraction you thought you'd have to bury away for the rest of your life because it never crossed your mind that this would be possible.

His soft laugh was a vibration you felt more than heard; it settled deep in your bones. He gently lifted your chin with his fingertips, forcing your gaze to meet his. "Then stop processing. Just feel." He leaned in slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. The first brush of his lips against yours was achingly soft. Nothing like the rushed, sloppy, nasty kisses you'd experienced before. His lips were reverent against yours.

But when you didn't pull away from him, he deepened the kiss, his hand moving from your chin to cup the side of your face. His other hand found your waist, pulling you gently closer until you were flush against him. The sheer size of him, compared to yours, was a dizzying revelation to you.

The kiss was a slow and deep exploration. His lips moved against yours with a practiced patience that stole the breath from your lungs. It wasn't like anything you imagined from him — it was so much better, the intensity and realness giving you goosebumps alone. The way his hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers tangling gently in your pressed hair, it was too much.

His lips trailed down from your mouth, a slow, deliberate path of soft kisses along your jawline. He took his time, as if memorizing the feel of your skin. His mouth found the sensitive hollow of your throat, his kiss there lingering, warm and damp against your cool skin. "You're so soft."

A shiver ran down your spine as he nuzzled into the curve of your neck, his nose brushing against your pulse point.

He pressed a soft and open-mouthed kiss to the spot just below your ear, his voice a low murmur against your skin. "That feel good?"

A breathy sigh was your only answer. Your hands, which had been clenched at your sides, slowly came up to rest tentatively on his shoulders, and he hummed in approval, the sound vibrating through you.

"Good, that's it. Just relax for me, sweetheart."

His lips continued, alternating between soft kisses and sucking nibbles that made your head spin. The contrast between the gentle exploration of his mouth and the solid strength of his body pinning you gently to the couch was intoxicating.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His dark eyes searched your face, his glasses crooked on his.

"You're trembling a little, you okay?" His thumb stroked your cheek, and his question hung in the air. You could only manage a weak nod before mustering up the small yet revealing words from your throat.

"Y-Yeah, it's just — I... I haven't done this before. 'm so sorry.."

You watched his face, waiting for the shift, the judgment, the disappointment you were always fearful of.

His thumb stilled on your cheek, and for a long moment, he was perfectly still, his expression unreadable. "Haven't done... this?"

His voice was quiet and carefully neutral, which you hated. He wasn't pulling away, but the intensity in his eyes had shifted from desire to something more contemplative. He searched your eyes, which were angled down to the purity ring that still sat on your finger.

"I haven't really been with anyone, Mike. Not like that."

The directness of the answer sent a fresh wave of heat to your face; you couldn't help but feel ashamed. Not about the fact that you were raised in such a religious way, where you were practically forbidden to hold hands with a man until you were of age, let alone kiss one. Your father made that very clear from the moment he forced the purity ring onto your dainty little finger.

And from the guys you've been around, evidently, they proved that they weren't worth "corruption" — as your father would call it — so you didn't bother giving in. No matter how much your dates tried to push for it.

That didn't mean you didn't explore in your alone time. The box of toys underneath your queen-sized mattress was proof of that.

But it was about the idea of being judged. Since you were a freshman in college, you were ironically made fun of for still wearing the worn-down, busted-up purity ring your daddy got you on your 16th birthday. Shamed for being the only virgin in the group, insecure for being the only one who had no fun sex stories to share throughout undergrad.

They made you feel like a child, something fragile, like you couldn't understand the fundamentals of lovemaking.

But you don't see that with Michael.

Michael gently tilted your chin back up, forcing your eyes to meet his. There was no mockery in his expression, only the familiar softness you've grown fond of. "Hey, look at me."

His voice was a low, soothing murmur, a tear you didn't realize you were holding back escaped and traced a path down your cheek. And he caught the tear with his thumb, his touch impossibly gentle. "There's nothin' to be sorry for. I was the same way when I was your age. Don't let anyone tear down your faith."

The reassurance was so immediate, the endearment a caress as he pressed a small kiss on your forehead. "You sure you want to do this? With me?"

You let out a meek nod, his fingers tucking messy strands behind your ear.

"I need words, sweetheart."

"Yes, Michael. 'Want it to be you. No one else."

A genuine smile spread across his face, his features impossibly tender, his voice a soft promise as he leaned in again. But this time, the kiss was different, still gentle, but now with underlying possession.

He broke the kiss, and his hand slid from your back, fingertips tracing a slow, deliberate path up your side, just brushing the curve of your breast. "Is this too much?"

A jolt of pure electricity shot through you at the unfamiliar yet comforting touch. Your eyes were half-lidded and fixed on his. "N-no. Feels good..." You shake your head.

His eyes darkened, his other hand stroking your hip with his thumb. "Or this?" His hand slid lower, palm flat against your thigh, applying a small, firm pressure. You swallowed hard, shaking your head again. The sheer size of his hand, the confidence in his touch, was overwhelming yet not enough simultaneously.

Nothing had ever felt like this, especially by yourself. A soft sound escaped you, and your body slightly into his touch, a silent plea for more. His gaze on you was intense, watching every tiny reaction that flickered across your face as he studied you.

He had to; he couldn't allow anyone else to learn you the same way he did. He wanted to take the time to learn exactly what made you feel good and what didn't.

And one thing he did take note of was how expressive you were.

Every sigh, every twitch under his touch, he's never seen anything like it. You were so open when you responded to him — so honest. A pure, unfiltered reaction, and it was all for him. Only for him to see.

His fingertips continued slowly upwards, skating along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The touch was feather light, but he could feel the heat radiating off your skin. It was furnace-like, sending waves of anticipation through you.

"Wanna know what you're feeling. Could you tell me?"

You took a shaky breath as your mind went blank for a second, your focus only narrowing to the point where his hand rested too close to where you needed him most.

"Hot."

His lips curved into a soft smile, and his gaze was stuck on your beautiful face.

His hand shifted higher, his fingers applying a slightly firmer pressure against the seam of your jeans, moving in slow and deliberate circles against your clothed pussy. "And now?"

A sharp gasp caught in your throat. Your hips jerked involuntarily against his hand, a purely instinctive response. And before you had the room to feel embarrassed, his voice was low and approving, whispering sweet praises in your ear.

"...I want more."

"Say what?"

"I.. I want more, please."

You guided his hand from the seam of your jeans, towards the button, pleading for him to move further. You were practically aching for his touch, his sensation turning from unfamiliarity to unadulterated lust and sexual desire. His touch was a revelation. All the shame, the insecurity you'd carried for years, began to melt under the heat of his presence and the certainty of his touch.

His breath hitched at your plea, his eyes dark pools of the shared desire, searching your eyes for any kind of hesitation. When he found none, only desperation, his slender fingers deftly worked the button of your jeans. The pop of it opening sounded impossibly loud.

The zipper slid down with a soft, metallic whisper. His hand slid inside, his palm warm and firm against the thin fabric of your panties, feeling the wet spot against your lips.

"You're so wet... barely touched you."

The pressure of his middle finger was sure as he moved your underwear to the side, his cool skin tracing soft circles against your clit. Cooing softly as your head falls back. Every nerve in your body was alight and hyper-focused on the rhythm of his fingers. It was overwhelming, but in the best way possible. It was like you finally understood the language you had ever heard in hushed whispers from the women around you.

It was almost embarrassing how his soft praises washed over you —mingling with the increasing speed of his fingers — built your orgasm. And he could tell from another soft moan that escaped your lips as you relaxed against the couch. Your fingers tightened their grip on his shoulders, anchoring yourself as your orgasm threatened to overwhelm you.

He then pulls his hand back slowly, his touch retreating, the sudden absence becoming a physical ache. And your eyes fly open, a desperate sigh leaving your lips as you meet his unwavering gaze.

"Mike," you whine, "Why'd you stop?"

He leans in, his lips meeting yours in a soft kiss. "Relax, girl, 'want you to cum on my tongue first."

The words shoot directly into your ears, and they send a fresh wave of desire through you. He cups your cheek, thumb stroking your skin. "Is that something that you'd want?"

You nod eagerly, and he stands from the couch. His movements were fluid as he offered you his hand, and you took it. Your heart grew loud in your ears, anticipation sending shock waves through you.

The bedroom door is ajar, and he pushes it open, his gaze sweeping through the room before landing on your bed. The cozy, warm space suddenly feels sacred in his presence.

He stops just inside the doorway, turning to face you. He brings your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.

"Lie down for me."

His voice is a low command, softened by the reverence in his eyes. You moved to the bed on unsteady legs, settling against the duvet. He follows you, kneeling on the floor at the edge of your bed. The position was startingly intimate, submissive even, but he didn't have a care in the world how he looked. Especially when his focus was solely on your pleasure.

You lift your hips slightly as he pulls off your jeans, leaving you in your tank top and your thin panties, so soaked that they're practically transparent. The cool air hit your bare skin as he tossed the jeans aside. His hands slide up your calves, to your thighs, then hook his fingers in the waistband of your panties.

His gaze lifts to meet yours, a silent question, and you give a slight nod.

He pulls them down, his sharp exhale tickling your sensitive clit as he sees you. So pretty and so exposed. He was the first to see you. And he'd be the first to take you. The first to ruin you so sweetly.

He leans forward, his face inches from you as his warm breath ghosts over your most sensitive skin. "So beautiful, sweetheart."

He doesn't rush. His lips press soft, open-mouthed kisses to your inner thigh, his barely noticeable stubble a rough, thrilling contrast to the softness of his mouth. His hands spread your thighs wider as he gets closer, then his tongue darts out, a quick, experimental action that makes you jolt. Then his mouth is on you, his tongue flat on your clit, laving slow strokes that make your back arch.

He hums at the taste of you, so clean, so sweet, and it was all for him to devour. His hands slide under your hips, lifting you slightly to get a better angle, and his tongue finds a rhythm. Circling your clit then moving downwards to push his tongue against your entrance, grinding his nose against your sensitive bud in the meantime.

You can barely hear the words coming out of his mouth, and he doesn't put in any effort to pull away from your pussy. You could only manage choked sobs and high-pitched moans as the vibrations of his praises shot through you. Your fingers tangle in his hair as his tongue grows relentless. Worshipful. It became a sensation you were only just beginning to get used to, but he was anything but patient. His mouth worked you over in building intensity, his groans of approval sending your orgasm over like a freight train.

Your hips buck against his face, but his hands hold you steady. Strong and firm, allowing no escape from his mouth.

"Fuckfuckfuck — Mike, slow down, I-I'm gonna —"

He focuses his attention, his tongue flicking rapidly against your clit. "Come on, baby. I can feel you shaking. Give in to me."

The world dissolves into pure sensation. A broken cry is torn from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you, violent and overwhelming. Small whimpers flow from your lips at the sensitivity of him tonguing you through your orgasm.

He finally lifts his head, his lips glistening, his breathing ragged. His glasses were long discarded as he kissed your inner thighs softly. He rose from his knees, his movements fluid and deliberate, and joined you on the bed.

He loomed over you, his larger frame caging you gently against the mattress. The scent of your arousal and his cologne mingled in the air. His thumb brushed a stray tear from your cheek, and his gaze was soft as the hard line of his bulge pressed against your thigh. He leaned down, kissing you claimingly, possessively, his hand anchoring himself beside your head while his other worked at the fastening of his own pants.

He didn't have to be fully exposed to see the sheer size of him. The sound of his zipper was loud in the quiet room. He shifted, then you felt him, heavy against your thigh. He pressed his tip, achingly hot against your entrance.

"Look at me."

You obeyed, your gaze trapped in his. The first push inside you was an immense pressure that stretched you wide, making you gasp.

"Breathe, sweetheart. Just breathe for me. I'll go slow."

You took in a shaky breath, and he pushed forward again, slowly, inexorably filling you. The sensation was overwhelming — a fullness you'd never known, coupled with a sharp, fleeting sting. His body trembled with a low groan, evidently showing the effort of his restraint before sinking into you completely.

And for a moment, he stilled, the initial discomfort you felt began to fade, replaced by a throbbing ache of pleasure. Your shaky gasps transformed into breathy moans as you clawed at his shoulder. He began to move, a slow, rocking rhythm. The pace was patient, and his eyes never left yours, reading every flicker of emotion on your face.

He grabbed your face gently, lifting you up slightly into a deep kiss, muffling your shared moans, and the feeling built again. but different than before. His dick kissed your sweet spots so tenderly, and your hips began to move tentatively with his, meeting his slow thrusts.

The rhythm found its own pace, a building cadence that had the world narrowing to the feeling of him inside of you. His breath was ragged as he moaned against your ear, loud and unshameful. You could tell his control began to fray, his hand sliding between you to rub firm circles against your clit, matching the pace of his thrusts.

"F — Shit, sweetheart, I can't... you're so warm around me... Gonna make me cum —"

His confession sent a thrill through you. You arched into him, a silent plea for more as you felt your second orgasm shoot waves through you. With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself inside you, his body tensing as his release washed over him. His breath was harsh in your ear, his heart hammering against your chest.

He shifted slightly, propping himself up on his elbows to look down at you, his expression soft and searching. "Are you okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?" You immediately shake your head, pulling him back down as you wrap your arms around his neck in the comfortable silence.

And it was like that for a while. Before you feel him inhale softly in your ear.

"Nobody else gets to see you like this. Ever. You understand?"

Nobody told you no. There were consequences for that, ones even Michael couldn’t escape.

And Michael was fed up with it.

He was a little younger than the men you normally involved yourself with, but there was something about the way he handled himself that drew you in. You knew of his public persona, the King of Pop, obviously, but you were new to the entertainment scene and never had the chance of crossing paths. Not until you were invited to the Carousel of Hope charity event some months ago. Watching him walk into the event made your body feel like it was on a string, tethered. He was confident, gait strong in an immaculately tailored milk chocolate suit, like he knew he had a certain magnetism that made rooms shift and bend to his presence. You locked eyes with each other from across the room and it was so intense that you couldn’t look away. You could say it surprised you when his security plucked you out of the crowd thirty minutes later to ask you to come speak to him in private, but you’d be lying. 

Men with that type of power tended to gravitate toward you.

When he spoke, he was polite and very charming. Age brought a level of confidence to his demeanor that made him different from any older man you’d ever spoken to. Once he realized your interest in talking to him as a man and not a superstar, he moved with a comfortability that seemed to be only reserved for people in his close circle. One that made you feel chosen, invited... 

Michael’s words were intentional, and compliments that flowed from his lips sparkled against your sepia skin just as bright as the honey-spun satin mermaid dress shifting around your hips.

He was a gentleman. You’d been sweet-talked before, sure… but this was unlike anything you’d ever experienced before. His laser-like focus on you as you spoke, eyes dancing around in a mix of desire, intrigue and admiration activated a familiar flip behind your belly button. He initially asked you about yourself, interested in understanding your motivations behind being there. You were honest, explaining that you were there supporting a childhood friend who helped coordinate events in Beverly Hills.

Conversation bloomed organically. You talked about likes, dislikes, and in those ebbs and flows of shared thought you discovered that Michael was witty. From experience, any man able to keep up with your banter had to be intelligent. It intrigued you… the night went on and you both laughed and laughed, finding things in common that surprised you with him being at least two decades your senior and many, many tax brackets ahead of you. Your bodies were both speaking another language though, not caring about age or status, and as you cycled through riveting topics… they had a mind of their own, inching closer and closer.

Safe to say chemistry was off the charts.

The night ended in a dim hallway separate from the crowds, your hands against the lapels of his brown tailored suit jacket and your bodies flush, his face in the crook of your neck. His cologne was a heady mix of deep and masculine; black currant and spicy sandalwood that paired well with your signature vanilla and tonka bean fragrance. Arms finding home around your waist, his long fingers wistfully rubbed the smooth expanse of your bare lower back. You couldn’t help but smirk as he whispered how right you felt in his arms along with his want to see you again soon.

And this began an arrangement between you and Michael.

He was very particular. Meticulous, detail-oriented, generous. In the conversation that followed, he made his intentions very clear. He was a private person, but a man above all, with needs and desires that he’d hoped you would be willing to fulfill for him. And in return, he wanted to take care of you. You’d want for nothing around him because he prided himself on being a true provider. He offered to change your life in exchange for loyalty, discretion. Move you around the city like royalty. Protect you like his most precious jewel. The contingency of your agreement was that he couldn’t ever tell you no, like ever, and he laughed at that like it was a joke. A challenge. 

You’d show him who held real power. 

One would say you enjoyed it, loved the effect you had on men. It was toxic, sure, but never boring. He’d lived most of his life on a public roller coaster already, so dealing with you privately should be a piece of cake.

As long as he did whatever you asked, especially in that cinnamon sugar tone of yours.

And then it happened.

The first time you pushed Michael’s buttons a time too many, you ended up in his bed restrained by your wrists and ankles to a spreader bar. Your clit so swollen, your heartbeat thumped deeply within the crux of your thighs. 

Seven times. 

He edged you seven times — yes, he made you count, until hot tears of frustration stung your eyes. The seventh time was diabolical: he stared into your eyes and talked to you about how he expected you to correct your attitude with his face in your pussy, pausing every so often to indulgently suck your clit in his mouth to keep your attention on him. You couldn’t move or squirm away, and when you tried he just used the metal bar to pull you closer. His mouth lazily pulsed around the oversensitive nub, just enough. Just enough to keep you right there right there right there but not there enough. Not enough pressure. Not enough speed. Leaving your mind in a hazy limbo, barely coherent. The whimpers and moans that came out of your mouth were desperate, illicit. He just smirked up at you from between your legs, sliding his hands up your sweaty skin to knead your breasts as you begged and pleaded for release. 

Your ego didn’t escape punishment that night. You ended up doing exactly what you were told to do, apologize repeatedly, until he was satisfied and ready to put you out of your pleasure-induced misery. 

And then he made you cum seven times, restrained to that fucking spreader bar, leaving you trembling and undone from the inside out, tears running down your face and thighs.

That night, you learned he had another side to him. It felt like you met your match.

Calculated, observant, commanding. Intense. That interesting something you picked up on the first night you met ended up being his desire for submission and willingness to study, experiment and figure out how to obtain it. He was not afraid of your headstrong personality. Your unwillingness to settle for less than you deserved. He was studying you all the time. He couldn’t get enough. 

You spent more time together, days turned to weeks, months — seven to be exact — eventually becoming a welcome part of his routine.

On one of his late-night calls from the studio, Michael promised that he would take you on vacation. A real one, somewhere tropical, one where he wouldn’t be doing anything but spending time with you and making you happy. Your legs spread as he promised you sun and sex, salaciousness, gently whispering his desires to satisfy your needs one by one. The thought, imagining the things he described in his own personal flavor of soft vulgarity made you so wet. He cooed about giving you all his time as you played with your pussy, squirming against your own fingers like they were an extension of his until you came, leaving you breathless and covered in a mix of sweat and your own juices. 

Then he surprised you with flights to Cabo.

And there was no need to pack. Michael secretly planned this vacation right under your nose and you couldn’t believe it. Last week, he took you around the city, shutting down entire malls just so that you could twirl around in clothes from your favorite designers and pick items that left him even more completely in awe of you. Nothing was too much for you. He whispered in your ear how pretty you were, his princess, as you stood in the dressing room mirror in a particular dress that could only be classified as sinful. One of his hands gripped your hip, the other flat against your lower belly to pull you close and you gasped at the feeling of him against your ass, solid through his slacks. It turned him on watching you put considerable dents in his pockets, so much so that you barely made it out of the mall parking lot before your hands were all over each other in the backseat of his chauffeured car. 

Everything you bought on what you thought was a random Tuesday shopping spree had already been packed for you, in brand new Louis Vuitton trunks ready to ship. 

No worrying about a manicure, pedicure or getting your hair done because your appointments arranged by him the day before went off without a hitch.

The flight was only a couple of hours before you landed in paradise. 

You fell into a nap snuggled into his arms as the sun rose, in the most beautiful villa you'd ever seen in your life. 

𝓅𝒶𝓁𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓁𝒶 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝑒𝓉𝒶, 𝓁𝑜𝓈 𝒸𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓈 — ​🇲​​🇴​​🇷​​🇳​​🇮​​🇳​​🇬​

The plan was that you were supposed to have a late breakfast with Michael by the pool. You woke up to an empty bed but shrugged it off, figuring that he’d gotten up to make arrangements with the chef or check out more of the property. So you took your time, showering and doing some light makeup before throwing on a green and yellow string bikini.

The closer you got to the staircase, the more obvious it became that there would be no brunch waiting for you downstairs. Confused, you padded around the second level barefoot until you found him the exact spot he told you he wouldn’t be.

Working.

You leaned against the doorway of the office and rolled your eyes. There he was, reclined backwards in the executive chair like the king of the world. And in a way, he was. In his profession he was a monarch, untouchable. He had this need for perfection, which was probably what led him to this phone call he wasn’t supposed to be on in the first place. His brows were furrowed, deep in conversation.

The first thing that caught your eye was his hair, dark curtain bangs styled in wispy layers around his eyes and face. There was something about the style that brought a sort-of androgynous appeal to him. In conversation, his long fingers would raise to sweep it out of the way and your breath would catch, noticing the way it flowed around his cheekbones like strings of silk, flaring out at his chin. You loved how Michael flipped it around when he danced, how he looked up at you through it while he ate your pussy, how it moved in sync with his body as he thrusted inside you.

Right when you were admiring how wide his shoulders looked in his red button down shirt, he noticed you standing there.

Mischief was in your eyes as you walked into the office, his curious eyes on you. Crossed the room. Ignored the chairs completely and sat between him and the desk in front of him. He was supposed to be spoiling you, feeding you fruit with the beach breeze entangled in your curls.

Scooting back, you lifted one leg and pressed those freshly polished toes into his shoulder. His throat nervously bobbed, eyes traveling down your legs, thighs, not daring to look between them.

The visible conflict on his face, intrigue mixed with frustration made you smirk to yourself, feeling like you were winning the war.

You adjusted your bikini top until your taut nipples were exposed to the coastal air.

When his mouth opened to speak, you pushed your middle and ring fingers into his mouth first, which took him by surprise. His eyebrows shot up and you could swear you felt heat coming from his face. Then, you used those fingers to tease and circle around your left nipple, the other hand fully gripping and kneading your right breast. 

Michael didn’t take his eyes off you, not even for a second, as he continued his conversation with his jaw clenched.

You squirmed on the wooden desk, peppering the ambiance with soft sounds leaving your mouth. You played with your nipples until you couldn’t stand it anymore, especially with them being your sensitive spots.

All you could hope is that your private show was enough to steal him back from the discussion he was having about his next project rollout.

“Yes, I want to do an album signing also. Can we arrange that? Wonderful, hold on a moment —“ he pulled the receiver away, looking at you, “I’m almost done, princess. First and last warnin'. Behave.” 

Your hands slid down your body, untying the left side of your bottoms. Spreading your legs in emphasis, you weren’t ever planning on behaving. You wanted him right now.

Moaning, your head lulled backwards as soon as your fingers slid across your folds, legs twitching at the contact. Your toes flexed first, then curled into his shirt while the other foot casually slid up his thigh to discover he was just as aroused as you were.

The distinct, smacking noises of you rubbing your clit turned you on even more. Fuck, you were wet, sticky, and your limbs were getting heavier and heavier as you got closer. Your raised leg hooked onto the back of the executive chair and pulled Michael further between your legs for a closer view.

“Daddy, feels so goodd…” 

His eyes flashed up at you, almost daring you to break his rule about cumming without permission. He didn’t move, didn’t take your bluff. You didn’t falter.

Thinking quickly, you grabbed one of his hands on the desk and guided his fingers inside you. It was your pussy, but nobody made you cum like him. Not even you. The sensation was exactly what you needed to send you into orbit, until the pent up feeling in your lower belly had you grinding down into his hand and shaking roughly into an intense orgasm that made you see stars. 

Michael groaned at the feeling of your walls pulsing around his fingers. One of his weaknesses was experiencing the sensation of you cumming around him, in any way that was physically possible.

He scissored his index and middle fingers inside you, nodding in encouragement as his stare transfixed on the creamy fluid dripping out of you. Biting your lip to muffle your sounds, your eyes rolled back as you rocked your hips over and over until you made a sizable mess all over his hand.

𝓅𝒶𝓁𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓁𝒶 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝑒𝓉𝒶, 𝓁𝑜𝓈 𝒸𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓈 ​— 🇦​​🇫​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇳​​🇴​​🇴​​🇳​

Even though you partially got what you wanted, it was still the principle. 

You sucked your own cum off his fingers so there’d be none for him to taste. Hopped off that desk and left him right there in that chair, criminally hard, still scowling.

You purposefully avoided him for the next couple hours.

If you weren’t still mad at him, the sight of him casually reading a magazine in the living area with the most breathtakingly open view of the beach in the background would’ve stopped you in your tracks. He had his glasses on — you thought he was so sexy in them, despite him hating them — but instead of reading, he had the rimmed frames slightly lowered, looking at you.

You were in another tiny bikini, like this morning never happened. Choosing not to engage, you opened the kitchen fridge and enjoyed some chilled fruit. The fruit he shoulda fed you this morning.

“Let’s talk about your behavior today.” You rolled your eyes and turned to him mid-chew. Michael’s eyes traveled up the expanse of your mostly bare body, making you cross your arms over your chest.

“No.”

“Mama, please.”

“Let’s talk about your behavior. You broke your promise to me so why should I have to behave?” Your main objective in this life was to give men who dared to collect you high blood pressure, and Michael was no exception. 

He sighed very deeply before continuing. “That call was about my album. I needed to focus.”

“Your focus was supposed to be on me, nigga. So I redirected you.” You jabbed.

“You like upsettin' me, don’t you?”

“I could ask the same of you. Besides, you didn’t seem too upset.” 

“C’mere. On my lap, princess.” Michael used two fingers, beckoning you over to him on the loveseat. Your feet begrudgingly moved across the kitchen and living room of the villa until you were within his arm’s reach. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you down until your ass was firmly in his lap where he wanted you. Meanwhile, you wanted to keep poking the bear.

“You mad I made your dick hard? Came without your permission?”

“Language,” Michael warned, “you definitely did it anyway, even after I told you not to.”

“But I really needed you to touch me, big daddy,” you whined.

Michael sighed, moving to affectionately rub the sides of your smooth thighs. The sensation of his exceptionally large hands on you made your knees rub together involuntarily.  “And I really needed you to wait, mama. How many times do we have to discuss your impatience?”

“I couldn’t help it. You so sexy when you handling business, daddy...” You turned to look back at him, playfully batting your eyelashes and biting the tip of your finger. 

The edges of his mouth quirked up but he didn’t break. “Mmm, don’t be coy. You’re in trouble.”

One of his hands slid up your body until it found its favorite spot around your neck, pulling you so that your back was against his chest. From there, you couldn’t ignore the intoxicating mix of fragrances that made him — that damn Black Orchid cologne mixed with the cinnamon from his favorite gum.

“I still smell you on my fingers, princess. I can’t justify rewardin' you for what you did this mornin'.”

The sternness in his tone made your pussy throb in response. You fidgeted nervously in his lap. Michael tsked, adjusting your hips with his free hand until his thigh wedged directly between your legs, creating the most delicious pressure to your center. Your hips squirmed down once out of sheer force of habit, starting a chain reaction where your thigh “accidentally” rubbed against his erection. He cursed under his breath before tightening his grip on your neck to still you. It was so hard to fight the urge to ride his thigh, but the increasing pressure of his fingers around your throat let you know that you were well over your quota of testing his limits today. 

Shit.

You already felt yourself panting, lower lips already starting to stick to the scuba material.

“Aht, be still, needy girl. Clothes off, please..”

His hands retreated, giving you room to obey. 

Facing him, you blushed as your back arched, reaching behind you to untie the bottom string of your bikini then the top, until it was discarded into a pool of very little fabric next to your pretty little feet. Michael’s eyes darkened at the sight of your bare breasts, full, round, with stiff peaks reaching out for him just like earlier. You were prey and he was the top of the food chain. The thought made your mouth dry.

“Turn around.”

You complied, coyly bending over to slowly tug your bikini bottoms down your legs. 

Michael audibly groaned at the sight of your ass from behind, the sound traveling from the pit of his chest right between your legs, making you clench. It was one of his favorite parts of you, perfectly shaped and soft, evenly toned, and so smooth. You both joked that he grabbed your ass like a baker kneading dough. He always told you that you had the most amazing ass, loved to watch you stand or walk or anything, just to see. He’d rub on it affectionately during a nap, press up against you from behind and admire how perfect it fit in his lap and between his fingers, kiss on it when he missed you for too long, ease into you from behind to watch how it rippled against his hips as he fucked you, sometimes gripping and slapping it so much that it left handprints behind. 

His hand met your right ass cheek with a sharp, heavy smack, making you whimper. The stinging brought you back to reality… fully cognizant for the gentleness of that same hand sliding across your hot skin. His duality did something to you, stirred something deep within, ignited desire that reeked havoc on your body and made it scream (with and without the s) loudly for him even when you were upset.

Just then, as if you both were thinking the same thing, Michael gripped both cheeks firmly to separate them and reveal your plump pussy lips and inner thighs that were already slick with arousal.

“This what my attention does to you? You drippin’ already, mama.” He asked smugly, already knowing the answer. You purposely made the mistake of staying silent, which earned another rough smack to your right ass cheek.

“Let’s remember to be polite. When I ask a question, what I expect?” His lips affectionately pressed against the stinging spot. The light stubble on his face gave you goosebumps everywhere causing you to moan softly, losing your reserve.

“Mmm, a response, daddy..” 

“You are correct, my spoiled princess brat. Y’had enough fun on my behalf today so now, it’s my turn to use this beautiful body like you used me. Since you got my attention now.”

If he could see your face, he would see your incredulous expression. Yes, you knew you were in trouble but you didn’t expect anything like what was happening.

“Fix your face and focus, mama. You knew I wasn’t gon' make this easy. I wanna see you use your fingers and make another mess for me.” 

You couldn’t see him but you could hear… the sound of his zipper, clothing shifting across his skin, his shaky sigh and grunt under his breath… your mind filled in the blanks. The thought of him behind you, legs spread with dick throbbing in his hand, intent on watching you play with yourself was almost too nasty, too much… enough to drive you crazy. He knew your voyeuristic nature, knew how much you loved to see pleasure blossom in real time, watch it bloom across his face, watch him lose control. 

Not being able to now truly felt like a punishment. 

Once you were on all fours pouting still, you lowered your shoulders down closer to the carpet before sliding your fingers back and forth through the sticky mess between your thighs to tease him. Michael grunted behind you, reaching over to rub and grip on your ass again.

“C’mon, princess… inside.” 

The whimper that came from you was desperate when you slid your middle and ring fingers deep into your exposed pussy, making your walls squelch. Everything about what was unfolding was beyond modesty. A switch turned on in your mind and just like that, you wanted to comply, be good for him, turn into his own personal pornstar. Your fingers slid in and out, in and out, at a pace that made your toes curl, while you imagined your hand was his. 

God, if he would just touch you, something, if you could just sneak a peek…

“Eyes forward — nngh, y’look so good touchin’ yourself for me mama, keep goin'…” His breathing was just as labored as yours and you could hear the moisture in his palm as he long stroked himself, the schlick schlick schlick matching your pace.

“Pleaseeee lemme see, unhh I’m right there.” Your airy moans were muffled against the carpet, hips unsteadily rocked in the air.

“Mmm t-that’s the point baby, you don’t get to w-watch if I’m punishin' you.”

“M’sorry, daddy…- pleeease?”

You felt him move closer, kneeling behind you close enough to feel his erection ghost your thigh as he slowed down his strokes to keep his control. 

“I know you’re sorry, but I need you to follow directions and cum for me first, princess.”

From his mouth to your ears, brain, body… The edges of reality began to blur so you closed your eyes tight, bracing for impact. Everything was so much. The beige rug was creating an unexpectedly delicious sensation, nipples grazing against it just right while your knees were beginning to sting with rug burn. Panting, your pleas for him to touch you turned into a mantra as you teasingly ground into your own palm, hitting that spot inside you, the crazy button that turned you into a woman you didn’t always recognize. Your pleasure cliiiimbed exponentially, higher and higher until your legs shook underneath you.

The first orgasm hit you unexpectedly and you felt like you were about to burst but you kept going, despite your own limits, wanting to be obedient. 

And then that orgasm turned you into a waterfall, which finally earned Michael’s praise.

“Perfect baby, I know you can do it again f'me, c’mon…”

He reached around to tap your clit repeatedly, in your ear encouraging you to cum again until your helpless babbles and moans escalated into another climax of this sinful symphony, accented by the truly obscene sound of your pussy squirting again, just like he asked, leaking from your hand and thighs onto his hands and the carpet.

“I know, mama, I know it feel good, let it out,” He admonished, “I need to be inside you, can’t wait… wanna feel you.“ 

Michael grabbed your hips before they completely gave out, seizing the opportunity to replace your sodden fingers with his intimidatingly hard dick.

Fuck.

A broken sob left your lips, completely blissed out as he slowly slid inside you. The head was mushroom shaped, so whenever he penetrated you for the first time there was always a delicious stretch. God, you were so sensitive, walls flushed and squeezing around his thick shaft just right, always a perfect fit. Michael moaned, hands trembling around your waist as he pulled out allllll the way to the tip before plunging into you again with a snap of his hips. Again. And again. The intensity and precision had you panting, nails digging into the edge of the loveseat next to you, two seconds from crawling away like a wounded soldier.

“What’s the matter,” he chided, sliding his hand down your arched spine until his fingers intertwined in your hair, gripping and pulling to deepen your arch, “too much, princess?”

“‘s too much, daddy, I can’t…” You moaned in reply but he just made it worse, angling just a little bit more until he was long-stroking you, his swollen tip pressing right against your engorged g-spot.

If you died there, it’d be a great death. The movement of his hips had your eyes rolling back so hard you could see the pearly gates, moans sounding pornographic as they echoed off the Aztec architecture.

It was always like this. Michael would end up in control, fucking you in ways that would make God blush. 

“So spoiled, you gon’ take everythin’ I’m givin’ you, right mama?” Smack. “You gon’ listen next time, right?” Smack. “Spoiled with some good pussy, baby… want me to keep goin'?” Smack.

“Fuck, yes daddy.”

“Mmm that’s right, sweet girl…”

Michael throbbed within your pulsing walls, his lap (and abs, partially) covered in your juices. You couldn’t believe he was getting harder but he was, his own body on a parallel path with you to heaven. You knew he was close… you could feel it,  his hands were trembling as he kept himself grounded with a firm grip on your ribs. His strokes were turning into thrusts, getting shorter, sloppier, breathing staccato. 

Warmth spread through you as he wrapped his arms around you, wanting to be as close to you as physically possible. At this point, you’d let him live in your skin if it meant he’d keep stroking into you like this. He kissed on your back and shoulders, making you sigh in contentment, lips grazing the side of your face and neck, finding home on your lips as his gentle hands kneaded your breasts and ass, encouraging you to keep going.

“You feel s’good inside, mama, squeezin' me s’tight — I can’t stop… just a lil’ bit more… just a lil’ more for me.”

He fucked you until your cries went hoarse. For a man his age, he had stamina that you could only dream of. And he was showing off, dragging his dick through your gushy walls repeatedly, calculatedly... his fingers on your swollen clit,handing you a first class ticket to right there right there right there. 

As his body rocked against you, you moaned through gritted teeth when you felt the familiar sensation building in the pit of your stomach. Your limbs were jelly, spent, trying to hold yourself up through the trembling… Michael noticed, guiding you down into the carpet into a mating press, grinding and chasing both your climaxes. He rutted into you a couple more times until it all became too much, losing his composure.

“Aaahh, princess…” 

Michael whimpered against your shoulder, coating your inner walls with an amalgamation of all the frustrated pleasure you’d caused him today. The sound of his moans and pants filling the air were music to your ears, making your face burn as you joined him. Between your blended notes and the feeling of his warm cum inside you, it set off the involuntary clenching of another orgasm, creating a vacuum seal that caused his hips to shudder roughly against your ass.

Your pussy was spoiled — each flutter demanding him to give you everything, no matter the circumstances. 

Spoiled, just like you about him and everything else. There was so much cum, he filled you to the brim with his seed until a blend of you both seeped out.

The world was still hazy, but calm as the cooldown began. When he slid out of you, he tenderly turned you over and pulled you into his arms.

“Got what you wanted?”

“Don’t I always?” 

Michael shook his head and chuckled, kissing your forehead first before sweetly meeting your lips.

Mourning something you'd never had proved itself to be an impossible cruelty. The kind that tormented the soul deep into the night and refused to give back the part of yourself you hadn't realised you'd lost until you suddenly found yourself grieving it so deeply, time slips away.

In some ways, it felt like trying to catch snow in your bare hads only to have it melt the moment the icy substance makes contact with your warm flesh.

Realistically, she knew it was okay to feel the intense loss that she'd encountered fourteen days ago, but there was something in the back of her mind telling her she didn't have the right. It wasn't like something had been taken from her. She never had it to begin with.

But that's the thing about hope, it clings to your body like an uninvited shadow and makes a fool out of optimism.

The hours seemed to drag along. While her days hadn't really changed in the grand scheme of things, it now felt like the lights had been dimmed, as though the sun was taunting her from outside the world she lived. Things she thought she knew suddenly made no sense, plans she had made fell flat and in an instant, the future she'd envisioned for herself no longer existed.

Motherhood wouldn't have been the only factor in life she'd define herself with, but God, had she wanted it. The thought of growing her baby, keeping it safe within herself until it was ready to show the world the beauty it would bring had been her dream for so long, she couldn't have imagined a life where it didn't happen.

Years prior, when she was only a child heself, she was that little girl, the one who would carefully carry a baby doll around in her arms at all times and care for it as though it was real. Older generations would look at her and smile, giving a condescending, "aww, she'll be a great mom when she's old enough."

At the time, it felt harmless. Now when she thought about it, her insides ached with a pain she had never known existed.

She wanted to be a mother so bad, it physically hurt.

When she started dating Michael, back in 1982, she's never imagined life would turn out this way.

For a start, she hadn't known his fame would sky rocket the way it had. She'd known him to be talented and expected great things, but being the most famous person to exist, second to Jesus Christ himself, felt like a huge reach, but it was true.

His name rang across the globe. He didn't just have fans, he had subjects, people who were willing to do anything and everything for him just to spend a moment in his company.

Their realtionship was deep and complex. They understood one another in ways others didn't. She saw beyond the fame and got down to the man behind the curtain. He saw a women who had so much to offer the world and encouraged her to spread her wings. The first few years of knowing each other, things had been turbulent. Their paths intertwined and then veered off path, only to circle back around until they found each other once again.

A delicate balance of on and off until a year an a half ago when Micharl had decided he couldn't do it anymore. So scared of losing her and despising the idea of living a life without her, he had gotten down on one knee in the flower gardens of Neverland and asked her to take his surname and become his wife. No more breaks, no more, "when the time is right."

They'd gotten married shortly after and it had been the best decision she had ever made. Loving Michael came easily. He was everything she every wanted. Kind, driven, loyal, but above all else, he loved children just as much as she did. So when he requested they start trying for a baby on their honeymoon, she'd immediately agreed, eager to begin a family with the man she loved.

Envisioning a child with his eyes and smile, there was nothing she craved more. She hadn't even flinched when he droned on and on about the huge family he wanted. She wanted it too and for a while, it felt as though that dream was in reach.

The then waiting came.

One week. A month. Two. Six. A year.

Something wasn't right. It didn't matter what they did, how many times he had buried himself her, what position they laid in or what old wives tales they tried, every single test came back negative and with each negative result they recieved, a piece of her heart broke along with it.

Unable to live without answers, they'd both taken the medical route, subjecting themselves to rigorous testing for any fertility issues and holding one another at night, whispering soft echoes of reassurances to each others ears to rid themselves of any negative thoughts before the results came through.

Then it dropped.

The bomb that dismantled her from the inside out.

Asked to return back to the medical facility, the couple held hands as they were told the cause of their problems. Michael was perfectly okay. On paper, he could and should be able to do his part in crafting life.

She was the issue.

The words sank in at an alarming rate, so much so that even a fortnight later, she would still recite them in her darkest nightmares.

"Missus Jackson, your infertility issues appear to be linked to several factors." The doctor has spoken in a cool, matter of fact tone. "The scans suggest polycystic ovary syndrome, this is something that can disrupt ovulation, and there is evidence of scarring in one fallopian tube from a past infection. We also found small uterine fibroid that may also be affecting implantation."

The world fell silent in that moment, the air that had once been warm and inviting suddenly fell into a icy chill. If it wasn't for Michael's hand clutching desperately onto her own, she wasn't entirely sure she wouldn't have broken into a thousand tiny shards.

The doctor had continued to talk, but after that diagnosis, nothing else sank in. She caught the back end off the conversation before they left.

Basically, they could keep trying, but with everything stacked against her, it was incredibly unlikely she would ever be able to conceive children of her own.

Returning home that night had been particularly odd.

For a while, neither of them said a word. Then, seemingly out of no where, the silence had been broken by a deverstaing roar of tears.

Michael sat on the sofa, sobbing a deverstatingly painful cry into her lap, clinging onto her like he would lose her if he'd dare to let go. The hope of the future they both thought they'd have was suddenly so different and so she comforted him through the tears, unable to process the news herself as she sat there completely numb.

In bed that night, he held her tight, like he was terrified at any moment someone would rip her from is grasp or as though his love alone could somehow change their fate and they'd wake up the next day to hear from the doctor that they'd mixed up the results and she actually could carry children.

Obviously, that hadn't happen.

When they woke up the next morning, the same outcome greeted them.

Two weeks later and not much had changed.

They hadn't spoken about it. Not really.

Moments of sadness lingered, where they would look at each other on occasion and remember the crux of their problems. Neither knew how to address it, so they simply didn't.

Standing in the full length mirror of her closet, looking back at the reflection that reminded her so much of a women who was once blinded with a sense of hopefullness, now she only saw a void. A faux expression forced upon her face so no one could see the cracks beneath.

She hadn't told anyone. No one other than Michael and he's supported her. So much of their lives had been sensationalised by the greedy media. This couldn't be something they let slip. Not right now.

Closing the clasp on the dainty gold necklace around her throat, she had failed to notice the bedroom door opening. Completely in her own world as she flattened the metallic pendant against her collarbones, she was only alerted to another presence in the room when she heard the familiar dip of the mattress springs.

In the mirror, tired eyes lifted to the sight behind her. Michael, already dressed in some fine collared shirt, the gold and red detailing against the dark obsidian of the base material giving him a regale elegance she would find pretentious in any other man, yet for him fit perfectly.

Their eyes met and he offered her a small, soft smile, the kind that told her everything would be okay and like always, she felt compelled to believe it.

They'd gotten his far, hadn't they?

His knees parted, arms held wide and with a small crook of his fingers, he requested her presence.

"Baby, come here." He spoke, less like a demand and more like a plea. "I want to talk to you about something."

With no reason to object, she gave one last glance at her reflection, sighing at the dull sight that greeted her and then crossed the carpeted floor towards him.

Michael didn't hesitate one bit. The moment she stepped into his orbit, his arms fell around her waist and tugged her closer until her hands fell against his shoulder. They hadn't been intimate since the news, but the affectionate way he looked up towards her as her gaze flickered down hadn't changed.

"Is everything okay?" She asked, not all too worried when he was looking at her that way.

Embarking on his Dangerous world tour in less than a month, her assumptions quickly fell to the technicalities that regarded such planning.

While true he loved his fans, Michael absolutely detested touring and it was no secret to those that surrounded him.

After the Bad tour reached it's conclusion, he'd been insistent that he would never tour again. It wss too much. The travel, the sleepless nights, the energy and perfomances. Not to mention fans fainting every night, the lack of stability and perfectionist in him screaming in his mind when one simple thing didn't go right.

He couldn't subject himself to that again.

Then one day, he decided he absolutely would.

Not for himself, but to raise money for disadvantaged children.

Every cent he earned from the Dangerous world tour would go straight into his Heal The World foundation to help people across the globe.

Naturally, her mind ran to that. With the opening night fast approaching, she assumed his nerves had started to surface and with an gently stroke of her fingers against his broad shoulders, she attempted to sooth his aching muscles.

"You can tell me anything." She assured after a moments silence.

Brown doe eyes fell towards the plush carpet before he dared look back at her and when he did, his hold on her waist tightened a fraction.

"I've been speaking to Debbie Rowe." He began, noting the confusion on her face. "You know, she said she'd be willing to help."

Head tilted downward, she strained to hear his voice. The more he spoke, the less things made sense. Brows pinched together, mouth opened in a subtle act of perplexity.

She knew the name. She'd met the women. But what the hell did she have to do with touring?

"Debbie Rowe..." she spoke, her words lingering in the air around them. "your nurse?"

"Yeah."

"Willing to help with what exactly?"

His gaze softened, his fingers leaving smoothing patterns beneath the knitt, blue sweater she'd stolen from his closet earlier than morning.

"You know... our problem."

His eyes widened a fraction and thought it was a blink and you'll miss it moment, she noticed the way his gaze subtlety dropped to her stomach making this whole conversation much clearer than any words he used.

A wave of nausea washed over her and immediately her own hands fell from his body.

This wasn't a simple conversation. This was torture on a level she had never imagined he would subject her to.

"What do you mean? You've been talking to your nurse about this?" Hardly able to believe the words that left his mouth, she stepped back and as she did, his touch fell from her waist, leaving only coldness where his hands had been.

His face fell, lips curved downwards into a frown the second she rejected his grasp, like he had physically burnt her skin with the palm of his hands.

"I mean, she's a friend too and I was just looking for someone to talk to, you know?" His words fast in pace, in a quick attempt at rationalising what he'd uttered. "Air out my frustrations and-"

"Your frustrations?" She cut him off, scoffing at the lack of empathy in which he chose to show.

"Yeah... you know, about the whole... infertility thing."

A firey ring of anger bubbled in her stomach, rising up as his words settled around her. Suddenly, any fraction of rationality escaped her mind and pure outrage took its place.

It felt like an insult, like he was mad at her for something she had no control over.

"You're frustrated I'm infertile?"

The venomous way she spat the words hit him square in the heart and his eyes widened once again, mouth dropped with words he wanted to say but failed to reach his tongue.

Michael had realised the error in the way he approached the conversation, he never had been good at explaining himself, but it was too late now. They were in too deep and he needed to get this off his chest.

"I didn't mean it like that. I meant it like... I'm sad."

Any other time he used that excruciatingly deverstating tone, she would have bucked and rushed right over to console him. She'd only ever wanted things to work out for them, but now she felt the cracks in the ice they stood on starting to form and it was only time before they were plunged into the frigid depths below.

She laughed, actually laughed out loud, but there was no humour in the sound as it reverberated off the walls of their home.

"You were sad." She repeated, rolling her eyes like she was amused by the situation. "So what? You're trying to find some miracle cure here?"

"No." Running a large hand over his face, Michael tried hard to stay calm. "But Debbie... she'd be willing to have my kids."

"What?" She exploded, eyes narrowed in disbelief, her entire body frozen in shock.

"Not how your thinking! No! Nothing like that. Never!" Michael rushed to his feet, hands falling to her upper arms, seemingly almost repulsed by the insinuation. "You know, through a doctors office. She'd be a surrogate."

She wanted to scream until her voice gave out. She wanted to throw herself on the floor like a stubborn toddler, kicking and screaming until she got her own way.

How could he have done this to her?

Breathing heavy, her vision began to cloud through the sheen of tears she swallowed back.

This couldn't be happening.

He looked at her with so much hope in his eyes, willing her to answer so they could start the process and he could finally have everything he wanted. His body so close to her usually only providing her with comfort, but now his presence repulsed her.

Time was relative, but she thought that even he would realise how much of a sore spot this would be for her.

"It's been only been two weeks..."

Her voice soft quite, she hadn't known if he'd heard. The only sound she could hear was the fast pace thumping of her pluse in her ears. His touch lingered, but she no longer felt any peace with it.

"What?"

"Two weeks ago, I found out I can't have children." She uttered in debelif, shaking her head like she still couldn't believe it and stepping back once again, only to watch as his arms fell to his sides.

"Baby-"

Michael tried to reach for her again, but she recoiled, talking over him and trying hard not to sob over his stupid decisions.

"I haven't even processed it properly yet." Voice weak, as though the conversation was physically draining the energy from her with ever word spoke.

"I know."

"I haven't told my family."

"I know." He repeated.

Each 'I know' doing little to sooth the terrible ache rushing through her body.

"...and you're already planning happy families with another women."

The realisation hit her like a bullet to the back. So cruel and sudden, she practically stumbled on her from the impact.

She didn't care that they wouldn't be intimate in order to conceive. She cared that he hadn't even taken her into consideration before asking another women he was seemingly too close with, to carry the children that up until a fortnight ago, she thought would be hers.

"That's not true!" Michael's voice raised, rushed with an effort to assure her that wasn't even close to what he wanted. He loved her. "We'd still be together."

"Together?" She laughed, running a frustrated hand through her hair and huffing in irritation as strands tangled around the diamond of her engagement ring.

"Yes."

"While another women is pregnant with your child."

"It won't change anything." His answer automatically, like he'd already planned this conversation.

For the first time since he dropped the bomb on her, she forced her eyes to meet his. An almost vulnerable look looming within the darkest depths of his gaze and she didn't know if he was actually dumb enough to believe what he had just said, or was simply hoping she was.

"You're not that naive." Stepping into his personal space, she didn't once break eye contact. Not until he looked down at the floor and forced her hand. "A baby changes everything!"

"Why does that have to be a bad thing?"

He didn't understand and why would he? It wasn't him awake throughout the night, cursing the very body he was born with for failing to give him the one thing he so desperately desired. He wasn't questioning his worth as a human being or as a partner.

A piercing gaze spared her way. Now that he was no longer sitting, he no longer had to look up at her in order to see her face. Part of her wanted to run and hide, but she'd vowed for better or worse and this was easily her at rock bottom.

"I know your family." The murmur of her voice broke through the silence, arms folded over her chest with a hand resting against her jaw. It was all getting a little too much now.

Furrowing his brows, Michael tilted his head and shuffled carefully on his feet. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I know you've separated yourself from the Jehovah's Witness lifestyle, but your folks haven't." She sighed heavily, feeling the searing heat of his gaze. "We both know your parents want you to be married to the women carrying your children."

She'd been there when Michael struggled through the guilt of leaving that faith behind. While his belief in God never swayed, his thoughts on that particular practice did have him questioning life.

Still, she saw how it still plagued him, how he made decisions based off the life he was raised in. It's why he still hadn't celebrated Christmas and why he'd yelled at her when she'd splashed out on a particularly fancy watch for his thirtieth birthday.

It wasn't a lack of effort that kept him going back, it was the guilt that threatened to swallow him whole every time he tried to dip a toe into something he'd been taught to believe to be a sin.

Where his siblings had managed to break free, Michael was still somewhat attached.

"That won't matter..." he tried, voice trailing off. "It's surrogacy."

"You don't believe that and I don't believe that it'll just be surrogacy."

She willed him to see reason, to understand where she was coming from, but Michael shook his head in return. Stubborn in nature and used to getting what he wanted, he couldn't let this fall through.

"That's just your mind playing tricks on you." He insisted, burying his hands into the pockets of his black slacks.

"Okay, so tell me this." She began, gaze unwavering in an attempt to decipher every micro expression sitting so pretty across his face. "When Debbie is carrying your baby and your mother is holding the ultrasound pictures... who do you think she's going to call the mother?"

Katherine Jackson was an absolute saint of a women. If heaven was a real place, she was surely an angel sent down to Earth to protect one of God's greatest creations. She absolutely adored the women and always looked to her for guidance.

All this aside, Katherine was of a certain generation, one set in their ways. She wouldn't mean to cause harm, but the moment she heard someone else would be carrying her grandchildren, things would be different.

"No. She wouldn't. I'll tell her-"

With a wave of her hand, she didn't allow Michael to finish. "And once she's pregnant, you'll have Debbie move in..."

"Well, of course." He nodded like it was obvious, like she was foolish for even needing clarification. "I'll have to keep a close eye on her."

She didn't know what he meant by that and she didn't want to find out.

Sharing her space with the women who could do the one thing for her husband she couldn't, all the while knowing it's the only he thing he really wanted would deversate her.

"And that changes things!" She yelled.

"Girl, you're talking crazy."

She's never been a violent woman, but in that moment, she seriously considered lunging forward and strangling him right then and there.

Pacing the floor back and fourth, wearing the carpet thin and bitting down so hard on her lower lip, the blood rushed forward. Every thought in her mind begged for this to be a mistake.

Maybe she was still dreaming or perhaps she had misheard.

Stepping forward, Michael pressed a large grounding hand to her shoulder to stop her steps. Slowly she turned to face him and only then did she see a wash of disappointment paint the sharp contours of his face.

"I need to be a dad!" He admitted, leaving no room for argument.

"I know." She had never wanted to deny him of that.

"No, I don't think you do." It was his turn to get angry. Michael scoffed, stepping away and turning his back to her only to face her again, this time his cheeks red with irritation. "That's all I've ever wanted. For as long as I can remember, that's been the only thing that kept me going. I'm going through with this! There is no other reality for me!"

He didn't shout. He didn't have to. Michael had the ability to speak perfectly calm with authority and when he did, he became the most terrifying person in the room. He wasn't aggressive nor violent, but he knew how to scare people.

The heavy weight of his words lingered in the air and she was forced to confront them, because right now, he wasn't giving her an option. He was demanding something she no longer felt like she was a part of.

"So then, what am I?" Boardering on a whisper, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"Huh?" His face screwed up in confusion, not understanding the gravity of the question she's thrown his way. "What?"

"What am I if I can't give you that."

The clarity hit harder than he imagined and with a distinct huff, his hands fell against his narrow hips. "You're my wife."

"Am I?" Voice high pitched, eyes wide in debelif. "It sure as hell doesn't feel that way. You're planning on moving another women in without so much as consulting me."

"Stop putting words in my mouth. You know I love you."

"No, actually, I don't." She saw the way his face dropped at the admission, but couldn't allow herself the luxery of stopping long enough to care. "You couldn't even give me a month to wrap my head around this. You instantly found someone else to replace me with and what, I'm supposed to be fine with it."

"You're acting like I'm betraying you."

"You are." She spat, not once feeling sorry for it.

If he'd been wise enough to leave his dark curls down, she knew he would have been hiding his face behind the curtain of black. Unfortunately for Michael, he'd used one of her hair ties this morning and created a low hanging ponytail of sorts. Soft tendrils had fallen loose, but certainly not enough to disguise his expressions.

"No, I'm not." He fought back, hating the accusations thrown at him. Hands moving between them in a frustrated motion. "I'm finally doing something I want."

"Why her?" Unable to hold the question on any longer, it had been plaguing her the moment he uttered those words.

Because that was the thing, Debbie wasn't just another women. She was someone he'd let in. Someone he's gotten close to and trusted.

There weren't many people Michael had in life that he could consider a real companion, someone to guard his secrets and share part of his soul with. Maybe she'd been naive not to question her place in his life. Had she known Debbie had shifted from a nurse into something much more threatening to their marriage, she would have acted sooner.

"What?" Michael almost laughed.

"Why Debbie?" She snapped, no longer dancing around the situation.

Throwing his hands up, it was his turn to start pacing now. "Why does that matter?"

"Because out of every women in the world, you picked her."

"I didn't pick her." He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose between elegant fingers.

"Yes, you did." She spat through gritted teeth. "Plenty of women would offer to have your babies. You're Michael Jackson for crying out loud."

She wasn't saying it was a good idea, God no. If surrogacy was a route they would ever go down, there would be a lot more planning than picking a random fan off the street, but this wasn't a rational conversation and she had a point to prove.

"I know."

"You went to her. You cried to her, told her things you should've been telling me." Heart heavy with the reality crushing their realtionship, holding back tears had never felt so hard. "You've been talking to her about our marriage."

"I wasn't talking about our marriage."

"You were talking about me! My diagnosis!"

And somehow, that was worse because it wasn't about confiding a secret to a friend. It was complaining about a medical mishap, something she couldn't control that had changed their lives forever without her permission.

Not just that, but the women he'd so carelessly trusted with her secret was a women she didn't know and the realisation that he had gone to someone else rather than approach his own wife wouldn't be something she could easily forget.

"That's different." But even he knew that was a weak excuse.

"No." She sniffed. "It really isn't."

"She's my friend." He muttered through a shaky breath. "I need someone to talk to."

And that was it, wasn't it? In his time of need, he hadn't seeked her out, but rather looked for the comfort of another women. It didn't matter if they were intimate or not, because all it proved was that he no longer trusted her to be cautious with his emotions.

She couldn't shake the idea off. The series of events that lead him into the arms of someone that wasn't her. The thought of him crying against someone else's shoulder, clinging to them with flushed cheeks and tear filled eyes as this other women rubbed his back and soothed him until he calmed down. The image made her sick.

"You had a wife! I'm right here." She whispered, her voice barley there.

"You haven't exactly been easy to communicate with."

Time stilled.

Physically, the world continued to spin, but here in the shared space of their home, in the bedroom they had spent so much time loving one another, everything froze.

Her lungs no longer held any purpose, breathless from the cynical spite he'd thrown her way and the worst part is, part of her believed it.

"Wow." She muttered, no longer able to fight back the single tear that left a damp trail along the curve of her cheek.

"I didn't mean-"

"No." For what felt like the tenth time that night, she cut him off. Eyes sharp as a knife and focused in his direction. "Please, don't take it back now. Let me hear it."

"Baby-"

"Tell me, Michael!" She insisted through the heartbreak, slamming her foot down in a demand for answers.

Seeing the torment on her face and her need to actually hear his side of things, he couldn't deny it, no matter how bad he had felt saying it out loud.

"You shut down." He sighed, head in hand. "I tried... you wouldn't talk about it."

Conveniently, it seemed as though he'd forgotten about the night they recieved the news, how she latched onto him and allowed him to cry desperately in her arms for hours while still trying to process the reality of their situation herself.

She knew she wasn't perfect. Maybe he really had tried to speak to her about these things and she had dismissed him. A vague image flickered in her mind two days after the results. He'd cornered her in the kitchen, his arms wrapping around her waist as he mentioned something about starting a family anyway. She'd tuned out. It felt too sudden.

Though she understood Michael was sensitive. At the time, she hadn't thought much of it. Now she realised he probably saw it as a rejection she hadn't intended on giving.

Anger returned.

"I got told I could never carry a child!" She reminded her husband, gritting her teeth and clenching her fists. "Forgive me for needing a while to come to terms with that."

"Yeah, well I was told I'd never be a father."

That wasn't the case at all and he knew it, but Michael wasn't beyond manipulation in order to get what he wanted and what he wanted was to start a family, by any means necessary.

Throwing her hands up in the air, she scoffed in defeat, eyes trained to the ceiling, like she was praying for answers she would never get. "I can't believe this."

"What now?" Michael sighed, kicking the carpet beneath his sock covered feet.

"You think this happened to you." She accused with a subtle understanding laced within each syllable.

"It did happen to me!" He snapped.

"No! It happened to us!" She practically screamed, needing him to see that he wasn't the only one feeling lost. "We could have dealt with it together, given us space and time to come to terms with it and then, maybe we could've looked into adoption or surrogacy... we could've done it together." Without permission, a sob broke through her lips. "But somehow, you've made yourself the victim here."

"I lost something too, you know!" The vulnerability in his words had him shudder.

"What did you lose?" She asked, at a loss with this conversation.

"My children."

"You don't have children." She huffed, rolling her eyes at the poor excuse he conjured up.

"You know what I mean."

It felt as though they were going around in circles, neither person understanding the others point of view and her heart cracked at his ability to be so unknowingly cruel.

"No, actually, I don't think I do." She breathed out a silent cry, wrapping her arms around her stomach like she could physically hold herself from falling apart in front of him. Her pride would never recover. "Because from where I'm standing, the only thing you've actually lost is your faith in me."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He enquired, eyes softening with how utterly defenceless she appeared.

"It means, two weeks ago, I recieved a news from a doctors office that broke my heart. " She laughs though the conversation was void of any humour. "Five minutes ago, my husband did the exact same thing before he let me recover from the first injury."

"Stop making me the bad guy." Michael pleaded, wanting to reach out and hold her, but knowing better.

"Then stop acting like one."

"I'm trying to fix this!' He insisted, eyes widening a fraction.

"Fix this?" She questioned, eyebrows arched and mouth settled into a solid line.

"Yes."

"I'm not fucking broken, Michael!" She yelled, holding herself tigher as the pieces threatened to fall. "I'm a person with thoughts and feelings and you're so quick to replace m-"

"I'm not replacing you." He insisted through a heavy breath, tangling his fingers in his tied up hair.

"The second you found out I was infertile, you started imagining another women pregnant with your baby."

"That's not what happened." He shook his head.

"Then tell me how it started."

He said nothing. Not a single word and somehow, that was worse. A look of guilt etched against the soft features his face, something he could probably mask from anyone else, but she had spent ten years loving him. She knew every face and up until now, this one had never really been directed towards her.

Like a stone sinking in her gut, dread filled her from the inside out. He didn't have to say a word. She knew.

"Oh my God." She gasped, hand falling to her mouth. "I'm an idiot."

"What? Don't say that." His voice dropping in tone, quiet and sympathic in a way it hadn't been the entire conversation. "You're not."

The room fell silent for a moment, until she found the courage to speak up.

"You were talking to her before the diagnosis, weren't you?"

The heavy weight of her words only paralleled by the heavy ache in her heart. Her lips quivered and all the while, she watched as he refused eye contact, looking anywhere but at her.

"W-what?" He stuttered. "Of course not."

"Don't stand there and lie to me!"

"I just..." The words trailed off, he couldn't finish the sentence.

"You just what, Michael?" She snapped, tears falling freely now and she had no intentions of wiping them away. He could see exactly what he'd done to her. "Finish the sentence."

Here, he looked less like the legendary pop star the world had come to know and more like a scared little boy, hiding from the bad things that go bump in the night.

Only, he wasn't a child anymore. He was her husband and she could hardly look at him without seeing an act of betrayal as it played out so plainly in front of her.

With a heavy sigh of defeat, he gave in. Tired eyes lifted and the look of anguish on her face was enough to steal the breath from his lungs.

He stepped forward, knowing that if she just let him hold her, he could fix this, but with every step he took upwards her, she took one back. No longer wanting to feel like a predator hunting its prey, he stood still and answered with a guilty nod.

"I was worried, okay?" And he had been, it was just never meant to go this far. "We'd been trying for over a year and the tests... they all came back negative."

A year of failed attempts was enough to exhaust anyone, that she understood. What she would never understand was rushing off to a friend the moment things get bad and planning a whole other life so carelessly.

Her heart cracked inside her chest, breathing became a difficult task. She'd never imagined the person she loved the most would be the one the ruin her so deeply.

"So you already had a backup plan?" She spat.

"No!" Michael combed his fingers through his hair, groaning in frustration.

"You already had her!" She yelled and with a look of shame, neither of them could deny it anymore. The color drained from her face and with the last of her energy, she managed to whisper. "You did."

He knew what he'd done was wrong, but some part of him refused to acknowledge it. Michael wasn't dumb, there was a reason why up until now he'd kept this whole thing under wraps, but it wasn't how she was thinking.

"It wasn't like that." He spoke, eyes locking into hers, just willing her to take a leap of faith and believe in him. "I just needed to know this could happen for me... that I could have children."

"Yeah..." She whispered into the void, wishing for nothing more than to wake up from this nightmare. "you had her waiting in the wings, preparing for the perfect moment to spring this on me."

"Stop."

His usually soft eyed look had hardened. He couldn't take this anymore. The constant back and fourth was enough to drive anyone to the brink of insanity. Every second that moved between them, he could feel the agonising weight of their love story resting on his shoulder. Shallow breathing falling from his rounded lips just to keep him from toppling over and falling to the ground.

"While I was praying." She started, her voice cracking with sadness bleeding into her words.

"Stop!" He repeated, only this was a painfully curated plea more than a soft request.

"Hoping... sitting in waiting rooms." She continued, only torturing herself more as the conversation lingered like dead weight in the air.

"Please, baby..."

"And it only took you two fucking weeks to picture a different women carrying your child." If something heavy had been sitting near by, she would have thrown it across the room just to rid herself of the anger she felt bubbling to the surface. "You couldn't even give me a month."

Scratching the back of his neck, Michael felt the moment his cheeks flushed as embarrassment began to rise to the surface. "That's not fair."

"A fucking month!" She continued, in that same aggressive tone. Frustration lingering like an unwanted compainion, threatening to break free and destroy all that they had built between them.

"Baby-" His fingers flexed on instinct, reaching for her hand and then deciding against it.

Staring at nothing in particular, feet planted to the floor. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, chewing on the delicate flesh, unable to process the absolute mess that had become of them.

Worry flooded Michael. Seeing her angry, that was something he could work with. At least then, he knew what she was thinking, how she was feeling and could give her space until she calmed down enough to talk rationality about whatever issues were clouding her judgement.

"Ten years." The words left her mouth, but she barley registered it. All the fight leaving her body now she'd been presented with all the facts.

"What?" Genuinely perplexed, brows furrowed and mouth downturned into a deep frown.

"I've loved you for ten years." She clarified, chest heaving and voice wrecked from the earlier shouting. Utterly defeated as she thought back to a simpler time in life when she truly believed they could get through anything so long as they stayed united. "Yeah, it took us some time to get here, but I thought once we got married, that would be it. We were bound together. Ten years in the making..." crying felt redundant, but she had nothing more to give. "and it took you fourteen days to imagine a future without me in it."

Panic began to set in as he watched the women he'd vowed to protect crumble before him. Her nose pink, eyes unfocused, like if she chanced a glance in his direction, she'd fail to exist within the scrutiny of his gaze.

"I never imagined a future without you." His voice barley that of a whisper, but his eyes urged her to look back and show some sign that she understood his point of view.

"No?" She let out a small laugh, fingers wrapped around the golden pendant sat between collarbones. "Just one where another women plays the part I can't."

Michael physcially recoiled like she's burnt him. He hadn't meant to make her feel like she was easy to replace, but it was obvious he had. Intentions didn't matter when the person you cared for the most suddenly began to look at you like you were a stranger.

"I still want you." He confessed, struggling to understand why she wouldn't see reason.

"No!" She shook her head in protest. "You'll tolerate me. You want the kids more."

"That's not true." But even as he said it, he knew it to be a lie.

"And if Debbie disappeared tomorrow... or I didn't want to go through with surrogacy or adoption. If children were completely off the table forever..." stepping forward, she could finally feel the heat of his body. So close, she could touch him, but couldn't convince herself she should. "would you still choose me?"

The question hung between them and suddenly the air started to feel stale. Her eyes finally found his, his lack of communication prolonging a hefty silence between them.

She didn't need him to say anything. Funnily enough, the words he didn't say communicated more than he ever could.

"Oh." The word fell from her lips without permission and she recoiled, creating more distance between them as she stepped back because finally, she understood.

This wasn't going to work.

As he stood, partially paralysed, watching the life leave her eyes. He knew she was only seconds away from allowing his dumb need to always control the world around ruin everything they'd built in the past decade of life.

"Baby, don't-"

"You're acting liie this is something I want." She scoffed, arms winding around her waist, eyes cast down to the floor.

"I did this for us!" Michael snapped, though his anger was completely misplaced. His desperation to keep her near provoking a side of himself he never wanted to show.

"No." She didn't yell. Her voice perfectly still. "You did this for you."

"Why does it matter? You want kids to. You've always said you couldn't wait to be a mom." Each word spoke with perfect diction, clear and precise. Hands held outwardly to get his point across further and desperation clinging to him like a second skin. "Why are you making this an issue now?"

"Because I needed time to heal... to understand what's going on with me and how to move forward." She wasn't even angry more, crying for the life thought she'd be living instead of the hell she was faced with. "I wanted some input into these huge, life altering decision. I get to decide what's right for me, for our marriage and you just... fuck." A sob broke free and cracked her open. "You took that away from me and maybe it wouldn't hurt as much if you'd been thinking about surrogacy with a stranger, but Debbie?"

"Come on." Michael sighed, tired of repeating himself. "It's not like that."

She said nothing, she barley flinched at the harsh tone of his voice. The world moved around her, but she didn't notice. Feeling like a ghost in her own home, she could no longer deny the distance between them.

Two weeks might has well have been two decades. He didn't see her the way he used to. She wasn't some new, shiny thing he saw for himself in the future. She was something worn down and broken that he was willing to drag along.

For a second, she remained perfectly still, hand held out in front of her and eyes fixed on the beautiful rings decorating her finger. Two bands that had once made her feel so warm and cared for now felt foreign on her skin, a reminder of all the things she could no longer have and the lengths her husband would go to in order to continue living the live he envisioned for himself.

They weren't a unit anymore. They hadn't been the moment he stepped back and discussed plans of impregnating another women behind her back, long before either of them had been tested for any infertility issues.

Having been with him through the good and the bad, she'd seen him at his lowest, sobbing over the vindictive rumours tabloids so carelessly threw his way. She'd seen him overjoyed, his beaming grin so bright it rivaled the light of the sun. She'd held him when he was lonely and cried with him when he was sad. His victories had become her own and his losses hurt her soul so deeply, you'd have thought they were one.

Now standing in front of him, listening to his act of betrayal, she no longer felt like they were bound as man and wife. Physcially, he was in reach. If was wanted to, she could push forward and hold his hand. Emotionally, he'd never felt so distant.

A heavy sigh of defeat past her lips and with a decision made, she watched herself slide the gold engagement and wedding band off her finger.

"No." Michael gasped in a panic, eyes wide and heart thumping frantically in his chest. "No! Don't do that."

"I can't do this." She whispered, placing the rings in his plam, flinching subtly as their fingers made contact and pulling away fast like his touch had scolded her flesh.

"Put them back on." He urged, trying to hand them back, but she moved away, backing herself into a corner just to prevent any further touch. His face fell, crippled with an emotion he couldn't name.

"I can't stay married to a man who makes decisions like this without me." She insisted, her voice so matter of fact, it scared him.

Michael's eyebrows raised high, teeth worrying his lower lip. "I wasn't making a decision. I was enquiring with a friend."

"You found a surrogate... you're planning on having a baby with a women who knows you intimately." She scoffed, eyes wet and unfocused.

"You're making it sound dirty. I'm not trying to hurt you." And he sounded so sincere, but she couldn't bring herself to believe it anymore.

Crossing the line into her personal space, Michael no longer cared about valuing her comfort as he desperately pulled her arm up and placed the wedding band back into her hand.

"Don't do this. Put it on." He persisted, eyes wild and voice raw. "Don't leave."

"Take it back." She uttered.

"No. I don't want it." Michael argued, holding her fingers over the ring in a desperate act to make her reconsider. "I brought this for you. To show you what you mean to me, to show the world you're mine... in every way that matters."

"That's doesn't mean anything right now."

Michael felt the wetness on his cheek before he realised what it was. Crying at the thought of losing her and aching because he knew on some level, he already had.

"It should." His voice cracked, doe eyes wide with terror. "You're my wife."

"I was your wife." She corrected, pulling her wrist from his grasp, the weight of the rings feeling heavier than ever.

Michael's eyes pooled with tears, mouth opened in horror at the subtle correction. He could feel his heart giving out, the loss of physical contact no longer the only barrier between them.

"No." He shook his head, breathing heavy and crying right alongside her. "Please. No. Don't- don't do this to me."

Ignoring his request, she continued to talk as though those particular words hadn't left his lips at all.

"You know what hurts the most?" She asked, but didn't want for answers. "Not that you talked to Debbie, or that you even found a surrogate. It's the fact that it never, not once, occurred to you to ask me. You didn't come up to me and ask 'what should we do now.' You just decided what you wanted and thought I'd go along with it."

"I thought I knew best." He whispered, staring at her face under the florescent bedroom lighting.

"That's your problem... you always think you know what's right, but you never stop before you jump ahead."

"We can still start a family." Michael desperately clinging to the dream had to try just once more.

She laughed bitterly, wiping under her eyes with the back of her plam. "Listen to yourself." She mocked. "This isn't working."

"I love you." He uttered in blind hope that it might make her stay.

"Stop saying that like it's going to fix anything." She spoke, eyes rimmed red and irritated from the steady flow of tears.

"I made a mistake." He finally admitted with a firm nod. "I understand that."

"A mistake is forgetting our anniversary, or forgetting to call while you're on the road." She clarified, refusing to be moved by those big Bambi eyes looking at her in fear. "You made an active choice here and it's not something easy to forgive."

"I can fix it." He promised, taking her hand and watching as it fell limp in his desperate hold. "I'll tell Debbie we're not doing it. I'll stop talking to her all together if that's what you want... just tell me what to do."

His pleas were earth shattering and part of her wanted to throw her arms around him and tell him everything would be okay, they could figure this out together. They'd been through a lot in their realtionship and this was just another obstacle life had thrown there way.

But it wasn't that easy. It wasn't a vase he'd broke, but her trust and that was an entirely different conversation he wasn't ready to have.

"You can't undo this." She ignored the soft whisper of her name as it fell from his lips, looking over at where his hand clutched her own in a move of solid desperation, her skin sunken in from his harsh grasp.

"After my diagnosis..." she began, looking him straight in the eye even if it hurt to do so. "I looked over at you in the doctors office. It killed me, but I thought to myself, 'at least I have Michael.' Turns out, you weren't thinking that way about me, because if you were, you would've held my hand and let me grieve, you would've asked me what I wanted."

"I know." His shoulders slumped and he wiped his face as a result of the onslaught of tears. "I was wrong, but please don't go."

"I have to." She told him straight, not wanting to prolong this painful heartbreak further.

"We can get through this." Michael promised, squeezing her hand with his own.

"Maybe." She watched as hope flashed across his face, but she couldn't focus on that while pulling her hand out of his tight hold. "But not today."

His face crumpled, awful and pale like he was about to throw up if she took another step from him. For her own sanity, she had to.

Stepping away, she ignored his cries as she crossed the room, placing the rings he'd tried to give her back on the nightstand beside the lamp he used for some late night reading.

She didn't look back, she couldn't. She considered herself to be a strong women, but for Michael, she was weak as a kitten. If she chanced a glance over her shoulder, she ran the risk of turning back and allowing him the victory of winning her back.

Wasting no time, she left the room with the door closing tight behind her.

Michael stood, head in his hand, sobbing over his own mistakes and wondering if he would ever be able to make this up to her or if he really had just lost the only women he'd ever truly loved.

An ocean away, Michael sat on the edge of a sofa in his dimly lit London penthouse. When her name illuminated the screen of his phone, a heavy, painful ache seized his chest. Every protective instinct in his body screamed at him to answer, to hear her sweet voice, and to immediately comfort the woman he missed so fiercely. His thumb hovered over the glowing green button.

But he forced his hand away, his jaw clenching tightly. If he gave in now, she wouldn't fully grasp the absolute severity of his boundaries. He needed her to understand that her safety was not a negotiation. With a heavy, frustrated sigh, he flipped the device face down on the glass table, forcing himself to let her calls ring into the silence.

By the time Friday arrived, Maeve was consumed by a heavy, trembling need to make things right. Following his original itinerary, she boarded his aircraft alone, flying across the Atlantic in an excruciatingly quiet cabin.

When she finally arrived at the massive international award show in London, she was escorted directly to her assigned seat in the front row. She had intentionally chosen her outfit for this exact moment—a sleek, form-fitting black evening gown with a daring neckline. It was a stark, deliberate evolution from the innocent, blush-toned dress she had worn to their initial interview, meant to signal she was no longer just a flustered assistant. Her naturally rich complexion glowed flawlessly under the venue's vibrant lights, and she had spent extra time making sure her freshly straightened hair cascaded perfectly around her shoulders.

The moment the lights dimmed and Michael took the stage, the air in the arena shifted. In the past, Maeve had cynically believed that brushing shoulders with the elite was as trivial as selecting a new shade of cosmetics, assuming every powerful executive was just the same arrogant egoist masquerading under a new title. But watching Michael confidently command tens of thousands of screaming fans, she finally felt that overwhelming, breathless sensation she had previously thought was impossible for her to experience.

Midway through his explosive routine, Michael's piercing gaze swept across the front row and instantly locked onto hers.

A violent, heavy jolt shot straight to his core. She looked absolutely breathtaking. The physical distance and their unresolved argument had torn at his resolve all week, and looking at her now, he wanted nothing more than to drag her backstage. But as his dark eyes burned into hers, he didn't break his intense, untouchable facade. He offered no reassuring smile, and no subtle nod of forgiveness.

He was going to make her wait.

For the remainder of his performance and the long hours of the award show that followed, they didn't speak a single word. Every time Michael returned to his seat in the VIP section near the front, he maintained a calculated, commanding distance from her. The agonizing silence and his cold professionalism only fueled Maeve's desperate craving for his touch. She just wanted him to close the distance, wrap his strong arms around her, and claim her again.

And Michael knew exactly what he was doing. Sitting just a few feet away from her, his blood was boiling with a dark, possessive heat. The guilt of his earlier harshness was quickly being eclipsed by a wicked, overwhelming physical desire. Her subtle disobedience regarding her ex-boyfriend had directly challenged his authority, and the torturous anticipation of the evening was perfectly setting the stage.

He wanted her completely desperate. Once the cameras were off and they were finally alone behind the locked doors of his hotel suite, he was going to thoroughly and exquisitely discipline her, using every ounce of his sexual dominance to remind her exactly whose rules she was meant to follow.

The second the final applause faded and the award show officially concluded, Michael’s professional facade shifted back into fierce, protective mode. Before Maeve could even gather her evening purse, his large, commanding hand was wrapping securely around her waist.

He knew exactly what awaited them beyond the venue's secure doors. The gauntlet of hysterical fans and relentless paparazzi was always a chaotic tempest, and there was absolutely no way he was letting her navigate that dangerous crush of bodies independently. He needed her anchored directly to him.

As they stepped out into the cool London night, a blinding barrage of camera flashes erupted. The screaming crowd surged forward against the metal barricades. True to his nature, Michael instantly pulled Maeve flush against his chest, shielding her from the invasive lenses and reaching hands. He maintained his punishing silent treatment, not uttering a single syllable to her, but his iron grip ensured she remained completely safe and untouched by the madness.

When a few frantic admirers pushed forward with items to be signed, Michael paused to oblige, penning his signature smoothly. Several photographers immediately started shouting for Maeve to step aside so they could get solo shots of the global superstar, but Michael blatantly ignored their requests. With a subtle, possessive tightening of his hold, he silently demanded that the stunning woman in the sleek black gown remain perfectly framed by his side for every single photograph.

Finally, his security detail cleared a path, and the pair slid into the heavily tinted, quiet sanctuary of their waiting SUV.

The heavy doors clicked shut, plunging the spacious cabin into a thick, agonizing tension. Maeve's heart raced. She wanted so desperately to bridge the gap, to apologize for the situation back home, and to simply hear him speak. But the rigid, untouchable set of his jaw made the words die in her throat.

Defeated and simmering with tension, Maeve sat back against the leather seat and crossed her arms. Her lips jutted out into a deep, adorable, frustrated pout.

From the corner of his eye, Michael caught sight of her expression. A quiet, desperate heat flared in his chest. He had only seen that indignant little pout a handful of times, and it was driving him absolutely insane. He knew she was probably incredibly annoyed with his cold shoulder, but she made the absolute cutest faces when she was mad. The urge to break his silence and kiss that pout away clawed at his resolve, but his discipline held firm. He would not speak a word until they were secured behind the locked doors of his penthouse.

Still, the sheer agony of being away from her for days was too much to ignore. He needed to comfort her, to feel her warmth after such a miserable week apart.

Without breaking his stoic expression or looking in her direction, Michael reached across the console. He gripped her hip and smoothly pulled her across the leather seat until her body was pressed completely flush against his side. Then, his large, warm hand slid confidently up her leg, coming to rest heavily and possessively right between her thighs.

Maeve gasped softly at the sudden, burning contact, her breath hitching in the quiet car.

Michael didn't flinch. He kept his eyes focused straight ahead on the dark city streets, his strong arm wrapped around her shoulder holding her tightly against him. His large hand remained firmly planted at the juncture of her thighs for the entire ride, his thumb pressing a slow, heavy pressure through the fabric of her dress. It was a silent, deeply intimate comfort that managed to soothe her racing heart, while simultaneously making a wicked, terrifying promise of exactly how he planned to handle her the second they were alone.

The elevator ride to the top floor of the luxury hotel was suffocating. Michael stood completely still, his towering frame radiating a dark, untouchable heat, while his hand remained heavily anchored to Maeve's waist.

The moment they stepped into the lavish, dimly lit penthouse, Michael gave a brief nod to his security team, dismissing them into the hallway.

The heavy oak door clicked shut, the lock engaging with a sharp, final thud. They were finally completely alone.

Maeve couldn't take the agonizing silence for another second. The entire week of separation, combined with the torturous tension of the car ride, had pushed her to her absolute breaking point. She dropped her evening clutch onto the entryway table and spun around to face him.

"Michael, please," she begged, her voice trembling with a mix of frustration and desperate need. "You can't keep ignoring me. I am so sorry about what happened back home, but the silent treatment is driving me insane."

Michael slowly took off his tailored suit jacket, tossing it over a nearby armchair. He turned to look at her, the calculated, professional mask he had worn all night entirely vanishing. In its place was a raw, predatory dominance that made her breath hitch.

He didn't say a word as he closed the distance between them with slow, deliberate steps. Maeve instinctively backed up until her shoulders hit the solid wood of the front door.

Michael placed both hands flat against the door on either side of her head, completely caging her in. He leaned down, his face hovering mere inches from hers. When he finally spoke, his signature velvety tone was completely gone, replaced by a dark, raspy register that sent a violent shiver straight down her spine.

"You think this is just about you wanting to have a conversation with your ex," Michael murmured fiercely, his dark eyes burning into hers. "You think I am simply being an unreasonable, jealous boss."

"No, I don't—"

"Quiet," he commanded smoothly but firmly, his gaze dropping to her lips. "I am speaking."

Maeve’s jaw snapped shut. Her heart hammered against her ribs as the sheer weight of his authority washed over her.

"You used to think that powerful men were easily interchangeable, didn't you?" Michael challenged, his voice dripping with a wicked edge as he referenced her old, cynical mindset of treating elite executives like trivial, superficial choices. "You thought we were all exactly the same, just masquerading under different titles. But I proved to you that I am entirely different. From the very first moment I saw you sprinting up my estate's driveway, looking so delicate and frantic, my only mission has been to shield you. I eliminated your transportation burdens. I removed the boy who humiliated you. I put a wall between you and the rest of the world so you would never have to feel a single ounce of panic again."

He shifted his weight, pressing the hard, heavy evidence of his arousal flush against her stomach through the thin fabric of her sleek black gown. Maeve let out a soft, breathless gasp, her knees turning weak.

"And yet," Michael continued, his large hand coming up to firmly grip her jaw, tilting her head up so she was forced to maintain eye contact. "The second I turn my back, you decide my rules are optional. You decide you want to entertain a reckless liability who ambushed you on the street."

"I just wanted him to leave me alone," she whispered, a tear of frustration pricking her eyes. "I missed you so much this week, Michael."

"And I missed you," he admitted, his thumb aggressively swiping across her lower lip. "It tore me apart to leave you behind. But I refuse to let you put yourself in danger. If you are going to be mine, you are going to follow my rules."

Michael released her jaw, his hands immediately dropping to the daring neckline of her dress. With one smooth, ruthless pull, he slid the dark fabric off her shoulders, pinning her arms to her sides as the gown pooled around her waist. Her radiant, warm complexion was fully exposed to the cool air of the suite, but her skin was burning under his intense, heavy gaze.

"You want my attention so badly, Maeve?" Michael asked, a dark smirk playing on his lips as he saw how desperately her chest heaved. "You've been begging for my touch all night. But actions have consequences. And tonight, you are going to learn exactly what happens when you defy me."

Before she could form a response, Michael effortlessly scooped her up into his arms, carrying her through the penthouse and tossing her onto the center of the massive king-sized bed.

He followed her down instantly, parting her thighs and settling his heavy weight exactly where he had been torturing her in the car. He didn't bother being gentle. He captured her lips in a bruising, punishing kiss, his tongue invading her mouth with an unapologetic ownership that tasted entirely of possessive fury and desperate craving.

When he finally tore his mouth away, Maeve was panting, her hands reaching up to pull at his crisp dress shirt. She needed him inside of her, the heavy ache in her core practically screaming for release.

But Michael caught her wrists, effortlessly pinning both of her hands above her head with just one of his.

"Not yet," he murmured against her neck, his free hand tracing a blazing trail down her stomach, stopping dangerously short of her aching center. He knew exactly how desperate she was, and the ultimate punishment was making her wait just a little longer. "Tell me you understand, Maeve. Tell me you will never put yourself in harm's way again. Tell me exactly who you belong to."

"I belong to you," she sobbed out, completely surrendering to his dominance, her hips arching helplessly off the mattress to chase his hovering touch. "Only you, Michael. Please."

A deep, feral rumble of satisfaction vibrated in his chest. "Good girl," he whispered fiercely, finally granting her the devastating release she had been agonizing over all week.

Michael slowly released the iron grip he had on her wrists, but before Maeve could even think to wrap her arms around his broad shoulders, his large hands immediately caught hers. He pressed her palms flat against the soft mattress on either side of her head.

"Leave them right there," Michael commanded, his raspy, dark voice vibrating in the quiet room. "You decided to ignore my boundaries this week, Maeve. So tonight, we play strictly by mine. You are not allowed to touch me with your hands, and you will not kiss my lips unless I explicitly give you permission. Do you understand?"

Maeve let out a frustrated, breathless whimper. The agonizing week they had spent an ocean apart made her want to completely devour him, to tangle her fingers in his dark curls and pull him as close as physically possible. "Michael, that's not fair—"

"I didn't ask if it was fair," he interrupted smoothly, his gaze dropping to her chest as she heaved for air. "I asked if you understood."

"Yes," she gasped, her fingers instinctively curling tightly into the bedsheets.

With a dark, predatory smirk, Michael lowered his head. He bypassed her lips entirely, instead trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her jawline, biting gently at the sensitive skin of her neck and collarbone. The feeling of his warm mouth against her skin sent a violent arch through her spine. Driven by pure, desperate instinct, Maeve tilted her chin down, trying to bridge the small gap to capture his mouth with hers.

Michael immediately pulled back, hovering just an inch out of her reach.

"Ah," he murmured, his dark eyes flashing with wicked amusement. "What did I just say?"

"Michael, please," she begged, a soft, adorable pout forming on her swollen lips. "I just want to kiss you. I need to feel you."

Hearing her plead for him—knowing that her profound desperation was focused entirely on his touch—sent a heavy, aggressive surge of arousal straight to his groin. He never genuinely wanted to upset the woman he cared for so deeply, but the intoxicating rush of teasing her was entirely too delicious to ignore. It was the absolute perfect way to teach her that her defiance had consequences, and that her submission was required.

"You will wait," he whispered, his breath fanning across her cheek.

He shifted his heavy weight lower down the bed, his mouth and hands expertly mapping the curves of her warm, golden skin. He began to please her relentlessly, delivering a devastating, excruciatingly slow torture. Every sweep of his tongue and deliberate press of his fingers was designed to make her completely lose her mind.

Maeve twisted helplessly against the mattress, her hips chasing his movements. The heavy ache in her core was becoming unbearable, and she instinctively reached out to grab his broad shoulders to pull him closer.

Instantly, Michael caught her wrists again, firmly pinning them back to the mattress. He pulled away from her aching center just enough to leave her feeling completely hollow and desperate.

"Please!" she cried out, her eyes squeezing shut. "Let me touch you. Let me hold you, please."

"You thought you could make your own decisions this week," Michael whispered fiercely against her inner thigh, the dark rumble of his voice sending a fresh shiver down her legs. "You thought you could manage your own safety. You need to learn exactly who dictates what happens to you. Tell me who is in control, Maeve."

"You are," she sobbed softly, completely unraveling under his unyielding authority. "You are in control, Michael. Always you."

"Good girl."

A dark, feral satisfaction washed over him as he returned his attention to her sensitive center, ruthlessly pushing her toward the edge. He drove her higher and higher, the agonizing tease completely stripping away whatever professional pride or stubborn defiance she had left. Every time she whined for a kiss, he denied her, letting her desperate pleading fuel his own massive heat.

Finally, the intense build-up was too much. Maeve shattered underneath him, crying out his name as a violent, blinding wave of pleasure crashed through her body. She trembled violently, completely undone by the lesson he had just taught her.

As her breathing began to slow into heavy, uneven gasps, Michael slid his towering frame back up her body. He looked down at her flushed, beautifully exhausted face, completely satisfied that she had finally grasped the absolute reality of his authority over her.

He smoothly caught both of her wrists in one hand, pinning them above her head one last time.

"Now," Michael murmured fiercely. "You may kiss me."

He crashed his mouth against hers, finally granting her the deep, bruising kiss she had been agonizing over all night. Maeve kissed him back with a messy, starving desperation, tasting the undeniable proof of his possessive fury. It was the ultimate, intoxicating reward for her complete surrender, permanently cementing the fact that he was the only man who would ever control her world.