☆Haven☆

Other than the whole ‘Michael Jackson is hiring’ thing. Obviously.

It’s now a little over a year later. Since then, you’ve left MJJ Productions for MJJ Music, and have successfully scouted one solo artist, a trio, and a band. Each one more talented than the other, having all of the potential to fill out unique niches in the industry if given the chance to flourish.

And, for some reason still unbeknownst to you, Michael trusted you. Enough to bring you over to MJJ Music once he established it under Epic Records, promote you to A&R, agree to all of your recruits with close to no objections at all.

Maybe it was your work experience, or ethic. Maybe it was the fact that each time he’d chosen to spend a day with all of you at Lankershim Boulevard, you’d treated him just like any other boss rather than living legend. You’d teased and rolled your eyes, and you think it’d endeared you to him much more than any ass-kissing ever would’ve.

Or, maybe, it was that one day in late March of 1992.

(Larrabee Studios was buzzing with the overworked haze of a prestigious set, the space filled with too many egos at once. It was just you, your electronic typewriter, and a stack of fresh NDAs for In The Closet against the world.

Michael was inside the rehearsal room with Herb Ritts—reviewing the initial choreography—when Naomi Campbell’s high-nosed fashion stylist barged in, flanked by a small entourage of assistants carrying garment bags. They looked exhausted and stressed way above their paygrade would warrant, but most importantly?

Running late.

The stylist slammed a hand on your desk like you were a dog, spitting with each shrill word coming out of his mouth. “Buzz us through to Studio A right now, Herb and Michael are waiting on these wardrobe options.”

It was when one of the aforementioned assistants tried to reach over and press the security release button himself that you sprang into action. You were more than content to level them with the same amount of liveliness you’d exhibit reciting a drilling manual, but if they wanted to test your patience, you’d gladly indulge in the fuck-around-find-outness of it all.

You slammed a clipboard right on top of the assistant’s wandering hand, and stifled a snort when he flinched. Tone flat, you said: “No one enters without a timestamped signature on the NDA. State your names for the typewritten manifest…?”

The stylist scoffed, yelled something about making 10K a day and not having time for secretarial paperwork. Wasn’t your fault he had poor time management, you told him as much. He didn’t like that. Tried to push past the side of your desk, but you stopped him with the same look your mother used to have when you were being a little shit.

“One step past this desk without a signed contract, I’ll lock down the entire corridor and have security escort you off the property. Sign or go back to your car. I don’t have all day, and neither do you.”

The double-paned glass window next to your desk was a one-way mirror, and you didn’t know it at the time, but Michael was watching. Gulping down a glass of water with sweat on his brow, the King of Pop watched fascinated as you treated an entitled high-end stylist with the same uncompromising deadpan expression you’d treat the delivery guy.

You had just the right amount of bite to manage the raw and unpolished young artists he wanted to sign to MJJ Music. You fascinated him then, and it began bleeding into everything else from there on out.)

Maybe it was something else entirely.

But every time you slapped another scout report that needed signing off on his desk—personally, per his request—all you’d get would be a few minutes of thoughtful consideration, a look beneath stray curls, and a soft-spoken: “You think they got it?”

You said yes every time.

And then, came the stress. The tabloid pressure. Super Bowl XXVII’s halftime performance and all the sweat he poured into it. The Oprah interview. His health, the world tour, the exhaustion.

Everybody’s got a breaking point.

It just so happened that Michael’s was a typo on the latest deal memo.

You didn’t mean to. You were tired, barely got half a night’s worth of sleep, eyes and ears swimming with each clack of the keys on your typewriter. Work was running late, almost 1AM, and Neverland seemed to take the almost-fairytale form its namesake promised. Everyone on the property was fast asleep or halfway there; not you or Michael, though.

(You being there was a recent development. Michael said it’d be lighter on your workload: easier to coordinate with Norma over the deal memos and reports, handling some of his fanmail on the property and searching for talent in the endless self-recorder cassettes he received. You started coming every other week, and even had your own unofficial guestroom. It was nice. Being closer to him was nicer.)

His private library was dead quiet, slow and comfortable. Michael was sitting at the heavy mahogany desk, still wearing his white rehearsal shirt, looking completely drained. The lines of exhaustion around his eyes were deep, and growing deeper the longer the midnight oil burned.

You’d put together the memo with the instructions he told you. $100K advance, two-album commitment, 50% royalty rate—

—Loud incorrect buzzer!

Fifteen. Not fifty percent.

He’d told you fifteen.

The dog-tired look in his eyes almost made you curl up and scream. The last thing he needed was you messing shit up when you’re the only one he trusts to just… not to. He hardly even looked over the documents by that point; just a quick skim before signing and having you hand them either to Norma or the lawyers.

And you fucked it up anyway.

He sighed, curls in disarray. He was looking at you beneath his lashes with such a defeated look you almost fell to your knees right there. Slowly, his long and slender fingers slid the paper across the desk toward you. His doe-wide eyes stared you down right to your marrow, dark and filled with a piercingly fragile exhaustion.

His voice was an airy murmur, so quiet you had to lean in slightly to hear. “Look at this… Please.”

You did. Leaning over the front of the desk far enough to hover and read the ink comfortably, you skimmed it once and twice, tired eyes jumping word after word. But, you couldn’t find it. You gave up halfway through the third try.

You were too worn out to do anything other than look in his eyes questioningly, trying to wordlessly apologize without even knowing what’s wrong yet. He didn’t say anything. Just leaned a bit forward, reached a finger to the mistake, lingered long enough for your eyes to follow. Your heart dropped straight down your ass.

He’d said fifty, hadn’t he? You were sure he had, but why the fuck would he have said fifty? Fucking idiot. “Shit… shit. Michael, I’m so sorry, I could’ve sworn—”

He let out a faint, dry breath that sounded almost like a laugh entirely devoid of humor. That sort of laugh when someone’s past the point of fatigue, teetering right on the edge of mania after a gruelingly draining day. The cherry on top. He shook his head, looking at his own hands.

“Fifty percent,” he breathed. “If Sony saw this, they’d think I’m losing my mind. More than they already do…”

“Michael, I’m genuinely so sorry, I don’t know what happened,” you shakily exhaled. “My sleep’s been kinda shit lately, but that’s no excuse. I’ll fix it right now.”

You reached down to grab the memo. Your hand froze when his own wrapped around it like a vice, soft skin burning you with something one’s boss should never incite. But that was another conversation entirely.

He looked at you. You looked at him. His palm was still wrapped around your wrist, but he softened his grip. His hold softly drifted down to your palm, your knuckles bent in his grip as he lowered his head with a sigh. You were acutely aware of every inch of skin he touched. It seared you from the inside out.

He stood up—gait languid, still holding you—rounding his desk and touching your shoulder. You saw him hesitate, just a second before he made contact with it. He was so close. Too close.

You wanted him closer.

He whispered: “I’m just… so tired. The press is writing things every other day now… It jus’ feels like everyone wants to rip pieces offa me ‘til there’s nothing left.”

He’d gotten closer, you think. Inhaling you with every breath. Looming over you, his presence like a blanket. You think you might’ve stuttered a breath the closer he got, at the way his eyelids fluttered, at his large arms and the way they flexed.

(He’d gotten… meatier. That’s the only word that comes to mind. He’s always been a gorgeous man—the posters decorating your childhood bedroom are testament enough—but ever since the turn of the decade… Well, let’s just say his training with Lou Ferrigno was visible.)

You turned sharply, pelvis almost flush against the desk and hand still held into his, grabbing the memo with all the intentions of breaking away and fixing it.

You gasped deeply when you felt him behind you. In the silence, you might as well have screamed.

He crowded you against the desk with nothing but his body heat as a barrier. His palms slowly inched onto the edge of the wood next to yours, his body everywhere, his breath scorching your nape as your heart galloped. This wasn’t happening, was it?

He was so tired. At his limit. Everything he’d worked so hard for crashing down on him all at once. Without an outlet, it was a matter of when—and no longer if—he’d blow up.

His hips were flush against yours. He wasn’t being lewd; he was just there, grounding himself against your warm body, letting some of his weight rest on you. It sent a violent tremor down your back, dizzying and addictive. His hands looked so much bigger than yours against the mahogany backdrop. You loved looking at his hands.

Your eyes travelled across the scattered blotches of melanin left by his vitiligo that he never covered inside his home. To his veins, like a map; the ridges you desperately wanted to feel on your skin. You’d wanted it for a long time.

“I just wanna hold you,” he murmured. “I need to… feel you. Y’know?” You shivered as his breath ghosted over your nape, trailing towards your cheek.

His arms wrapped around your middle, big as they slithered over your blouse, making you heave a sigh that was closer to a moan.

“Uh-huh,” you nodded dumbly. You think you might’ve astral projected a bit, because nothing was making sense in the way he squeezed you closer, in the way you let him. Like this was commonplace, and not a position you’d only ever dreamed of finding yourself in. Like a dance; something choreographed in that brilliant mind of his that you weren’t privy to.

He needed this, but deep down, you wanted it more. Selfishly. Achingly. Like nothing you’d ever wanted before. Most of all, you needed to help him: reach out a hand and offer some reprieve, away from the cameras and endless scrutiny that’d become as familiar as an old friend.

You saw how hard he worked himself to the bone every day. He was good, and determined. He deserved the world. You don’t know if you were capable of giving it to him, but you sure as hell were willing to try.

His thigh inched closer, muscle working its way between your shaking legs, lifting your skirt and making you open them as it found home on the crux of your thighs. Right where you burned and pulsed worse, the staccato in your lungs matching the tempo right where his leg rested. 

What the fuck? What the fuck?!

“M–Michael,” you gasped. “What’re y’doing?”

“Baby,” he punched out. His voice was right beside your ear, lips grazing it. It felt so intoxicating you almost got dizzy. He called you ‘baby.’ “Am I wrong? Tell me, please…”

He didn’t have to specify. Am I wrong for touching you? For wanting this? For taking something for myself? For being human, for reaching my limit?

Am I wrong for wanting you?

“No,” you whispered, reverent. “Ah… Michael, you’re… You—”

Slowly, like handling something life-or-death, you let your weight fall. Grounding yourself on his wired muscle, exhaling a gasp when he flexed his thigh and moaned into your ear. High-pitched but settling deep down your chest, a sound so utterly his it sent your brain into overdrive.

Shifting his weight, his thigh began a slow and tantalizing upwards grind against the dampness of your panties. Your slick had gathered quick and hot, spreading like scorched tendrils up your pulsing clit.

It was fucking nasty, the way you started to get lost in it. No second thoughts or, like, any thoughts. Whatsoever. He let out a ragged exhale against your neck, and with a sudden effortless surge of strength, he lifted you just a couple inches off the floor. Your weight was completely dependent on his strength. It left you reeling.

“Michael—”

“Have you been thinking ‘bout it, too?” he murmured, voice soft.

A beat. A gulp, blasting its way down your throat. A second beat. Third.

“Constantly,” you punched out.

As previously stated: no thoughts, whatsoever.

And, it should’ve been downright embarrassing to say so out loud. But not when he brought you down on his thigh languidly, the sensation nothing short of a violent electric jolt that went straight to your spine. Your knees buckled completely, head falling back onto his shoulder as a desperate gasp tore from your throat.

He was right there, cheek to cheek, almost mouth to mouth; dangerously so. His curls tickled your skin, and it hit you suddenly how much you wanted to get used to the feeling.

“What have you,” he swallowed, voice dropping, “been thinkin’ about?”

One of his hands broke free from your waist, splaying across and gripping your thigh instead. His touch was amplified over the thin pantyhose, your hairs standing on attention beneath the fabric as you fought back a shiver. The feeling made you burn even hotter, like a star about to explode into a supernova. A Big Bang threatening to turn you all inside-out, and Michael hadn’t even taken your clothes off.

“Um, I–uh,” you sputtered, a nervous chuckle slipping past. You were still moving against him, he wouldn’t let you stop. Every time you faltered, his thigh would do the work until it kicked you into gear again. It was dizzying. “I’d, y’know, think… about…”

Huh. What were you even saying? 

“I’m listenin’,” he softly urged. You could just feel the smirk. Could almost see it too, if you thought hard enough.

“I’d think about… you. W–when you rehearse–ah…”

He turned you around in his hold sharply, without warning. One second you were staring into lifeless mahogany, and the next into the most beautiful shade of brown. Eyebrows scrunched, he whispered: “You like seein’ me dance?”

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. The meat of your ass was digging into the desk, and the closer he leaned into you, the harder you had to fight to stay upright. Hands gripping the wood, you managed to find your voice.

“Y–yeah…? But you knew that. Everybody in the world likes seeing you dance. You’re dirty.”

He chuckled, thigh flexing against you. Shit. “I’m not dirty—”

“N–no?” you exhaled a laugh. “Should really rethink those gold pants…”

A laugh, deep down his chest. Shaking his head, he muttered in disbelief: “The gold pants…”

You laughed, too. Unsure and still suspended in his hold, thighs tightening around his own. That same laugh suddenly turned to a cry when he made you resume your grinding.

He looked mesmerized. You weren’t even touching him and he was almost equally undone, if not worse. The realization hit you suddenly: that, maybe, this was what he needed. Control. Not for his own release outright, but for someone he trusted. Someone who trusted him back.

“Michael…?” you asked. The friction was delicious; dragging against your clothed core, slow and unhurried, building steadily until sweat was dripping down your back and the motion of your hips grew sloppy. Your skirt had bunched up completely, and suddenly an image of what you probably looked like flashed behind your lids. You choked around a gasp.

“Hm?” he mumbled, curls falling over his forehead and onto you too, your faces close but not kissing; just breathing together, inhaling his exhales and feeding him your gasps.

Shit… He hit a spot, biting his bottom lip in triumph as you lost your train of thought. Your panties had snugged up your hips, suddenly jolting against your sensitive clit, making you jump.

Hips still shifting, you managed to speak: “I wanna, I wanna–ah… Mmh, make you feel good too, just…” 

God, fuck, his hands were so big. One was splayed over your back, fingers softly rubbing patterns over your sweat-slicked blouse. The other was deeply buried in the meat of your hip, guiding your back-and-forth. He made it so hard to articulate a sentence.

“You are,” he reassured. He sounded out of breath; Michael Jackson—performer since the cradle, hours-long/no-breaks/year-round world tours, King of Pop—breathless. Because of you.

Bringing one of your legs higher towards his hip, you squeezed him close, urging him to chase his pleasure too. “No, nono, c’mon… Ah, fuck—”

You were a whining and desperate mess. And his thigh just felt so good, all toned muscle. Michael’s. Oh, God, fuck. What the hell? You were getting off on him, off your sweet boss who just so happened to be the most famous man in the world. The most talented. The most lonely.

“Shhh, baby. I’ve got you. Got you right here,” he hushed, voice dropping into that deep breathy register he only used when the cameras were entirely gone. When he was entirely gone.

Back and forth, slow, rhythmic, intoxicating. You could’ve been grinding against him for hours, or just seconds. It doesn’t matter. Your climax hit you like a cresting wave anyway, building and building and building until you were suddenly head-over-heels without even realizing. Back arching, legs cramping from your fervor to get there, your hands almost reaching up to get tangled in his curls.

Almost.

“Oh, my God,” you panted, twitching. Chest heaving, your fingers trembling.

He looked so… relaxed. Relieved. Like it wasn’t just you who got off on it, but him too. The lamps outside the window were bathing everything in soft yellow, mixing with the deep blue of the night sky and reflecting off of the side of Michael’s face.

The library grew quiet again; just your joint breaths, the wild gallop of your heart, a soft breeze whistling by the open window and ruffling the curtains. It took you less than a minute to soak up every last bit of dopamine in your system like a sponge. Less than a minute for the ground to metaphorically get swept right under those feet of yours.

You gasped, mortified, palm shooting to your mouth as you jumped away from the desk. Away from Michael. It would’ve looked better had your legs not been shaking, or your panties not been a mess. Shit.

He panicked too, you saw it in his eyes. In the way his entire body coiled up, hands held out in surrender as he leveled you with the most will-breaking doe-eyes ever. Worst thing is, he wasn’t even forcing it. It’s just how his eyes are.

“What happened?” he breathed. God, you loved his voice so much. Just a few minutes ago he had you writhing over his thigh, and now he looked catastrophically nervous. “Baby, you okay?”

There it was again. ‘Baby.’ Falling so naturally from his lips, like he’d been holding back from calling you that all along. Had he? Had you really been so blind?

(There’s a strange comfort in seeing him the way you did that night in the library. Not as the untouchable icon you grew up pining after like every other girl your age, giggling over his interviews and grooving to his music before you were old enough to drink.

He wasn’t that boy anymore, either. He was almost thirty-five now, and had all the triggers of a grown man. But he was also Michael; soft-spoken and kind, wearing his bleeding heart on his sleeve, way less shyer than in his youth yet still just as lonely.

Michael Jackson, your boss. Your friend. The only man you would’ve let touch you this way without socking him in the jaw. Knowing you made him just as nervous… Yes, it was comforting. In its own confusing way.)

“I just,” you took a breath, shaking your head. You’re honestly surprised you didn’t hear rocks. “I’m gonna… go, I think? Yeah, um, g’night—!”

Smooth. No pun intended.

Sure enough, though, you hauled ass out of that library faster than an Olympic medalist. You remember hearing his voice behind you—his soft lilt that always made you warm—and feeling nothing but panic. Pure, unadulterated panic. What you should’ve actually felt was bad, but good luck telling that to yourself that night. She was in flight mode, and no amount of pretty doe-eyes would’ve whipped her into shape.

You reached your designated guestroom in a flurry of movement; doors slamming shut behind you, soles echoing on the polished floors, blood rushing in your ears. Your back met the wall as you winced at the state of your underwear, face buried in your palms for what would become the most insane night of your life. 

Confusion and buried feelings—and that certain hue of anxiety only present in matters of the heart (or, flesh?)—swirled inside you like a tornado as you twisted and turned. You hardly slept a wink. 

Face hot, you spent the night near the open window, leaning against the marble sill and staring out into the quiet darkness of the ranch. You shifted through every single interaction between you, starting from May of 1992 until that very same night, trying to make sense of what had happened. Like a fucked-up movie screening, or a car wreck you couldn’t take your eyes off of.

Sure, he was always warm towards you; more than he was to your coworkers Kelly and Rita, who used to glance at you sideways when you teased him about the company-mandated breaks. It made him laugh; what were you supposed to do instead? Tiptoe around him on eggshells, act like he’s not just another boss like all the others?

(He wasn’t, in a multitude of ways, but your point still stands!)

And, alright, you had noticed him staring. Smiling at you wide, greeting you with a cheek kiss that would land a little too close to your mouth whenever he got the chance; it left you floundering every time. The way he’d hover over you as you wrote on the typewriter, one hand on the chair but so close to your skin, the other holding a glass of OJ. He’d ask how you were doing, if you were hungry, how much fanmail you’d gone through… And his hand on the chair would wander.

Featherlight on your upper back, giving you a soft rub before he’d leave to do all that Michael Jackson does in his day-to-day. Leaving you behind to sigh away the flush he caused each time. He also made it a point for you to eat together at least once when you were there, alongside Bill who always made you laugh.

But, you stayed at his estate half the time. You’d proven yourself a trusted employee and even though every single past work experience told you otherwise, you began treating him like a friend too. Familiarity was a normal inevitability, right?

Shit. Clearly the fuck not.

It must’ve been at least 4AM when you realized you couldn’t face him the next day. What, you’d just waltz in the living room and say, “Hey, Mike. Thanks for the orgasm, let’s do it again sometime. Up top!”

What. The. Fuck.

Nope. You had to leave, and you had to leave ASAP. So, that’s exactly what you did. Grabbed your overnight bag with half your shit thrown carelessly on the inside, still wearing the skirt and pantyhose but with your sleep-shirt instead, slipping out of the guestroom at the crack of dawn and praying nobody would ask where the hell you’re going.

You did leave a note, though. Right on top of the pillow that was stained with your mascara, off-white paper sporting the jittery pen strokes of a lady in distress.

I’m not mad at you, M. Please don’t be mad at me? Xx

Okay, fucking sue you, alright? That was a week ago. One endless, painstakingly long week. A week of numerous phone calls from the estate to your apartment in Echo Park, telling you that ‘Mr. Jackson got very worried’ and how much ‘he’d appreciate it if you could just give him a call, sweetheart, alright?’

Truth is, you wanted to. You didn’t even regret it, that’s the thing! The shock was simply a knee-jerk reaction to having gotten off on your boss’ thigh on a random Thursday. Anyone would’ve gotten rattled in your place, it’s human nature. (Ha!)

(Not the time.)

You want him, so devastatingly bad. It’s actually kind of ridiculous. Past-you would be doing somersaults had she known you’d end up in this predicament. She wouldn’t even call it a predicament; more of a literal dream come true. Teen-you might’ve actually passed out. Well. You never said you’re proud of it.

The point is, you want this. Whatever ‘this’ is. A fling? A relationship? Something to help Michael take the edge off, blow off steam, decompress? Sure. That. You want to be that for him. You want it so much you’re willing to get on your knees and beg. Maybe do a little more than begging while you’re at it, too.

So, when you finally mustered up the courage and called his personal number, you agreed to dinner on Sunday so fast Michael coughed a chuckle. He wasn’t being mean, you knew it, but it made your neck flush anyway.

Sunday came quickly. You wore your prettiest dress and shiniest burgundy pantyhose, hair and makeup all done over your tiny cluttered sink, skin slick with nervous sweat and smelling of that sweet perfume you saw on last month’s Cosmopolitan. The lady in the article swore up and down on it, and you can’t say she was lying. When Michael greets you at the car, he pauses; closes his eyes for just a second and inhales as you hug, his hold on the small of your back tightening just-so.

Thank you, Cosmo.

And, fuck. He looks good. He always somehow does, but knowing he looks good for you makes a world of difference. He wore a simple polished dress-shirt over black slacks, but his sleeves have this beautiful hand-stitched flower embroidery that makes your mission of not looking at his hands so much harder.

And as if everything else wasn’t enough, he bought out the entire restaurant. On a Sunday! The Ivy, no less. With its seen-and-be-seen white picket fenced patio and the fragrant flowers hanging from all sides, just so the A-listers can pretend the paparazzi’s cameras are just another trick of the lights. You don’t have that problem tonight, though.

Bill drove you personally, and he didn’t park on Robertson Boulevard. He took you around the restaurant instead, near the rear staff door where a small entourage of Michael’s security was huddled. Where he was waiting for you, too. Opened your car door like a gentleman, shared a look with Bill you pretended not to notice, nodded at the staff member that led you inside.

And here you are, in all your nerve-wrecked glory.

Sitting right across from him, cross-legged, bathed under the soft romantic candlelight of a place you can’t afford. The maître d’ nestled you deep inside the restaurant, at a booth where you have to crane your neck outwards to even get a glimpse at the windows. On the table rests Michael’s black fedora, and two wine glasses: sweet vintage Port for you, freshly squeezed orange juice for him.

The waiter must’ve been new because he was sweating bullets, and when he brought the drinks over, he’d placed the OJ in front of you. Both of you waited until he left to switch. Your fingers brushed, and Michael smiled at you beneath his lashes when he felt you shiver.

“This is, um… It’s nice,” you try, swallowing around the lump in your throat.

Is it the wine that’s making you lightheaded, or maybe literally everything else? Beats you. All you know is that you sounded way more seductive when the person in front of you was your own reflection.

“I’m sorry,” Michael breathes. “It’s too much, isn’t it—?”

“No!” you cut him off. “No, it’s… It’s kinda perfect, actually.” Laughing around a sip, the wine is cold against the flush that’s spread throughout your body.

“Well,” he laughs too, flashing you his pearly whites, “I’m sorry anyway.”

“For what?” you ask, even though you know. Some sick part of your brain just wants to hear him say it. See if he’s as shy as all the gossip tabloids say he is when you already know he isn’t.

“You know exactly what…” Words breaking off in a chuckle, he doesn’t meet your eyes fully, smile growing tight. And cute. He speaks your name so sweetly, saying, “I need you to know I’m sorry. Don’t know what came over me, I was jus’…” He shakes his head.

“Hey, I get it,” you breathe. And, you ready do get it. You’ve been mulling it over all week, weighing your options and what to do to tip the scale in your favor. “You… blew up. Happens to everyone, y’know. Even superstars, superstar.”

His eyebrows raise. “That don’t make what I did right.”

Your face twists into a sly smile. “If you wanna get technical, I took way more advantage, so…” Shrugging your shoulders when he scoffs, you say, “Just saying.”

“You’ve always been a smart-mouth—”

“Never heard you complaining.”

“Why’d you leave then, huh?”

Hm. Touché.

A nervous laugh punches its way out of you, more of a breath than anything else. “Uh, I,” you cut yourself off, taking a rather strong sip of the wine that’s slowly growing stale. “Well, I panicked. Nothing more to it. What do you want me to say, that I regret it? ‘Cause I don’t. And…” You tilt your head, heart ready to burst out of your ribcage. “I don’t think you do, either.”

He’s looking at you in such a way that makes you want to straddle him right here, under the private candlelight he bought out just for you. Just to apologize. Makes you want to bury your hands in that pretty head of curls he’s wearing in a low half-bun, thread your fingers through it until he’s shaking in your hold.

Sucking a breath through his teeth, he says: “Doesn’t matter. I didn’t call you here to debate or make excuses, I respect you too much. You’re invaluable to me, y’know that? I got no idea what I’d do without you, and I don’t wanna fuck this up anymore than I already did. You—”

He was spiraling: fingers anxiously drumming on the table right beside his untouched OJ, a rhythmic tap-tap-tapping that you stop with your hand on top of his. He looks at you like waking from a daze, fingers almost unconsciously shifting to wrap around yours. His hand is so much bigger, fuck. Veiny, and… and pretty. You want his hands everywhere, but for now, you can settle for your palm.

“I don’t need you to apologize, or take anything back…” you speak slowly, steeling yourself. You let go of his hand, and for a second his grip seems to follow the ghost of your shape. Crossing your hands at the elbows and placing them on the silky tablecloth, you lean forward, and it causes your heeled ankle to brush against his shin. You let it linger. “I need you to do it again.”

Fuck. The way he smiles? The way he lets his bottom lip curl under his teeth, like he’s physically holding himself back? It’s more potent than any alcohol you could gulp down right now.

“I do too, baby,” he sighs. Fuck. Jesus fuck. “But we can’t.”

You’re unable to reel back the whiny hue of your voice, shoulders falling like a child that’s been denied a lollipop. “Why not? Give me one good reason.”

“Okay,” he sings, condescension dripping in his tone that should’ve pissed you off but instead makes you shift in place, crossed legs tightening. “I’m your boss, how ‘bout that?”

You wave him off. “Oh, please. We’re way past that, even before the library. Next.”

“You’re young,” he shrugs, eyebrows rising in a challenge. But your heel is still ghosting near his calf, and you see the way he’s breathing heavier each time they brush against each other.

Suddenly, an idea sprouts in your head. Either a very terrible one, or a stupidly brilliant one. Well, there’s only one way to find out, right? Only way out is through, and all that?

“Michael,” you sigh, giggling. “You cannot be serious right now. D’you think you’re greying, or what? There’s, like, five years between us.”

And as you speak, oh-so slowly, you begin uncrossing your legs. As if nothing’s happening, the tip of your heeled toe drifts towards the back of your other shoe, right where it hugs your Achilles tendon. Pushing the heel off, it rings a soft thud against the carpet that gets lost under the sound of your voice.

“Five, is that right? Why don’t you try ten?”

“Now who’s highballing? I’m not young, I’m just younger.”

“Right—”

His voice cuts off like he’s short-circuiting, and if the Academy were to ever award an Oscar for a poker face, you’d be the first to get it.

Because… there it is. The look. The slow realization that something smooth is travelling up his leg, burgundy-colored and sly. His thighs are spread, and that’s all the better for you. Makes for a nice little path to follow, pantyhosed-toes curling into a pointe, trailing up his calf and the side of his knee and thigh. His jaw clenches so hard you fear he’s going to chip a tooth, but he doesn’t say anything. 

He lets you play around, because he wants it as bad as you do.

“Michael,” you exhale. “Stop, okay? What you’re doing to yourself, stuffing down all that pressure ‘til you pop? It’s not healthy. I care about you…” You pout, foot continuing its path even slower. You linger on his thighs, at the toned muscle he flexes for you, rubbing the inside with soft strokes. “Let me… Let me help you unwind.”

He hisses something sharp when you make contact with his crotch, and, oh! The waiter’s back with two steaming plates, and even though the lobster ravioli should be mouthwatering, you can’t find it in you to give half a shit.

“Thank you,” you sing-song, watching as the waiter retreats with quick steps. Your foot feels warm, heart in your throat as you continue rubbing him over his pants, anticipation almost leaving you shaking as he hardens. He’s breathing so loud. Fuck. You just smile at him, innocent and coy.

And he gets stupidly hard, stupidly fast. You bite your lip as it happens, beaming like the cat that got the cream, gasping when his hand closes around your ankle like a cuff. But he doesn’t push you off. No, more like he squeezes the soft pad of your foot against him harder, sighing as he adjusts. It leaves you pulsing.

Eyes clenched, his voice is half-ruined when he punches out a: “Fuck, girl, what’cha trynna do?”

“I told you,” you whisper, nearly whining. His slender fingers have loosened around you now, softly massaging you over the pantyhose, the sensation tingling and sensual and, fuck. Fuck. You’re so wet it’s embarrassing. “I want this and you do, too. Stop thinkin’ so much—”

“I can’t,” he shakes his head, doe-eyes piercing. “‘Cause when I stop thinking, the tabloids get ahold of you and rip you to shreds. You’re a smart girl, you know that. I’m thinkin’ of your reputa—”

“Of course, Michael,” you nod. And you shift your foot, hugging his bulge, rubbing slowly up and down as he falters. He doesn’t stop you. “We’ll be careful.”

“We…” He visibly loses his train of thought, breath slipping out of him in one fell swoop, his eyebrows furrowed. Jesus Christ, he looks beautiful like this. Swallowing, he says, “W–we’ll have t’… Keep a lid on it…”

“Yes, Michael,” you nod again, more feverishly, hands tightening on top of the silk tablecloth until your knuckles shake. With the way you’re extending your leg, it leaves little wiggle room for relief; hips softly moving against your seat, your neck flushed and stomach swirling.

“I can’t… let t–them get to you. I won’t…”

“I know, Michael…” you whine, and there’s nothing in the world you need more than his lips on yours. His weight against you, his hands around you, his scent to take root inside you. You can almost pinpoint the exact second he lets go of his reservations, just like he had in the library.

He stands up, puts on his fedora, kneels under the table to grab your stray heel. His slim fingers close around your calf as you shift your body outwards, guiding your foot into the shoe like Prince Charming. But there’s nothing princely in his eyes when his hold tightens around you, laying a hot kiss on the inside of your thigh and giving you no time to process it before whisking you to your feet.

When the waiter comes back, he finds two untouched plates of food, and a $100 bill tucked under the wine glass full of OJ.

“Fu–uuuck, Michael…”

(Your apartment was a little less than thirty minutes away, and with the way Michael grabbed the keys from Bill and sped down Beverly Boulevard, you made that trip in fifteen. You were onto each other the second you opened your door, keys clattering on your counter, heels stumbling off clumsily, shirt buttons popping open as your hands travelled on his skin.

You wanted to make him feel good. He needed this. And so you pushed him back into your couch, taking a couple steps back and falling to your knees. His eyebrows raised questioningly at the distance, thighs spread wide on your small couch, one arm thrown back as his head tilted. But you could see the red flush he tried to hide, and it was all the encouragement you needed.

Slowly, you leaned forward, palms against the carpet as your hips swayed. Eyes falling to your cleavage, his breath grew tight, anticipation curling around you both like a snake. You crawled to him, knees burning deliciously, wetness deepening with each passing second until your skin was boiling from the inside out.

He smelled so good; warm bergamot and rosewood and musk. It swirled around you as you reached his open legs, palms ghosting on each of his knees, your cheek rubbing against his inner thigh as he quivered. And then you rubbed your cheek against where he burned the hottest, like a cat, tiny moans and bit-back whines falling from him so sweetly.

“You’re dirty, girl,” he moaned as you took him out, your mouth watering. He looked so needy, and flushed, and neglected. When you gave his tip a kiss, his whine shot straight between your legs.

And you worked him just like that; softly, like the kisses you were giving him were on his lips and not his dick, taking him in your mouth and whining at his weight on your tongue. But then you suddenly broke away with a deep breath, looking up at him and the way he’d covered his face with one hand, mouth open and panting, oh-so inviting.

“Michael,” you spoke around the spit clogging your throat. When he looked down, he nearly broke. You batted your lashes, pushing up on your thighs and asking: “Kiss me?”

“C’mere—”

You did. Fuck, you did. His kiss was everything you’d ever dreamed of; lips soft and all-encompassing, those hands you loved so much curling around your cheek and nape, breathing you in as he tasted himself and gave you a moan to swallow.

You broke apart and smiled as he chased after it. Giving him a peck, your lips trailing up his ear, teeth scraping against it as you sighed: “I need your help…”

“Yeah, mama? What ‘s it?”

You leaned back a bit, blinking at him. “Need some help getting you wet…” Your hand wrapped around him again, featherlight and barely there. A tease.

His chest stuttered, lids fluttering. “What?”

You whispered: “Spit in my mouth, please?”

It took everything in him not to break, you could see it. His curls were sticky with sweat, framing his pretty face like a halo, eyes dark. You inched closer, neck craning back, mouthing falling and giving him a peek of your tongue as you waited.

And it took everything in you not to break when his spit finally hit you. Fuck. Fuck. Hot and thick, slowly trickling into your mouth as he hovered over you. You couldn’t believe this was your fucking life. You almost swallowed it just to have an excuse to ask again, but you didn’t. He was so neglected already, tip flushed prettily, hips jutting against nothing as you took him in your palm.

Lips right above him, you let his own saliva trickle down his tip, grinding against the back of your calf as he let out a guttural groan, hands shaky as he sighed.

It didn’t take long for him to cum. And when he did, he hiccuped around nothing, thighs shaking as you fought to keep him in place. You didn’t manage it; you gagged, making him moan louder as your throat gave him one last delicious squeeze before retreating, painting his pretty black dress-shirt in white.)

“Say it again, angel, needa hear you say it—”

“I’m your girl,” you punch out, back curling, toes cramping, “I’m your girl, I’m your girl, I’myourgirl—”

(He’d laid you down, still sensitive from his orgasm yet still wild, curls sticking everywhere, sweat mingling with his perfume as you buried your nose into his neck and inhaled. Moaned as his smell filled your nostrils, intoxicating and sweet.

He lifted your dress just past your mound, buried his face into you, making you jump as he kissed you through the pantyhose. When he realized you hadn’t worn any panties to the dinner—your earthy scent inviting him and the wet spot in the sheer tights taunting him—he looked up. Beautiful brown eyes, like little dark pearls. His breath on your exposed core made you shiver, and you smiled.

The smile quickly disappeared when he moved up your body, strong thighs weighing against your own, big and veined hand coming to rest just by your mouth. 

You remembered all those wild performances of his, walking and dancing sex on stage, white tape wrapped around those same fingers.

“Need your help, too,” he whispered.

You gulped, clit pulsing, hips trying to grind against nothingness as you whined. Spit gathering quickly, you let it dribble down to his open palm, most of it getting caught on your chin from your position. It made you feel nasty.

It was so hot.

“Thank you, baby,” Michael smiled and gave you a peck, stray curls tickling your nose before he moved down again. His strong hand cupped you whole, your spit wetting you fully over your tights, and you choked around a gasp. Chin still wet and messy, your arms were thrown over your head and hanging off the armrest. You were helpless, and you wouldn’t want to have it any other way.

He ate you through the pantyhose, messily, sloppily, wet gulps and moans and cries all mixing together as his lips closed around your clit, the texture of his tongue combined with the nylon making you buck and shake.)

“Yeah, you’re mine? All mine?” he spoke, voice muffled into you, each syllable slithering over your nerves and sending them into overdrive.

“Y–ye–yes–ahhh—!”

Your voice broke into fragmented cries.

He just ripped your pantyhose. 

The cold air hits you almost immediately, and Michael gives you no time to think just how fucking hot that was. His mouth is on you in seconds, and it feels even more cataclysmic than it already was. And it was, a lot.

Your climax has hit you like a violent wave in under a minute, hips cramping from the force, clit pulsing and aching as Michael keeps on giving it sweet kisses, exactly like he used to kiss your cheeks as greeting all those times before the line was crossed. Soft wet pecks that make you mewl and claw at his scalp, pushing him away but bringing him closer.

What the fuck. Oh, God…

“You’re real pretty like this,” he says as he comes up. His chin is glistening, and he gathers you up in his arms as you both sit up. Instead of forcing both your bodies horizontally on the small couch, you sink back into the cushions, cloud-like as you pant. One of his arms wraps over your shoulder, resting against the junction of your hip, your leg curling.

You fight back a giggle at his words. Voice thinning, you sing out: “‘Pretty young thangs, repeat after meee, sing na-na-naaa’—”

That same hand comes down on your ass in a playful smack, and you jolt up from his hold, smiling so wide your cheeks ache. You laugh against his mouth, and he closes the distance with a chuckle.

And, well, you still can’t pinpoint the exact moment things shifted; all you know is that you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

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