#get wet

You hover the fine mist sprayer over his hair, your tongue caught between your teeth in concentration. The set of the "Stranger in Moscow" video is cold, artificially so, a damp chill that seeps into your bones despite the parkas draped over the chairs. You, on the other hand, feel like you're boiling. It’s not the lights. It’s him.

“‘Almost there, Michael,” you mumble, more to yourself than to him. You need a perfect sheen of moisture on the strands of his hair, a look that says he’s just walked through a miserable, eternal downpour.

“Jus’ almost?” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates right through you. He shifts his weight, and the long, black coat he’s wearing swishes around your legs. “You been sayin’ that f’ten minutes, doll.”

You ignore the way your stomach flips at the nickname. “If you would stand still, I’d be done in five,” you say, trying for a professional tone and landing somewhere near breathless. “The camera’s going to pick up every little detail. This needs to look… desolate. Heartbroken.”

“I am heartbroken,” he says, and you risk a glance at his face. His eyes, kohled into dark, smudgy pools, are fixed on yours, a playful glimmer in their depths. “You’re makin’ me stand here forever while you spray me with cold water.”

You finally finish with his hair and move to adjust the collar of his coat. It’s supposed to be damp, clinging to him, but the spray has made it slick. Your fingers slip, brushing against the warm skin of his neck.

He shivers. A real one this time.

You snatch your hand back. “Sorry.”

“Don’ be,” he says softly.

Before you can retreat further, an arm snakes around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The damp wool of the coat presses into you, along with the solid line of his body. He’s not playing the part of the lonely, rain-soaked man anymore. He’s all warmth and playful intention.

“Michael,” you warn, your hands flat on his chest to push him away, but they don’t seem to be working. Your fingers aretraitors, curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt. “The director—”

“He can wait a second,” he says, his face so close to yours you can see the individual flecks of silver glitter in the dark makeup around his eyes. “You’re always so serious. So… focused.”

“It’s my job,” you squeak out.

He just hums, a low, pleased sound in his chest. He’s uncoiled himself from that hunched, sorrowful posture of the character. Now he’s just Michael, tall and magnetic, holding you in the middle of a fake, frigid Moscow street. “What if I like distractin’ you?”

You feel a blush creeping up your neck, hot and unwelcome against the cold set. “That’s not helpful.”

“No? I think it’s very helpful.” He leans in closer, his lips ghosting over your ear. “Makes your cheeks all pink. Looks good on camera.”

“‘Ey, hold still,” you’d grumble, reapplying the dark liner to the outer corner of his eye. He’d keep leaning into the touch of your brush, turning a simple touch-up into a prolonged, intimate caress. “Can’t help it,” he’d whisper, his breath warm on your wrist. “Your hands smell like peaches.” “‘S makeup remover,” you’d mumble, your pulse hammering in your throat. “Smells good enough to eat.”

Later, you’re dabbing a bit of glycerin on his temple to catch the light, to simulate a bead of rain tracing a path through the grime. He catches your wrist, brings your fingers to his lips, and kisses the tip of each one, a slow, deliberate gesture. “Gotta make sure you get it right,” he’d murmur against your skin. “Don’ want my girl to do a sloppy job.” Your girl. The words hang in the air between you, dizzying and warm.

The final shot is called. He stands alone under the spotlight, the fake rain falling around him in a perfect, mournful curtain. He looks devastating. Heartbroken. Desolate. The director calls cut, and the entire set erupts into applause. Michael stays in character for a moment, then breaks, a wide, brilliant smile splitting his face. He turns, finds you instantly, and winks.

You spend the next hour packing up your kit, your movements methodical to hide the trembling in your hands. You’re the last one on set besides the cleaning crew. You finally retreat to the relative warmth of your trailer, shrugging off your jacket and sinking onto the small velvet couch with a sigh. You’re just reaching for a cleansing wipe when there’s a soft knock at your door.

You open it to find Michael, fresh from a shower, his hair still damp and curling at the nape. He’s changed into a simple black sweatshirt and jeans, but the kohl is still smudged around his eyes.

“Forgot somethin’,” he says, stepping inside before you can properly invite him, closing the door behind him.

“The makeup wipes are on the counter,” you say, turning to grab one.

He catches your arm. “Tha’s not what I forgot.”

He pulls you closer, turning you until your back is against the small vanity. He sinks to his knees in front of you, his hands resting on your thighs. He looks up at you, the dark makeup making his eyes seem impossibly wide and earnest.

“Michael, what are you—”

“You worked so hard today,” he says, his voice soft, raspy. “Lemme… lemme thank you. Properly.”

His hands slide up your legs, pushing up the skirt of your dress. Your breath hitches. His thumbs hook into the waistband of your tights, and he tugs them down, slowly, reverently, the delicate fabric whispering over your skin. He doesn't break eye contact, and you feel a blush heat your entire body.

“Always so serious,” he murmurs again, this time against the inside of your knee. “Lemme see you unwind a little.”

His hands are warm, a stark contrast to the cool air of the trailer that now licks at your exposed skin. He doesn’t rush. His palms slide slowly up the backs of your calves, thumbs tracing the sensitive hollows behind your knees, making you shudder. He presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss there, and your knees feel like they might give out. You steady yourself with a hand on the vanity, the other gripping his shoulder.

“Look at you,” he whispers, his gaze intense as he stares up at you from the floor. He nudges your legs further apart, and you let him, your body pliant under his touch, your mind a frantic, buzzing blank. “All shy and quiet out there… but I knew. I knew you were all fire underneath.”

His hands continue their ascent, over your thighs, the rough denim of your dress scratching against your skin as he pushes the fabric higher, higher, until it’s bunched at your hips. He’s looking at you, really looking at you, a dark, hungry appreciation in his eyes that makes you feel powerful and exposed all at once. He leans in, his nose nudging against the thin cotton of your panties, inhaling deeply.

“Mmm,” he hums, the vibration shooting straight through you. “You smell even better up close.”

He hooks a finger into the damp fabric, pulling it aside. The cool air hits your wet heat, and you gasp. His gaze is fixed on you, dark and unreadable but for the raw want in it. He traces your folds with one finger, a feather-light touch that has you arching your back, a silent plea for more.

“So wet already,” he murmurs, a smug, satisfied little smile playing on his lips. “All this f’me? An’ I ain’t even done nothin’ yet.”

His other hand comes up to rest on your lower belly, holding you in place. And then he leans in and closes the last bit of distance. The first touch of his tongue is a shock—a slow, deliberate swipe that has you seeing stars. He flattens it, lapping at you like a man dying of thirst, and you cry out, your hips bucking against his face.

He holds you down, his grip firm, and then he starts to work in earnest. He’s not shy or hesitant. He’s a man possessed. He licks and sucks and nips, exploring every inch of you with a focused intensity that borders on worship. He finds your clit and circles it with the tip of his tongue, then sucks it into his mouth, a hard, rhythmic pulling that has you writhing, your fingers tangling in his damp hair.

“That’s it,” he growls against you, the words muffled but clear. “Let go f’me. wanna hear you.”

And you do. You can’t help it. The sounds are torn from your throat, a litany of whimpers and moans that echo in the small trailer. He uses his fingers then, sliding two inside you, curling them just so, finding that spot that makes you see white behind your closed eyes. He pumps them in and out, in perfect, devastating rhythm with his tongue.

You’re so close. You can feel it building, a coil of heat tightening in your core, ready to snap. “Michael… I’m… oh god…”

He doubles down, sucking your clit harder, fucking you faster with his fingers. And then you’re coming, hard, your body convulsing, waves of pleasure crashing over you so intense they almost hurt. You cry out his name, a ragged, broken sound, as he works you through it, slowing his movements, drawing out every last bit of your orgasm until you’re a limp, quivering mess.

He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks utterly wrecked. His hair is a mess, and the black kohl is smudged, raccoon-like, around his eyes. There’s a streak of dark makeup on one cheek, and another smeared across his chin, a dark, wet imprint of your pleasure. He looks up at you, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face.

He pushes himself to his feet, stands over you, and catches your reflection in the vanity mirror. You see it then—the ghost of your wetness on his face, mingling with the stage makeup, effectively removing it in the most intimate way imaginable.

He follows your gaze to the mirror, then back to you, his grin widening. “Well,” he says, his voice a low, satisfied rasp. “S’pose that’s one way t’get the makeup off.”

You let out a shaky, breathless laugh, the sound full of disbelief and a bone-deep satisfaction. “I… I don’t think it’s in the union handbook.”

He leans down, bracing his hands on the vanity on either side of you, caging you in. He’s close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, close enough that you can smell yourself on him. “They should add it,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours. “It’s way more fun than them little wipes.”

And then he kisses you, a deep, messy, possessive kiss that tastes of you and him and pure, unadulterated sin. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss, not caring that you’re getting the remnants of your own arousal and his ruined makeup all over your face. He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged.

“You okay?” he whispers, the playful teasing gone, replaced by a genuine, searching tenderness.

You nod, a wide, dopey smile on your face. “I’m more than okay.”

“Good,” he says, kissing you again, soft and sweet this time. “‘Cause we ain’t done yet. Not by a long shot.”

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