#michael jackson

Beside him, Jermaine smiled warmly saving his brother the embarrassment. “Good morning. We’re visiting the neighborhood today to share an encouraging message from the Scriptures.”

Michael heard every word without processing any of them because his eyes snapped upward—the porch ceiling. Interesting ceiling. White paint. Tiny crack near the corner. A very nice ceiling if he’s ever seen one.

He folded his hands tighter around the Bible, suddenly finding it fascinating too.

Don’t stare.

Don’t even look.

You’re here for Jehovah.

His pulse thudded annoyingly in his ears.

“..Are you okay?” She asked with slightly furrowed brows.

He looked down just enough to meet her face before immediately remembering that had been a mistake too.

“I—I'm fine,” He answered far too quickly, his voice climbing an octave against his will. He cleared his throat. “We’re just.. sharing a message.”

She tilted her head and the corners of her mouth lifted ever so slightly. It wasn’t mocking but if anything, she looked entertained. Then something clicked! Her eyes brightened with recognition, and a smile slowly spread across her face.

“Oh..” She said softly, almost cooing the word as though she’d solved a little puzzle. She tipped her head towards him, studying him another second before lifting a finger in his direction.

“You’re that singing boy.” The teasing warmth in her voice made it sound less like she was identifying a celebrity and more like she’d caught him doing something endearing.

Michael’s stomach dropped, lips parted but nothing came out.

She let out the quietest laugh. “I’ve seen you at Studio 54. I like to go dancing there when I’m not at home working.”

The heat climbed up his neck so quickly he was sure it had reached his ears. “I..” He swallowed. “Y-Yes, ma’am.”

She smiled a little wider, amused by how spectacularly embarrassed he’d become. “Well,” She said, leaning lightly against the doorframe, “It’s nice to finally meet you, cutie.”

Michael managed the smallest nod, turning his attention back to the porch boards beneath his shoes.

He’d been recognized before. Thousands of times, even. But somehow hearing that singing boy in a voice so gentle and playfully affectionate unsettled him far more than hearing his own name ever had. It made him feel strangely ordinary. And for reasons he couldn’t begin to explain right now, he didn’t mind that at all.

She glanced between the two of them before opening the door wider. “You can come in if you’d like. It’s hotter out there than in here.”

The older brother accepted without hesitation. “Thank you.”

Michael stayed exactly where he was. One foot remained planted on the welcome mat while the other refused to cooperate.

Inside? He hadn’t mentally prepared for inside.

Three painfully long seconds passed before he realized both of them were looking at him. “You coming, Mikey?” Jermaine asked with a knowing look in his eyes.

“Oh.” He blinked. “Yes, of course.”

He stepped over the threshold with all the confidence of a man entering a courtroom instead of someone’s living room and she giggled, closing the door gently behind them. The house was cozy—clearly decorated with the labor of love to her tastes. Sunlight filtered through thin curtains, dust floating lazily through golden beams stretching across hardwood floors. A radio somewhere in the kitchen played quietly enough that he couldn’t make out the song.

She’d disappeared into the kitchen only a moment before, leaving him sitting stiffly on the edge of the sofa, Bible balanced neatly across his knees. The room smelled of her favorite Yankee candles and fresh laundry and somewhere nearby a clock ticked lazily against the wall, filling the silence while his brother admired the framed photographs lining the mantel.

“She’s a pretty little thing, huh, Mikey?” Jermaine smiled, he rarely did these visits but he was happy as hell he decided to bite the bullet today. What are the odds they knock on the door of a hottie?

“Orange juice?” She called from the kitchen before Michael had a chance to respond—not like he was going to say anything interesting anyway.

Jermaine answered. “That would be lovely.”

Michael should’ve been reviewing the scripture they’d planned to read. Instead, he found himself listening for her footsteps.

The soft shuffle of bare feet crossed the carpet before she came back into view, one hand steadying a small tray with three glasses of orange juice. The morning light spilled through the front windows, catching the thin white silk of her nightie as she walked. It wasn’t.. incredibly revealing. If anything, it was almost modest in its simplicity, loose enough that it concealed more than it suggested.

Still..

He looked.

Only for a second.

His eyes traced the easy sway of the fabric around her upper thighs as she crossed the room, the gentle curve of her shoulders where one of the straps had slipped just enough to expose the smooth line of her collarbone and shoulder. She moved with absently with ease, someone entirely comfortable in her own home and completely unaware she was being observed.

Or perhaps she was aware.

The thought struck him like cold water and is gaze snapped away.

Jehovah...

Heat rushed into his face so quickly it made his ears burn. He lowered his eyes to the worn leather cover of his Bible, thumb pressing against its edge until the pages bent slightly beneath the pressure.

I’m here to preach.

Not to wonder what perfume lingered so faintly in the room.

The guilt arrived with startling speed. She’d welcomed strangers into her home. Offered them something to drink. She’d been nothing but gracious. The fault in his mind belonged entirely to him. His father had taught him discipline. His mother had taught him devotion. The congregation had taught him that the heart could wander long before the body ever did.

He swallowed.

Get yourself together.

He lifted his eyes again, intending only to thank her properly.

Instead, he caught her just as she knelt to place the final glass on the table. Her neckline dipped and gave him a straight shot of her bare breasts—so round and soft looking, and she looked up with an easy smile that suggested she hadn’t noticed at all.

“There you go,” She said brightly. ”I hope orange juice is really alright. I haven’t gone grocery shopping yet.”

Michael blinked, realizing she’d asked him a question. “It’s perfect,” He answered, his voice quieter than he’d intended.

She smiled again, pleased, before settling into the armchair opposite the couch. Only then did Michael finally allow himself a slow breath. He folded his hands together over his Bible, willing his pulse to settle.

This was supposed to be the easiest part of the morning.

Read the scripture.

Share the message.

Thank her for her hospitality.

So why, he wondered with no small amount of frustration, did speaking about God suddenly seem far less difficult than looking her in the eye?

A few minutes later they were seated in the living room, glasses cooling their hands while conversation settled into something surprisingly natural.

She wasn’t dismissive or trying to argue. She actually listened. She asked thoughtful questions about faith, about why they spent their weekends going door to door, about whether rejection ever discouraged them. Michael found himself answering more and more often, the stiffness slowly draining from his shoulders.

She laughed easily.

Somewhere in the middle of explaining a scripture, he realized he’d stopped thinking about her clothing entirely.

Now he noticed the way her eyes stayed focused while he spoke. The way she twirled strands of hair whenever she was thinking. The quick little smile she’d give before asking another question that caught him completely off guard.

The conversation had wandered further than Michael expected it to. What had begun with a familiar introduction and a carefully rehearsed scripture had somehow become snacks, orange juice, and an easy discussion about faith. She listened with her chin resting lightly against her hand, asking questions that weren’t meant to trap them or prove them wrong. They were thoughtful. Curious. Honest.

He found himself relaxing.

His shoulders no longer felt drawn so tightly together, and when she laughed at one of his nervous stumbles, it wasn’t unkind. If anything, it seemed to put him more at ease.

She glanced down at the tract resting on the coffee table, tracing its edge absently with one finger.

“So, can I ask you boys something?”

Jermaine smiled. “Of course, miss.”

She hesitated long enough to suggest she was deciding whether the question was worth asking at all. Then she looked between the two of them, an amused smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“I'll be honest..” She began. “Does your God accept women like me?”

Silence.

Michael’s brow knit together slightly.

Women.. like her?

Beside him, his brother looked equally puzzled. “I’m sorry?”

She let out a soft laugh, immediately realizing she’d been far too vague. “No, that’s—” She shook her head, smiling at herself. “That’s probably not a fair question.”

She leaned back into her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Is He a forgiving man?”

The room seemed quieter after that. The teasing note she had in her voice hadn’t disappeared entirely, but something underneath it had changed. It wasn’t really a joke anymore.

Michael studied her without meaning to. She wasn’t looking at either of them now. Her gaze had settled on the condensation sliding down the side of her orange juice glass, thumb slowly wiping away the moisture before it reached the table.

There was something oddly vulnerable about the way she’d asked. She didn’t seem.. ashamed but rather uncertain.

Jermaine answered first. “Jehovah is merciful,” He said gently. “No one is beyond His forgiveness if they’re sincere in seeking Him.”

She nodded slowly. “I always liked that idea.”

Michael’s eyes lingered on her face and she smiled as she spoke, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes this time.

Women like me.

The words circled quietly in his mind because he couldn’t make sense of them.

She seemed kind.

Hospitable.

She’d welcomed strangers into her home, listened respectfully for nearly an hour, and asked questions with genuine interest. Nothing about her suggested someone who believed she was undeserving of forgiveness. He almost asked what she’d meant. The question rose to the back of his throat before his courage abandoned him. Instead, he remained quiet, fingers absentmindedly smoothing the edge of a Bible page.

The conversation drifted elsewhere—scripture, hope, the promise of a better future. But Michael found himself returning to those three words again and again.

Women like me.

He didn’t know why they’d stayed with him. Only that they had. Long after they thanked her for her hospitality and stepped back into the morning sun, he was still wondering what she had been trying to tell them without actually saying it.

Eventually Jermaine glanced at his watch. “We should let you get on with your morning.”

She stood with them. “It was nice talking to you both.”

“It was nice meeting you,” Michael managed, and this time his voice sounded almost normal.

They thanked her for the refreshments and made their way back outside. The summer air wrapped around him again as they walked down the porch steps.

One house down.

“Excuse me?” Michael turned and she was still standing in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame. “I hope I see you again.”

For a second, the street disappeared and there was only her. Only that pretty smile and the strange warmth blooming somewhere beneath his ribs. He smiled before he could stop himself.

“I..” His words caught. “..I hope so too.”

Then he followed Jermaine down the sidewalk to find his mother and La Toya, Bible tucked beneath his arm exactly where it had been that morning.

Only now, for reasons he wasn’t entirely prepared to examine, he found himself wondering how long it usually took before someone qualified for a return visit.

A few days later became surprisingly difficult to justify.

There was, technically, every reason to return. She’d listened attentively, asked sincere questions, and accepted the literature without brushing them off. People like her often received return visits! Michael reminded himself of that so often.. yet every time he thought about knocking on her door again, he had the uncomfortable suspicion that he wasn’t.. being entirely honest with himself. He told himself it was because she’d been receptive to the message.

He tried very hard not to admit that it was because he couldn’t stop thinking about her. She lingered in his mind so much it was starting to make him insane.

By Tuesday, he caught himself wondering what she might be doing while he folded laundry. By Wednesday, the memory of her laugh surfaced in the middle of family worship, earning him an immediate stab of guilt and a silent apology to Jehovah. By Thursday, he’d started praying about it in earnest. He asked for discipline, for clarity, for the strength to keep his thoughts where they belonged because he was starting to have these dreams that left him with wet pants. His thoughts always drifted back to her and it was humiliating he was so enamored over a girl he didn’t even know. He remembered the sleepy smile she’d greeted them with, the gentle teasing in her voice when she’d called him “that singing boy.”

And, more than anything, the uncertainty behind her question. Does your God accept women like me? He couldn’t understand why those words had rooted themselves so deeply inside him, still. He met people every week. Some were kind. Some were curious. None of them followed him home like this.

By Saturday morning, he finally had an excuse that sounded respectable enough to say out loud. She’d wanted to learn more (she hadn’t, she was just being polite). They hadn’t finished discussing God’s forgiveness. There was another tract he thought she’d appreciate, one that expanded on exactly the questions she’d asked. When he suggested he stop by her house again, his brother agreed without hesitation, remarking that she had seemed genuinely interested. Michael nodded a fraction too quickly, the explanation feeling only half true as soon as he repeated it.

She had been interested.

But that wasn’t why his pulse quickened the closer he came to her street. That wasn’t why he’d smoothed his tie three separate times before they reached her porch. Somewhere between convincing himself this was simply another return visit and catching sight of her beautiful white house at the end of the block, he was forced to confront a truth he would rather have ignored. He wasn’t just hoping she’d answer the door because she might want to hear another scripture. He was hoping because he wanted to see her. And that realization settled in his chest with enough guilt to make him whisper one last silent prayer before he knocked.

The knock came sooner than she’d expected.

She'd been halfway through fastening the clasp of one satin glove when it echoed through the apartment, drawing a small sigh from her as she checked the clock. Whoever it was had terrible timing.

“One second!”

The heels clicked sharply across the hardwood as she crossed the room. She reached the door, smoothed an invisible crease from the front of her outfit, and pulled it open.

Michael forgot why he’d come.

She stood framed in the doorway in the unmistakable uniform of a Playboy Bunny. The fitted black bodice hugged her silhouette, white cuffs circled her wrists, and a crisp collar sat neatly at her throat beneath a perfectly tied black bow tie. Smooth legs disappeared into sheer stockings before ending in impossibly high black heels that lifted her just enough to meet him eye to eye, perhaps even an inch taller.

Her hair had been swept up into a glamorous, voluminous updo that framed her face, every strand carefully pinned into place. Soft makeup caught the afternoon light, her lashes dark, her cheeks dusted with color, her lips gloss making her lips plumped and shiny. She looked as though she’d stepped straight out of a magazine.

Michael simply stared completely caught off guard. She noticed immediately, recognition spread across her face as a warm smile followed.

“Well,” She said, amused, “If it isn’t that singing boy.”

His mouth opened.

Nothing.

She leaned lightly against the doorframe, one brow lifting with endearment. “What brings you back, handsome?”

Michael blinked himself back into the moment, fumbling for the tract tucked beneath his arm as though it might remind him of the speech he’d rehearsed all morning.

“I.. We.. I was..” He cleared his throat. “You’d asked about.. forgiveness.” His voice sounded much smaller than he’d intended. ”I thought... maybe you’d like this.”

He held the pamphlet out with both hands.

She looked at it, then back at him, her smile softening. “That was kind of you.” She accepted it carefully, glancing down at the cover before meeting his eyes again.

“So,” She asked with an easy smile, “How can I help you today?”

The question should have been simple. And Michael had spent the better part of three days preparing for it.

Yet standing there on her doorstep, with the afternoon sun catching the edge of her pinned up hair and the extra inch her heels afforded her somehow making him feel even younger than he already was, every rehearsed sentence turned into nervous silence.

He swallowed. “I.. I just wanted to come back.”

The words escaped before he could stop them.

She looked at him for a long moment, her smile never wavering. “Oh, yeah?”

Michael lowered his eyes. “I brought the literature you asked about.”

“Mhm.”

“And.. I thought maybe we could continue our conversation..”

“Is that all?” There was something in her voice that made him feel wonderfully transparent.

She took a small step closer, close enough that he caught the faint scent of her perfume beneath the smell of something sweet and hairspray. His pulse stumbled.

“Michael, have you been thinking about me?” She asked gently.

He searched for an answer that wasn’t a lie. “I..”

A soft laugh escaped her. “I thought so.”

Before he could retreat into another apology, she lifted one gloved hand. Her fingertips were impossibly light as they settled beneath his chin, tilting his face upward just enough that he had no choice but to meet her eyes.

He froze, every muscle in his body seemed to forget its purpose.

“You really are cute, you know.” She cooed, smiling as though she’d finally coaxed a shy puppy from hiding. “You’ve spent this whole visit looking everywhere but at me..”

His breath caught—her touch was so gentle it barely qualified as one at all, yet it sent a startling warmth through him. She studied his face for a moment, taking in the heat creeping across his cheeks, the nervous swallow, the way his fingers had tightened almost painfully around the tract in his hands.

Then with a tenderness, she asked, “Do you like me?”

Michael's heart lurched.

The question wasn’t to tease, she genuinely sounded curious.

He stared at her, completely undone. “Well—Um..” His voice failed him. He tried again, barely above a whisper. “I..”

She smiled knowingly. “You don’t have to answer.«.Her thumb brushed the edge of his jaw in one small, reassuring stroke before she let her hand fall away.

“I think you’re a very sweet boy, Michael.” Hearing his name in her voice nearly finished him. He looked down at the porch, unable to hide the smile threatening at the corners of his mouth despite the panic blooming in his chest.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a dozen scriptures reminded him to guard his heart. Unfortunately, none of them seemed to explain what to do when it had already wandered.

Her smile softened, she’d decided something about him she wasn’t going to explain out loud.

“I have a favor to ask you,” she said gently.

Michael blinked. “A favor?” He sounded wary, brows furrowed a tiny bit.

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reached out and took his hand—his breath caught. Her gloved fingers folded around his and she guided him back inside before he had time to remember how to object.

The house felt different deeper in.

Less like a living room where strangers had once been offered orange juice, and more like something carefully curated and intensely personal. She led him down a short hallway and into a bedroom that looked like it had been pulled straight from a magazine spread. A vanity table dominated one wall, crowded with brushes, perfume bottles, ribbons, and little glass trays that caught the light in soft, fractured reflections. The color palette was unapologetically feminine. Creams, blush pinks, soft gold accents. Everything looked like hers.

Michael slowed without realizing it. “This is.. your room?”

She glanced back at him over her shoulder and smiled. “Mhm.” She let go of his hand just long enough to step in front of the vanity. For a moment she studied herself in the mirror, adjusting a strand of hair that had shifted slightly out of place. Then she turned back to him.

“I need help with something.” She said.

His grip tightened slightly on the tract still in his hand. “What kind of help?”

Instead of answering directly, she reached behind her and picked up a puffy white object from the edge of the vanity. A cotton tail accessory, soft and round, resting in her palm like it belonged there.

Michael stared at it, confused.

“I can’t get it to sit right,” She admitted, a faint amused exhale in her voice. “And I figured you looked like you’d be good with your hands.”

That was not the answer he expected.

He hesitated. “I.. I don’t know if I—”

“It’s not complicated,” she said lightly, already closing the distance again. She turned slightly, lifting her hair so the back of her outfit was visible in the mirror. The gesture was almost indifferent, like she was asking him to fix a button or adjust a tag. “Just pin it on properly,” she added. “Before I stick myself again.”

Michael stood very still. This felt like one of those moments where any decision would be the wrong one, and yet not deciding was somehow worse.

Slowly and carefully, he nodded. “..Okay.”

She smiled at him in the mirror, pleased, and waited.

The pressure is unbearable—a thick, heavy weight trapped in his dress pants that he can’t shift without being obvious. Every tiny movement makes the fabric tighten just enough to remind him how painfully hard he is, and every second she stands there innocently letting him fix her tail only makes it worse. His hips want to rock forward, just an inch. Just a stupid, involuntary grind against the back of her ass—but his entire body locks up in resistance. The guilt crashes over him like ice water: Jehovah, help me.

He finishes pinning with soft movements, hands shaking slightly. When done he doesn’t step back immediately—he freezes there behind her for half a breath too long before forcing himself away on shaky legs.

“Done,” He croaks out. “It looks pretty.”

She turns and before Michael can even process what’s happening, her lips brush the corner of his mouth in a feather light kiss leaving a kiss mark there. It’s chaste. Playful. Maddeningly brief.

Then she leans in closer, her breath warm against his ear as she whispers something low and private—a murmur that sends electric heat straight down his spine. He catches fragments: “Thank you” … “You’re sweet” … maybe a laugh threaded through it? Whatever it is makes him nod like an eager dog, pupils blown wide despite himself.

His traitorous body reacts instantly—dick twitching harder at just those words alone.

He should pull away now because her hands are starting to unbuckle his belt. This isn’t appropriate for either of them anymore. But he stands there stupidly obedient, hoping she’ll do all the things he’s dreamed about since he met her.

And he’s hating himself for hoping.

Dirty, dirty boy.

You were comfortably sprawled across Michael's bed, absentmindedly flipping through a magazine as the afternoon sun streamed through the large windows of his bedroom. Spending the week at Neverland with your boyfriend had quickly become one of yours and his favorite things.

Unfortunately, Michael had been called away for a few hours. His new album was still in the works, and the label wanted him at the studio for a quick listening session and progress check. He'd apologized at least three times before leaving that morning, giving you a sweet kiss on the cheek and insisting he'd be back before dinner and promising not to let work keep him away any longer than necessary.

So, with nothing pressing to do and the house unusually quiet, you made yourself comfortable in his room, happily passing the time until he returned home.

The television hummed softly in the background, filling the otherwise quiet room with a steady stream of afternoon programming. It was one of those slow, lazy days where time seemed to drift by without much happening. You barely paid it any attention, your focus wandering between the magazine in your lap and the view outside the huge window.

Then, your ears caught something.

"...Michael Jackson..."

Your head snapped toward the television almost instantly, your full attention now fixed on the screen as the presenter began talking about Michael.

"...And today, we're lucky enough to have the very man everyone's been talking about joining us here in the studio. Please welcome the King of Pop himself—Michael Jackson." A soft smile spread across your lips as the camera cut to him. There he was.

Sitting comfortably in the interview chair, dressed as impeccably as ever, offering the audience one of his warm, unmistakable smiles. God, he was one beautiful man. And all yours.

"Mr. Jackson," the woman began, smiling brightly, "thank you so much for being here. It's truly an honor to have you with us today." He dipped his head politely in return.

"Thank you," he replied warmly, "It's a pleasure to be here." The interviewer glanced down at her notes before looking back up at him. "Now, your latest album feels... different from some of your previous work." A teasing smile tugged at her lips. "I'd even go as far as saying it's much more intimate. Some people have even called it... rather sexual. Some might even speculate, that there might have been a possible muse?"

A bashful laugh escaped him as he reached up to rub the back of his neck, his eyes briefly dropping to the floor. "I don't know if I'd call it... sexual," he said with a sheepish smile, earning a few chuckles from the Interviewer. "I'd rather call it... passionate. I think that's a much better word."

"And..." He paused, a bashful smile slowly creeping onto his face as he glanced down at his hands for a moment. A quiet chuckle escaped him before he looked back up at the interviewer.

"I'd be lying if I said there wasn't... someone." His ears had begun to tint the faintest shade of pink. "There may have been..." He laughed softly, clearly trying to play it off. "...two or three songs that were inspired by a very special person."

The woman let out an amused "aww," and couldn't help but grin, clearly delighted she'd managed to get such a candid answer out of him.

Your own cheeks warmed almost instantly. You knew exactly who he was talking about.

You could still picture the evening he'd shyly confessed it to you, nervously admitting that whenever he sat down to write, his thoughts somehow always drifted back to you. Every lyric, every melody, every love song seemed to carry a little piece of you within it. A smile tugged at your lips.

You still remember the conversation the two of you had before he left for the interview. you'd been far more worried about it than he had.

"What if she's just trying to paint you in a bad light again?" you'd asked, nervously fidgeting with the sleeve of his jacket. "Or... what if she starts asking about..." You'd trailed off, giving him a pointed look. "You know what I mean."

Michael had only laughed softly, taking your hands into his, "Baby," he'd said with an affectionate smile, "she's not that kind of interviewer."

"But what if she is?" He simply shook his head.

"It'll be fine. It's just a casual interview." Leaning down, he'd kissed your forehead before adding, "Besides, it'll be good for my image." You'd sighed dramatically, still unconvinced.

"I just have a bad feeling." He'd chuckled again, gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

"You worry too much." Watching him now, smiling politely beneath the studio lights, you couldn't help but hope he'd been right.

As the interview carried on, the knot of anxiety in your stomach slowly began to loosen. Your fears seemed more and more unnecessary with every passing minute. The interviewer stayed focused on his music, asking thoughtful questions about his previous album, his creative process, and offering the occasional tease in hopes of getting a few hints about the next record he was working on.

It was... refreshing.

You found yourself smiling as you watched Michael relax into the conversation. The initial shyness melted away, replaced by the familiar spark that always appeared whenever he spoke about music. His hands moved animatedly as he explained his songwriting, his eyes lit up with genuine excitement, and every now and then he'd let out one of those soft, infectious laughs that never failed to make you smile along with him.

Seeing him so passionate, so completely in his element, reminded you just how deeply he loved what he did, and it made your heart swell with love.

Your magazine had long since been forgotten, lying open across your chest as you watched the interview from beginning to end.

The interviewer glanced down at her cue cards before smiling warmly at Michael.

"And I know this is a bit out of the blue..." she began, almost bashfully. "But would it be alright if I gave you a kiss on the cheek?" Your smile instantly faltered.

'...What?'

Your brows furrowed. That was... odd.

Hadn't she just spent the last half hour talking about the possibility of someone special in his life? Why would she even ask something like that? Still, you weren't too worried.

Michael would politely decline. He always knew how to set boundaries without offending anyone. You waited for the inevitable 'I'd rather not,' or 'Thank you, but no.'

Instead, you watched his posture stiffen ever so slightly.

For the briefest moment, he hesitated. His lips parted, and an almost guilty look flickered across his face, as if he already knew you wouldn't be thrilled with whatever came next.

"...Yeah," he said with a small, uncertain smile. "Of course." Your eyes widened.

'Excuse me?'

Before you could even process what you'd just heard, the interviewer leaned over with a delighted grin and placed a quick peck against his cheek. Michael laughed awkwardly, and the interview carried on as if nothing had happened.

You, however, were no longer listening. Your jaw hung slightly open as you stared at the television.

'Now what the fuck was that?'

Oh he'll definitely be hearing from you the second he gets home. He's lucky he wasn't here right now.

With an irritated huff, you reached for the remote and switched the television off, the room suddenly falling quiet. You picked your magazine back up, flipping absentmindedly through the pages, but you weren't reading a single word.

You sometimes hated how incapable he seemed of saying "no." He was simply too polite, too eager not to disappoint people, even when it came at his own expense.

Eventually, you gave up on pretending to read and wandered downstairs to the kitchen, hoping a fresh bowl of fruit would help take your mind off everything—and cool you down in the process. The California heat that had settled over Neverland was merciless, and you'd changed into a tank top and a pair of flimsy lounge shorts that barely covered your butt.

A few moments later, you heard the front door swing open, followed by the familiar click as it shut again.

"Baby, I'm back!" Michael called through the house, his voice light and full of energy. You didn't answer. You were still quietly slicing strawberries, your thoughts lingering on the interview.

A beat of silence passed.

"Baby?" he called again, a hint of confusion creeping into his voice. "Y'hear me?"

His footsteps echoed down the hallway before growing louder as he neared the kitchen.

"There you are." You glanced up just as he appeared in the doorway.

The moment his eyes landed on you, his expression melted into an easy smile. His gaze lingered for a second longer than usual before he let out a quiet, amused hum, clearly appreciating the sight of you, then biting his lip between his teeth.

Without another word, he crossed the room and slipped his arms around your waist from behind, pulling you gently against him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing your scent in.

"Mmm..." he murmured, his voice muffled against your skin. "Missed you, sweet girl."

He lingered there for another moment before lifting his head slightly.

"Why didn't you answer me?"

"Didn't hear you," you replied simply, continuing to slice the fruit without looking up. Michael frowned ever so slightly at your dismissive tone.

"Everything okay, baby?" he asked, his arms still loosely around your waist.

"Mhm." The short response made him tilt his head.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

You reached for another strawberry, keeping your attention on the cutting board. Michael watched you for a moment. Normally, by now, you would have turned around and greeted him with a little kiss.

"...Alright," he murmured, though he clearly wasn't convinced.

"I don't know, Mike..." you said quietly, still focusing on cutting the fruits. "Is everything alright?" Michael turned toward you, a puzzled look crossing his face, "What do you mean?"

You let out a small, humorless laugh.

"Oh, dunno..." You finally looked up at him. "...You going 'round...just letting other women kiss you— on television."

Then it clicked.

"Oh..."

The confusion on his face vanished. Instead, he let out a quiet sigh. He'd been hoping you hadn't seen the interview.

"Baby," he said gently, taking a small step toward you, "don't worry about that. It didn't mean anything. I was just being polite."

You set the knife down on the cutting board with a soft clink.

"Yeah," you replied, meeting his eyes. "You were being polite to her..."

A brief pause.

"...while being pretty disrespectful to me."

He took a slow, steady breath, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he searched for the right thing to say.

"Look," Michael sighed, then pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, okay? But it's not a big deal." You turned to face him fully, disbelief written all over your face.

"Not a big deal?" you repeated. "How would you feel if I started letting other men kiss all up on me?"

"I wouldn't like it."

"Exactly."

"But that's not what happened."

"It is what happened." He shook his head.

"She asked me first. I wasn't expecting it. I just... I didn't want to be rude." Your eyebrows shot up.

"So you were more worried about being rude to some interviewer than respecting your girlfriend?"

"That's not what I said."

"It's what you did."

Michael let out another long breath, clearly trying to keep the conversation from escalating, "Baby, you're blowing this way out of proportion."

"Oh, so now I'm overreacting?"

"I think you're being unreasonable, yeah." You stared at him for a second, almost waiting for him to take it back.

"...I'm being unreasonable for thinking it's weird that another woman kissed my boyfriend?"

"Yeah," he answered, matter-of-factly. "I think you are."

Silence settled between you. You gave a slow nod, pressing your lips into a thin line.

"Okay."

Michael frowned.

"...Okay?"

"Yeah." You turned back to your fruit bowl as if the conversation had never happened. "Okay."

For a few long seconds, Michael simply stood there, watching you in silence.

"...You mad at me, baby?" he asked softly.

You didn't answer. You didn't trust your voice right now, so you just kept your attention fixed on the fruit, calmly adding the last few slices to the bowl as though he hadn't spoken at all. He let out a quiet sigh.

"You're seriously ignoring me now?"

Still nothing.

Without sparing him a glance, you picked up your bowl and walked out of the kitchen. Michael turned to watch you disappear into the hallway, his shoulders sagging ever so slightly.

"Baby..."

You continued toward the staircase. Only when you were halfway upstairs did his voice carry through the house.

"The kiss didn't mean anything to me!"

You kept climbing the stairs without saying a word, leaving him standing alone in the kitchen.

For the rest of the day, Michael didn't dare bring it up again. He knew he'd upset you. That much was obvious.

But he also couldn't shake the feeling that the whole thing had been blown out of proportion. To him, it had been nothing more than a polite gesture—awkward, yes, but harmless. Still, seeing the way you shut down made the guilt settle heavily in his chest.

So he gave you space.

Dinner passed in near silence. He tried catching your eye once or twice, hoping you'd soften enough to smile back, but you never did. Every question he asked was met with a short answer, if you answered at all. By the time the two of you got ready for bed, nothing had changed.

Michael slipped beneath the covers, instinctively reaching toward you like he always did. Normally, you'd shuffle back against his chest before he even had the chance to wrap an arm around you.

Tonight, you turned onto your side and quietly scooted as far away from him as the mattress allowed. His hand fell back onto the sheets. For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

The only sound in the room was the quiet sigh that escaped him as he stared at your back, realizing you'd never gone to sleep without saying goodnight to each other before.

Not once.

He lay there for another minute, staring at the ceiling.

"...Baby?"

His voice was barely above a whisper. No response. He glanced toward your back, hoping for even the slightest sign that you were still awake. A shift beneath the blankets. A sigh. Anything.

Nothing.

He hesitated before inching a little closer, leaving enough space between the two of you that he wasn't crowding you. "I really am sorry," he murmured into the darkness. "I didn't think it'd hurt you like that."

Silence.

He swallowed. "I would've never done it if I'd known."

Still nothing. Your breathing remained slow and even. Whether you were pretending to be asleep or simply refusing to answer, he couldn't tell. Another quiet sigh escaped him.

"...Goodnight, baby."

Little did he know... You were very much awake. Every word he'd whispered into the darkness had reached your ears.

The corners of your lips threatened to betray you, curling into the smallest smile as you stared at the wall in front of you. Truthfully, you'd forgiven him the moment he'd apologized. You knew Michael.

He'd never agreed to that kiss to hurt you. If anything, he'd been too polite for his own good—that was one of the things you both loved and occasionally found incredibly frustrating about him. But that didn't mean he was getting off that easily.

No, he needed to understand why it had hurt.

He needed to realize that there were moments where being polite to everyone else couldn't come at the expense of your feelings.

So, for just a little while longer... You'd let him sweat. Just enough for the lesson to stick. The smile tugging at your lips grew ever so slightly.

He could wonder a little longer.

The next two days weren't much easier for Michael. You still refused to speak to him unless it was absolutely necessary. If he asked whether you wanted breakfast, he'd receive nothing more than a nod. If he asked where you were going, you'd simply shrug or hum in response before carrying on with whatever you were doing. It was driving him insane.

Not because you were yelling. Not because you were crying. But because you were acting like he wasn't even there. The worst part? Every now and then, he'd catch the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at your lips when you thought he wasn't looking.

You were doing this on purpose. He just knew it.

On the third evening, Michael wandered downstairs after hearing your bedroom door click shut. He frowned.

"...Baby?" No answer. Curious, he stepped into the foyer. Then he saw you.

You stood in front of the hallway mirror, giving yourself one final once-over before heading out. The dress you'd chosen fit you like it had been tailored specifically for you, gently hugging your figure before cinching at your waist and flowing effortlessly over your hips. It wasn't flashy or overly revealing—it didn't need to be. It complemented your curves beautifully, and the simple, elegant neckline drew just enough attention without feeling overdone.

You'd spent longer than usual getting ready, taking the time to style your hair in a way that framed your face perfectly. A touch of makeup highlighted your features without hiding them, and the pair of expensive diamond earrings Michael had gifted you caught the warm hallway light every time you turned your head. They shimmered delicately, adding the perfect finishing touch.

Finally, you slipped into your (Michael's) favorite pair of heels and smoothed an invisible crease from your dress, admiring the finished look in the mirror. A small, satisfied smile tugged at your lips.

You looked good. And, though you'd never admit it out loud...You knew exactly what this outfit was going to do to him.

For a second...Michael forgot he was supposed to be the one being ignored. His jaw practically hit the floor.

"...Wow."

You caught his reflection in the mirror but didn't turn around. He slowly walked closer, unable to hide the grin spreading across his face.

"Angel..." he breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. "You look gorgeous."

You simply adjusted one of your earrings. He bit his lip, shamelessly admiring you from where he stood. "If it were up to me," he said with a quiet groan, "I'd keep you in our bed all night."

A tiny smirk ghosted across your lips.

"Yeah," you replied casually, reaching for your purse, "I know." His eyebrows shot up.

That...That was the first complete sentence you'd said to him in two days. Before he could celebrate the small victory, you walked right past him. He turned to follow you with wide eyes.

"...That's all I get?"

You slipped your keys into your hand without answering.

"Baby."

He trailed after you toward the front door.

"Where are you even going?"

Still nothing. Just as your hand settled on the doorknob, he let out an exaggerated groan.

"This is torture."

You couldn't stop yourself. A quiet, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of your mouth before you slipped out the front door, leaving Michael standing in the hallway, completely captivated... and absolutely miserable. Meanwhile, you were already halfway down the driveway, a grin threatening to split your face in two.

It had taken every ounce of self-control not to laugh.

The expression on Michael's face when he'd seen you had been priceless. He'd completely forgotten he was supposed to be apologizing. The poor man had looked absolutely hypnotized.

Good. Maybe next time another woman asked to kiss him, he'd remember this feeling.

You spent the evening catching up with a friend over dinner, though every so often your thoughts drifted back to Neverland. To Michael.

You could picture him pacing the house, wondering where you were, checking the clock every ten minutes, probably rehearsing another apology in his head.

The thought made you smile into your drink.

The silence of Neverland usually felt like peace. Tonight, it felt unbearable. Michael stepped through the front doors with a quiet sigh, shrugging off his jacket as he kicked the door shut behind him. His shoulders ached from another long day, but the exhaustion was nothing compared to the weight that had been sitting on his chest for the last two days.

You.

Or, more specifically, the fact that you refused to acknowledge him. Well, barely acknowledged.

It wasn't as though you'd disappeared. You were still here, still moving through the house as if nothing had changed. He caught glimpses of you throughout the day—walking through the gardens with the children who came to visit Neverland, laughing with the staff in the kitchen, curled up on the couch reading one of your books.

But every time he walked into the room... You walked out. Every attempt to talk ended before it even began. Every apology he'd managed to get out was met with nothing more than a quiet "I'm busy," or a polite excuse before you slipped away again.

He missed you.

Michael rubbed a hand over his face, letting out a slow breath as he started toward the staircase. His mind replayed the argument for what felt like the hundredth time, picking apart every word he'd said, every moment he should've handled differently. If he could go back and do it over again, he would. In a heartbeat.

He was halfway across the foyer when something stopped him.

Music.

A low bassline rolled through the house, steady and unmistakable. At first it was little more than a vibration beneath his feet, but once he stood still and listened, the rhythm became impossible to ignore. His eyebrows pulled together. It was coming from upstairs.

He climbed the staircase slowly, and with every step, the music grew louder, the bass filling the otherwise quiet house until it echoed softly through the hallway.

Then he heard you.

♪ "─It's just a feeling, you have to soothe it...

You can't neglect it, you can't abuse it..." ♪

Your voice floated down the hallway, slightly muffled by the bathroom door but clear enough for him to make out every word. You sounded completely lost in the music, singing without a hint of hesitation, as if no one else in the world existed.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself.

In the Closet.

One of his songs.

One he had quietly, feverishly written with the memory of your skin against his, practically burned into his mind. It was one of the most intimate, carnal things he’d ever created.

Every beat felt like a deliberate, slow grind of hips; every whispered, breathy lyric was a secret meant only for your ears. It wasn't just a song about desire; it was a song about the hunger of it, the tension of anticipation, the ache of stolen moments, and the raw, uninhibited closeness that only happened when the world was shut out and it was just the two of you.

It was bold. It was flirtatious. It was unapologetically, shamelessly sexual. The song felt like a direct, erotic confession. It was the sound of a man losing his composure, a man who was tired of being "polite" and was ready to be primal.

As he siletnly opened the door to the bathroom to not make a sound, he stood there, watching the way the music seemed to move through your body, his eyes dark and dilated as he watched you sway. You were in there singing one of his songs, completely oblivious to the fact that he was standing just outside the bedroom, listening. Watching. Completely oblivious to the fact that in this moment, he was absolutely reader to give you everything the song promised.

Steam drifted lazily into the bedroom, carrying the warm, familiar smell of vanilla body wash and something faintly floral. It was comforting. Familiar. Unmistakably you.

You were lost in the music, lost in the heat, your eyes closed as you let the water slick your hair back. You were swaying to the beat, completely uninhibited, unaware that the bathroom door had been pushed open moments ago.

Michael stepped into the room as quietly as he could, the warm steam immediately surrounding him as he crossed the threshold. For a moment, he didn't move. He just stood there silently, his eyes fixed on the frosted glass. He watched the way your body moved to the rhythm of his own song, his breath hitching as he traced the curve of your hips through the glass.

Finally, he couldn't stand the barrier anymore. He reached out and slid the heavy glass door open with a slow, deliberate hiss. He didn't step into the spray not yet. He just stood at the edge of the stall, the sudden rush of cool air making you jump.

"Did you miss me touching you, sweet girl?" his voice murmured, low and velvet smooth, cutting through the roar of the shower.

"Ah!" You let out a tiny, undignified squeak, spinning around in the spray, your eyes flying open to find him standing right there. He was just outside the glass, his hair already a little mussed from the humidity, and his dark eyes held a warmth you hadn't seen from him in days. Michael let out a soft laugh at your reaction, the sound rich and warm.

"Michael! You scared me!" you gasped, hands flying to your chest. Trying to catch your breath, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. For a moment, neither of you said anything. You simply looked at each other.

And after two days of avoiding his gaze, of pretending you weren't affected by him, seeing that familiar smile on his face made it a little harder to stay angry.

He didn't move to close the gap yet. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, a slow, mischievous, devastatingly handsome smile spread across his face. He looked entirely too pleased with himself.

"Seems like someone missed me more than she cares to admit," he teased, his voice soft and playful. His gaze dropping to your lips, heavy with a hunger he wasn't even trying to hide anymore.

You felt the warmth rise to your cheeks, caught somewhere between embarrassment and frustration. Two days of ignoring him, two days of keeping your distance, and somehow he still managed to make you forget every reason you were supposed to be upset.

"Keep dreaming, Michael," you huffed, though there was no real bite to it. You turned back toward the showerhead to turn it off. The roar of the water died down into a rhythmic, dripping patter, leaving the room suddenly, startlingly quiet; save for the low, pulsing thrum of the music still playing in the background.

You reached for the large, plush towel hanging just within reach. Drying your hair first, the soft fabric dragging against your skin, and then you unwrapped it, pulling the heavy white cloth around your body, tucking it tightly above your chest to shield yourself.

You turned to face him, the steam still clinging to your skin, your hair damp and heavy against your shoulders. You just looked at him, your eyes steady and expectant, a silent command in your gaze: The shower is done. Now, move.

Michael didn't say a word. The playful, mischievous grin had faded, replaced by a look of intense, focused devotion. He looked like he was watching a miracle unfold. He didn't even blink, his eyes traveling over the damp, glistening skin of your shoulders and to the cleavage of your chest. You noticed it.

He moved with a quiet, fluid grace, stepping back to clear the path. As you stepped out of the glass enclosure, the cool air of the bathroom hit your damp skin, making you shiver slightly. You walked past him, the scent of vanilla and warm skin trailing in your wake, and as you passed.

You didn't look back, but you knew exactly where he was. You could feel him standing just behind you, his breath hitched, his entire being focused on the sway of your hips as you moved toward the vanity.

♪ "─One thing in life, you must understand..

...The truth of lust, woman to man...

...So open the door, and you will see...

...There are no secrets, make your move, set me free..." ♪

The soft pulse of “In the Closet” played in the background, its sultry rhythm wrapping around you like a familiar embrace. You moved to the vanity, beginning your skincare routine with practiced ease.

You caught a glimpse of him in the mirror as he leaned against the doorframe, his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. There was a mix of determination and vulnerability in his gaze, and despite your best efforts, your heart raced.

“Baby, you look incredible,” he said, his voice low and smooth, cutting through the silence. You didn’t respond, focusing on applying a serum to your skin, hoping to maintain your composure.

“Come on, don’t ignore me,” he teased lightly, stepping closer, his presence filling the small space. “I know you can hear me.”

You turned slightly, refusing to meet his gaze directly. “I’m busy,” you replied coolly, trying to keep your tone steady.

He moved to stand beside you, his arm brushing against your shoulder as he picked up a bottle from the counter. “Your skincare routine isn’t half as interesting as what we need to talk about.”

You glanced at him, your expression unreadable. “What’s there to talk about? You let another woman kiss you on live television.”

“Not like that,” he said, his voice firm yet gentle. “You know that. It was a moment of politeness, not what you think.”

You scoffed lightly, applying moisturizer with exaggerated care. “So you’re saying it meant nothing?”

“Nobody can compare to you,” he replied, his tone earnest. “You’re the only one I have eyes for, and you know it, my angel.”

You could feel your resolve wavering, but you quickly masked it with indifference. “Then why didn’t you say no?”

He took a step closer, the heat radiating from his body mingling with the steam. “Because I was caught off guard. I didn’t want to be rude. But I’m here now, and I’m sorry. I don’t want you to feel disrespected. And I miss you, baby.”

You finally looked up, meeting his gaze in the mirror. The sincerity in his eyes was palpable, cutting through your defenses. “It’s hard not to feel that way,” you admitted, your voice softening despite yourself.

“I get that,” he murmured, reaching out to gently turn your face toward him. “But I want to show you just how much you mean to me.”

“By what? Letting me watch you dance around the issue?” you replied, a hint of sarcasm in your tone.

He stepped closer, closing the space between you until you could feel the warmth radiating from him. “No, by showing you that my heart belongs to you, angel” he whispered, his gaze intense. “Let me prove it.”

With that, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both tender and possessive. As you melted into him, the kiss deepened, and you felt almost all the tension from earlier dissipate.

His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and you could feel the heat radiating from him, igniting the spark within you. The kiss was both a declaration and an apology, and you found yourself tangling your finger in his hair, leaning into him as he slid his tounge deeper inside your mouth.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, an thin line of saliva connecting your lips . “See, baby?” he whispered against your lips, “You’re the only one who matters to me.”

You rolled your eyes, “Okay, you’ve made your point,” you replied, a teasing smile creeping onto your lips.

Before you could respond, he took your jaw in his fingers, tilting your head toward the mirror. Your breath caught in your throat as he slid the towel from your body, the soft fabric pooling at your feet. You glanced at him in slight surprise. “What are you—”

“Shh, baby,” he interrupted, his voice low and steady. “Just let me show you...”

♪ "─It's just desire, I really love it...

'Cause if it's aching, you have to rub it..." ♪

The cool air of the bathroom hit your bare skin, sending a violent shiver racing down your spine, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze. You stood there, exposed and trembling, your eyes locked onto his in the reflection of the mirror.

"Just let me show you..." he repeated quietly, almost to himself, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your shoulder, breath hot and damp against your neck. He inhaled deeply, as if he were trying to memorize the scent of your skin, the lingering aroma of the vanilla soap and the natural, musky heat of your body.

He leaned in, his mouth finding yours again, but this time the tenderness was gone, replaced by a raw, primal need. The kiss was deep, demanding, a frantic collision of tongues and teeth that tasted of pure, unadulterated desire. He groaned into the kiss.

"Look at me, sweet baby" he commanded, his voice a low, rough vibration. He didn't turn you around; he kept you facing the mirror, his hands firm on your hips, forcing you to stay anchored to the glass. "Don't look away. I want you to see exactly what you do to me."

You watched in the reflection as he moved behind you, his large, warm body pressing flush against your back. His hands slid up your ribs, his thumbs tracing the undersides of your breasts before his fingers curled around them, squeezing with a heavy, possessive pressure.

"See that?" he whispered, his mouth hovering just inches from your ear. "See how responsive you are when I touch you?"

His hands moved lower, his fingers splaying across your stomach before sliding down, down, down, until he found the slick, aching heat of your pussy. You watched in the mirror as his long fingers disappeared between your thighs, disappearing into your wetness.

"Look, baby," he growled, his eyes dark and predatory as they locked onto yours in the glass. "Look at how much you want this."

His fingers sliding in and out of your pussy with a rhythmic, devastating precision. He found your clit with his thumb, circling it with a steady, heavy pressure that made your hips buck instinctively. The sound of his fingers working in your wetness was loud in the quiet room, a slick, rhythmic friction that made your breath hitch.

You watched your own expression fracture in the mirror, your eyes rolling back as the sensation intensified. You could see the way your pussy was glistening, the moisture coating his fingers as he worked you.

He leaned forward, his chest pressing hard against your back, his other hand reaching down to fumble with his own pants. You watched in the reflection as he freed his cock, the thick, heavy length of it springing free. It was too heavy and too thick to even fully stand up right. You could see the glisten of pre-cum on his tip as he pulled the foreskin back.

"You're so beautiful when you're coming apart, my sweet girl" he murmured, his voice thick with lust. He leaned in, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your shoulder, while his thumb continued to grind against your clit.

He moved his hand, his fingers sliding deeper into your pussy while his thumb kept up that relentless, punishing rhythm on your clit. You were so close, the tension building in your lower belly until it was almost a scream. You watched the reflection of his cock, the way the tip was already weeping more pre cum, and the sheer, primal need in his eyes made you ache to feel him inside you.

"Tell me you want it," he almost whined, his thumb pressing harder against your clit, driving you toward the edge. "Tell me you want me inside you, sweet baby."

♪ "─Just open the door, and you will see...

this passion burns inside of me..

Don't say to me, "You'll never tell" " ♪

"C'mon, girl," he groaned, his thumb still working your clit with a punishing rhythm. "You want me to make this sweet lil' pussy feel real good?"

♪ "─Touch me there

Make the move

Cast the spell" ♪

You couldn't even form words; you could only nod frantically, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps. The sensation of his fingers inside your pussy combined with the sight of his heavy cock in the mirror was driving you insane.

He didn't give you the satisfaction of pushing in immediatly. Instead, he reached down and gripped your hips, pulling you forward so you were bent over the cool marble of the vanity. He leaned over you, his large hand coming up to cup your jaw, his fingers firm against your chin to tilt your head back.

"Don't you dare look away, baby," he mumbled, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "Watch me make you feel good."

In the mirror, you saw him position himself behind you. He didn't slide in. Instead, he began to slide the length of his dick up and down the slit of your pussy. He was using the moisture of your own juices and the pre-cum from his tip to lubricate the friction, dragging the hot, heavy shaft against your sensitive folds.

His other hand, the one not holding your chin, wandered from your hip to the soft curve of your waist, his fingers sinking slightly into your skin as if he couldn't believe you were real. He loved the way your body yielded to him, the way your soft, feminine curves provided the perfect, heavy contrast to the hard, pulsing length of his cock.

The sensation was overwhelming. Every time he slid up, the head of his cock grazed your clit, sending jolts of electricity straight to your core. Every time he slid down, the heavy weight of his dick dragged against your entrance, teasing the opening, making you ache to be filled.

He was taking his time, savoring the way your pussy gripped the sides of his shaft as he moved, the way your wetness coated him, making every stroke a smooth, sliding caress. You watched in the mirror, your breath hitching as you saw the way his cock disappeared into the folds of your pussy and then emerged, glistening, to drag itself back up your clit.

"Look at it," he whispered, his breath hot against the back of your neck as he watched your reaction in the glass. "Look how much you're soaking f'me. Shit, baby...You're so beautiful," he moaned, his eyes never leaving yours in the reflection. His hand on your chin softened, his thumb tracing your lower lip as he watched the way your eyes were blown wide with desire. "Let me feel you. Let me finally be inside you."

As he continued to slide the heavy, slick length of his cock up and down the slit of your cunt, he leaned forward even more, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His lips were hot and hungry, trailing a path from your shoulder up to the sensitive skin behind your ear. He began to suck on the cord of your neck, his tongue swirling around the pulse point that was thrumming wildly under his touch.

Every time his teeth grazed your skin, a jolt of electricity shot straight down to your core, colliding with the rhythmic, heavy sliding of his dick.

"Please, Mikey, just..." you whimpered, the word barely a breath. You didn't even know what you were begging for for him to stop, or for him to finally, finally thrust himself inside you. You were just lost in the sensation of him.

"You're so close," he murmured against your skin. He pulled back just enough to look at you in the mirror, his eyes burning with a mixture of devotion and pure, unadulterated lust. "I can feel you shaking, sweet girl. I can feel how much you want me."

Your breath was coming in shallow, desperate hitches, and your vision was blurring at the edges. You couldn't take the teasing anymore. You couldn't take the way he was just touching you when all you wanted was to be consumed by him.

The tension in your body had become a physical weight, a coiled spring of desire that was vibrating through every nerve ending. Your breath was coming in shallow, desperate hitches, and your vision was blurring at the edges. You couldn't take the teasing anymore. You couldn't take the way he was just touching you when all you wanted was to be fucked. After almost three days of no physical touch.

"Please," you gasped, your voice breaking as you stared at your own blown out eyes in the mirror. "Michael... please. Inside me. Now."

He didn't need to be told twice. A low, guttural groan ripped from his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated hunger that made your pussy clench in anticipation. He didn't hesitate. His hands moved from your chin to your hips, his fingers digging into the soft, generous curves of your flesh with a sudden, bruising intensity. He pulled you back against him, anchoring you, and in one singular, powerful motion, he drove his cock deep into your pussy.

The sensation was overwhelming. It was a sudden, heavy fullness that seemed to stretch you to your absolute limit, that forced a loud, broken moan from your throat. You felt the thick, pulsing length of his dick slide into your cunt, burying himself all the way to the hilt, bottoming out against you with a force that made your entire body shudder.

"God, baby," he groaned, his forehead dropping against the back of your neck as he held the position, letting you adjust to the sheer size of him. He was shaking, his muscles corded and tense as he fought to keep from immediately losing control. "I missed you so much. I missed this sweet pussy so much..."

The sensation of him being inside you, so deep and so solid, was more intoxicating than any of the teasing had been. You felt the heat of him, the way his cock seemed to pulse in sync with your own frantic heartbeat.

He didn't stay still for long. He began to move with a heavy, driving pace. He pulled back until he was almost out, the tip of his cock dragging against your entrance, before thrusting back in with a deep force.

He was fucking you with a desperate, starving need, his hips slamming against your backside, his hands never letting go of your hips as he drove himself into you again and again. "Oh god baby, you feel soo good," He whimpered.

In the mirror, you watched the beautiful, messy reality of it. Your mouth hanging open, the way your skin flushed and your hips bucked to meet every heavy, deep stroke. You saw the sheer, unbridled lust in his eyes as he watched you take him, his expression a mix of adoration and pure hunger.

♪ "─Because there's something about you, baby,

that makes me want to give it to you..." ♪

The world had narrowed down to the sound of your joined breaths and the heavy, rhythmic slap of his hips against yours. Every thrust was deeper than the last, a blunt, hot invasion that made your vision blur.

He wasn't just fucking you; he was worshipping the way you took him. His hands were like iron on your hips, his fingers digging into your curves, but his voice... his voice was what was truly undoing you.

"God, you're so beautiful," he groaned, the words a low, ragged vibration against your ear. He leaned in, his lips brushing your skin as he spoke, his breath hot and frantic. "The way you feel around me... it's like you were made just to hold me. You're ruining me, angel."

In the mirror, you watched him. His eyes were dark, blown wide with a hunger that looked almost painful. He wasn't looking at the room; he was staring at the point where his cock disappeared into you, mesmerized by the sight of your body reacting to him.

"Look at how you're taking it," he whispered, his voice dropping to a gravelly, desperate pitch. "Look at how much you want my dick inside you. You're so wet for me... you're perfect."

The pressure in your lower belly was no longer a build; it was an avalanche. The friction of his dick, the heavy weight of him, the way he was hitting your G spot with every deep, driving lunge... it was all colliding. You felt the first tremors of the orgasm starting, a violent, electric pulsing that made your legs tremble.

"Michael..." you whimpered, your voice a broken thread. You didn't need him to tell you to come; he could already feel it. He could feel the way your pussy began to spasm, clenching around his shaft in desperate, rhythmic waves.

His pace didn't falter; it became a heavy, punishing drive, his hips slamming into you with a primal, desperate force. He was losing his breath, his words becoming short, choked gasps of pure need.

"That's it, babygirl... yes, just like that," he hissed, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he felt you break. "Take it all... just take it all..."

As your orgasm tore through you, a blinding explosion of pleasure. Your internal muscles began to spasm in violent, rhythmic contractions, clenching around his cock with a desperate strength, gripping him like a vice. your wetness increasing so rapidly it became a slick, sliding heat that coated his length even more heavily.

In the mirror, you saw your own back arch, your skin flushed as your body surrendered to the tremors.

Michael felt the way your walls clamped down on him, the frantic, pulsing grip of your pussy that seemed to demand everything he had. The sheer force of your orgasm, the way you were practically milking him with every spasm, was too much for his control to hold.

"Fuck..." he whimpered against your skin.

He gave one final, devastatingly deep thrust, bottoming out against you as his own release hit. His entire body went rigid, his muscles corded like steel as he poured himself into you, his hips slamming into yours one last time. You felt the hot, heavy pulses of his cock as he came deep inside you, the force of his release vibrating through your own trembling muscles.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your ragged, synchronized breathing and the feeling of your bodies, still locked together, slowly coming down from the heights. He didn't pull away. He stayed buried deep, his forehead pressed against the back of your neck, his chest heaving against your back.

"Baby," he breathed, the word a long, exhausted exhale of pure bliss. "You're so incredible. You're everything."

He buried his face against the side of your neck, his voice barely above a whisper as the words brushed softly against your skin.

"I'm so sorry, baby," he murmured. "I never wanted to make you feel that way. I never wanted to be the reason you were hurting." He let out a shaky breath, holding you a little tighter.

"I promise you... it'll never happen again. I'll do better. I swear I will."

His lips lingered against your temple before he spoke again, quieter this time.

"You're my everything. You know that, don't you?" He pulled back just enough to search your eyes, his own filled with quiet sincerity.

"Just... don't shut me out like that again. I know I deserved for you to be angry, and I know I messed up, but those last two days..." He swallowed hard, a faint, helpless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "They were awful. I missed you every second. Even when you were standing right in front of me, it felt like you were a million miles away."

A soft smile spread across your face, the rest of the tension you'd been carrying for the last two days finally melting away completely.

"It's okay, Mike," you said quietly, your fingers absentmindedly stroking the end of his curls. "I forgive you." Relief washed over his features so quickly that it almost made you laugh. His shoulders relaxed, and he let out a breath he'd been holding.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I know."

"But..." You tilted your head, your smile turning just a little more mischievous as you looked up at him. "If you ever pull something like that again..."

He blinked.

"...I'm calling Janet."

Michael's eyes widened in mock horror.

"You wouldn't."

"Oh, I absolutely would."

He let out a dramatic gasp, placing a hand over his chest as if you'd just mortally wounded him.

"Baby, that's cruel." You couldn't hold back your laugh this time.

"No," you corrected, poking him lightly in the chest. "Cruel was making me upset in the first place."

He caught your hand before you could pull it away, intertwining his fingers with yours.

"Fair enough," he admitted with a sheepish grin. "I don't think I could survive Janet giving me one of her lectures." You raised an eyebrow.

"One of her lectures?" Michael groaned dramatically.

"They're terrifying."

"They're effective."

"They're terrifying because they're effective." Another laugh escaped you, brighter this time, and the sound made him smile in a way that reached his eyes.

"There she is," he murmured. "I've missed hearing you laugh."

Your expression softened.

"I've missed talking to you, too."

Without thinking, he leaned forward until his forehead rested gently against yours.

"No more silent treatment?" he asked quietly. You pretended to consider it for a moment before giving him a small nod.

"No more silent treatment."

"And no more giving you reasons to use it," he promised.

"You'd better keep that promise."

"I intend to."

By now, the music had long since faded away, the last notes disappearing without either of you noticing. The only sounds left in the bathroom were your slow, steady breaths, the occasional drip of water from the showerhead, and the quiet contentment that settled between you.