because here you are, hopefully yet sensually looking at your boyfriend with a cupcake in your hands. when you suggested it needed a little more frosting, jaafar didn’t know what came over him.

all he knows is that he wants to please you. make you happy. and if that means finishing on a cupcake, he would do it in a heartbeat for you.

“baby, i can’t—” he whines, sweat coating his neck as the skin of his arm chaves over the rough denim of his jeans with rough strokes of his hand. “shit, you’re so nasty, mami.”

you hum in agreement, watching how jaafar’s tip reddens, swells up, how the vein meandering over his length twitches and his stomach tenses up.

“i know, j,” you admit proudly, planting your knees on either side of his thighs, the paper wrapper of the cupcake clammy and greasy in your hands. “you’re doing s’good for me, though.”

“nghh— fuck,” jaafar sighs, his entire cock wet and sticky with precum. “please— please—” his voice sounds so pitchy and tiny, it’s almost funny.

your free hand clasps around jaafar’s moving hand, squeezing tighter and tighter to drag him closer to the finish line. your hands together make a sucky, balmy sound, mingled with jaafar’s whines and your heavy breaths. “let go for me, honey. ‘s okay,” you say.

you feel the wet patch blossoming in your panties, heat pooling in your stomach when the first spurts of his cum land on the white frosting of the cupcake. it looks fucking delicious already.

the thing is, you love jaafar’s cum. so much, you’d literally eat it. with anything. off his dick, his fingers, and even a cupcake.

your boyfriend comes undone with a loud moan, his eyes squeezed shut as he heaves through his orgasm. totally unaware of how thick his load is. literal draps of cum slathered all over the hardened factory vanilla frosting, dripping down your fingers, obscenely slow.

“oh my—” jaafar breathes out, dick still hard and twitchy, trying to come to his senses. but you can’t wait. seriously.

you cup your boyfriend’s chin between your fingers, tilting his head toward you. “look at me, baby.”

jaafar is hesitant to do so. his eyes are a little watery when they settle on you. despite being untouched, you look weirdly affected: your hair messy, your breathing heavy, the heat in your stare.

“baby, n-no—” he crumbles. he watches you plant your teeth in the cummed up cupcake like it’s the sweetest treat you’ve ever tasted. “that’s so fucking disgusting.” jaafar mewls once more, breath hitching in his throat as he watches you lick off lost drops of his release off your fingers like his cum is a culinary masterpiece.

you moan dramatically at his taste. his cum is warm in contrast to the cold vanilla frosting. mixed with the colourful sprinkles and the sweet cake itself, it ends up being a gooey, sticky substance in your mouth. slight tinges of jaafar’s bitterness whirls around in your mouth, the taste of his musk complimenting the sugary vanilla.

“it’s s’good,” you moan, taking a lick of vanilla frosting topped off with his cum. “i fucking love your cum, baby. could eat it every day.”

jaafar is slowly losing his mind. the pretty sight of you eating him up — literally — has blood rushing to his dick all over again. “don’t say those things, mami—” he mutters, his hand instinctively rubbing over himself again. “look at you, eating a fucking cummed up cupcake, hm? love me that much?”

you nod happily, indulging in the salty tang balanced out with the sweetness of the cupcake. “love you so much, j,” you tell him in between bites, white frosting sticking to your lips. “wan’to be filled up with you.”

the last bite of the special cupcake disappears in your mouth, and jaafar doesn’t hesitate one second to pull you in, tasting himself on your tongue, his own tongue sliding over your teeth, playing with your tongue to garner as much of the cupcake flavour as possible.

the kiss is so sticky and messy, drool dripping down both of your mouths as you lose yourself in each other. jaafar’s cock spasms between your bodies like a constant reminder.

without a word, jaafar deattaches himself from you, lips all swollen and wet. he leans you back gently, grabbing another cupcake from the plastic container from the nightstand.

a mischievous, teasing glint shines in his brown eyes. “my turn, princess.”

that night, jaafar makes all of your dreams come true. he fucks your tits, finishing all over your stomach. he turns you around, and does you from behind as he comes all over your back, writing down his initials on your cummed up back, branding you as his.

he closes off the night by giving you deep strokes prone bone, his larger body pinning you down into the mattress as he keeps taunting you about how you “just need to be dicked down, all the time.”

you’ve lost the ability to distinguish between his cum and your cum, mixing together and wetting the sheets like a constant faucet leaking on the duvet.

all of that, because of a cupcake.

Cameron has a bit of an aggressive streak, especially after he had to get stitches on the side of his head. A small resemblance of what he lived and breathed for.

Football.

Being number one was no walk in the park. Everyone was constantly on his ass. Practices had to be perfect, answers had to be perfect. His image had to be perfect.

He was tired. So overwhelmed, he couldn’t even look at you once he got home. The room felt heavy as his large stature rested on the couch. You watched him, a soft empathy in your eyes.

You were the sweetest girl on campus, always wearing light colors, smiling at everyone, never saying no. Who would’ve thought you would end up with Cameron Cade of all people?

Once he asked you to help him pass a test, he was head over heels. It took him a while to win you over, with you knowing his reputation. But you saw a side others didn’t tend to see, allowing him to take hold of your heart.

He was careful with it, treating you like fragile glass. Whenever he was in a mood, he made it his mission to not be around you, in an attempt to not dampen yours.

Tonight, you wanted to help.

Your sock-covered feet made their way over to him, fingers twitching, debating on touching the clearly drained man.

“Cam?” Your soft voice whispered, and he looked up at you. His eyes drooped, frown etched into his face. “You should go, ma. I’m just a bit tired right now.” He explained.

He planted a small kiss on your waist, as a small show of affection even while he was down in the dumps.

“I’m not going anywhere.” You placed one hand on his buzz cut, running your fingers through his hair. You made sure to avoid the stitches, not wanting to hurt him.

“Ma—” “I’m serious Cam, let me be here for you.” You sat down next to him, hand trailing to his defined back and you rubbed it in comforting circles.

He let out a sigh, too tired to fight against his clearly concerned girlfriend. “I’m so tired.” He mumbled, head resting on your shoulder.

You kissed his forehead, allowing him to let out his frustration. “I’m so frustrated, all this bullshit everybody keep putting on my shoulders.”

You nodded even though you didn’t understand. You racked your brain on ways to help.

Play football with him? Absolutely not. Cook for him? He already ate. Make him feel good? Now that’s something you can do.

“Let me take care of you, baby.” You told him, fingers gently tugging at his belt. “I can’t let you do that, ma.” He rested his heavy hand on yours.

You were his princess, he couldn’t put you in that much trouble. He’s always been gentle with you, not wanting to accidentally hurt you.

Cameron understands he’s bigger than you and his sport gives him a natural aggression.

“Please, Cam!” You pouted, it didn’t take him much convincing. “Just be gentle, okay?” you suggested.

The suggestion must’ve been optional.

•••

Plap. Plap. Plap.

Tears streamed down your face as you felt Cameron’s heavy dick drop inside of you. “Fuckkk, this my pussy, hm?” he teased. “Y-yes, daddy,” you whimpered.

The way he has you bent over the arm of the couch has you losing your mind. He’s been digging in you for the past, you couldn’t even count.

Your ass bounced against his hips as your eyes rolled back. Your legs shook, struggling to hold yourself up. The only thing keeping you slightly balanced was the hand of Cameron pressing down on you.

“I love you, ma,” He grunted, pounding into you. “Lo—ughhh—fuck.” Your nails dug into the couch while you panted heavily, trying to catch your breath.

He was so deep, you didn’t know if you could continue to take it any longer. You already came on him multiple times, building the white frothy ring around his dick.

Your head dropped to the couch, brain melting with every thrust of his dick. You knew he was getting all his stress out but my goodness how much was in there?

You felt a striking smack on your ass making you gasp, clenching around him. “Get a lil farther up there,” Cam said, he lifted your hips, guiding you farther across the arm of the couch.

Once he saw your hips angled up, just enough to see your swollen pussy, he let you go. Your legs dangling in the air, toes just barely brushing against the floor.

“Shit, wait,” your hand flew out, pressing against his abs. “nah, you wanted to help,” he grasped your hand, bending it to rest on your back. “Take that shit.” He mumbled.

His hips snapped into you, jolting your body forward. Drool fell from your mouth as you took every inch. The soft squelch of your soaking pussy made him groan. Your eyes were struggling to flick back to reality, hoping he would ease up on you.

At this rate you were about to squirt all over the floor, and the many times he had made you squirt, it was everywhere. “P-please.” Your voice cracked.

“Daddy ain’t done, baby.” He grunted. The name use made you clench around him. Your whimpers grew louder as you felt the familiar thump against your entrance.

“I-I’m bout to-,” you were cut off by a loud moan, feeling the release of pressure from your stomach. Usually Cameron would have let up but he only sped up, forcing more fluid out.

“Squirting all over the place, mhm.” He landed one sharp smack on your butt making you moan. He was obsessed with the feeling of you clenching around him, and the ripple of your ass.

Cameron loved the sight of you losing it, only feeling the desire to feed you more strokes. Just as you said, him using you took stress off his shoulders.

He was finally able to take control and have something for himself. You spread out for him, taking everything he was giving you.

His balls slapped against your clit, wet and heavy only causing waves of sensitivity. He pulled out quickly, replacing his dick with his fingers in no time.

His middle and ring finger thrusted inside of you, biting his lower lip causing his dimples to pop out. Your free hand shot out, catching his wrist but not doing much to stop his movement.

“Gimme some more, ma.” He demanded, fingers curling inside of you, rubbing your gummy walls. Your legs shivered as you cried out, other hand smacking against the couch.

His fingers were relentless, sending you through another wave of sensitivity which led to another orgasm. “Oh my—nnghhh,” you tried to crawl forward on the couch in the midst of your orgasm.

Cameron’s hand held you down, “Stay right fuckin’ there. This my pussy so let me have it,” he said. He bent down, pressing a gentle kiss on your ass.

He watched as your body shook coming down from your second orgasm. You let out a sigh feeling Cameron removed his fingers with a small light smack against your clit. The impact made you jolt along with a gasp of surprise.

Cameron grabbed your waist, turning you to lay flat on your back. Your eyes found his and his shirt up his torso, showcasing his abs that he spent so long in the gym for. His eyes were low lidded with a hungry gaze.

His hands rubbed against your thighs that were trembling from the harsh pounding. “My poor baby,” he mocked, his bottom lip poking out.

“You think you can take some more?” He asked. You nodded, barely able to form words. “Y-yes, daddy.” He didn’t have to hear anything else, and slid inside of you.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, gasping at the friction. “Mhm, my baby can take it.” He placed his hand on your lower tummy. The soft pudge was pliable underneath his hand.

You nodded your head with a whimper, and he mocked you, head following yours. “‘Bout to make me nut, fuck.” He mumbled. He leaned down, large body towering over you.

He was huge, you could barely see past his shoulders. His weight pressed against you, only elevating the pleasure. His body was warm, and solid. He shuddered as you continued to moan and whimper directly in his ears. “I’m gonna—,”

“Give it to me daddy, please—I got you.” You whispered while panting softly in his ear. Hearing your sweet voice beg and comfort him immediately made his eyes roll back.

He released inside of you, hips stuttering with a deep groan in your ear. His palm rested on the side of your ass, gripping it from the overwhelming sensation.

“I love you, ma,” he said before kissing the shell of your ear. “I love you too.” You mumbled catching your breath.

He slowly pulled out of you, rubbing his hands all over your body. “You’re so pretty.” He smiled, giving you a peck on your lips.

He helped you sit up, legs shaking and body sore. “I’m sorry, ma.” He said noticing the slight wince. He hates to see his baby in pain, “no, it’s okay, I loved it. Do you feel better?”

He didn’t hesitate to nod, he actually did.

But if this is what happens when you sees he’s stressed, he’s about to start faking a lil bit.

when you’re finally freed from production and casa officially starts for the girls, you and alexis sit on complete opposite ends of the firepit and pretend one another don’t exist. ariana completes her introductions and brings in twelve new bombshells– telling all of you that you’d gotten double the amount that the villa boys got. 

you barely register ariana’s voice as she introduces them one by one, lost in your thoughts. you glance over every so often– names and faces blurring together. you’re not cold; you say ‘hi’ in return and ‘thank you’ when necessary; but your mind is still replaying the clips from earlier in the morning. still hearing jermajesty admit to someone other than you that he’d lied. still thinking about how easy it was for him to disrespect you.

when you glance up again, scanning the line of boys standing in front of the firepit, your eyes catch on something. someone. he looks away when your eyes meet and you mirror him, focusing once again on overthinking your existence on this island. 

it turns into a game of eye tag within seconds, your skin pricking and goosebumps rising in the warm summer sun– just for you to look up and catch him staring at you. and every single time a shy smile appears as he breaks eye contact immediately, turning to ariana or to the boys beside him. and every single time you notice something different about him.

deep bronze complexion.

warm, kind eyes.

buzz cut. 

one of the tallest in the lineup.

by the time ariana leaves the villa with warm regards and advice–to mingle and be open– the villa is erupting with movement and conversation. you get pulled into a chat with deanna and four boys. maybe it’s the picky side of you, or maybe it’s something completely different, something you don’t for the life of you want to name, but you dissociate the entire time. every comment and question they throw your way goes through one ear and out the other– the same with your replies. you can’t remember even one of their names; nor can you remember an initial. 

some time later you find yourself lounging on a beanbag near the pool, sunglasses in place. you’re sure it looks like you're asleep– you hadn't moved an inch from the moment you sat down– but you’re far from it. you watch the villa silently, observing who’s getting along and who sits off to the side like you. which is why you see the exact moment he starts to head your way. 

your eyes trace him as he approaches– his steps never slowing or hesitating. he may be shy, from the way he’d been looking away from you in the introductions, but he obviously knew what he wanted. you lift your sunglasses over your hair when he comes to a stop in front of the empty beanbag beside you and asks, “is this spot taken?”

with a mostly fake smile, you shake your head ‘no’ and gesture to it. “it’s all yours, uh…?”

“cairo,” he introduces himself, picking up on your question seamlessly. you mumble back a soft “hi, cairo” as he settles into the beanbag,  leaning back to mirror your relaxed posture. his entire body is turned to face you, you take note of it, as a surprisingly comfortable silence falls around you two.

“is it too bold to say i’ve been wanting to talk to you? i was thinking about it the whole boat ride over.” cairo expresses.

“oh, really?” you tilt your head slightly, the way you knew drove jermajesty crazy, a small smile playing at your lips. “and what were you thinking about, exactly?”

“honestly? i was tryna figure out how to come up to you without sounding like every other guy who’s tried already.”

“mmm,” you hum, turning your body to face him fully. pulling your knees up, you start to fidget with your sunglasses– holding the temple tip between your teeth before you continue, “and did you figure it out?”

“nah,” he admits easily, laughing a little. “i’m winging it right now.”

you can’t help the genuine smile that breaks through.  “at least you’re honest, cairo.”

“you got a nice smile,” cairo says suddenly, looking down sheepishly after; as if he didn’t mean to say it out loud. 

now it’s your turn to look down sheepishly, slightly thrown off by the compliment. much to your annoyance, it makes you feel guilty– like you were cheating, which makes you feel even more annoyed because why couldn’t he feel like that a few days ago? “thank you, you’re really sweet.” and in an attempt to shift the conversation, “so, what made you want to come on love island?”

“ahh, i was over the dating scene back in atlanta. people moving hella weird, playing games, not being real about what they want. figured if imma put myself out there, might as well do it somewhere i can actually see a person’s true colors.”

“and you think you can see that here? might need you to teach me the ways.”

“i think it’s easier to see who people really are when they can’t hide behind their phone and friends and shit.” he leans forwards slightly, squinting like he was reading fine print across your face. “like right now– i can tell you’re not fully sold on me yet. and that’s cool. i’m not expecting you to be, you got a lot going on right now.”

you blink, caught off guard by how direct he was being. “how can you tell that?”

“you’re guarded as hell,” he states, no judgement in his tone. “but i’m not here to rush you or pressure you into anything. i just wanna get to know you. whether we end up being friends or if it turns into something… more, well i’m good with it.”

for the first time since he’d sat down, you feel your mindset shift just slightly– feeling relief from the reassurance that nothing had to be forced. it makes you drop your guard, makes you want to share more and inquire more. “what do you wanna know?”

“alright, this is gonna be the most important question you answer today: what do you miss the most from home?”

you laugh, not expecting that basic of a question. but, you take the time to really think about it; comparing things you have here to things you had back in california, thinking about your day-to-day life. there’s one answer that jumps out at you, circled in flashing lights in your mind. “i’m a foodie at heart so being here has been rough, okay? i miss my sister’s cooking like crazy. she would make this curry goat and call me to get some every time.”

“curry goat?” his eyes light up. “my mom’s jamaican– i grew up on that shit.”

“ohh, so you think you know about it, huh?” you tease.

“i know i know about it.” cairo shoots back, grinning. “matter fact, when we get out of here, imma take you to my moms crib, she’ll cook for you and everything.”

“already planning dates outside the villa? you’re confident.”

“just optimistic. i think there’s something worth exploring here. and if there’s not? then at least we had good conversation by the pool.” he replies easily. there’s a brief pause as you let his words settle over you. he starts again shortly after, “alright, (name), tell me about california. what’s it like down there? besides crazy expensive.”

and just like that, the conversation flows. you tell him about your city, your family, and all of your favorite places. you can’t stop the memory of telling jermajesty about your spots too, and his promise of going there together, from popping up in your head– but you push it aside immediately after, re-focusing when cairo begins to talk about his city. he tells you about his younger sisters and friends. the banter is easy, natural, and you continue to talk until ariana madix walks back into the villa.

jermajesty missed you. a lot.

he’d barely said two words since arriving at the casa amor villa, and he was pretty sure those two words were “i’m jermajesty”. while the other boys were mingling, laughing, getting to know the six bombshell girls, jermajesty had found a corner near the outdoor daybed–identical to the one in the villa that you loved to throw yourself onto– and planted himself there. arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes covered by sunglasses.

in simplest terms, he wasn’t interested.

the bombshells all noticed immediately. and they tried–god, did they try– to pull it out of him, to get him talking, but every attempt fell flat. and i mean, flat.

so they tried again. two of them, a girl named milene and another named sarai, came to sit by him in his isolated corner. 

it lasted maybe five minutes before they realized it was pointless. 

“so, jermajesty, what do you usually do for fun back home?” sarai asks, leaning in with an overly bright smile. she runs both hands down her hair, and for no reason, because he doesn’t glance at her a single time.

“i don’t know. music mostly.” jermajesty shrugs, sunglasses still on and arms still crossed. “(name) and i been talking about going to this studio back in the city when we get out. she never been in one, but she’s a creative at heart so i think she might love that shit.”

sarai is deadpan, staring at him in disbelief. had he really just said that? “oh. that’s cool.”

“yeahhh, she got good taste in music too. we got three of the same artists in our top five.” it gets him thinking about late night drives with you in the passenger seat, no clear destination. the hint of a sad smile on his lips.

milene tries next. “do you have any tattoos?”

“nah, i been thinking about getting one somewhere on my arm or back,” jermajesty starts. 

milene’s smile grows wider, thinking she’d finally gotten his mind away from his situation back at the villa. away from you. “oh really, what would you–”

“i’m more nervous now though. (name) has one on her spine and was tellin’ me how much it hurt. it might not be for me.”

and it’s not like he’s doing it on purpose. in fact, he hadn’t even picked up on the fact that he was. within this last week his mind had just done a complete 180. 

he’d only watched one season of love island–his dad had forced him prior to coming to fiji— and he’d thought that the couples who only focused on each other were idiotic. weak. faking it. he’d thought the whole point of love island was to explore, to keep your options open, to see what else was out there… at least until you reached a certain day/week in the show. 

but now? after following that thought process, pulling the shit he’d pulled, and as he’s sitting in a new villa with six girls rotating through his space, all he could think about was you. 

because when you found something real– something that made you feel seen in a way you had never been before, in a way that was past the bright and shiny things that came with your last name– what was the point of looking anywhere else? what could some other girl possibly offer him that would compare to the way you laughed at his jokes, showed the same interest in him that he showed in you, and gave him space to be vulnerable? what would compare to the way you were so sure of yourself, to your magnetic personality?

nothing. the answer was nothing.

he’d been so focused on not being the ‘weak, stupid’ character to someone watching on their couch, so focused on keeping his options open that he’d nearly closed the door on the one thing that actually mattered– on the only girl he wanted.

“maj?” milene waves her hand in front of his face and, despite attempting to hold it back, he physically cringes at the nickname. nose crinkled, lips slightly curled– though he reels it in quickly, because the last thing he wanted to do was hurt an innocent person’s feelings. 

“my bad, i don’t really mess with that nickname. you can just call me jermajesty.”

and as milene and sarai glance at each other, coming up with an excuse before walking away from him, they roll their eyes in perfect sync. because prior to them coming in as casa bombshells, they’d watched you call him “maj” and “majy”... and watched him give you the same large and dorky grin every single time.

BEACH HUT (CONFESSIONAL)

“he’s in too fucking deep! he’s literally impossible to talk to.” casa girl one. “right? i asked him what he likes to cook and somehow i’m hearing about how he wants to learn this recipe that (name) loves.” casa girl number two. “he’s so closed off. i’ve never seen someone so uninterested in their life. it’s a lil frustrating.” sarai, casa girl number three. “i think he’s just guarded. like he’s protecting himself, maybe? i think he’ll open up.” casa girl number four. “girl, he’s not opening up shit. i tried to talk to him earlier and he just looked at the wall behind me and said ‘oh yeah, that’s crazy.’” casa girl number one, again. “what did you say to him?” milene, casa girl number five. “bitch, i asked what part of california he’s from.” casa girl number one, again. they all laugh before casa girl number six ends with, “well i’m not giving up on him just yet. i think he just needs the right person, and maybe that’s me.”

back in the main villa, only six of the twelve casa boys remain– decided unanimously by all of you girls– and ariana has all twelve of you gathered by the firepit. she announces that it’s time to turn up the heat with a little challenge and continues to explain that each casa boy will get to kiss two girls of their choosing. there’s a chorus of ‘oooh’s and some nervous laughter, mostly from the girls. to no ones surprise at all, you have mixed emotions.

once the boys are lined up, ariana calls up the first– one who’d been chatting up asia and sarah all day. he picks both of them and the kisses are quick and playful. nothing too serious. the rest of the villa cheers and whistles, the energy light and fun.

the second boy goes. then the third. for a brief second you wonder if the other villa has done this yet; if they've broken the touch barrier. if someone has gotten to touch jermajesty in this way, again.

the fourth boy calls out yours and deanna’s name and you have to pretend like this isn’t your least favorite part of being on love island. it’s a little awkward, maybe only to you, as he walks over to you and brings his lips to yours. 

the kiss is fine. soft, brief, and nothing that makes your stomach flip. you kiss him back, because that’s what you’re supposed to do, and you smile when he pulls away, because that’s what you're supposed to do.

but you find yourself comparing it all to him. 

the fifth boy calls alexis and, again, your name– and this time you’re pulled up from the couch and pressed to his body as he delivers the same forgettable and empty kiss as before. if this was jermajesty, your face would've been cradled; his hand would've found a way to caress the skin on your hip. the thought of it makes you yearn for him so suddenly that you find yourself angry. and at no one but yourself.

cairo is the last boy to go.

“i’m picking (name),” he states. his eyes find yours across the fire pit. “just (name).”

is this what you need? for someone else to choose you and only you? did you need to push all of the bullshit to the side and throw caution to the wind?

you have only a split second to decide when cairo reaches you, pulling you up onto your heels for the second time. 

fuck it.

“lay down,” you mumble, right before his mouth can meet yours. his breath fans your lips as his lips part in confusion.

“what?” he whispers quickly.

you grab his hand and tug down, hinting at what you want as you verbally direct him once again. “lay down.” he’s flat on his back within seconds and you meet his eyes from where you still stand, giving him a sultry smirk and running a nail along your bottom lip. 

and once again, the villa erupts when you join him on the floor, knees caging him between and under you as you lean down, cup his jaw, and kiss him– pouring every emotion into the moment and pushing every thought of jermajesty out.

the challenge, if you could even call it that, ends shortly after and you find yourself lounging in ‘say less’ with cairo– you on your back with your head resting in his lap, and him playing with the ends of your hair. one conversation fades into the next, until the two of you are surrounded by the twinkling of the stars in the night sky. 

cairo, after your laughter fades and a comfortable silence fills the space, looks down at you. “...so i know you have a situation back in the villa… jermajesty, right? how has it been going with that?”

you frown, but wipe it away fast, picking at your nails as you feign disinterest. you meet cairo’s eyes. “oh that? yeahhh, it’s dead.”

“really? what happened?”

“you really wanna talk about it?” you eye cairo suspiciously, hoping he says no– because you’d done a great job at not thinking of him for over ten minutes now.

“nah, not gonna lie.”

“good, me neither.” you sigh and close your eyes, urging the pinpricks behind them to disappear. “let's talk about something else.”

“lucky for you, i've been wanting to ask this since we sat down,” he chuckles. when he doesn’t continue you let out a questioning hum, meeting his eyes again. “is anyone in your bed tonight?”

this is necessary, this is necessary, this is necessary, plays on repeat in your mind– allowing the flirtation to seep into your expression, lips curving into a small smile. “yeah,” you say softly.

“really? who?” 

“you.”

he meets your smile with a grin of his own, and the two of you stay like that for a while longer before heading inside. 

that night, cairo’s arms are wrapped around your waist, his chest pressed against your back, his breath warm and steady against the nape of your neck. he’s comfortable. solid. objectively, there’s nothing wrong with the way he’s holding you.

but your body knows the difference.

it knows the weight of jermajesty’s arm draped over your waist is heavier, more possessive. it knows the way jermajesty pulls you closer in his sleep, like even unconsciously he needs you pressed to him like a second skin. it knows the soft noises he makes in his sleep, the tickle of his curls against your back when his unruly sleeping has the top half of his body in the middle of the bed instead of the top.

the body next to you now isn’t the one you’ve gotten used to sleeping next to for weeks. it’s almost as if you’re in fight or flight the whole night. every time you realize your muscles are tensed, you relax them… just to repeat the process over and over. you have to physically prevent yourself from leaving the bed to go stand outside, near the wall where you can see the other villa lit up miles and miles away. 

you close your eyes and will yourself to relax again. will yourself to just fucking sleep.

but you can’t. because every time you start to drift, your mind fills in the gaps: phantom grip against your waist, sleepy and soft snores in your ear, unconscious protests from him whenever you shift even an inch away.

the hours drag deep into the night. you manage maybe an hour of sleep as the sun starts to rise, painting the sky in soft shades of pink and orange. 

you hate your life when the shades rise and you’re all woken up to start the day. cairo shifts behind you, his arms sliding away as he stretches. “you up?” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

“no.” you reply, keeping your eyes closed.

he only laughs as he gets up and leaves the room, heading down to the kitchen. when you’re sure he’s not coming back, you sit up yourself, attempting to shake off the exhaustion clinging to you. you feel like you’re moving through water as you go through your routine in the bathroom and walk to the makeup room, settling into your spot and doing the most half-assed hairstyle possible. 

you’re barely halfway through bringing out all your makeup when deanna pops up beside you.

“come outside real quick,” she says, tone leaving no room for argument.

and with no energy left in you, you sigh and follow behind her.

the deck is quiet, morning sun warm against your skin. deanna and elisa settle on the bench and you sit to the right of elisa, sliding your sunglasses on. at this point they were your comfort item.

deanna exhales, long and heavy, leaning back against the wooden railing. “i miss my man so much,” she says, with a sad eye roll. “like… i know it’s only been a day, but i just–” she pauses, shaking her head. i miss isaac. i miss talking to him. i miss him.”

“have you been talking to any of the boys here?” you ask, bringing your knees to your chest.

“girl, not for real. i’m just going through the motions at this point. casa is not for me, i’m a lover girl and i don’t want to love on any nigga but isaac.”

elisa nods, a small smile tugging at her lips. “yeah, i feel you. keem’s been great,” elisa mentions the casa boy she’s been talking to, “but i miss deon’s dumbass.”

you stay quiet, staring out at the water farther out. there’s a burning in your throat that won’t go the fuck away.

“what about you?” elisa asks, turning to look at you. “how’s it been with cairo? that kiss was somethin’ serious.” 

you force a smile and swallow, but the burning in your throat stays. “it’s great. he’s really sweet, honestly. a real catch.”

deanna narrows her eyes immediately. “... and jermajesty?”

your stomach swoops. “fuck him,” you say quickly, rolling your eyes purely for show– forgetting your sunglasses covered you anyway. “m’not thinking about him at all…”

but your voice cracks on the word ‘all’ and your next breath hitches. your bottom lip starts to wobble and you press your lips together as you look away from them, blinking rapidly.

but it’s too late.

a tear slips down your cheek, and another follows shortly after.

“oh, baby–” deanna starts, but you shake your head, waving them off and wiping at your face with the back of your hand. elisa and deanna ignore it, already moving to wrap their arms around you, pulling you into a hug so tight it makes your chest ache even more. they give you the space to break.

“i’m try–ing so hard,” you choke out, your voice cracking as the tears start to fall faster. “m’trying but i can’t, i-i can’t stop comparing everything to him. and i’m serious, cairo is so sweet, but it’s not– it’s not maj. and i hate that. and i keep replaying everything in my he-ad, like–” you press a hand to your chest as you try to catch your breath. “we were so good together. everything was so natural with him. i didn't have to think about what to say or how to be, i just was, and he got me.”

you wipe at your face but the tears don’t stop. elisa brings a hand to the back of your head and gently pushes until it rests on her shoulder. 

“and it was him,” you continue, your voice raw and shaking. “the second i walked into the villa, it was him. nothing could’ve made my head turn from him at any point, let alone make me dis–disrespect him. it was always gonna be him for me.”

as if your body is trying to push every tear out now, the clips you watched replay in your mind. “he had so many chances to stop, he could’ve pushed her off and told her no. i wasn’t even a tho–ught in his mind. i didn’t matter–”

“shhh,” deanna hushes you as she switches her seat so that you sat in the middle. she wraps her arms around you again and the three of you sit there for what feels like hours– them holding you tighter, letting you cry and break and release everything you’ve been holding in.

-

Michael sat on the edge of the hotel bed for a long time after the woman left. She had gathered her things quietly, giving him one last look before closing the door after he’d asked her to leave. His elbows were braced against his knees and he had both of his hands pressed over his face. Like maybe he could hide from what he had just done if he stayed that way long enough.

The room was eerily quiet now. Nothing but the distant hum of traffic and horns from impatient cars down below. 

Just an hour before, music was playing from the stereo on the dresser and the curtains were pulled back wide revealing the glittering city below. Somebody was laughing at something Michael had long forgotten now. 

Now, the glasses on the dining room table were half empty. The sheets behind him were rumpled and smelled of an unfamiliar perfume. And the gold wedding band around Michael’s finger felt like it had doubled in weight.

He twisted it back and forth on his finger. Then he raised his hands back to his face.

“Oh God… what did I do?” he whispered into his hands. The words sounded so small in the expensive suite.

Then, his stomach rolled in an awful way and he rushed to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before losing the contents of his stomach.

He had spent most of his life surround by chaos and noise. People screaming his name, cameras clicking and flashing, executives talking over one another because they all wanted to be right. He had learned out to tune out the noise over the years to find a quiet place inside his own mind when the world became too much.

But now, there was no quiet place deep enough to protect him from himself.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw your face. It wasn’t angry either. That would’ve been easier. Instead, you were smiling. 

The same way that you had when he’d left for this business trip a month ago. You were standing barefoot in the foyer, arms wrapped tightly around his waist with your cheek resting against his chest. You had asked him to let you know when he landed. Reached your hand up to straighten the collar of his jacket that was turned up, because somehow Michael always managed to leave something out of place when he was tired. Then you had kissed him slowly and told him you loved him.

He had said it back without hesitation. He kept replaying it in his head. That was the part he couldn’t understand. He loved you. Truly. With every inch of his being. 

He knew that with the same certainty he knew the first note of every song he’d ever written, the exact number of steps between the wings and center stage. The way your body fit against his like a puzzle piece when you slept. 

He loved the sweet warm scent that clung to your skin after a shower. The tiny line between your eyebrows when you were reading something very carefully. He loved how you talked to yourself when you were cooking and trying to figure out a recipe— and denied it when he caught you, and the way you reached for him in your sleep without stirring.

He loved you, all of you, and he had betrayed you anyway.

The thought made him bend forward until his forehead nearly touched his knees, stomach still churning.

It wasn’t planned. Never. That was the excuse waiting closest to the surface. The one his frightened out of its wits mind kept offering him as if it would soften what happened. Truthfully, he was exhausted and lonely. Frustrated after a long night of industry obligations he didn’t want to attend. Those events were always full of people who treated boundaries like something temporary.

He drank more than usual, but not nearly enough to erase the choices he made that led him here. The woman made him feel admired without asking for anything complicated from him. And for one shameful, shameful hour, he had stepped outside of the life that belonged to him and pretended there would be no cost.

Then that moment came to an end, and there was still you. His mind kept drifting to you. Your clothes in his closet, the books stacked beside his bed that you had started but never finished. The handwritten notes you’d snuck in his luggage when he wasn’t looking. Your voice on his answering machine, asking him if he remembered to eat. 

By morning he had already decided he had to tell you. But then you called. Your voice was warm and sleepy because it was still early back at home where you were. You teased him about sounding completely miserable, told him he should’ve brought you for company. Said you missed him.

Michael sat on the hotel sofa gripping the phone so tightly his tendons ached. 

“I miss you too, baby.” He whispered. He almost confessed his sin to you right then and there. But when he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

He couldn’t bear the idea of telling you like that. Not like that. You deserved more from him. From your husband. 

Michael was disgusted with himself, and it showed in the way he’d been sick twice the night before. Now, sitting in the ruined hotel room, His eyes fell to the wedding band on his hand and he began to cry until the sobs crescendoed violently through his body.

The tears slipped between his fingers and fell silently onto his slacks while the world carried on outside. Completely indifferent and undisturbed by the fact that somewhere in it, a man had just shattered the most precious thing he’d ever been trusted to hold.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It was sunrise when you woke up on the morning Michael returned home. The estate was still dark and its long hallways were silent  except for the occasional creak of the home settling around you. Outside, the sky was turning from black to a deep blue and mist drifted over the lawn.

You stayed in bed a little longer, curled in the sheets on Michael’s side of the bed. It was a habit you’d developed over the years whenever he was away from home. Pressing your face into the pillow, you inhaled deeply and sighed contently. It still carried a faint trace of your husband’s cologne. Warm, sandalwood, clean linen, and something sweet you couldn’t quite pinpoint.

A month had never felt so long

Michael and you had been married long enough to survive separations much longer than that. World tours had taken him across oceans. Film shoots and recording obligations swallowed whole weeks sometimes. There were too many birthdays and anniversaries celebrated through telephone wires than you cared to remember.

But lately, even when Michael was home, you’d missed him. And that bothered you. A lot. He was physically there. Eating dinner with you, sleeping beside you, every now and then resting his large palm on your thigh as he did his reading. But something felt off. His smiled came slower and his kisses were softer, but shorter too. And every now and then, you would look up and see him watching you closely with an expression you couldn’t read. Sadness flickered across his features before he tucked it away, but you didn’t know.

It must be the album you thought. Dangerous was due to release soon, so there was always a deadline or a room full of people waiting for Michael to decide whether the bassline needed to be heavier or if the strings needed another layer.

Michael carried his work inside his body until it reflected in his posture and the hollowed skin beneath his eyes. Over the years, you learned how to recognize the signs before complete burn out.

That was why this morning, you decided to take care of him. You yawned and stretched as you finally climbed out of bed, the cold air of the room hitting you quickly. You pulled one of Michael’s sweatshirts over your head and twisted your hair into a bun to keep it out your face before padding downstairs.

You only turned on the light above the stove, preferring more darkness as the sun slowly rose. Then you mixed pancake batter and started brewing your coffee. By the time the sun had fully risen, the kitchen smelled like butter, bacon, cinnamon, coffee, and maple syrup. You hummed to yourself quietly as you arranged fruit and powdered sugar over the pancakes. Then, you set two mugs on the table.

His car was in the driveway just after seven. You recognized the distinct engine humming in the distance and the faint voices from his security team. Excitement coursed through you so quickly that you nearly forgot to shut off the stove. You rushed into the foyer just as the front door opened.

Michael stepped inside wearing dark slacks, a black sweater, sunglasses—and the exhaustion of a man who had slept little to none. His curls were tucked beneath a hat and his leather overnight bag hung from his opposite hand. Still, he looked beautiful to you.

His head lifted when he saw you, and for a second his whole face changed. Relief, love, and something more dark passed through his expression in a frenzy. You quickly closed the distance between the two of you, and he dropped his bag to catch you.

“Hey handsome. There you are.” You murmured against his neck, leaving soft kisses. Michael melted into your touch and held you tightly. A little too tight.

He pressed his face into you, breathing you in. You laughed softly as you ran your hands over his back in that way that always grounded him.

“You act like you’ve been gone a year.” He didn’t answer, but his arms tightened. The force of the embrace surprised you enough to make your smile fade a little.

“Mikey?”

“Just missed you. That’s all.” He whispered His voice was strained though. You turned your face and kissed his temple. 

“I missed you too, baby”

When he finally pulled away, his eyes were wet behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. He removed them quickly like he forgot he was wearing them before looking over your face with a tender gaze.

“You okay? What’s up?” You asked.

He nodded too fast. “Yeah mama, just tired.”

“More like exhausted”

“I’m alright.”

Still not convinced, you reached up and pushed a curl out of his eyes. He leaned into your hand instinctively. Then his gaze dropped to your mouth, and you kissed him. He kissed you back, but something about it felt hesitant. It lasted just a second, almost so quickly you didn’t notice. 

When you pulled away, he gazed at you like you gave him something he didn’t deserve. The expression made you uncomfortable in a way you couldn’t put words to. So you changed the topic.

“I made you breakfast. Your favorite” A shy smile tugged at his lips despite the way he felt inside. 

“Of course you did” That was the thing. You were always taking care of him. Making sure he had what he needed, sometimes at a cost to yourself. He followed you to the kitchen, wondering how many more acts of love he could survive before the truth broke him.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Unfortunately, the distance didn’t disappear when Michael came home. It got worse. 

He was attentive in weird, uneven bursts. One afternoon, he just appeared out of nowhere in the doorway of the library carrying your favorite flowers for no reason. Then he stood watching while you arranged them in a vase, eyes following every movement of your hands. And then that night, he held you so close that you woke up feeling suffocated and sweating against his chest.

The next day though, he barely spoke at all during breakfast. 

He started bringing you gifts after long rehearsals and recording sessions. A new book he thought you might like, a silk scarf in your favorite color, and a small bottle of perfume he had smelled somewhere and immediately associated with you. 

The gifts were appreciated. But they frightened you. Now Michael had always been extremely generous with his time and money. He loved to give, much more than receiving. But you couldn’t help but feel like these offerings weren’t just spontaneous affection, but more so an apology for something you had never accused him of doing.

If you asked if something was wrong, he would just say it was work stuff. 

“This mix isn’t right yet”

“Just not sleeping well, that’s all”

“Management's been on me”

And every time, you believed him. Because you loved him and trusted him. The alternative never entered your mind.

In the past, there had been rumors about your marriage.

Women constantly claimed things and headlines manufactured affairs from various photographs Michael had taken with fans. Every friendly conversation and smile he gave became evidence for the press to declare he had a new secret lover.

Michael was always more hurt by these stories than you were. “How can they say that about us?” He would ask, genuinely distressed. “They don’t know me…Us.” You always reassured him.

The trust was so deeply ingrained in your marriage that you didn’t even consider the possibility of unfaithfulness even while standing in its shadow.

Instead, you turned inward and blamed yourself. Maybe you had gotten too comfortable. Or maybe the marriage was less exciting to him now that the honeymoon phase was long gone.

You wondered whether your complaints about his long nights at the studio had added more pressure on top of the weight he was already carrying. And as embarrassed as you were afraid to admit, you had even begun studying your own reflection more closely when getting dressed.

On date night, you changed your hair twice. Bought a new nightgown— that never got worn because Michael came home at 2am and fell asleep before you could show him.

You tried hard. So much harder.

And that’s what haunted you later.

You cooked more of his favorite meals and waited for him to come home to enjoy them, even though you never knew when he’d arrive. Kept leaving handwritten notes for him to encourage him. Sometimes if you had time, you’d stop by the studio with lunch for him and massage his shoulders while he listened to the same run over and over again, trying to pinpoint how to improve it.

Every act of love you offered made him quieter and pushed him farther away. 

Then one night, you found him standing by himself in the bathroom with the water running endlessly. He was facing the mirror, both hands gripping the sink as his head hung low.

“Runnin' up my water bill, boy” You had said jokingly. But he startled so violently that your stomach clenched. Immediately your face changed when he met your eyes in the reflection of the mirror. You stepped inside immediately.

“What is it? Is something wrong?”

“Nothing” 

“You’ve been in here forever, Mike. What're you thinkin' about?”

He stared at you through the reflection instead of turning around. For a moment, it looked like he might tell you. His mouth opened and his eyes filled, but then he dropped his gaze.

“Just that record. That’s all.”

You exhaled softly and moved behind him, shutting off the water and wrapping your arms around his waist. His body went rigid under your touch. You felt it immediately.

“Baby,” You whispered, resting your cheek between his shoulder blades. “You’re carrying too much again.”

Grace he didn’t deserve.

Michael closed his eyes as guilt washed over him, nauseating him.

“You don’t have to be perfect all the time. You can just be you with me, you know that right?” A tear slipped down his cheek and disappeared before you could see it.

“I know” He said quietly.

“You can talk to me. Whatever it is.”

His hands came down to where yours were resting against his stomach, holding you too now.

“I know, baby.”

He turned in your arms and held you with his face buried against your neck. His body was trembling, and you mistook it for exhaustion. So you stroked his curls like you always did and told him it would be okay.

You always made him feel so safe. He nearly confessed right there. He inhaled sharply. “I have to tell you something” he whispered.

You pulled back to look at him. “What is it?” His eyes moved over yours. Fear entered them so suddenly that you went totally still. But then, he shook his head and said it was nothing.

He didn’t have the courage yet. He wanted to tell you. So badly. But he couldn’t bear to put you in that type of agony. He’d rather die. And that’s why he hated himself in this moment. In every moment you’d overextended yourself or did something just because you loved him.

He didn’t deserve it, and he knew it. He was devastated.

Later, you would replay this memory until it felt like punishment that you couldn’t see things for what they were.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You learned the truth at a charity luncheon six weeks after Michael came home.

The day was unremarkable. You picked out a cream suit and wore a silk blouse underneath. Gold hoops adorned your ears with your hair swept back away from your face. Michael was supposed to be attending with you, but a scheduling conflict came up that morning. He kissed your cheek while you got dressed and apologized, promising he would make it up to you.

It was no big deal it happened a lot. So, you went alone. 

The luncheon was in a private ballroom that had been decorated elegantly with white flowers and soft, gold fabric. Wives of people in the industry, performers, executives, humanitarians, and philanthropists moved about the space while photographers hovered near the entrance. Being Michael’s wife, you had attended enough events like it to smile through small talk without thinking.

Halfway through the event, a woman from Michael’s label approached you at the refreshment table. You knew her vaguely, she’d always been friendly and talkative. And today, you noticed she was on her second glass of champagne, which meant she was sure to be extra chatty.

“It’s sooo good to see you. You look beautiful!” She said, kissing the air beside your cheek.

“Thank you, so do you.”

“We missed you sooo much in New York.” At first you just blinked. The sentence didn’t register initally. 

“Excuse me?” You smiled politely, trying to get clarification.

“The Mercer dinner. Michael was basically hiding in a corner all evening, you know how he gets at those things.”

A cold chill washed over your body. Michael wasn’t in New York. He was in Chicago.

At least that’s what he had told you. 

Still, you maintained your smile, even as your right eye began involuntarily twitching and your heart rate picked up. 

“And when was this?”

The woman gave you the date. It was the exact night Michael had called you from what he claimed was his hotel in Chicago.

He claimed rehearsals ran late. He sounded really distracted and then he ended the call early because he said he was tired and needed some sleep.

Your fingers tightened so hard around your wine glass you thought it might break. “Oh” was all you said, like the wind had been knocked out of you.

Instantly, the woman knew she spoke too much. You saw it in her face. “Well maybe I just have the dates wrong…”

You continued to smile politely, at this point it was frozen on your face despite the rage you felt internally. You felt like you were in the Twilight Zone. 

“You don’t.” you said simply. The activity in the ballroom continued around you. Silverware scraping, laughter and music. But at this point it all seemed far away, and you had tunnel vision.

“Who was he with?” you asked. The woman looked toward the crowd, desperate for an escape.

“That isn’t my business.” At this, your heart rate picked up even more.

“Who was he with?” You asked again calmly, this time your voice took on a covert threatening tone.

She lowered her voice as her eyes darted nervously around the room hoping no one was watching.

“Look, I didn’t see anything happen, okay? I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Please don’t say you heard anything from me! I really need this job, I can’t afford to lose it.” You stared at her unblinking now. That was not an answer. But it was confirmation.

She reached for your arm, but you stepped away before she could touch you. The room tilted and you placed your wine glass on the table before it slipped from your hand and shattered, exactly like you felt you were right in this moment. The truth entered your body slowly, then all at once. 

New York. 

The lie. 

How distant Michael had been. 

The endless gifts. 

Him crying in the bathroom. 

The way he kissed you like he was apologizing. 

You felt sick.

You left the luncheon without saying goodbye to anyone. Outside the afternoon sun was still hot and bright. Papparazzi called your name as you walked toward your car, but you barely heard them over the chaos inside your head. Your mind was racing. 

On the way home, you didn’t cry. Not yet. You sat completely still as if you were having an out of body experience as the city moved past. Your mind began recalling memories with cruel precision. Michael coming home and showering immediately before he’d let you touch him. He claimed it was grime from the plane and he wanted to be clean for you. 

Him pulling away when you touched him. Bringing you flowers with tears in his eyes. 

And then, him whispering, “I have to tell you something”.

Realization settled over you, slowly, coldly. The first tear fell before you reached home.

For weeks, you believed him when he said it was just work. You thought the distance meant you were failing him. You stared at yourself in mirrors wondering if he still thought you were pretty. Dressed more carefully. Tried to cook better, even asking his mother for tips. Swallowed your complaints and loneliness.

And all this time. He knew exactly what he had done. He watched you—allowed you— to chase him while he held the truth in silence. The humiliation of it all made your face so hot it burned to the touch.

When you entered your shared home with Michael, you walked straight upstairs without saying a word to any of the staff. In the bedroom everything was indifferent. His book rested on the nightstand, turned upside down on the last page he read before his eyes got too tired to continue. His sweater was strewn across a chair from him leaving in a rush that morning.

Then, your eyes landed on a picture of you both, taken during the first year of your marriage. Michael was smiling at you instead of the camera.

You picked it up and threw it across the room, feeling satisfaction as the frame struck the wall and shattered into pieces. You sat on the edge of your bed and cried until your chest ached.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Michael felt the change before you said anything. He came home that night expecting the familiar sounds of you moving through the house, playing your favorite music from the stereo. Maybe your voice on the phone talking to one of your girlfriends. 

Instead, everything was silent. He found you sitting at the dining room table with an untouched plate of food in front of you.

You had cried until there was nothing left before you cleaned up the glass from your outburst. Your eyes were swollen, and the sight made his heart lurch.

“Baby?” You looked up. You’d been so deep in your thoughts, wondering where you went wrong, that you hadn’t noticed his presence. “What happened?” He asked.

“Nothing” The word was eerily familiar in your home. Michael swallowed and moved closer, reaching for your shoulder. Sensing his touch impending you rose to your feet suddenly. “I’m tired, I’m going upstairs. Goodnight.”

He watched you leave, and panic began as a faint pressure under his ribs. After a long moment, he followed you and willed himself not to overreact. Maybe the luncheon was exhausting, or paparazzi had said something cruel. Maybe you just didn’t feel good.

When he found you, you were in the bathroom washing your face and completing your bedtime routine. 

“What happened today? Did somebody upset you?” Michael stared at you through the reflection, watching every single movement carefully like doom was soon to come.

Casually, you continued smoothing cleanser over your skin, watching it foam in the reflection. “I said I’m tired.”

Still Michael didn’t depart from the doorway.

“Are you feeling alright?”

“Yes.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

Michael shifted awkwardly on the balls of his feet like a child pestering their mother with a million and one questions. He knew he should probably leave you alone, and usually he would have given you your space. But the guilt of knowing what he had done, paired with your reaction, forced this awkward response. Your answers were too calm.

So Michael stepped closer. “Look at me”. You rinsed your face and reached for a hand towel. He caught your wrist gently. You froze under his touch, eyes lingering where his hand was.

For one hopeful second he thought you might turn into him. Let him hold you, or even ask the question he’d be dreading for six weeks.

But instead, you looked down at his hand and said simply, “Let go”. His fingers opened immediately. The words were not loud at all and that’s what struck him much harder than if you had yelled at him.

You walked past him. He remained next to the sink, gazing at the empty space where you’d stood.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

That night you slept on the far edge of the mattress with your back to Michael. He laid awake behind you, watching you since he’d gotten in bed. The distance between your bodies was short but it felt impenetrable.

He reached towards your waist once during the night. He stopped himself before he could reach you. 

“Baby?” You didn’t answer, but your breathing pattern told him you were awake. “Can I hold you?” More silence. Michael lowered his hand, and the simmering panic he felt tightened.

Over the next three days you became polite and that terrified Michael more than anger would have.

You had stopped waiting for his presence after long workdays. You didn’t accompany him when he watched television. And most painfully for him, when he kissed your cheek before leaving in the morning you stood still and allowed it— but you did not turn your face toward him.

You started calling him Michael.

Not Mike.

Not Mikey.

Not love.

Just Michael. Every withdrawal felt like punishment to him. And he tried everything. Everything except the truth. 

He brought you more flowers. You thanked him and left them wrapped on the table. He ordered you take out from your favorite restaurant, and you said you weren’t hungry. When he asked if you’d take a walk with him you declined, stating you had more work to finish. 

At night he craved your touch. He laid beside you aching to confess, but fear kept closing around his throat.

If you didn’t know, telling you might destroy the marriage. But… if you did know— then the marriage might already be over.

Michael existed in limbo between these two options and it petrified him. He wasn’t able to choose either option. He was too scared.

The fourth evening, he came home early. The house was unusually quiet again. He called your name from the foyer and received no answer. His heart started beating faster before he had even reached the stairs.

He told himself not to panic. You could’ve been in the bath or reading with the bedroom door closed. Maybe you fell asleep early after another long day of barely speaking to him. There were dozens of harmless explanations, but none of them quieted the dread that had been building inside him since you stopped reaching for him.

When he found you, you were in the master bedroom. You were standing with your back to him and your suitcase was open on the floor. For several seconds, Michael’s brain couldn’t register what he was seeing.

He saw the suitcase and the neat stacks of folded clothes—and the empty spaces and hangers starting to form on your side of the closet. But he refused to connect them. He stood there, frozen and helpless in the doorway with one hand wrapped around the strap of his bag. He watched you place items inside the luggage, like maybe the room might reorganize into something less scary if he blinked enough.

Then he forced a nervous smile. It was born out of habit, not natural emotion. 

“Baby?”

You placed another sweater in the suitcase, not answering him or looking at him. The small movement pulled his attention to what was already inside the suitcase. Your jewelry. A soft blue blanket your late grandmother gifted to you. The same one you carried from room to room whenever you were sick or sad.

Quickly, Michael realized these were not items someone packed for just a weekend. They were pieces of your life. A life you shared with him. His smile disappeared.

His hand loosened around the bag strap until it slipped from his fingers and landed softly against the carpet. The soft thud made you pause for just a moment even though you didn’t turn to him.

“What’re you doing?” He asked. His voice was quieter than he intended it to come out. There was already fear laced through it, although he pretended he didn’t understand. 

When you reached for another blouse, he took one step into the room, then another. His eyes moved frantically between your face and the suitcase.

"Where are you going?” You kept folding. The lack of an answer made the pressure in his chest deepen. He could feel his pulse beating hard and uneven under his skin. His mind raced through possibilities. Maybe you were just gonna stay with your mom for a few nights for some reason. Or you needed space? 

He thought if he stayed calm and chose the right words, he could keep the situation from becoming what it already was coming to.

“Baby, look at me.” 

You smoothed your hands over the blouse you had just folded. Michael moved around the bed until he was closer to you. When you still didn’t look at him, he reached out and took the next piece of clothing from your hands. Not roughly, but because he couldn’t bear to watch you continue.

You stared at the empty space between your fingers where the jacket had just been. 

“I found out.” You said.

The room started to close in around Michael, and suddenly he felt like his worst nightmare was coming to life. His hand went slack around the fabric, and the jacket slid from his fingers and fell to the floor. He didn’t ask you what you meant, and that was most damning.

The silence lasted for only a few seconds, but in that time his breathing had stopped. His lips parted and the terror he had spent weeks trying to escape had finally caught up with him.

“Who told you?” He whispered. A sad laugh escaped you.

“What do you mean who told me?”

Michael closed his eyes the minute he heard disbelief wound tightly through your question. He knew instantly he’d said the wrong thing. But panic had pushed him before he could stop it.

“That’s what you wanna know?” You asked. “You don’t wanna know how I feel? Or what I heard? You wanna know who said what so you know how much I know? Are you fucking kidding me, Michael?”

“No” he shook his head quickly and reached toward you before he could think otherwise. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

“So what did you mean?” You turned fully to face him now, arms crossed and lips pursed. His mouth opened, but fear crowded every answer he could think of out of him. He looked at you helplessly, eyes starting to fill with tears. The absence of an explanation only made your expression harden.

You nodded slowly as tears stung your eyes. 

“Exactly.”

Michael’s stomach dropped when your first tears fell. Tears that had always pulled him closer to you without thought. He stepped closer, his hands rising toward your arms because his body believed he still had the right to soothe whatever was hurting you.

“Please let me explain” he said softly, voice trembling. You moved away before he could touch you and the rejection stopped him in place. His hands remained suspended in the air between the two of you for a long moment before they fell awkwardly to his sides.

Something heavy settled in his chest, heavier than the guilt he had carried for weeks. This was the first time you were in pain and wouldn’t allow him to get near it.

He had spent years learning the shape of your hurt. When you needed words—when you just needed him to hold you and say nothing. Now, he had become the thing you needed protection from.

“Explain what?” You seethed, angrily wiping away tears that had slipped despite your best efforts to contain them. “Explain to me why you told me you were in Chicago and you were in New York? Or why some random bitch from your label knew where my husband was, and I didn’t?”

Michael flinched at your words and his throat tightened.

“It was only one night.” The words escaped him before he had a chance to think about how they sounded. Your entire face changed and instantly he felt dread.

“One night? Michael, I’m your wife.” You said in disbelief, voice choked with grief.

“Baby, I didn’t mean it like that” He said quickly, voice cracking through tears. “I swear, that’s not what I was trying to say.”

“How many nights would make it matter to you?”

“It matters to me. It matters so much, this has been killing me.” He pleaded.

“Why, because I found out?”

“No, god no” He shook his head frantically, words failing him completely.

“Then why didn’t you tell me Michael? Why did I have to find out from someone else?” Your eyes were locked on him now, unblinking with blatant disbelief.

“I was scared. I’m so sorry.” Michael didn’t know what to do except be honest now that the weight of his decisions had come crashing down on him. You scoffed in disbelief. 

“You were scared?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want you to hate me.” Tears were spilling freely now as Michael’s hands dangled at his sides. He didn’t know what to do with them, and he was fighting the urge to reach for you after your previous reaction.

“But you knew how to lie to me, right?” 

He physically drew back, one hand moving toward his chest like your words hit something tender under his ribs. The truth of them hurt because there was nothing he could say to defend himself. 

He had arranged his flight, and divulged a false schedule, called you from one city and said it was another. Every lie required effort and thought.

The truth he claimed he couldn’t manage only required courage. 

You stepped toward him, angry now. 

“You knew how to call me from New York fucking City and tell me you were somewhere else. How to come home and kiss me like you hadn’t touched anyone else.” Now your voice choked, “How to climb in our bed like you didn’t break our vows, and let me touch you like nothing had happened.”

Michael’s face fell more with every sentence. He wanted to interrupt you so badly, tell you that none of those moments were false. Loving you had never been the lie, but unfortunately he understood how paradoxical and cruel that sounded now. You would find no comfort in knowing he had loved you while betraying you. If anything, it would just make what he did seem more senseless.

“Every single time I asked you what was on your mind you looked me in my face and told me you were tired. What the fuck, Michael?”

He flinched again as you swore at him, something you never did. “I know” He said, barely above a whisper.

“And I really thought it was me.”

Michael shook his head immediately, eyes widening. “No baby, it was never you. You’re perfect. Always been so perfect for me.” Your heart sank to your stomach.

“If I’m so perfect for you, why would you do this to me? To us?”

The words silenced him. Your face twisted with disgust as the anger finally gave away beneath the full weight of the humiliation you had felt for the last three days. “I kept trying to figure out what I needed to change. I stopped complaining when you weren’t here when I needed you. I made your favorite foods and waited until they got cold, hoping you’d come home early. I even bought new clothes because I thought maybe you didn’t want me anymore. Oh god, Michael” your hands came to your face as the grief overtook you, no longer able to retain it.

“Baby, I’m so sorry. Please don’t ever think—” His voice cracked heavily as he spoke through tears, stepping toward you before he could stop himself.

“It’s too late. I already did.” A sob tore through you involuntarily before the last word had fully left your mouth. Michael moved on instinct. The sight of you breaking apart in front of him erased every thought except the need to catch you. 

His hands closed gently around your arms as he tried to pull you toward his chest, desperate to offer you the same comfort he’d given you throughout every pain you had endured together— throughout his time loving you.

The same comfort he’d given you when you when your childhood dog passed away. The kind he’d given when you decided to walk away from a career you loved with your soul because it wasn’t right for you anymore. The same comfort he’d provided when you cried quietly at night, wishing he was there more.

You shoved him away, and he stumbled backward. He was completely stunned into silence. His hands remained raised for a moment, fingers still curved around the shape of you even though you weren’t there anymore.

The rejection drove the weight in his chest deeper, your tears had always been something he was allowed to soothe. He’d never needed permission to hold you before. Now the distress on your face only sharpened when he came near you. He lowered his hands slowly, afraid of agitating you further.

“Don’t touch me.” You cried. Michael’s lips parted, but no words followed. His gaze moved helplessly over your face as another tear slipped down his own. That was when the truth settled inside him with unbearable clarity. He was not the person who could make this hurt better. Because he was the reason it existed.

Silence swallowed the room and stretched until it became unbearable for Michael. You turned away first, not angry or dramatically. Just… quietly. You reached for the zipper on the suitcase, and he watched your fingers wrap around the metal tab.

Something inside him screamed. 

The zipper closed with one smooth, unforgiving sound, and to Michael it sounded like the end of every future he had ever imagined with you. Like someone closing one chapter of their life before they began another. The realization made the room spin for Michael.

No.

This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be.

Then, you reached down and grabbed the handle of your suitcase. His body moved before he had ever made the decision to. Two hurried steps carried him around the bed until he stood directly between you and the bedroom door.

His chest was rising and falling unevenly, his expression somewhere between terror and disbelief. The movement surprised even him. He was blinking rapidly like he was disoriented, like he didn’t consciously decide to block your path.

He just couldn’t bear the idea of watching you walk away. Not while there was still breath in his lungs.

When you looked up at him, your face was streaked with tears. His stomach twisted so violently he thought he might lose the contents of his stomach.

He had done that. Every single tear, every ounce of hurt written across your features. He put it there.

He hated himself with a depth he didn’t know was possible.

“Move” Your voice wasn’t angry anymore. Just exhausted. And that hurt Michael more than if you'd slapped him. His lips trembled and he shook his head.

“I…I can’t” the words came out barely above a whisper. “I can’t let you leave”

“You don’t get to stop me.”

“I know,” He whimpered helplessly. “I know I don’t.” His eyes fell to the floor in shame before lifting back to yours. There was no defensiveness in them. 

“I know I don’t deserve a conversation… or another a chance” He rubbed his hands over his face, dragging them down until they rested over his mouth for a moment. His shoulders shook under the effort of trying to compose himself. When he lowered them again, more tears fell. “I know I’m embarrassing myself. I know” A humorless laugh escaped him and his chin quivered. “I understand that you can’t even stand to look at me right now, and I wouldn’t either…” his voice trailed off sadly, unsure where he was going with this. “But… I don’t know what else to do.”

The admission seemed to cost him something. Michael had spent his whole life trying to solve problems. If a certain dance move didn’t look right, he’d rehearse till his feet were numb. Song wasn’t right? He’d rewrite it 50 times before it saw the light of day. There was always something to do, some way to fix things.

This was the first problem he had ever faced where his effort felt meaningless. There was no way for him to rehearse his way back into your trust, and he couldn’t outwork the betrayal.

“I can fix it.” The words spilled out before he could stop them. His mind was racing miles ahead of him, desperately searching for anything—anything that might convince you to stay.

“I… I won’t travel alone anymore.” He took another careful step toward you before stopping himself, worried of you recoiling from his touch again. 

“I’ll cancel trips if I have to, you come everywhere with me” His breathing remained uneven. “I’ll give you every itinerary before I leave. Every hotel, every phone number.” His words started tumbling over each other now. 

“I’ll tell you where I am before you even have to ask. I’ll…” he frowned in that same way he did when he was a little boy and an interviewer’s question perplexed him. He was frustrated that his own thoughts couldn’t keep up.

“I’ll fire people, I’ll stop going out. I’ll…” His voice broke under a sob. “I’ll do anything. I mean it. There isn’t anything I won’t change.” He searched your face desperately, looking for any tiny shift that would show him you were hearing him. His chest heaved as tears continued to fall. “I swear to God, I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you.” His lips were swollen now from how hard he was biting on them in between sentences, trying to stop himself from completely falling apart.

“I’ll do anything to earn your trust back. I don’t care how long it takes.” He shook his head frantically, voice dropping to a whisper so fragile it carried across the room.

“Just…” he couldn’t finish the sentence. This was killing him. His throat closed around the word so he tried again. “Please don’t leave me. I can fix it.”

Now your eyes filled with tears. 

“There isn’t anything to left to fix, Michael. I can’t do this anymore.” You said sadly. 

Your statement settled over him with a chilling finality. He simply stared at you, blinking. For a minute, it seemed like he didn’t understand what you had said.

“I have to go.” Your voice wasn’t angry anymore, just tired. Like somebody who had spent the last three days crying until there was nothing left.

Michael felt his chest seize painfully. His hand instinctively pressed against it, trying to soothe the ache. He had never understood why people described heartbreak as physical until now. 

And when he saw you reach for your suitcase handle again, his stomach dropped when he realized you were done listening. When you stepped toward the door, he moved instinctively, pressing his back further against it. His movements were frantic and clumsy now. His body had totally disconnected from the calm composure he usually carried. His curls fell into his face as tears spilled down his cheeks.

He looked at you the way a drowning person would a shoreline. “Please… please don’t do this to me. I love you.”

“I can’t, Michael. I don’t want this anymore. Not like this.” You said, shutting your eyes tightly.

The words hollowed him out, and he stared at you. Waiting for you to take them back. Or to say you were gonna stay at your mom’s for a few days. But the words never came.

Michael’s breathing quickened and his eyes darted around the room, his mind was betraying him. He could already see it. You carrying your things downstairs, opening the front door… the sound it would make when it closed behind you. You driving away. Never coming home.

His chest tightened so violently he had to press his palm harder against it to ground himself. He dropped to his knees when they buckled. He pressed his forehead against your stomach as his breathing refused to settle.

Every inhale came in sharp and frantic, not fully reaching his lungs. Each breath chased the last as if his body had forgotten how breathing was supposed to work.

His shoulders were trembling now, not from crying, but from panic. Pure, overwhelming panic. Your hand fell away from your suitcase as you dropped to your knees too.

“Michael” you said firmly. He didn’t answer, lost completely in fear and his own thoughts. His fingers curled weakly into the fabric of your shirt, holding on to you like you might disappear if he let go. “Michael” you repeated, more sternly this time. You cupped the side of his face, and his whole body leaned into your palm. For a second, it felt like every other time you’d ever comforted him. After bad dreams, migraines. Whenever the world became too much to bear. 

He was fully hyperventilating now. “Look at me” you said. Slowly, his eyes opened and they were shiny and terrified. 

“I can’t… I..” 

“Breathe Michael, you gotta breathe baby. You’re gonna pass out.”

“I don’t care” he said in between hiccups and breaths. “I can’t… you’re leaving” he gasped. 

“In through your nose, and out. Try for me, please” You deliberately kept your own breathing slow. His breath started to even, he tried but it kept catching in his throat. Then he looked toward the suitcase, and the panic doubled. His chest spasmed again and his hands slipped from your waist to the carpet beneath him.

“…You’re really leaving” he said, voice trembling as he tried to talk between breaths. It wasn’t a question. It was a devastated man finally acknowledging the reality he had tried so desperately to outrun.

When you closed your eyes in response, Michael knew. And it hurt more than if you had just said yes. Because now, you weren’t even trying to lie to him. 

“No” The word dissolved into a sob. “No” His breathing had become so erratic that his entire upper body jerked with each failed inhale. Michael had panic attacks in the past, but never this severe.

Instinctively, you moved closer and your hands found either side of his face. He leaned into you again, desperately. The way a freezing person reaches toward warmth.

“I need you to breathe.”

He swallowed another sob, “I don’t know how” The confession broke your heart. This was a man who commanded stadiums and rehearsed until sunrise. And here he was, sat on the floor looking up at you like a frightened little boy. Totally lost. “I don’t know what to do… how to make you stay.”

The room fell silent. There was still plenty to say, but there just simply weren’t any words left. He searched your face anyway, looking for mercy. Or hope. Instead there was nothing. Just tears that flowed from a place that felt empty now. 

“Oh god, baby. I’m so sorry” he covered his face, the shame, burning through him full force now. What had he done? “I’ll never forgive myself. I don’t expect you to either.”

His eyes drifted to the wedding ring on your left hand. It was still there—for now.

His lifted his gaze back to yours. “Are you gonna take it off?” You were silent. He watched your face carefully for any sort of an answer. But all he got was fresh tears, and trembling lips. He understood without you needing to answer. 

His own wedding band felt heavy now. He looked down at it, turning it slowly. The little gold band that symbolized forever with you. He had broken that promise. “I ruined everything” he said softly. Not dramatically or looking for reassurance. Just a fact.

For a long time neither of you moved. The room felt suspended in time. Michael remained on his knees at your feet, shoulders rising unevenly beneath shaky breaths. His hands had slipped from your hips sometime during the silence. Now they just rested against his thighs, palms open and empty. He didn’t reach for you again. He wanted to. But he finally understood that wanting wasn’t good enough anymore.

You looked down at him one last time. He had exhausted himself. Not physically, spiritually.

He watched quietly as you gathered your purse from a nearby chair. His eyes followed the movement automatically. His lips parted, but he was out of pleas, promises, and apologies.

He couldn’t ask anymore. He had already offered you every version of himself he knew how to give. And there was nothing left. You had rejected all of them.

You walked across the bedroom floor, and the sound of your footsteps seemed unnaturally loud in the moment. This time, he didn’t try to stop you.

His body wanted to. Every instinct he had was screaming at him to stand up. Run after you. Throw himself in front of any door he had to.

But he stayed where he was. He knew you deserved the freedom he’d stolen from you weeks ago. 

When your hand settled around the door knob, you hesitated. “I loved you with everything I had to give, Mike. I really did.”

Michael shut his eyes, the sentence felt like a knife. Not love. Loved. As in past tense. His breathing faltered again. When he opened his eyes, you were already stepping into the hallway. He listened as your footsteps grew fainter. As the front door opened and shut. And then nothing.

It was the kind of silence that settles over a home after someone who once filled it with love is no longer there. Michael stayed where he was. His eyes never left the bedroom doorway, as if maybe you’d come back if he stared long enough. His hand drifted to the center of his chest slowly, right over his heart. The ache that had settled there was dull and heavy. He pressed harder, but it didn’t help.

Hours passed. Afternoon melted into evening. Evening into night. The house darkened around Michael. Someone called the home phone, and it rang until the answering machine picked up. A car pulled into the driveway, then left. The world continued on outside with no reverence for how Michael’s heart had been broken.

Every room suddenly held the shape of someone who wasn't there anymore. The mug you'd used that morning still sat in the kitchen sink. Your favorite throw still rested over the arm of the living room sofa. One of your hair ties lay on his nightstand. Little pieces of you remained everywhere.

Everything except, you. Michael blinked slowly, the reality still refused to settle completely. It felt impossible that a marriage could end in a single afternoon. That a person could wake up having a wife, and go to bed alone.

His thumb rubbed absently over his wedding band. "I did this." He spoke the words into the empty room. He lowered his head, shoulders sagging beneath a grief too large to carry.

And for the first time in his life, there wasn't a stage big enough, a rehearsal long enough, or a song beautiful enough to fix what he had broken.

He simply sat there in the dark room, one hand pressed over his heart, staring at the doorway long after the sun had disappeared, trapped inside the quiet realization that some mistakes don't end when the confession is over.

And this one would follow him into every tomorrow he had left.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

please respect my work 💌

Everything posted here is written

You and Jackie had been arguing back to back all week. It ranged from nonsense bickering to genuine perceived slights on both sides. It had a lot to do with both of your stress levels and the lack of time either of you had to give as of late.

You were feeling extra sensitive, and Jackie had been varying between unresponsive and irritable. Tonight was his boiling point. You made an issue about how he spoke to the waitress, which he knew was just you picking a fight at this point.

You walked into the apartment hot on his tail, as he tried not to give you the energy you so badly wanted. You knew it was toxic, but to be honest, it was a subconscious thing you did when you were craving his attention and struggling to express it.

“Y/n.” He rubbed his face in annoyance.

“Y/n my ass. I’m sick of you and that slick ass mouth.” You pulled your coat off, placing it on the coat hanger just as he did, the two of you seething with frustration as your eyes met.

“I’m sick of you and this attitude.” He pulled his hat off hanging it there as well, as he stared you down. You could see him bubbling up with disappointment because he so badly wanted this to be a relaxing evening for you, but it was turning out to be the complete opposite.

You broke the tension between your gaze, storming to the bedroom, hearing him not too far behind.

“You’re so sick of me why don’t you leave then?” He said in a mean tone, standing in the mirror as he fixed his afro from being flattened under his hat. Jackie meant none of those words, but wanted your validation, which would have been a protest to his assertion. He was throwing out a bone and you caught it, but not how he expected.

You laughed in disbelief. “Maybe I will.” You said bitterly as you struggled to unzip your dress, refusing to ask for his assistance.

He turned, looking at you across the room with an expression of dismay. “Unbelievable…You’ll say anything to get a rise out of me huh?” He shook his head before walking over and harshly unzipping your dress for you. Even in his anger, he felt the urge to come to your aid.

“Oh well. You said it first.” You shrugged nonchalantly, before slipping out of your dress and refusing to thank him.

He couldn’t believe how childish you were being today, but he had just the remedy. “You know what?” He stood with his hands on his hips, eyebrows furrowed in impatience.

“What?” You barked back.

“Get on that bed.“ He ordered.

Just as you were about to sit on the foot of the bed, he stopped you.

“No, no sweetheart. You getting on your hands and knees today talking to me like you lost your mind. Threatening to leave me? You never stooped that low.” He scoffed.

You obeyed, getting onto the bed on your hands and knees, but not without protest. “You mentioned it first!”

“And you caught the bait. I thought you loved me enough to go against me, but I guess I don’t know you like I thought I did.” He remarked as he unbuttoned his shirt, throwing it somewhere.

“You are so dramatic.” You criticized him with a shake of your head.

“I don’t want to hear a peep out of you. Maybe amidst the silence I can imagine you love me enough.”

You were silent for a moment, realizing that Jackie’s attitude and irritability rested in the same root cause as yours—not just a desire for attention, but a strong need for validation from his lover.

As you waited quietly, reflecting on both of your poor communication skills, all you could hear was the jingling of his metal belt buckle, which both excited and scared you.

You were getting some action which was a win, but Jackie had a way of handling your attitude that made you almost not want to have one again. On top of that, you were regretting the way you baited him and vice versa.

Before you knew it, his heavy hand was rested on the small of your back, pushing you into an even deeper arch. You felt his tip grazing your entrance, his member stiff already.

“Uh huh…and he acts like he hates to argue.” You thought to yourself.

Your taunting thoughts were cut short as you felt him enter you, his length already plunging deep. His abrupt entrance caused you to whimper, feeling him splitting you apart in the best way.

Your whimper earned a sudden smack to your bottom, which left it stinging. “What’d I say?” His hips were moving in a slow wind, making you feel every part of him.

“Hm?” He questioned, prompting you to answer him as he pushed his tip right against your cervix, his hips and your ass pressed firmly together.

“You don’t wanna hear me…” You whined.

“Exactly so shut your mouth like I said. I’ll let you know when I wanna hear you.” He pulled all the way out, readying himself at your entrance again, before plunging right back in.

The intense pressure and stretching sent your hand flying back to his abdomen as you bit your lip to suppress any moans or whimpers tempted to escape.

He grabbed your wrists, holding them together behind your back as he began to thrust his hips harder, fucking you in a loving slow pace that perfectly juxtaposed the stern, disappointed force that made your skin clap together loudly.

You winced in attempts to remain silent, his thrusts powerful enough to scoot you forward almost if he weren’t pressing your back so firmly.

His balls began to meet your clit, pressing against it every time he bottomed out inside you. Along with that, you felt his shaft rubbing right against the perfect spot repeatedly and torturously slow, making you want to cry out his name but you knew you couldn’t. You had to let the slick coating forming around him speak for itself.

The room was ominously quiet except for the sound of Jackie pounding you. You braced yourself for every stroke, trying your best to wear your punishment which wasn’t working out well so far.

Your hips involuntarily pulled forward a little, running away from the ferocious beast that was Jackie.

“Where you goin’? Don’t run from this. You gettin’ exactly what you asked for.” He scolded you in his soft voice, completely contradicting his tone as he spanked you harshly, pulling you right back into his thrusts and increasing the intensity of the pleasure he was causing.

“I know…I know…” You moaned and whimpered helplessly as his hips met yours with ferocity and bittersweet contempt.

“No you don’t know. You don’t know, cause’ you been at it for weeks.” He gripped your curls in one hand, and your jaw in his other, bringing your face closer to his.

“Fuck! okay- baby I’m sorry…”

“Nah, don’t apologize to me in the middle of your consequence. A hard head makes a soft bottom and you gon’ learn today.” He had you against his chest, fucking you senseless.

Jackie was being stricter than usual. By now, he would have relented, planting sweet kisses on your face, kissing the tears away to make everything better while he made sweet love to you.

This time, he was teaching you a hard lesson and refusing to soften up on you. At this point, strangled noises and cries were escaping you, but Jackie didn’t scold you this time—it seemed that he was finally relenting in at least one way.

Your eyes were welling up, your mascara smeared and running ever so slightly.

You gasped, feeling yourself already about to come as you clenched him tightly. You tried to hold out, but you just couldn’t, as his strokes were coming too quickly for you to recover from each previous pleasure-filled thrust.

Just as you tightened around him ready to release, he withdrew, leaving you clenching around nothing and aching at his sudden absence.

He took you through about three more rotations of torturing you in this way. Drawing a huge orgasm up to a strong simmer, before suddenly withdrawing the heat.

On the third time pulling out of you, your hips seemed to chase him as he withdrew.

“You know baby…I’m starting to think you taking a likin’ to the way I discipline you…” His voice sounded encumbered with temptation but still stern, dripping in that old midwest, Gary flavor.

“You like the way I tap this ass. Don’t you?” His hand was rubbing your ass cheek in slow circles.

He rubbed your pussy from the back every time his hand reached the cup of your ass, using his fingertips for the lightest, teasing touches he could give you.

He started to finger you with just his middle finger, torturously slow and deep. Each time his finger bottomed out in you, the room filled with a slight squelch. “Don’t you?” He asked once again in a crisp half-whisper, the words arriving with a stinging clarity.

“I do…” You admitted in shame as your orgasm pooled up in your abdomen again.

“Mmmm.” He hummed in disappointment.

Just as your walls tensed against him, he removed his finger. You clenched around nothing again, feeling nervous about what was next.

“But yet, you’re sorry?” He asked, his tone unmistakably vindictive.

“I am baby…” You said, lying flat on your stomach with your thighs tight together, trying to endure the heartbeat you could feel between your legs.

“Alright then.” He replied, his tone letting you know he didn’t buy your apology.

Before you knew it, Jackie was hovering over you again, ready to finish you off brutally.

“Tell me what you’re so sorry for.” He dropped his dick into you again, his hips coming down on you with force.

You recalled earlier in a daze as you tried to construct an acceptable sentence.

“I’m- Fuck..I’m sorry for picking fights…” You moaned, chasing that same orgasm he’d held over your head this whole time.

Jackie pressed your arms against the bed, plowing into you like never before. “Mmm…and what else?”

“I’m sorry for saying I was sick of you...” You moaned intensely in between your words. “I’ll never get sick of you…” You said in a weak, affectionate cry as you reached your peak, your walls pulsing around him in ecstasy.

Jackie seemed to fuck you harder with each apology, making your mind race for what Jackie was looking for. You reached back into your mind, thinking about what upset him the most today.

“I’m just…sorry for my whole attitude…” You said in a weak, cock-drunk slur, your face pressed into the bed. Jackie had you throwing around apologies desperately, seeking refuge from the overstimulation of him pounding you with no refrain.

Suddenly a lightbulb went off.

“And most of all baby-“ You winced as he drove into you, trying your best to form a coherent thought.

“Most of all…m’sorry for threatening to leave you...” Your words mushed together as you stuttered over them, whimpering and moaning amidst each word. “I’ll never leave you baby…” You cried out as your second orgasm coursed through you.

“You promise?” He slowed down, filling the room with the slow, loud claps of your skin.

“I promise you Jackie…” You saw white as you closed your eyes tightly, trying to escape the overwhelming sense of pleasure as it became too much to take.

“You gon’ stop fighting me?” He continued to grind his hips in a rhythm that made your muscles feel tense and rigid. His tone sounding like he was on the edge.

“Mhmm…” You nodded with your face against the bed in surrender. Your bodies were moist with sweat, the inner portion of your thighs wet from arousal and your own releases.

“That’s my good girl.” He planted a tender kiss on your nape before picking your body back up onto your hands and knees.

You were a weak nonverbal mess, your legs trembling in defeat. He started to drive into you again with a sloppy passion as he gripped your waist, ready to paint you white on the inside.

You weakly crawled further away from him, but to no surprise he pulled you right back into his force, making you take all of him.

After a few more powerful blows, his hips bucked into you one last time, releasing as he groaned and moaned.

“I love you.” He said amidst a moan as you both panted. He was pulling you into him slowly and weakly by the waist, as he rode out his release.

“I love you too…” You said sweetly as you held the sheets tightly in your grasp, feeling overstimulated by Jackie’s lasting touch.

When he was finally done riding out his high, he let you go, allowing you to collapse onto the bed in exhaustion.

As you lay in the bed temptingly, Jackie leaned over you, kissing your shoulder, back, hip, then finally planting a soft kiss on your ass. He watched as your body seemed to tingle from the sensation of each touch.

Knowingly, he spread your cheeks, planting a sweet kiss right on your pussy. He sucked it one more good, threatening time, causing you to shudder at even the thought of coming again.

He placed a light smack on your butt, before leaving you to contemplate your attitude.

It had been exactly twenty two minutes since your mama’s station wagon backed out of the driveway, packed to the brim with your siblings, coolers, and enough luggage to survive a minor apocalypse.

You had put on a masterclass performance. The weak cough, the hand pressed dramatically to your forehead, the faint groan when your dad suggested you just push through it, you deserved an emmy for that shit. You watched them drive off from behind the living room curtains, grinning like a bandit who just pulled off the heist of the century. No long, cramped car ride. No listening to your siblings argue. Just freedom.

But damn, nobody told you freedom was this boring.

You were sprawled out on the living room rug, a copy of Right On! magazine open in front of you. You flipped through the pages, looking at pictures of the Jackson 5, pausing on a full page poster of a certain tall, brown skin boy with an afro that looked like a perfect black halo.

You sighed, tossing the magazine aside. It had only been fourteen minutes since you actually sat down to do absolutely nothing, and you were already losing your mind. You looked at the rotary phone sitting on the side table.

Should I?

You didn't want to seem desperate. You weren't that girl. You had to lead into it smooth, act like he just happened to cross your mind between your fictitious bouts of the flu.

You slid, in your socks, right over to the phone, lifted the receiver, and dialed his number by heart. It rang twice before a smooth, soft spoken voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Jermaine," you said, leaning back against the couch, trying to sound as casual and slightly fatigued as possible. "What you doing?"

"Hey, baby," he countered, and you could practically hear the smile in his voice. "Not much. Just chilling at the house with my brothers since J*seph’s outta town right now. Tito’s trying to fix his guitar strap, and Michael and Marlon are playing twister. What about you? Aren't you supposed to be on your way to the lake with your folks?"

"Man, look," you sighed, playing up the part. "I woke up feeling so messed up. My stomachs turning, and my head is pounding. I had to beg my mama to let me stay behind. I told her I’d just sleep it off."

"Aw, for real? You sick?" Jermaine’s voice shifted instantly, getting all soft and concerned. "You need me to bring you something? Some soup or something?"

Perfect, you thought. Right where I want him.

"Nah, I don't need all that," you said, twirling the phone cord around your finger. "I mean, I’m feeling a little better now that I got some rest. But the house is just...real empty. And quiet. My parents won't even be back until tomorrow night." You paused, letting that little detail hang in the air for a second. "So...I was just wondering. Are you busy busy? Like, ‘working on a new album’ busy, or are you free enough to come keep a girl company?"

What you wanted to say was: Get your fine ass over here right now so I can grab that beautiful ass afro of yours and fuck you until we both can't breathe.

But you weren't going to let him know that. Not yet. You had to keep it classy.

Jermaine chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that did dangerous things to your stomach. "Oh, is that right? Your folks are gone for the whole weekend?"

He obviously wasn’t listening. "No. Just until tomorrow night. But still. Just me, myself, and I. But if you’re too busy with the group-"

"I ain't that busy," he interrupted smoothly. "Matter of fact, I can be over there in about twenty minutes. You want me to stop and get you some ice cream? Keep your throat cool?"

"Yeah. Butter pecan. And hurry up before I change my mind."

"I will, I will, baby. See you in a minute."

You hung up the phone with a triumphant grin. You scrambled up from the floor, suddenly possessing a burst of energy that completely contradicted your "sick" status. You ran to the bathroom, checking your hair, brushing your teeth again—showering again, and putting on a pair of shorts and a cropped tank top. Casual, but short enough to let him know what he was dealing with.

Exactly nineteen minutes later, there was a knock at the front door.

You slid over in your socks, taking a deep breath to reset your expression into something a little more subdued, and opened it.

Jermaine was leaning against the doorframe, looking like a whole snack and a half. He had on a nice patterned button down, open at the top to show off his chest, and a pair of pants that hugged his thighs just right, making you bite your lip. His afro- oh goodness, his afro, framing his handsome face like a halo. In his hand, he was holding a brown paper bag.

"Hey, beautiful," he said, those dark eyes of his taking you in from head to toe. "You don't look too sick to me."

"It comes and goes," you lied smoothly, waving your hand as your stepped aside to let him in.

Before you could even close the door, Jermaine wrapped a long arm around your waist and pulled you right against his chest. He smelled so good. He leaned down, his lips finding yours in a slow, sweet, lingering kiss that made your toes curl in your socks. His lips were always so soft, tasting faintly of mint.

He pulled back just an inch, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone. "You do feel a little warm," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave.

"That's just from looking at you," you joked, though your heart was actually thumping against your ribs.

He laughed, letting you go, shutting the door, and walked into the kitchen like he owned the place. He pulled a pint of butter pecan ice cream out of the bag, and moved to get a spoon like this was his own house.

You hopped up on the kitchen counter, swinging your legs. Jermaine popped the lid off the ice cream and handed it to you along with the spoon. You dug in, taking a big, satisfying bite of the cold, nutty sweetness.

"Ooh, that hits the spot," you mumbled.

Jermaine was leaning against the counter right next to your thighs, watching you eat with a playful smirk on his face. You took another spoonful, but before it could reach your mouth, Jermaine leaned forward, grabbed your wrist gently, and redirected the spoon into his own mouth.

He swallowed, smacking his lips. "Damn, that is good."

You froze, staring at him with a hard, playful glare. "Bruh, you just gon eat my ice cream? The ice cream you bought for your sick girlfriend?"

"Sharing is caring, baby," he teased, stepping closer into the space between your knees.

"I don't care about sharing when it comes to my food, you of all people should know that, Jermaine. Get your own spoon." You went to take another bite, but he caught your hand again. This time, he didn't go for the ice cream. He leaned in and licked a stray drop of cream right off the corner of your bottom lip.

A shiver ran straight down your spine. Your glare melted instantly as you sat the spoon down on the counter.

"You're a mess," you whispered, your voice losing all its edge. “I literally hate you.”

"Oh, but you love me," he murmured, his hands finding your hips, his thumbs rubbing small circles into your skin.

The playful atmosphere shifted in a second. The kitchen felt ten degrees hotter. Jermaine’s eyes somewhat darkened as he looked down at your lips, his hands gripping your hips a little tighter, pulling your body right to the edge of the counter so you were pressed against his hip bones.

"You know," he whispered, his breath hot against your neck, "we got the whole house to ourselves."

"I know," you breathed out, your hands instantly finding their way up into his hair, your fingers tangling in the curls just like you had imagined earlier. You tugged on it gently, pulling his head back so he had to look you in the eyes. "So what you gonna do about it?"

Jermaine didn't say another word. He grabbed the pint of ice cream from your hand, set it carelessly on the counter, and scooped you right up into his arms. You let out a little gasp, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carried you out of the kitchen.

You expected him to take you to your bedroom, but Jermaine passed your door entirely, heading straight down the hall.

"Wait, Jermaine, where are you going?"

He kicked open the door at the very end of the hall. The master bedroom.

Your eyes went wide. "Oh my god, no. Not my mama's room! Jermaine, if she finds out, she will actually kill both of us. She’s got a sixth sense about this shit!"

Jermaine just laughed as he tossed you right onto the center of the massive, neatly made king sized bed. The mattress was softer than yours, smelling faintly of lavender.

"She ain't gonna find out nothing,” Jermaine said, crawling up onto the mattress after you, his eyes locking onto yours. "Not unless you shout loud enough for the neighbors to hear."

“Jermaine, I'm serious, this is sacrilege-”

Your words were cut off completely when he came down on top of you, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was a thousand times hungrier than the one at the front door. He tasted like the butter pecan ice cream, and his tongue slid into your mouth with a stroke that made you completely forget whose bed you were lying on.

Your hands immediately went right back into his afro, gripping the thick texture of his hair, pulling him closer as you arched your back against the mattress. He groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding under your cropped top, his warm palms finding the bare skin of your waist and sliding up your ribs.

He pulled back for a fraction of a second, his chest heaving, his eyes all wild and dark with a desire that made your whole body ache.

“You talk too much,” he whispered, his hands moving down to the waistband of your shorts.

“I'll shut up if you show me what you got,” you breathed, a breathless smile on your lips.

He moved his hands away to strip off his shirt, revealing his chest, and you couldn't help but run your hands over his shoulders and then down his long, lean frame that was casting a shadow over your body as his eyes tracked every single breath rushing in and out of your chest.

“You look so beautiful laid out right here,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that smooth tone that always made your knees weak. “You know that?”

Before you could even form a reply, his hand moved. His fingers, all long, slender, and calloused from hours of pressing down on bass strings, traced a slow line down the side of your neck. He caught the hem of your tank top, his knuckles brushing against the bare skin of your ribs, sending a violent shiver straight down your spine. He didn't pull the shirt off. Instead, he just bunched the soft fabric up in his fist, pulling it tight against your chest so the material strained over your breasts.

He leaned down, his eyes never leaving yours, and pressed his mouth to the hollow of your throat. He lingered there, his lips hot and damp, sucking gently on the sensitive skin until you let out a soft, shaky breath. Your hands instinctively flew right back into his hair, your fingers burying themselves deep, and you tugged on it just enough to let him know you needed more.

“Jermaine...” your voice came out as a breathless whisper, the bedroom amplifying every tiny sound.

“I got you, baby. Just relax,” he murmured against your skin.

His hand shifted from your waist, his palm sliding up over the strained cotton of your shirt until it cupped your breast. He squeezed gently, as though he was testing the weight of you, while a low moan caught in your throat, your hips instinctively jerking upward against his thigh.

He chuckled, a low rumble that you felt right against your chest. He liked the reaction. His hand kept squeezing, applying just enough pressure to make you ache, while his other hand moved down to the waistband of your shorts, his fingers brushing against the sensitive skin of your lower belly.

Every single movement felt like it was happening in slow motion, dragging out the anticipation until you felt like you were going to lose your mind. He slid his hands inside the fabric, his warm palms cupping your hips, and slowly began to push the heavy fabric down over your thighs. You lifted your hips, helping him rid you of the shorts, until they were kicked off the edge of the bed, landing somewhere on the floor with a soft thud.

Now you were just in your top and your panties, completely at his mercy on the big, forbidden mattress. Jermaine shifted his weight, sitting back on his heels for a moment just to take you in. His eyes swept down your body, tracking the curve of your waist, the fullness of your hips, and the rich, dark tone of your skin contrasting beautifully against the pale floral sheets of your mother’s bed.

“Damn,” he breathed out, shaking his head slightly. “You are so fine. I swear, every time I look at you, it’s like the first time."

“Stop looking and come here,” you pleaded, reaching up for him. You were tired of the distance, and also tired of the slow torture.

Jermaine smiled, and crawled back up your body. But instead of kissing your lips, he leaned over your face, his long fingers gently capturing your chin. He looked down at your mouth, his eyes darkening to a near black shade.

“Open up for me, baby,” he whispered.

You parted your lips, expecting his mouth...or his spit, but instead, Jermaine slid his index and middle fingers into your mouth. The taste of him, the faint hint of the salt, and the smooth, warm texture of his skin against your tongue.

“Suck on 'em,” he commanded softly.

You wrapped your lips around his fingers, your tongue swirling around the digits, looking up at him through your eyelashes. Jermaine’s breath hitched, his jaw clenching tightly as he watched you. The sight of you taking his fingers into your mouth was doing a number on him. He began to slide his fingers in and out of your mouth in a slow, rhythmic motion, mimicking the very thing your body was crying out for down below.

While his left hand occupied your mouth, his right hand went back to your chest. He gripped your breast through the cropped top again, kneading the soft flesh with a hunger that was rapidly growing out of control. He used his thumb to flick against your nipple through the damp fabric, matching the rhythm of his fingers sliding between your lips. The dual stimulation was overwhelming. You couldn't help the muffled, needy sounds escaping around his fingers, your chest heaving as the friction built.

Jermaine pulled his fingers from your mouth, a glistening trail linking his hand to your lips. He didn't let the wetness go to waste. He brought that same hand straight down your body, tracing a line of fire down your sternum, past your belly button, and straight into the waistband of your underwear.

You let out a low moan against his neck as his warm, damp fingers slipped past the fabric, finding your slick pussy waiting for him.

“Oh, look at you,” Jermaine whispered, his voice incredibly close to your ear. “You're so wet for me already. And we ain't even started yet.”

“Jermaine, please,” you whispered, your head leaning back against the pillows.

He hummed, sliding one long finger inside of you, testing the waters. You arched your back, your fingers locking tightly into the sheets as your walls clamped around his finger. He was slow, so incredibly slow, sliding the length of his finger all the way in until his knuckles brushed against your sensitive flesh, then drawing it back out until just the tip remained.

“You like that?” he murmured, his breath hot against your cheek.

“Yes...oh, yes, Jermaine.”

He added a second finger, stretching you gently, broadening the ache inside your core. The rhythm he established was torturous. It wasn't fast; it was slow. He would push his fingers in, hold them there for a second while your pussy fluttered around them, and then slowly draw them out, only to do it all over again.

With every stroke, his other hand stayed busy on your chest, rubbing and squeezing your breasts through your shirt, pulling at the fabric until your nipples were hard and begging for direct contact. But he kept the shirt on, using the rougher texture of the cotton to create an entirely different kind of friction that was driving you insane.

You began to move your hips, trying to force a faster pace, trying to chase the climax that was dangling just out of reach. But Jermaine wouldn't let you dictate the speed. He moved his hand down from your boob and used his hand to press firmly against your hip bone, pinning you down to the mattress, keeping you trapped under his movement.

“Relax, baby,” he muttered softly, his fingers curling slightly inside of you, hitting a spot that made your mind go dumb. “I know, baby, I got you.”

He picked up the pace just a fraction, his long fingers sliding in and out of you with a wetter sound that filled the quiet spaces of the house.

“Mmm, Jermaine...” you groaned, your brows pulling together, your lip coming in between your teeth as you turned your head, your cheek pressing into the cool fabric of the pillowcase.

His thumb, which had been against your hip bone, shifted. He brought it right down, finding that tight, swollen little clit right at the top of your pussy, and pressed down. He started rubbing it in tight, heavy circles, completely matching the faster, deeper rhythm of his fingers sliding inside of you.

“Oh, shit,” you gasped out, your eyes flying open. Your hips bucked completely off the mattress, trying to force more of him inside, trying to grind right against thumb. Bitch, you loved it. You loved every single bit of it, and any remanence of trying to play it cool or keep your voice down went straight out the window. “Mmm...Maine, please...damn.”

Jermaine let out a low, satisfied chuckle against your neck when he heard his nickname drop from your lips in that tone. It did something to him. The control he’d been keeping this whole time started to slip, just a little bit. His fingers started moving even faster, bottoming out inside your slick walls, while his thumb kept up that beautiful friction on your clit.

Every single stroke was making you make noise, loud, needy sounds that echoed off the wood paneled walls. You were panting like a fucking dog, your chest heaving against the tight cotton of your top, your fingers moving up to clutch and pull at his hair like it was a lifeline. You were so slick, so completely undone by the way he was handling you, that you couldn't even think straight. The pleasure was pooling heavy in your lower belly, tightening up until it felt like a rubber band about to snap!

Jermaine had his chest pressing hard against your breasts, pinning you into the soft mattress. He brought his face right next to your ear, his breath coming in hot, ragged bursts that sent chills all over your skin.

“You want it?” he whispered, his deep and demanding, vibrating right against your ear canal. He gave a good push with his fingers, making your eyes roll back. “Tell me what you want, baby. You want this dick?”

Your mouth opened, but all that came out was a high, breathless whine. Your brain was completely fried. The feeling of his fingers stretching you while his thumb drove you crazy on that bundle of nerves was too much. You could barely even think of the words, let alone find the breath to say them.

"I can't...Maine, I can't-” you panted, your hips twitching beneath him.

Jermaine stopped his fingers completely, holding them deep inside of you, while his thumb stayed pressed firm and still right against your clit. The sudden stillness was absolute torture. Your walls throbbed around him, practically begging for the movement to start back up.

He tilted his head, his eyes locking onto yours with an unyielding stare. "Nah. Speak up, baby. Look at me and tell me. You want it or not?"

"Yes," you choked out, your voice cracking. "Yes, please, Jermaine...give it to me."

"Give you what?" he pushed, a wicked smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. He twitched his fingers inside you just enough to make you gasp. "Say it."

"The dick, Maine! Give me your dick, please," you cried out, completely helpless, abandoning every ounce of pride and dignity you had left.

Jermaine grinned, thoroughly satisfied with himself. But instead of doing what you begged for, he suddenly drew his fingers all the way out of you. The sudden absence of him made you let out a loud, frustrated groan, your hips dropping back onto the sheets in defeat.

Jermaine lifted his hand up between your faces. His fingers were glistening, completely soaked in your slick, wet juices, he slid his own fingers right into his mouth, his tongue licking them clean, his eyes locked dead on yours the entire time. He sucked on them slowly, tasting you, swallowing hard as his head tilted to the side slightly.

"Fuck," he muttered, drawing his fingers out of his mouth with a soft pop. "You taste so sweet, baby. Seriously. I don't even know whether I want to eat you or fuck you right now."

He leaned down, his large hands reaching down to capture the waistband of your panties. He dragged them down your legs and tossed them somewhere over the side of the bed, leaving you completely bare beneath him, aside from your shirt (no, he's not taking it off, he loves it). He slid back, his hands moving to the belt of his own pants, unbuckling before he pushed his pants and his briefs down his long legs, kicking them off until he was completely bare, too. He crawled back up the mattress, that heavy, thick dick brushing against your thigh.

He hovered over you, his chest glistening with a fine layer of sweat, his hands framing your head.

"I need your opinion, baby," he whispered, his eyes burning into yours as he nudged himself right against your wetness. "What should I do first? Hmm? You want me to use my mouth, or you want this dick inside you right now?"

"I want you to eat it," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Eat it...and then fuck me."

Jermaine’s jaw clenched. He didn't move an inch. He just kept himself pressed right against your wetness, letting you feel the weight of his dick.

"Eat what, baby?" he murmured. "You gotta say it. Eat what?"

You rolled your eyes, letting out a frustrated, needy groan as your head thrashed back against your mama’s pillows. He was doing this on purpose, driving you crazy with the word games when you were already on the absolute brink.

"Jermaineee, don't do this right now," you pleaded, your hands reaching up, trying to pull his head down, trying to force him to stop talking. "You know what I want. Eat my pussy. Please."

A satisfied smile spread across his lips at the words. "That's all you had to say," he whispered.

Jermaine slid his body down, his chest brushing against your bare stomach, his warm skin sliding against yours until he was positioned right between your wide open thighs. The contrast of the cool air hitting your wetness and then the sudden, searing heat of his breath hovering right over you made your entire body shudder.

He used his long, calloused fingers to grip the insides of your thighs, his large hands sinking into your flesh with a crushing force. He pinned your legs wide, holding you completely open, exposing every single bit of your slick, swollen pussy to his gaze.

Then, his tongue made contact, sliding a long, slow, wet stroke from the very bottom of your opening all the way up to that sensitive, jumping clit.

"Oh my god-" Your voice tore out of your throat, a loud cry that echoed off the bedroom walls.

It was too much. After what he had just done with his fingers, your nerve endings were so sensitized that the first touch of his tongue felt euphoric. He opened his mouth completely, burying his face right into your sex, his tongue swirling in wide circles that drenched you in his own saliva while gathering your slickness.

Your hands locked tightly into his afro, your fingers burying themselves deep into the curls, gripping his hair like a lifeline. You couldn't help it, your thighs instinctively clamped inward, trying to close around his head, trying to hold him right there so he couldn't ever pull away. Your muscles were tight, practically crushing his ears and his jaw between your legs, but Jermaine didn't care. He loved the desperation. He just dug his fingers deeper into your thighs, his grip bruising, keeping you anchored while his tongue worked in a relentless rhythm.

He started lapping at you faster, his tongue flattening out to give you the widest, heaviest pressure possible. Every single stroke was just so good, hitting your clit with a slick friction that had you losing your mind even more. You bit down on your bottom lip so hard you could taste the metallic tang of blood, trying to keep from screaming his name loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear.

"Mmm...Maineee...fuckk..." The muffled sounds escaped past your teeth as your head tilted back, your eyes rolling in the back of your head.

The bedroom filled with the vivid, sounds of his mouth devouring you; the wet, slimy slaps of his tongue against your skin. He would slide his tongue deep inside your opening, stretching you with a thick, wet pressure, and then drag it back up to swirl relentlessly around your clit until your whole lower half was shaking uncontrollably.

Jermaine felt it but he didn't slow down and you couldn't hold it back anymore. A loud cry tore from your throat as your entire body went rigid, your hips bolting completely off your mother’s mattress. Your fingers cramped up with a white knuckle grip into his hair, pulling him desperately against you as you came, your internal muscles clamping down around nothing in involuntary waves. Jermaine stayed right there, buried deep in your pussy, lapping up every drop of your slickness as your body shuddered out the last of the release, his large hands still crushing your thighs to keep you wide open for him.

You were still catching your breath, your chest heaving violently and your head thrown back against the pillows, when he finally pulled away.

Jermaine dragged his long, bare body back up the mattress, sliding over you. He didn't give you a second to recover before he gripped your jaw with his hand, his fingers sinking into your cheeks, and brought his mouth down on yours in a kiss that was just straight up nasty.

There was nothing gentle or sweet about it whatsoever. Both of your mouths were practically wide open, tasting the intense, heavy mixture of your own slickness, and his saliva. It was a filthy, wet, consuming clash of lips, teeth, and tongues. You were sucking on his bottom lip so hard it felt like you wanted to swallow him whole, your tongues tangling and sliding against each other with a messy hunger. It was honestly disgusting how wild and unhinged the two of you were on those sheets that weren't yours, but you didn't give a damn. You wanted to crawl directly inside his skin, your hands scratching down his smooth, sweaty back, pulling his heavy chest flat against your breasts.

Jermaine groaned deep in his chest, the sound vibrating directly into your open mouth as he kept the kiss locked, refusing to break the connection for even a second to breathe.

While his mouth was keeping you completely consumed, his hips shifted between your legs. He guided his heavy length right to the opening of your dripping pussy. With one slow thrust, he buried himself all the way inside you.

The sudden, thick fullness of him made you let out a muffled whimper right into his mouth. The size of him stretching you out.

Jermaine broke the kiss just an inch, his eyes completely blown out. He looked down at you, his chest heaving as he held himself deep inside you, letting you feel every single inch of him, every fucking vein.

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice a rough, ragged whisper against your lips. "Gimme one more, baby, please."

He started to move, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, his hip bones knocking hard against yours with a fleshy thud. Jermaine was a moaning ass nigga when he really got into it, and now that he was inside you, he wasn't holding back a single sound. With every single deep thrust, a low, guttural grunt rolled out of his throat.

"Mmm...shit," he groaned, his head tossing back, his afro bouncing slightly with the rhythm as he drove himself deeper. "You feel so good, baby...fuck, you're so good."

You reached down, your palms sliding over the slick, sweaty curve of his lower back until your fingers dug deep into the firm flesh of his ass. You gripped him tight, your nails sinking in as you locked your legs even higher around his waist, pulling him down with everything you had left. You wanted him deeper. You wanted to erase every millimeter of space between you, your hips instinctively tilting upward to meet every single heavy down stroke.

"Fuck...baby," Jermaine let his whole weight settle against you, his breath hot and ragged against the side of your neck. "You're trying to take all of it...fuck...you- honey-!"

"Jermaine," you mewled, the friction building all over again, that intense, burning coil tightening in your stomach. After already coming once, your body was so sensitive that every slide of his skin against yours felt magnified, pushing you right back toward the edge. "Don't stop...right there...please."

"I ain't stopping," he breathed. He gripped the mattress on either side of your head, his arm muscles straining, as he focused entirely on breaking you down one more time.

You kept your grip on his ass, pulling him in, riding through the wave of heat until the tension snapped. You let out a muffled, breathless scream against his shoulder as your body clamped around him in tight, desperate pulses. Right there with you, Jermaine let out a long, heavy groan, his body going completely rigid as he buried himself all the way inside you, riding out his own release until you both were completely spent.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was the loud, frantic thumping of two hearts and the ragged, desperate sound of you both trying to catch your breath. Jermaine collapsed heavily on top of you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving against yours. You couldn't even move your legs; they just kind of slithered down his sides, completely weak and shaking.

"Oh my god," you whispered to the ceiling, your voice completely shot.

"Mmm," was all Jermaine could manage, an exhausted vibration against your skin.

After about five minutes of just laying there, the fog in your brain finally started to clear, and reality came crashing back down like a bucket of ice water. You blinked, looking around the room. There was a visible wet spot right in the center of your mama's mattress.

"Jermaine," you said, your voice tight as you nudged his shoulder. "Jermaine, get up. Move. Look at this. Look at what you did." you had a visible scowl on your face.

He groaned, slowly lifting his head, his afro wild on one side from the pillows and your hands. "What you mean what I did? You were the one pulling me down, baby."

"I don't care! This is your fault! You brought your ass over here and completely corrupted me," you snapped at him making his jaw drop, though you were trying to keep your voice calm. Panic wasn't going to clean these sheets. You had to stay grounded to get out of this crime scene. "Look at my mama’s bed, Jermaine. If she smells...this...she will know. She has a nose for this kind of shit."

You shoved him off you, scrambling out of the bed. Your legs were still trembling, making you wobble for a second before you stabilized yourself. You looked at the damage and sighed, rubbing your temples. "This is fully your fault..."

Jermaine sat up, a sleepy, satisfied smile on his face as he watched you pace. "Alright, alright. My fault. What's the game plan, boss?"

"First, we are fixing this," you ordered, pointing a finger at him. "Then, we are getting in the shower because we both smell like sex."

You both stripped the bed completely, carrying the heavy floral sheets and the mattress pad down to the laundry room like you were hiding a body. You threw them into the washing machine with a double scoop of detergent and enough lavender fabric softener to choke a horse, setting it to the highest temperature possible.

Once the machine started chugging, you walked back upstairs to the bathroom. You turned on the shower, stripped, the steam was already rising, Jermaine stepped in ahead of you, wearing one of your shower cap, not really wanting to get his hair wet. You slid past the glass door, the hot water instantly hitting your aching muscles. It felt amazing, but you were still on high alert.

Jermaine stepped under the spray, letting the water slick down his back. He grabbed the bar of soap, working up a thick lather in his hands, and then stepped behind you. His large, warm palms smoothed over your shoulders, gently washing your back in slow, soothing circles. The tension in your neck started to melt away.

"You still mad at me?" he murmured close to your ear, leaning over to press a soft, wet peck to your shoulder.

"Yes," you grumbled. "You're crazy and I hate you."

You turned around, taking the soap from him. You worked up a lather and started washing his chest and his broad shoulders, your fingers tracing the smooth lines of his skin. He leaned down, catching your lips in a few sweet, lingering pecks and ou gave in and let it slide, simply because you couldn't bear to stay angry with him for the life of you.

By the time you both dried off and got dressed into clean clothes, your nerves had completely settled. You walked back into your mama's bedroom, and you knew standard cleaning wasn't going to cut it. The air still carried the faint, heavy memory of what had happened.

"Where's your mama's stash?" Jermaine asked, leaning against the doorway.

"In the hallway closet," you said, marching over to grab the bundle of sage your mama kept for "clearing out bad energy." Well, this wasn't bad energy, but it definitely needed to be cleared out.

You struck a match, lighting the end of the sage until it started to smoke, filling the room with that sharp, earthy, herbal scent. You walked around the entire perimeter of the bed, waving the smoke over the bare mattress, into the curtains, and around the headboard, chanting a silent prayer that your mother’s maternal instincts wouldn't pick up on a damn thing. Jermaine just watched you from the door, shaking his head with a quiet laugh.

"You really ain't playing," he teased.

"I like living, Jermaine."

Once the room was thoroughly smoked out and the fresh sheets were finally dried, you both made the bed back up perfectly; tucking the corners exactly the way your mama liked them, fluffing the pillows until they looked like they hadn't been touched in years.

Finally, you walked downstairs to the kitchen, feeling like the crisis had been averted. But the moment you stepped into the room, your jaw dropped.

Right on the counter was the pint of butter pecan ice cream. Open with the lid sitting next to it, and the ice cream had completely melted into a thick, soup like puddle, sticky cream dripping down the side of the counter.

You let out a massive, frustrated huff, turning to glare at Jermaine. "Are you serious right now? You left the fucking ice cream out!"

Jermaine looked at the puddle, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. "My bad, baby. I guess I got a little distracted."

"Shit," you groaned, grabbing a rag to wipe up the sticky mess. You picked up the melted pint, popped the lid back on, and slammed it into the freezer, hoping it would miraculously resolve itself. "You are so annoying, I swear."

Jermaine laughed, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, pressing one last kiss to the side of your face. "I gotta get back before the guys realize I've been gone too long. You gonna be good?"

"Yeah," you sighed, leaning into him for a second. "I'm good. Go on before my parents magically appear."

The next afternoon, the quiet house was abruptly shattered by the sound of tires on the gravel driveway and the loud, chaotic voices of your siblings tumbling out of the station wagon. You were sitting on the living room couch, the magazine back in your lap, looking the picture of absolute innocence.

The front door burst open, your mama walking in first, carrying a cooler and looking thoroughly exhausted from a day with the extended family.

"Hey, baby," she said, dropping the cooler by the door and wiping her forehead. "How you feeling? Your stomach settle down?"

"Yeah, Mama," you said, putting on a faint, lingering tired smile. "I slept almost the whole time. Just started feeling better a few hours ago."

Your mama nodded, walking past the living room and heading up the stairs toward her bedroom to drop off her purse. You held your breath, your heart doing a sudden, violent flip in your chest. You sat perfectly still, waiting for her to tear into your ass.

A moment later, she walked back down, stopping at the bottom of the stairs, seeming to have sniff the air. She looked around, her eyes sweeping over the immaculate hallway and the open door of her room.

"Let me ask you something," she said, turning her gaze directly onto you. "Have you been in my room?"

Your stomach dropped into your shoes. Oh god, she knows, you thought, your mind racing through every possible excuse. The sheets. The mattress. The headboard.

"Oh, yeah," you said, keeping your voice completely level, forcing your face to remain totally cool. "I got so bored just sitting around after my fever broke that I decided to just clean the whole house. I dusted your room, swept, and threw some of your sage around because it was smelling a little dusty in there."

Your mama blinked, her expression softening into a pleased, surprised smile. "Well, bless your heart. I was about to say, it smells real good in there, and it looks cleaner than when I left. You did a good job, baby."

You let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding since yesterday afternoon, a smooth, innocent smile breaking across your face. "Thanks, Mama. Just wanted to help out."

"Mhmm. Well, I'm glad you're feeling better," she said, heading into the kitchen.

You leaned back against the couch cushions, closing your eyes as a wave of relief washed over you. You were definitely in the clear. But the next time Jermaine Jackson wanted to come over, you were absolutely staying in your own room.

after 4 weeks of tracking, you finally made it. you found her. beyoncé. the woman everyone's been looking for. you were riding through when you spotted her horse, a white stallion with a floral braided mane sitting outside a tavern with a few other horses.

you got off your own, giving him a pat before heading inside. you spotted her almost instantly. she had platinum blonde hair cascading down her back, a leather cowboy hat sitting atop her head and a revolver on her waist.

you sat down next to her at the bar and asked the bartender for a drink. "whiskey, neat." you glanced over in her direction before the bartender slid you your drink. you took a sip "you're a long way from home, cowgirl."

she had a cigar between her lips that she took a pull from at your words, setting it in the ashtray.

"what do you want?"

"same thing everybody wants when they see you. that $10000 bounty on your head." you took another sip. "what makes you think you gon' get it?" she asked.

"do you know who i am?" you asked.

"i've heard stories. doesn't matter, you'll die the same way the others did."

"you kill me, you gon' have to deal with them." you said, referring to the loud men in the tavern, most likely armed as well. "i'm not goin' with you so you just gon' have to kill me" she said, taking another pull from her cigar.

"..she's a real nice lady, i'd hate to have to pay her a not-so-nice visit." your words made her look at you in confusion, a brow raised.

"celestine. went to visit her a few weeks ago. made me coffee, gave me a slice of apple pie. you're lucky to have a mama like her."

you could feel her demeanor change at the mention of her mother. the tension was palpable.

"you talked to my mother?" she asked, her tone colder now. beyoncé hadn't seen her mother in a long time, even longer now that she's on the run.

"i did. and i could do a whole lot more."

"you threaten my mother, you die."

you ordered another drink. "just come with me and that won't be an issue. my crew has been protecting her, but that can change."

you made eye contact for a moment, it seemed like she was trying to figure out if you were bluffing or not. "what do you get out of protecting my mama?" you had one word for her.

"leverage and apple pie." she nodded slowly, taking your whiskey for herself. "so you're using my mother as a bargaining chip to get me?" you ordered a different drink this time, gin.

"mmhm. oldest trick in the book. but it works, doesn't it?"

she let out a laugh, shaking her head. "clever bitch" she said as she took a sip of whiskey. "how is she?"

your gin came. "she's doing good. can't imagine how hard it was raising 2 girls after your husband dies." your mention of her little sister made her mask slip a bit.

"is solange okay?" she asked. "don't know. i think she moved away. your mother didn't mention her and she wasn't there when i went." beyoncé glanced around the room as she took another sip. "can't say i blame her." she looked down at her tumbler, staring at the amber liquid before looking at you. "so i come with you & my mama stays safe?"

"yes'm. i promise you no harm will come to her. you have my word."

she let out a sigh through her nose. "what about me?"

"i take you back to houston, i turn you in, i get my reward, and you spend the rest of your life in prison" you said, bluntly. bey nodded, seemingly accepting of her fate.

"i'll come with you. but can i get a few more drinks first?"

you felt bad saying no to a woman who wanted to spend her last hours free drinking. "fine" you said as she downed the rest of her whiskey, calling the bartender over to order something stronger.

as beyoncé drank, she looked like she was deep in thought. she was giving up the one thing a woman in this society craves—her freedom. but she was protecting her mother, and that was worth more than any money she had.

you both ordered a few more drinks, and the liquor was starting to get to both of you, your professional, tough demeanors falling by the wayside & making you both more social. after a moment of silence, you speak up.

"do you ever get lonely?" the liquid was encouraging you in all the wrong ways. bey stopped mid sip. "what do you mean?"

"i mean.. i kill, and rob, and hunt, and do all of this shit, but what's it for? i go home to no one, i speak to no one, i have no one. it's just me and it's.. lonely as hell." your words slurred a bit.

"you don't..have to be lonely." she took a sip of her drink.

you downed the rest of yours. "what do you mean?"

"i'm lonely, too. i ain't got nobody. my mama got my sister, but i have no one. just me and my horse and running. i'm tired of bein' by myself."

she paused for a moment, thinking. "come with me."

"what?"

"i know somewhere we can go where no one will find us. me and you."

"we can't. i'm a bounty hunter. my job is to bring you in and i-" your words were cut short by bey's lips crashing against yours. her lips were so soft. your hand came up to cup her face. no one in the tavern noticed you, engrossed in their own conversations.

you pulled back. "i can't."

"if you have to think about this, the answer isn't no." you went silent for a moment, contemplating. her proposition was tempting. she was tempting. it was hard living in the south as an independent black woman, and to be free of that burden would be a dream. and you said it yourself, you had no one.

"you comin'?" beyoncé asked, snapping you out of your thoughts.

you nodded and pulled some money out to pay for your drinks. bey grabbed your hand, leading you out of the noisy tavern. before you knew it, she pulled you into a nearby alley, kissing you passionately, your back against the bricks. you made out for a few minutes and it was getting sloppier by the second.

you spotted an inn not far from the tavern. you pulled back, "look" you said, pointing out the inn. once she saw it, she wasted no time bringing you back to your horses. you hopped onto your stallions and rode towards the inn.

it was a white, 2-story building with a big porch. you tied your horses to hitching posts and went inside. a pale young woman was behind the counter, looking bored as ever. "hello, are you runnin' this place?" bey asked.

"no ma'am, my daddy does. him and my mama gone for the night. what can i do ya for?"

"how much for one night?"

"a dollar" the young woman said.

you reached into your pocket before bey stopped you "i got it." she said as she slid the bill to her. the young woman handed you some keys. "enjoy your stay."

you both headed up the staircase to your room. it was big enough. it had what you needed—a bed & candlelight. your back was pressed against the door just as fast as you got it open. you kissed as you hastily took each other's clothes off.

you walked bey towards the bed, pushing her down. you got on top, kissing her again, your hands exploring each other's bodies.

suddenly, she lifted one of your legs over hers, other leg under, your pussies touching. you began rocking your hips back and forth, earning a curse from bey.

"fuck.." her hands gripped your hips, guiding as you grind your pussies together "oh shit" you moaned.

each rock had you both moaning and cursing. her hand found your throat, squeezing slightly.

"just like that, pretty girl. you doin' so good for me.. fuck."

you leaned down to kiss bey, her tongue slipping into your mouth. her other hand gripped and smacked your ass.

you broke the kiss when the rocking hit a specific spot. "unghh!"

your rocking got more frantic just as bey's hands gripped your hip and ass tighter. she was beautiful, even more so when she was under you. the friction was electric and intense as you ground your hips together.

"goddamn.." the breathy sound came, your head thrown back.

beyoncé bucked her hips harder, chasing the high. "mhm, fuck.. don't stop" she begged.

"oh my god, shiiit.." you felt the heaviness in your gut increase. your breath catches as it comes in shallow, ragged gasps. both of your hips grind down, seeking more pressure, more friction.

your back arches, your mouth falling open as the build up comes to a crash. you collapse next to bey, the two of you panting.

you stare at the dimly lit ceiling for a moment, processing what just happened. somehow, both of you make your way under the covers, your head on beyoncé's chest.

"i can't believe we just did that" you spoke. "do you regret it?" bey asked.

you looked up at her "no" you said, kissing her.